We turn over now a score of those fateful pages on which Father Time keeps his monthly accounts with mankind, passing from sunlit June, with its hazy1 radiance lying softly upon smooth waters, to bleak2 and shrill3 February—the memorable4 February of 1867.
A gale5 had been blowing outside beyond the headlands all day, and by nightfall the minor6 waters of Dunmanus Bay had suffered such prolonged pulling and hauling and buffeting7 from their big Atlantic neighbors that they were up in full revolt, hurling8 themselves with thunderous roars of rage against the cliffs of their coast line, and drenching9 the darkness with scattered10 spray. The little hamlet of Muirisc, which hung to its low, nestling nook under the rocks in the very teeth of this blast, shivered, soaked to the skin, and crossed itself prayerfully as the wind shrieked11 like a banshee about its roofless gables and tower-walls and tore at the thatches12 of its clustered cabins.
The three nuns13 of the Hostage’s Tears, listening to the storm without, felt that it afforded an additional justification14 for the infraction15 of their rules which they were for this evening, by no means for the first time, permitting themselves. Religion itself rebelled against solitude16 on such a night.
Time had been when this convent, enlarged though it was by the piety17 of successive generations of early lords of Muirisc, still needed more room than it had to accommodate in comfort its host of inmates18. But that time, alas19! was now a musty tradition of bygone ages. Even before the great sectarian upheaval20 of the mid-Tudor period, the ancient family order of the Hostage’s Tears had begun to decline. I can’t pretend to give the reason. Perhaps the supply of The O’Mahony’s daughters fell off; possibly some obscure shift of fashion rendered marriage more attractive in their eyes. Only this I know, that when the Commissioners21 of Elizabeth, gleaning22 in the monastic stubble which the scythe23 of Henry had laid bare, came upon the nuns at Muirisc, whom the first sweep of the blade had missed, they found them no longer so numerous as they once had been. Ever since then the order had dwindled24 visibly. The three remaining ladies had, in their own extended cloistral25 career, seen the last habitable section of the convent fall into disuse and decay, until now only their own gaunt, stone-walled trio of cells, the school-room, the tiny chapel26, and a chamber27 still known by the dignified28 title of the “reception hall,” were available for use.
Here it was that a great mound29 of peat sparkled and glowed on the hearth30, under a capricious draught31 which now sucked upward with a whistling swoop32 whole clods of blazing turf—now, by a contradictory33 freak, half-filled the room with choking bog-smoke. Still, even when eyes were tingling34 and nostrils35 aflame, it was better to be here than outside, and better to have company than be alone.
Both propositions were shiningly clear to the mind of Corinac O’Daly, as he mixed a second round of punch, and, peering through the steam from his glass at the audience gathered by the hearth, began talking again. The three aged36 nuns, who had heard him talk ever since he was born, sat decorously together on a bench and watched him, and listened as attentively37 as if his presence were a complete novelty. Their chaplain, a snuffy, half-palsied little old man, Father Harrington to wit, dozed38 and blinked and coughed at the smoke in his chair by the fire as harmlessly as a house-cat on the rug. Mrs. Fergus O’Mahony, a plump and buxom39 widow in the late twenties, with a comely40, stupid face, framed in little waves of black, crimped hair pasted flat to the skin, sat opposite the priest, glass in hand. Whenever the temptation to yawn became too strong, she repressed it by sipping41 at the punch.
“Anny student of the ancient Irish, or I might say Milesian charachter,” said O’Daly, with high, disputatious voice, “might discern in our present chief a remarkable42 proof of what the learned call a reversion of toypes. It’s thrue what you say, Mother Agnes, that he’s unlike and teetotally different from anny other O’Mahony of our knowledge in modhern times. But thin I ask mesilf, what’s the maning of this? Clearly, that he harks back on the ancesthral tree, and resimbles some O’Mahony we don’t know about! And this I’ve been to the labor43 of thracing out. Now attind to me! ’Tis in your riccords, that four ginerations afther your foundher, Diarmid of the Fine Steeds, there came an O’Mahony of Muirisc called Teige, a turbulent and timpistuous man, as his name in the chronicles, Teige Goarbh, would indicate. ’Tis well known that he viewed holy things with contimpt. ’Twas he that wint on to the very althar at Rosscarbery, in the chapel of St. Fachnau Mougah, or the hairy, and cudgeled wan44 of the daycons out of the place for the rayson that he stammered45 in his spache. ’Twas he that hung his bard47, my ancestor of that period, up by the heels on a willow-tree, merely because he fell asleep over his punch, afther dinner, and let the rival O’Dugan bard stale his new harp48 from him, and lave a broken and disthressful old insthrumint in its place. Now there’s the rale ancestor of our O’Mahony. ’Tis as plain as the nose on your face. And—now I remimber—sure ’twas this same divil of a Teige Goarbh who was possessed49 to marry his own cousin wance removed, who’d taken vows50 here in this blessed house. ‘Marry me now,’ says he. ‘I’m wedded51 to the Lord,’ says she. ‘Come along out o’ that now,’ says he. ‘Not a step,’ says she. And thin, faith, what did the rebellious52 ruffian do but gather all the straw and weeds and wet turf round about, and pile ’em undernayth, and smoke the nuns out like a swarm53 o’ bees. Sure, that’s as like our O’Mahony now as two pays in a pod.”
As the little man finished, a shifty gust54 blew down the flue, and sent a darkling wave of smoke over the good people seated before the fire. They were too used to the sensation to do more than cough and rub their eyes. The mother-superior even smiled sternly through the smoke.
“Is your maning that O’Mahony is at present on the roof, striving to smoke us out?” she asked, with iron clad sarcasm55.
“Awh, get along wid ye, Mother Agnes,” wheezed56 the little priest, from his carboniferous corner.
“Who would he be afther demanding in marriage here?”
O’Daly and the nuns looked at their aged and shaky spiritual director with dulled apprehension57. He spoke58 so rarely, and had a mind so far removed from the mere46 vanities and trickeries of decorative59. conversation, that his remark puzzled them. Then, as if through a single pair of eyes, they saw that Mrs. Fergus had straightened herself in her chair, and was simpering and preening60 her head weakly, like a conceited61 parrot.
The mother-superior spoke sharply.
“And do you flatther yoursilf, Mrs. Fergus O’Mahony, that the head of our house is blowing smoke down through the chimney for you?” she asked. “Sure, if he was, thin, ’twould be a lamint-able waste of breath. Wan puff62 from a short poipe would serve to captivate you!”
Cormac O’Daly made haste to bury his nose in his glass. Long acquaintance with the attitude of the convent toward the marital63 tendencies of Mrs. Fergus had taught him wisdom. It was safe to sympathize with either side of the long-standing dispute when the other side was unrepresented. But when the nuns and Mrs. Fergus discussed it together, he sagaciously held his peace.
“Is it sour grapes you’re tasting, Agnes O’Mahony?” put in Mrs. Fergus, briskly. In new matters, hers could not be described as an alert mind. But in this venerable quarrel she knew by heart every retort, innuendo64 and affront65 which could be used as weapons, and every weak point in the other’s armor.
“Sour grapes! me!” exclaimed the mother-superior, with as lively an effect of indignation as if this rejoinder had not been flung in her face every month or so for the past dozen years. “D’ye harken to that, Sister Blanaid and Sister Ann! It’s me, after me wan-and-fifty years of life in religion, that has this ojus imputation66 put on me! Whisht now! don’t demane yourselves by replyin’! We’ll lave her to the condimnation of her own conscience.”
The two nuns had made no sign of breaking their silence before this admonition came, and they gazed now at the peat fire placidly67. But the angered mother-superior ostentatiously took up her beads68, and began whispering to herself, as if her thoughts were already millions of miles away from her antagonist69 with the crimped hair and the vacuous70 smile.
“It’s persecuting71 me she’s been these long years back,” Mrs. Fergus said to the company at large, but never taking her eyes from the mother-superior’s flushed face; “and all because I married me poor desaysed husband, instead of taking me vows under her.”
“Ah, that poor desaysed husband!” Mother Agnes put in, with an ironical72 drawl in the words. “Sure, whin he was aloive, me ears were just worn out with listening to complaints about him! Ah, thin! ’Tis whin we’re dead that we’re appreciated!”
“All because I married,” pursued Mrs. Fergus, doggedly73, “and wouldn’t come and lock mesilf up here, like a toad74 in the turf, and lave me brothers free to spind the money in riot and luxurious75 livin’. May be, if God’s will had putt a squint76 on me, or given me shoulders a twist like Danny at the fair, or otherwise disfigured me faytures, I’d have been glad to take vows. Mortial plainness is a great injucement to religion.”
The two nuns scuffled their feet on the stone floor and scowled77 at the fire. Mother Agnes put down her beads, and threw a martyr-like glance upward at the blackened oak roof.
“Praise be to the saints,” she said, solemnly, “that denied us the snare78 of mere beauty without sinse, or piety, or respect for old age, or humility79, or politeness, or gratitude80, or—”
“Very well, thin, Agnes O’Mahony,” broke in Mrs. Fergus, promptly81. “If ye’ve that opinion of me, it’s not becomin’ that I should lave me daughter wid ye anny longer. I’ll take her meself to Kenmare next week—the ride over the mountains will do me nervous system a power o’ good—and there she’ll learn to be a lady.”
Cormac O’Daly lifted his head and set down his glass. He knew perfectly82 well that with this familiar threat the dispute always came to an end. Indeed, all the parties to the recent contention83 now of their own accord looked at him, and resettled themselves in their seats, as if to notify him that his turn had come round again.
“I’m far from denying,” he said, as if there had been no interruption at all, “that our O’Mahony is possessed of qualities which commind him to the vulgar multichude. It’s thrue that he rejewced rints all over the estate, and made turbary rights and the carrigeens as free as wather, and yet more than recouped himself by opening the copper84 mines beyant Ardmahon, and laysing thim to a company for a foine royalty85. It’s thrue he’s the first O’Mahony for manny a gineration who’s paid expinses, let alone putting money by in the bank.”
“And what more would ye ask?” said Mrs. Fergus. “Sure, whin he’s done all this, and made fast frinds with every man, women and child roundabout into the bargain, what more would ye want?”
“Ah, what’s money, Mrs. Fergus O’Mahony,” remonstrated86 O’Daly, “and what’s popularity wid the mere thoughtless peasanthry, if ye’ve no ancesthral proide, no love and reverence87 for ancient family thraditions, no devout88 desoire to walk in the paths your forefathers89 trod?”
“Faith, thim same forefathers trod thim with a highly unsteady step, thin, bechune oursilves,” commented Mrs. Fergus.
“But their souls were filled with blessid piety,” said Mother Agnes, gravely. “If they gave small thought to the matter of money, and loike carnal disthractions, they had open hands always for the needs of the church, and of the convint here, and they made holy indings, every soul of ’em.”
“And they respected the hereditary90 functions of their bards,” put in O’Daly, with a conclusive91 air.
At the moment, as there came a sudden lull92 in the tumult93 of the storm outside, those within the reception-room heard a distinct noise of knocking, which proceeded from beneath the stone-flags at their feet. Three blows were struck, with a deadened thud as upon wet wood, and then the astounded94 listeners heard a low, muffled95 sound, strangely like a human voice, from the same depths.
The tempest’s furious screaming rose again without, even as they listened. All six crossed themselves mechanically, and gazed at one another with blanched96 faces.
“It is the Hostage,” whispered the mother-superior, glancing impressively around, and striving to dissemble the tremor97 which forced itself upon her lips. “For wan-and-fifty years I’ve been waiting to hear the sound of him. My praydecessor, Mother Ellen, rest her sowl, heard him wance, and nixt day the roof of the church fell in. Be the same token, some new disasther is on fut for us, now.”
Cormac O’Daly was as frightened as the rest, but, as an antiquarian, he could not combat the temptation to talk.
“’Tis now just six hundred and seventy years,” he began, in a husky voice, “since Diarmid of the Fine Steeds founded this convint, in expiation98 of his wrong to young Donal, Prince of Connaught. ’Twas the custom thin for the kings and great princes in Ireland to sind their sons as hostages to the palaces of their rivals, to live there as security, so to spake, for their fathers’ good behavior and peaceable intintions. ’Twas in this capacity that young Donal O’Connor came here, but Diarmid thrated him badly—not like his father’s son at all—and immured99 him in a dungeon100 convanient in the rocks. His mother’s milk was in the lad, and he wept for being parted from her till his tears filled the earth, and a living well sprung from thim the day he died. So thin Diarmid repinted and built a convint; and the well bubbled forth101 healing wathers so that all the people roundabout made pilgrimages to it, and with their offerings the O’Mahonys built new edifices102 till ’twas wan of the grandest convints in Desmond; and none but fay-males of the O’Mahony blood saying prayers for the sowl of the Hostage.”
The nuns were busy with their beads, and even Mrs. Fergus bent103 her head. At last it was Mother Agnes who spoke, letting her rosary drop.
“’Twas whin they allowed the holy well to be choked up and lost sight of among fallen stones that throuble first come to the O’Mahonys,” she said solemnly. “’Tis mesilf will beg The O’Mahony, on binded knees, to dig it open again. Worse luck, he’s away to Cork104 or Waterford with his boat, and this storm’ll keep him from returning, till, perhaps, the final disasther falls on us and our house, and he still absinting himsilf. Wirra! What’s that?”
The mother-superior had been forced to lift her voice, in concluding, to make it distinct above the hoarse105 roar of the elements outside. Even as she spoke, a loud crackling noise was heard, followed by a crash of masonry106 which deafened107 the listeners’ ears and shook the walls of the room they sat in.
With a despairing groan108, the three nuns fell to their knees and bowed their vailed heads over their beads.
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收听单词发音
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1
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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7
buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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8
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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9
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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10
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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11
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
thatches
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| n.（稻草、芦苇等盖的）茅草屋顶( thatch的名词复数 )；乱蓬蓬的头发，又脏又乱的头发 | |
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13
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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infraction
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| n.违反；违法 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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19
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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21
commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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22
gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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24
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cloistral
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| adj.修道院的，隐居的，孤独的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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30
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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31
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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34
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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35
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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38
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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40
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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41
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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42
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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43
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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44
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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45
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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47
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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48
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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49
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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50
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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51
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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53
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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54
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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55
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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56
wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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58
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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59
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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60
preening
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的现在分词 ) | |
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61
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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62
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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63
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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64
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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65
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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66
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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67
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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68
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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69
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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70
vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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71
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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72
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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73
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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74
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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75
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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76
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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77
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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79
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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80
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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81
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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82
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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83
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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84
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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85
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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86
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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88
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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89
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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96
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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98
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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99
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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101
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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102
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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103
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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104
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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105
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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106
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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107
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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108
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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