At last the sport slackens; for the sportsman is getting tired, and hungry also, to carry on the metaphor15; for he has seen the postman come up the front walk a quarter of an hour since, and the letters have not been brought in yet.
At last there is a knock at the door, which he answers by a somewhat testy16 "come in." But he checks the coming grumble17, when not the maid, but Lucia enters.
Why not grumble at Lucia? He has done so many a time.
Because she looks this morning so charming; really quite pretty again, so radiant is her face with smiles. And because, also, she holds triumphant19 above her head a newspaper.
She dances up to him—
"I have something for you."
"For me? Why, the post has been in this half-hour."
"Yes, for you, and that's just the reason why I kept it myself. D'ye understand my Irish reasoning?"
"No, you pretty creature," said Elsley, who saw that whatever the news was, it was good news.
"Pretty creature, am I? I was once, I know; but I thought you had forgotten all about that. But I was not going to let you have the paper till I had devoured20 every word of it myself first."
"Every word of what?"
"Of what you shan't have unless you promise to be good for a week. Such a Review; and from America! What a dear man he must be who wrote it! I really think I should kiss him if I met him."
"And I really think he would not say no. But as he's not here, I shall act as his proxy21."
"Be quiet, and read that, if you can, for blushes;" and she spread out the paper before him, and then covered his eyes with her hands. "No, you shan't see it; it will make you vain."
Elsley had looked eagerly at the honeyed columns; (as who would not have done?) but the last word smote22 him. What was he thinking of? his own praise, or his wife's love?
"Too true," he cried, looking up at her. "You dear creature! Vain I am, God forgive me: but before I look at a word of this I must have a talk with you."
"I can't stop; I must run back to the children. No; now don't look cross;" as his brow clouded, "I only said that to tease you. I'll stop with you ten whole minutes, if you won't look so very solemn and important. I hate tragedy faces. Now what is it?"
As all this was spoken while both her hands were clasped round
Elsley's neck, and with looks and tones of the very sweetest as well
as the very sauciest24, no offence was given, and none taken: but
Elsley's voice was sad as he asked,—
"So you really do care for my poems?"
"You great silly creature? Why else did I marry you at all? As if I cared for anything in the world but your poems; as if I did not love everybody who praises them; and if any stupid reviewer dares to say a word against them I could kill him on the spot. I care for nothing in the world but what people say of you.—And yet I don't care one pin; I know what your poems are, if nobody else does; and they belong to me, because you belong to me, and I must be the best judge, and care for nobody, no not I!"—And she began singing, and then hung over him, tormenting25 him lovingly while he read.
It was a true American review, utterly26 extravagant27 in its laudations, whether from over-kindness, or from a certain love of exaggeration and magniloquence, which makes one suspect that a large proportion of the Transatlantic gentlemen of the press must be natives of the sister isle28: but it was all the more pleasant to the soul of Elsley.
"There," said Lucia, as she clung croodling to him; "there is a pretty character of you, sir! Make the most of it, for it is all those Yankees will ever send you."
"Yes," said Elsley, "if they would send one a little money, instead of making endless dollars by printing one's books, and then a few more by praising one at a penny a line."
"That's talking like a man of business: if instead of the review, now, a cheque for fifty pounds had come, how I would have rushed out and paid the bills!"
"And liked it a great deal better than the review?"
"You jealous creature! No. If I could always have you praised, I'd live in a cabin, and go about the world barefoot, like a wild Irish girl."
"You would make a very charming one."
"I used to, once, I can tell you, Valencia and I used to run about without shoes and stockings at Kilanbaggan, and you can't think how pretty and white this little foot used to look on a nice soft carpet of green moss29."
"I shall write a sonnet30 to it."
"You may if you choose, provided you don't publish it."
"You may trust me for that. I am not one of those who anatomise their own married happiness for the edification of the whole public, and make fame, if not money, out of their own wives' hearts."
"How I should hate you, if you did! Not that I believe their fine stories about themselves. At least, I am certain it's only half the story. They have their quarrels, my dear, just as you and I have but they take care not to put them into poetry."
"Well, but who could? Whether they have a right or not to publish the poetical31 side of their married life, it is too much to ask them to give you the unpoetical also."
"Then they are all humbugs33, and I believe, if they really love their wives so very much, they would not be at all that pains to persuade the world of it."
"You are very satirical and spiteful, ma'am."
"I always am when I am pleased. If I am particularly happy, I always long to pinch somebody. I suppose it's Irish—
"'Comes out, meets a friend, and for love knocks him down.'"
"But you know, you rogue34, that you care to read no poetry but love poetry."
"Of course not every woman does, but let me find you publishing any such about me, and see what I will do to you! There, now I must go to my work, and you go and write something extra superfinely grand, because I have been so good to you. No. Let me go; what a bother you are. Good-bye."
And away she tripped, and he returned to his work, happier than he had been for a week past.
His happiness, truly, was only on the surface. The old wound had been salved—as what wound cannot be?—by woman's love and woman's wit but it was not healed. The cause of his wrong doing, the vain, self-indulgent spirit, was there still unchastened, and he was destined35, that very day, to find that he had still to bear the punishment of it.
Now the reader must understand, that though one may laugh at Elsley Vavasour, because it is more pleasant than scolding at him, yet have Philistia and Fogeydom neither right nor reason to consider him a despicable or merely ludicrous person, or to cry, "Ah, if he had been as we are!"
Had he been merely ludicrous, Lucia would never have married him; and he could only have been spoken of with indignation, or left utterly out of the story, as a simply unpleasant figure, beyond the purposes of a novel, though admissible now and then into tragedy. One cannot heartily37 laugh at a man if one has not a lurking38 love for him, as one really ought to have for Elsley. How much value is to be attached to his mere36 power of imagination and fancy, and so forth39, is a question; but there was in him more than mere talent: there was, in thought at least, virtue40 and magnanimity.
True, the best part of him, perhaps almost all the good part of him, spent itself in words, and must be looked for, not in his life, but in his books. But in those books it can be found; and if you look through them, you will see that he has not touched upon a subject without taking, on the whole, the right, and pure, and lofty view of it. Howsoever extravagant he may be in his notions of poetic32 licence, that licence is never with him a synonym41 for licentiousness42. Whatever is tender and true, whatever is chivalrous43 and high-minded, he loves at first sight, and reproduces it lovingly. And it may be possible that his own estimate of his poems was not altogether wrong; that his words may have awakened44 here and there in others a love for that which is morally as well as physically45 beautiful, and may have kept alive in their hearts the recollection that, both for the bodies and the souls of men forms of life far nobler and fairer than those which we see now are possible; that they have appeared, in fragments at least, already on the earth; that they are destined, perhaps, to reappear and combine themselves in some ideal state, and in
"One far-off divine event,
Toward which the whole creation moves."
This is the special and proper function of the poet; that he may do this, does God touch his lips with that which, however it may be misused47, is still fire from off the altar beneath which the spirits of his saints cry,—"Lord, how long?" If he "reproduce the beautiful" with this intent, however so little, then is he of the sacred guild48. And because Vavasour had this gift, therefore he was a poet.
But in this he was weak: that he did not feel, or at least was forgetting fast, that this gift had been bestowed50 on him for any practical purpose. No one would demand that he should have gone forth with some grand social scheme, to reform a world which looked to him so mean and evil. He was not a man of business, and was not meant to be one. But it was ill for him that in his fastidiousness and touchiness51 he had shut himself out from that world, till he had quite forgotten how much good there was in it as well as evil; how many people—commonplace and unpoetical it may be—but still heroical in God's sight, were working harder than he ever worked, at the divine drudgery52 of doing good, and that in dens53 of darkness and sloughs54 of filth55, from which he would have turned with disgust; so that the sympathy with the sinful and fallen which marks his earlier poems, and which perhaps verges56 on sentimentalism, gradually gives place to a Pharisaic and contemptuous tone; a tone more lofty and manful in seeming, but far less divine in fact. Perhaps comparative success had injured him. Whilst struggling himself against circumstances, poor, untaught, unhappy, he had more fellow-feeling, with those whom circumstance oppressed. At least, the pity which he could once bestow49 upon the misery57 which he met in his daily walks, he now kept for the more picturesque58 woes59 of Italy and Greece.
In this, too, he was weak; that he had altogether forgotten that the fire from off the altar could only be kept alight by continual self-restraint and self-sacrifice, by continual gentleness and humility61, shown in the petty matters of everyday home-life; and that he who cannot rule his own household can never rule the Church of God. And so it befell, that amid the little cross-blasts of home squabbles the sacred spark was fast going out. The poems written after he settled at Penalva are marked by a less definite purpose, by a lower tone of feeling: not, perhaps, by a lower moral tone; but simply by less of any moral tone at all. They are more and more full of merely sensuous62 beauty, mere word-painting, mere word-hunting. The desire of finding something worth saying gives place more and more to that of saying something in a new fashion. As the originality63 of thought (which accompanies only vigorous moral purpose) decreases, the attempt at originality of language increases. Manner, in short, has taken the place of matter. The art, it may be, of his latest poems is greatest: but it has been expended64 on the most unworthy themes. The later are mannered caricatures of the earlier, without their soul; and the same change seems to have passed over him which (with Mr. Ruskin's pardon) transformed the Turner of 1820 into the Turner of 1850.
Thus had Elsley transferred what sympathy he had left from needle-women and ragged66 schools, dwellers67 in Jacob's Island and sleepers68 in the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge, to sufferers of a more poetic class. Whether his sympathies showed thereby69 that he had risen or fallen, let my readers decide each for himself. It is a credit to any man to feel for any human being; and Italy, as she is at this moment, is certainly one of the most tragic70 spectacles which the world has ever seen. Elsley need not be blamed for pitying her; only for holding, with most of our poets, a vague notion that her woes were to be cured by a hair of the dog who bit her; viz., by homoeopathic doses of that same "art" which has been all along her morbid71 and self-deceiving substitute for virtue and industry. So, as she had sung herself down to the nether72 pit, Elsley would help to sing her up again; and had already been throwing off, ever since 1848, a series of sonnets73 which he entitled Eurydice, intimating, of course, that he acted as the Orpheus. Whether he had hopes of drawing iron tears down Pluto74 Radetzky's cheek, does not appear; but certainly the longer poem which had sprung from his fancy, at the urgent call of Messrs. Brown and Younger, would have been likely to draw nothing but iron balls from Radetzky's cannon75; or failing so vast an effect, an immediate76 external application to the poet himself of that famous herb Pantagruelion, cure for all public ills and private woes, which men call hemp77. Nevertheless, it was a noble subject; one which ought surely to have been taken up by some of our poets, for if they do not make a noble poem of it, it will be their own fault. I mean that sad and fantastic tragedy of Fra Dolcino and Margaret, which Signor Mariotti has lately given to the English public, in a book which, both for its matter and its manner, should be better known than it is. Elsley's soul had been filled (it would have been a dull one else) with the conception of the handsome and gifted patriot-monk, his soul delirious78 with, the dream of realising a perfect Church on earth; battling with tongue and pen, and at last with sword, against the villanies of pope and kaiser, and all the old devourers of the earth, cheered only by the wild love of her who had given up wealth, fame, friends, all which render life worth having, to die with him a death too horrible for words. And he had conceived (and not altogether ill) a vision, in which, wandering along some bright Italian bay, he met Dolcino sitting, a spirit at rest but not yet glorified79, waiting for the revival80 of that dead land for which he had died; and Margaret by him, dipping her scorched81 feet for ever in the cooling wave, and looking up to the hero for whom she had given up all, with eyes of everlasting82 love. There they were to prophesy83 to him such things as seemed fit to him, of the future of Italy and of Europe, of the doom84 of priests and tyrants85, of the sorrows and rewards of genius unappreciated and before its age; for Elsley's secret vanity could see in himself a far greater likeness86 to Dolcino, than Dolcino—the preacher, confessor, bender of all hearts, man of the world and man of action, at last crafty87 and all but unconquerable guerilla warrior—would ever have acknowledged in the self-indulgent dreamer. However, it was a fair conception enough; though perhaps it never would have entered Elsley's head, had Shelley never written the opening canto89 of the Revolt of Islam.
So Elsley, on a burning July forenoon, strolled up the lane and over the down to King Arthur's Nose, that he might find materials for his sea-shore scene. For he was not one of those men who live in such quiet, everyday communication with nature, that they drink in her various aspects as unconsciously as the air they breathe; and so can reproduce them, out of an inexhaustible stock of details, simply and accurately90, and yet freshly too, tinged91 by the peculiar92 hue93 of the mind in which they have been long sleeping. He walked the world, either blind to the beauty round him, and trying to compose instead some little scrap94 of beauty in his own self-imprisoned thoughts; or else he was looking out consciously and spasmodically for views, effects, emotions, images; something striking and uncommon95 which would suggest a poetic figure, or help out a description, or in some way re-furnish his mind with thought. From which method it befell, that his lamp of truth was too often burnt out just when it was needed; and that, like the foolish virgins96, he had to go and buy oil when it was too late; or failing that, to supply its place with some baser artificial material.
That day, however, he was fortunate enough; for wandering and scrambling97 among the rocks, at a dead low spring tide, he came upon a spot which would have made a poem of itself better than all Elsley ever wrote, had he, forgetting all about Fra Dolcino, Italy, priests, and tyrants, set down in black and white just what he saw; provided, of course, that he had patience first to see the same.
It was none other than that ghastly chasm98 across which Thurnall had been so miraculously99 swept, on the night of his shipwreck101. The same ghastly chasm: but ghastly now no longer; and as Elsley looked down, the beauty below invited him, and the coolness also; for the sun beat on the flat rock above till it scorched the feet, and dazzled the eye, and crisped up the blackening sea-weeds; while every sea-snail crept to hide itself under the bladder-tangle, and nothing dared to peep or stir save certain grains of gunpowder102, which seemed to have gone mad, so merrily did they hop12 about upon the surface of the fast evaporating salt-pools. That wonder, indeed, Elsley stooped to examine, and drew back his hands with an "ugh!" and a gesture of disgust, when he found that they were "nasty little insects." For Elsley held fully103 the poet's right to believe that all things are not very good; none, indeed, save such as suited his eclectic and fastidious taste; and to hold (on high aesthetic104 grounds, of course) toads105 and spiders in as much abhorrence106 as does any boarding-school girl. However, finding some rock ledges107 which formed a natural ladder, down he scrambled108, gingerly enough, for he was neither an active nor a courageous109 man. But, once down, I will do him the justice to say, that for five whole minutes he forgot all about Fra Dolcino, and, what was better, about himself also.
The chasm may have been fifteen feet deep, and above, about half that breadth; but below, the waves had hollowed it into dark overhanging caverns110. Just in front of him a huge boulder111 spanned the crack; and formed a natural doorway112, through which he saw, like a picture set in a frame, the far-off blue sea softening113 into the blue sky among brown Eastern haze114. Amid the haze a single ship hung motionless, like a white cloud. Nearer, a black cormorant115 floated sleepily along, and dived, and rose again. Nearer again, long lines of flat tide-rock, glittering and quivering in the heat, sloped gradually under the waves, till they ended in half-sunken beds of olive oar-weed, which bent116 their tangled117 stems into a hundred graceful118 curves, and swayed to and fro slowly and sleepily. The low swell119 slid whispering among their floating palms, and slipped on toward the cavern's mouth, as if asking wistfully (so Elsley fancied) when it would be time for it to return to that cool shade, and hide from all the blinding blaze outside. But when his eye was enough accustomed to the shade within, it withdrew gladly from the glaring sea and glaring tide-rocks to the walls of the chasm itself; to curved and polished sheets of stone, rich brown, with snow-white veins120, on which danced for ever a dappled network of pale yellow light; to crusted beds of pink coralline; to caverns, in the dark crannies of which hung branching sponges and tufts of purple sea-moss; to strips of clear white sand, bestrewn with shells; to pools, each a gay flower-garden of all hues121, where branching sea-weeds reflected blue light from every point, like a thousand damasked sword-blades; while among them, dahlias and chrysanthemums122, and many another mimic123 of our earth-born flowers, spread blooms of crimson124, and purple, and lilac, and creamy grey, half-buried among feathered weeds as brightly coloured as they; and strange and gaudy125 fishes shot across from side to side, and chased each other in and out of hidden cells.
Within and without all was at rest; the silence was broken only by the timid whisper of the swell, and by the chime of dropping water within some unseen cave: but what a different rest! Without, all lying breathless, stupefied, sun-stricken, in blinding glare; within, all coolness, and refreshing126 sleep. Without, all simple, broad, and vast; within, all various, with infinite richness of form and colour.—An Hairoun Alraschid's bower127, looking out upon the—
Bother the fellow! Why will he go on analysing and figuring in this way? Why not let the blessed place tell him what it means, instead of telling it what he thinks? And—why, he is actually writing verses, though not about Fra Dolcino!
"How rests yon rock, whoso half-day's bath is done,
With broad bright sight, beneath the broad bright sun,
Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses128 sleeping.
Yet, nearer drawn129, beneath her purple tresses,
From down-bent brows we find her slowly weeping,
So many a heart for cruel man's caresses130
Must only pine and pine, and yet must bear
A gallant131 front beneath life's gaudy glare."
Silly fellow! Do you think that Nature had time to think of such a far-fetched conceit133 as that while it was making that rock and peopling it with a million tiny living things, of which not one falleth to the ground without your Father's knowledge, and each more beautiful than any sea-nymph whom you ever fancied? For, after all, you cannot fancy a whole sea nymph (perhaps in that case you could make one), but only a very little scrap of her outside. Or if, as you boast, you are inspired by the Creative Spirit, tell us what the Creative Spirit says about that rock, and not such verse as that, the lesson of which you don't yourself really feel. Pretty enough it is, perhaps: but in your haste to say a pretty thing, just because it was pretty, you have not cared to condemn134 yourself out of your own mouth. Why were you sulky, sir, with Mrs. Vavasour this very morning, after all that passed, because she would look over the washing-books, while you wanted her to hear about Fra Dolcino? And why, though she was up to her knees among your dirty shirts when you went out, did you not give her one parting kiss, which would have transfigured her virtuous135 drudgery for her into a sacred pleasure? One is heartily glad to see you disturbed, cross though you may look at it, by that sturdy step and jolly whistle which burst in on you from the other end of the chasm, as Tom Thurnall, with an old smock frock over his coat and a large basket on his arm, comes stumbling and hopping136 towards you, dropping every now and then on hands and knees, and turning over on his back, to squeeze his head into some muddy crack, and then withdraw it with the salt water dripping down his nose.
Elsley closed his eyes, and rested his head on his hand in a somewhat studied "pose." But as he wished not to be interrupted, it may not have been altogether unpardonable to pretend sleep. However, the sleeping posture137 had exactly the opposite effect to that which he designed.
"Ah, Mr. Vavasour!"
"Humph!" quoth he slowly, if not sulkily.
"I admire your taste, sir; a charming summerhouse old Triton has vacated for your use; but let me advise you not to go to sleep in it."
"Why then, sir?"
"Because—it's no business of mine, of course: but the tide has turned already; and if a breeze springs up old Triton will be back again in a hurry, and in a rage also; and—I may possibly lose a good patient."
Elsley, who knew nothing about the tides, save that "the moon wooed the ocean," or some such important fact, thanked him coolly enough, and returned to a meditative138 attitude. Tom saw that he was in the seventh heaven, and went on: but he had not gone three steps before he pulled up short, slapping his hands together once, as a man does who has found what he wants; and then plunged139 up to his knees in a rock pool, and then began working very gently at something under water.
Elsley watched him for full five minutes with so much curiosity, that, despite of himself, he asked him what he was doing.
Tom had his whole face under water, and did not hear, till Elsley had repeated the question.
"Only a rare zoophyte," said he at last, lifting his dripping visage, and gasping140 for breath; and then he dived again.
"Inexplicable141 pedantry143 of science!" thought Elsley to himself, while Tom worked on steadfastly144, and at last rose, and, taking out a phial from his basket, was about to deposit in it something invisible.
"Stay a moment; you really have roused my curiosity by your earnestness. May I see what it is for which you have taken so much trouble?"
Tom held out on his finger a piece of slimy crust the size of a halfpenny. Elsley could only shrug145 his shoulders.
"Nothing to you, sir, I doubt not; but worth a guinea to me, even if it be only to mount bits of it as microscopic146 objects."
"So you mingle147 business with science?" said Elsley, rather in a contemptuous tone.
"Why not? I must live, and my father too; and it is as honest a way of making money as any other: I poach in no man's manor13 for my game."
"But what is your game! What possible attraction in that bit of dirt can make men spend their money on it?"
"You shall see," said Tom, dropping it into the phial of salt water, and offering it to Elsley, with his pocket magnifier.
"Judge for yourself."
Elsley did so, and beheld148 a new wonder—a living plant of crystal, studded with crystal bells, from each of which waved a crown of delicate arms. It was the first time that Elsley had ever seen one of those exquisite149 zoophytes which stud every rock and every tuft of weed.
"This is most beautiful," said he at length.
"Humph! why should not Mr. Vavasour write a poem about it?"
"Why not indeed?" thought Elsley.
"It's no business of mine, no man's less: but I often wonder why you poets don't take to the microscope, and tell us a little more about the wonderful things which are here already, and not about those which are not, and which, perhaps, never will be."
"Well," said Elsley, after another look: "but, after all, these things have no human interest in them."
"I don't know that; they have to me, for instance. These are the things which I would write about if I had any turn for verse, not about human nature, of which I know, I'm afraid, a little too much already. I always like to read old Darwin's 'Loves of the Plants;' bosh as it is in a scientific point of view, it amuses one's fancy without making one lose one's temper, as one must when one begins to analyse the microscopic ape called self and friends.
"You would like, then, the old Cosmogonies, the Eddas and the Vedas," said Elsley, getting interested, as most people did after five minutes' talk with the cynical150 doctor. "I suppose you would not say much for their science; but, as poetry, they are just what you ask for—the expression of thoughtful spirits, who looked round upon nature with awe-struck, childlike eyes, and asked of all heaven and earth the question, 'What are you? How came you to be?' Yet—it may be my fault—while I admire them, I cannot sympathise with them. To me, this zoophyte is as a being of another sphere; and till I can create some link in my own mind between it and humanity it is as nothing in my eyes."
"There is link enough, sir, don't doubt, and chains of iron and brass151 too."
"You believe then, in the development theory of the 'Vestiges'?"
"Doctors who have their bread to earn never commit themselves to theories. No; all I meant was, that this little zoophyte lives by the same laws as you and I; and that he, and the sea-weeds, and so forth, teach us doctors certain little rules concerning life and death, which you will have a chance soon of seeing at work on the most grand and poetical, and indeed altogether tragic scale."
"What do you mean?"
"When the cholera152 comes here as it will, at its present pace, before the end of the summer, then I shall have the zoophytes rising up in judgment153 against me, if I have not profited by a leaf out of their book."
"The cholera?" said Elsley in a startled voice, forgetting Tom's parables154 in the new thought. For Elsley had a dread155 more nervous than really coward of infectious diseases; and he had also (and prided himself, too, on having) all Goethe's dislike of anything terrible or horrible, of sickness, disease, wounds, death, anything which jarred with that "beautiful" which was his idol156.
"The cholera?" repeated he. "I hope not; I wish you had not mentioned it, Mr. Thurnall."
"I am very sorry that I did so, if it offends you. I had thought that forewarned was forearmed. After all it is no business of mine; if I have extra labour, as I shall have, I shall have extra experience; and that will be a fair set-off, even if the board of guardians157 don't vote me an extra remuneration, as they ought to do."
Elsley was struck dumb; first by the certainty which Tom's words expressed, and next by the coolness of their temper. At last he stammered158 out, "Good heavens, Mr. Thurnall! you do not talk of that frightful159 scourge—so disgusting, too, in its character—as a matter of profit and loss? It is sordid160, cold-hearted!"
"My dear sir, if I let myself think, much more talk, about the matter in any other tone, I should face the thing poorly enough when it came. I shall have work enough to keep my head about the end of August or beginning of September, and I must not lose it beforehand, by indulging in any horror, disgust, or other emotion perfectly161 justifiable162 in a layman163."
"But are not doctors men?"
"That depends very much on what 'a man' means."
"Men with human sympathy and compassion164."
"Oh, I mean by a man, a man with human strength. My dear sir, one may be too busy, and at doing good too (though that is not my line, save professionally, because it is my only way of earning money); but one may be too busy at doing good to have time for compassion. If while I was cutting a man's leg off I thought of the pain which he was suffering—"
"Thank heaven!" said Elsley, "that it was not my lot to become a medical man."
Tom looked at him with the quaintest166 smile: a flush of mingled167 anger and contempt had been rising in him as he heard the ex-bottle-boy talking sentiment: but he only went on quietly,
"No, sir; with your more delicate sensibilities, you may thank Heaven that you did not become a medical man; your life would have been one of torture, disgust, and agonising sense of responsibility. But do you not see that you must thank Heaven for the sufferer's sake also? I will not shock you again by talking of amputation168; but even in the smallest matter—even if you were merely sending medicine to an old maid—suppose that your imagination were preoccupied169 by the thought of her old age, her sufferings, her disappointed hopes, her regretful dream of bygone youth, and beauty, and love, and all the tender fancies which might well spring out of such a mournful spectacle, would you not be but too likely (pardon the bathos) to end by sending her an elderly gentleman's medicine after all, and so either frightfully increasing her sufferings, or ending them once for all?"
Tom said this in the most quiet and natural tone, without even a twinkle of his wicked eye: but Elsley heard him begin with reddening face; and as he went on, the red had turned to purple, and then to deadly yellow; till making a half-step forward he cried fiercely:—
"Sir!" and then stopped suddenly; for his feet slipped upon the polished stone, and on his face he fell into the pool at Thurnall's feet.
"Well for both of us geese!" said Tom inwardly, as he went to pick him up. "I verily believe he was going to strike me, and that would have done for neither of us. I was a fool to say it; but the temptation was so exquisite; and it must have come some day."
But Vavasour staggered up of his own accord, and dashing away Tom's proffered170 hand, was rushing off without a word.
"Not so, Mr. John Briggs!" said Tom, making up his mind in a moment that he must have it out now, or never; and that he might have everything to fear from Vavasour if he let him go home furious. We do not part thus, sir!"
"We will meet again, if you will," foamed171 Vavasour, "but it shall end in the death of one of us!"
"By each other's potions? I can doctor myself, sir, thank you. Listen to me, John Briggs! You shall listen!" and Tom sprang past him, and planted himself at the foot of the rock steps, to prevent his escaping upward.
"What, do you wish to quarrel with me, sir? It is I who ought to quarrel with you. I am the aggrieved172 party, and not you, sir! I have not seen the son of the man who, when I was an apothecary's boy, petted me, lent me books, introduced me as a genius, turned my head for me, which was just what I was vain enough to enjoy—I have not seen that man's son cast ashore173 penniless and friendless, and yet never held out to him a helping174 hand, but tried to conceal175 my identity from him, from a dirty shame of my honest father's honest name."
Vavasour dropped his eyes, for was it not true? but he raised them again more fiercely than ever.
"Curse you! I owe you nothing. It was you who made me ashamed of it.
You rhymed on it, and laughed about poetry coming out of such a name."
"And what if I did? Are poets to "be made of nothing but tinder and gall132?" Why could you not take an honest joke as it was meant, and go your way like other people, till you had shown yourself worth something, and won honour even, for the name of Briggs?"
"And I have! I have my own station now, my own fame, sir, and it is nothing to you what I choose to call myself. I have won my place, I say, and your mean envy cannot rob me of it."
"You have your station. Very good," said Tom, not caring to notice the imputation176; "you owe the greater part of it to your having made a most fortunate marriage, for which I respect you, as a practical man. Let your poetry be what it may (and people tell me that it is really very beautiful), your match shows me that you are a clever, and therefore a successful person."
"Do you take me for a sordid schemer, like yourself? I loved what was worthy65 of me, and won it because I deserved it."
"Then, having won it, treat it as it deserves," said Tom, with a cool searching look, before which Vavasour's eyes fell again. "Understand me, Mr. John Briggs; it is of no consequence to me what you call yourself: but it is of consequence to me that I should not have a patient in my parish whom I cannot cure; for I cannot cure broken hearts, though they will be simple enough to come to me for medicine."
"You shall have no chance! You shall never enter my house! You shall not ruin me, sir, by your bills!"
Tom made no answer to this fresh insult. He had another game to play.
"Take care what you say, Briggs; remember that, after all, you are in my power, and I had better remind you plainly of the fact."
"And you mean to make me your tool? I will die first!"
"I believe that," said Tom, who was very near adding, "that he should be sorry to work with such tools."
"My tools are my lancet and my drugs," said he, quietly, "and all I have to say refers to them. It suits my purpose to become the principal medical man in this neighbourhood—"
"And I am to tout177 for introductions for you?"
"You are to be so very kind as to allow me to finish my sentence, just as you would allow any other gentleman; and because I wish for practice, and patients, and power, you will be so kind as to treat me henceforth as one high-minded man would treat another, to whom he is obliged. For you know, John Briggs, as well as I," said Tom, drawing himself up to his full height, "look me in the face, if you can, ere you deny it, that I was, while you knew me, as honourable178 a man, and as kind-hearted a man, as you ever were; and that now—considering the circumstances under which we meet,—you have more reason to trust me, than I have, prima facie, to trust you."
Vavasour answered not a word.
"Good-bye, then," said Tom, drawing aside from the step; "Mrs. Vavasour will be anxious about you. And mind! With regard to her first of all, sir, and then with regard to other matters—as long, and only as long, as you remember that you are John Briggs of Whitbury, I shall be the first to forget it. There is my hand, for old acquaintance' sake."
Vavasour took the proffered hand coldly, paused a moment, and then wrung179 it in silence, and hurried away home.
"Have I played my ace18 ill after all?" said Tom, sitting down to consider. "As for whether I should have played it all, that's no business of mine now. Madam Might-have-been may see to that. But did I play ill? for if I did, I may try a new lead yet. Ought I to have twitted him about his wife? If he's venomous, it may only make matters worse; and still worse if he be suspicious. I don't think he was either in old times; but vanity will make a man so, and it may have made him. Well, I must only ingratiate myself all the more with her; and find out, too, whether she has his secret as well as I. What I am most afraid of is my having told him plainly that he was in my power; it's apt to make sprats of his size flounce desperately180, in the mere hope of proving themselves whales after all, if it's only to their miserable181 selves. Never mind; he can't break my tackle; and besides, that gripe of the hand seemed to indicate that the poor wretch182 was beat, and thought himself let off easily—as indeed he is. We'll hope so. Now, zoophytes, for another turn with you!"
To tell the truth, however, Tom is looking for more than zoophytes, and has been doing so at every dead low tide since he was wrecked183. He has heard nothing yet of his belt. The notes have not been presented at the London bank; nobody in the village has been spending more money than usual; for cunning Tom has contrived184 already to know how many pints185 of ale every man of whom he has the least doubt has drunk. Perhaps, after all, the belt may have been torn off in the life struggle; it may have been for a moment in Grace's hands, and then have been swept into the sea. What more likely? And what more likely, in that case, that, sinking by its weight, it is wedged away in some cranny of the rocks?
So spring-tide after spring-tide Tom searches, and all the more carefully because others are searching too, for waifs and strays from the wreck. Sad relics186 of mortality he finds at times, as others do: once, even, a dressing-case, full of rings and pins and chains, which belonged, he fancied, to a gay young bride with whom he had waltzed many a time on deck, as they slipped along before the soft trade-wind: but no belt. He sent the dressing-case to the Lloyd's underwriters, and searched on: but in vain. Neither could he find that any one else had forestalled187 him; and that very afternoon, sulky and disheartened, he determined188 to waste no more time about the matter, and strode home, vowing189 signal vengeance190 against the thief, if he caught him.
"And I will catch him! These west-country yokels191, to fancy that they can do Tom Thurnall! It's adding insult to injury, as Sam Weller's parrot has it."
Now his shortest way home lay across the shore, and then along the beach, and up the steps by the little waterfall, past Mrs. Harvey's door; and at that door sat Grace, sewing in the sun. She looked up and bowed as his passed, smiling modestly, and little dreaming of what was passing in his mind; and when a very lovely girl smiled and bowed to Tom, he must needs do the same to her: whereon she added,—
"I beg your pardon, sir: have you heard anything of the money you lost? I—we—have been so ashamed to think of such a thing happening here."
Tom's evil spirit was roused.
"Have you heard anything of it, Miss Harvey? For you seem to me the only person in the place who knows anything about the matter."
"I, sir?" cried Grace, fixing her great startled eyes full on him.
"Why, ma'am," said Tom, with a courtly smile, "you may possibly recollect46, if you will so far tax your memory, that you had it in your hands at least a moment, when you did me the kindness to save my life; and as you were kind enough to inform me that I should recover it when I was worthy of it, I suppose I have not yet risen in your eyes to the required state of conversion192 and regeneration." And swinging impatiently away, he walked on, really afraid lest he should say something rude.
Grace half called after him, and then suddenly checking herself, rushed in to her mother with a wild and pale face.
"What is this Mr. Thurnall has been saying to me about his belt and money which he lost?"
"About what? Has he been rude to you, the bad man?" cried Mrs. Harvey, dropping the pie-dish in some confusion, and taking a long while to pick up the pieces.
"About the belt—the money which he lost? Why don't you speak, mother?"
"Belt—money? Ah, I recollect now. He has lost some money, he says."
"Of course he has."
"How should you know anything? I recollect there was some talk of it, though. But what matter what he says? He was quite passed away, I'll swear, when they carried him up."
"But, mother! mother! he says that I know about it; that I had it in my hands!"
"You? Oh the wicked wretch, the false, ungrateful, slanderous194 child of wrath195, with adder's poison tinder his lips! No, my child! Though we're poor, we're honest! Let him slander193 us, rob us, of our good name, send us to prison, if he will—he cannot rob us of our souls. We'll be silent; we'll turn the other cheek, and commit our cause to One above who pleads for the orphan196 and the widow. We will not strive nor cry, my child. Oh, no!" And Mrs. Harvey began fussing over the smashed pie-dish.
"I shall not strive nor cry, mother," said Grace, who had recovered her usual calm: "but he must have some cause for these strange words. Do you recollect seeing me with the belt?"
"Belt, what's a belt? I know nothing about belts. I tell you he's a villain197, and a slanderer198. Oh, that it should have come to this, to have my child's fair fame blasted by a wretch that comes nobody knows where from, and has been doing nobody knows what, for aught I know!"
"Mother, mother! we know no harm of him. If he is mistaken, God forgive him!"
"If he is mistaken?" went on Mrs. Harvey, still over the pie-dish: but
Grace gave her no answer.
She was deep in thought. She recollected199 now, that as she had gone up the path, from the cove1 on that eventful morning, she had seen Willis and Thurnall whispering earnestly together; and she recollected now, for the first time, that there had been, a certain sadness and perplexity, almost reserve, about Willis ever since. Good Heavens! could he suspect her too? She would find out that at least; and no sooner had her mother fussed away, talking angrily to herself, into the back kitchen, than Grace put on her bonnet200 and shawl, and went forth to find the Captain.
In an hour she returned. Her lips were firm set, her cheeks pale, her eyes red with weeping. She said nothing to her mother, who for her part did not seem inclined to allude201 again to the matter.
"Where have you been, child? You look quite poorly, and your eyes red."
"The wind is very cold, mother," said she, and went into her room. Her mother looked sharply after her, and muttered to herself.
Grace went in, and sat down on the bed.
"What a coldness this is at my heart!" she said aloud to herself, trying to smile; but she could not: and she sat on the bedside, without taking off her bonnet and shawl, her hands hanging listlessly by her side, her head drooping202 on her bosom203, till her mother called her to tea: then she was forced to rouse herself, and went out, composed, but utterly wretched.
Tom walked up homeward, very ill at ease. He had played, to use his nomenclature, two trump204 cards running, and was by no means satisfied that he had played them well. He had no right, certainly, to be satisfied with either move; for both had been made in a somewhat evil spirit, and certainly for no very disinterested205 end.
That was a view of the matter, however, which never entered his mind; there was only that general dissatisfaction with himself which is, though men try hard to deny the fact, none other than the supernatural sting of conscience. He tried "to lay to his soul the flattering unction" that he might, after all, be of use to Mrs. Vavasour, by using his power over her husband: but he knew in his secret heart that any move of his in that direction was likely only to make matters worse; that to-day's explosion might only have sent home the hapless Vavasour in a more irritable206 temper than ever. And thinking over many things, backward and forward, he saw his own way so little, that he actually condescended207 to go and "pump" Frank Headley. So he termed it: but, after all, it was only like asking advice of a good man, because he did not feel himself quite good enough to advise himself.
The curate was preparing to sally forth, after his frugal208 dinner. The morning he spent at the schools, or in parish secularities; the afternoon, till dusk, was devoted209 to visiting the poor; the night, not to sleep, but to reading and sermon writing. Thus, by sitting up till two in the morning, and rising again at six for his private devotions, before walking a mile and a half up to church for the morning service, Frank Headley burnt the candle of life at both ends very effectually, and showed that he did so by his pale cheeks and red eyes.
"Ah!" said Tom, as he entered. "As usual: poor Nature is being robbed and murdered by rich Grace."
"What do you mean now?" asked Frank, smiling, for he had become accustomed enough to Tom's quaint165 parables, though he had to scold him often enough for their irreverence210.
"Nature says, 'after dinner sit awhile;' and even the dumb animals hear her voice, and lie by for a siesta212 when their stomachs are full. Grace says, 'Jump up and rush out the moment you have swallowed your food; and if you get an indigestion, abuse poor Nature for it; and lay the blame on Adam's fall.'"
"You are irreverent, my good sir, as usual; but you are unjust also this time."
"How then?"
"Unjust to Grace, as you phrase it," answered Frank, with a quaint sad smile. "I assure you on my honour, that Grace has nothing whatsoever213 to do with my 'rushing out' just now, but simply the desire to do my good works that they may be seen of men. I hate going out. I should like to sit and read the whole afternoon: but I am afraid lest the dissenters214 should say, 'He has not been to see so-and-so for the last three days;' so off I go, and no credit to me."
Why had Frank dared, upon a month's acquaintance, to lay bare his own heart thus to a man of no creed215 at all? Because, I suppose, amid all differences, he had found one point of likeness between himself and Thurnall; he had found that Tom at heart was a truly genuine man, sincere and faithful to his own scheme of the universe.
How that man, through all his eventful life, had been enabled to
"Bate216 not a jot217 of heart or hope,
But steer218 right onward,"
was a problem which Frank longed curiously219, and yet fearfully withal, to solve. There were many qualities in him which Frank could not but admire, and long to imitate; and, "Whence had they come?" was another problem at which he looked, trembling as many a new thought crossed him. He longed, too, to learn from Tom somewhat at least of that savoir faire, that power of "becoming all things to all men," which St. Paul had; and for want of which Frank had failed. He saw, too, with surprise, that Tom had gained in one month more real insight into the characters of his parishioners than he had done in twelve; and besides all, there was the craving220 of the lonely heart for human confidence and friendship. So it befell that Frank spoke23 out his inmost thought that day, and thought no shame; and it befell also, that Thurnall, when he heard it, said in his heart—
"What a noble, honest fellow you are, when you—"
But he answered enigmatically.
"Oh, I quite agree with you that Grace has nothing to do with it. I only referred it to that source because I thought you would do so."
"You ought to be ashamed of your dishonesty, then."
"I know it; but my view of the case is, that you rush out after dinner for the very same reason that the Yankee storekeeper does—from—You'll forgive me if I say it?"
"Of course. You cannot speak too plainly to me."
"Conceit; the Yankee fancies himself such an important person, that the commercial world will stand still unless he flies back to its help after ten minutes' gobbling, with his month full of pork and pickled peaches. And you fancy yourself so important in your line, that the spiritual world will stand still unless you bolt back to help it in like wise. Substitute a half-cooked mutton chop for the pork, and the cases are exact parallels."
"Your parallel does not hold good, Doctor. The Yankee goes back to his store to earn money for himself, and not to keep commerce alive."
"While you go for utterly disinterested motives221.—I see."
"Do you?" said Frank. "If you think that I fancy myself a better man than the Yankee, you mistake me: but at least you will confess that I am not working for money."
"No; you have your notions of reward, and he has his. He wants to be paid by material dollars, payable222 next month; you by spiritual dollars, payable when you die. I don't see the great difference."
"Only the slight difference between what is material and what is spiritual."
"They seem to me, from all I can hear in pulpits, to be only two different sorts of pleasant things, and to be sought after, both alike, simply because they are pleasant. Self-interest, if you will forgive me, seems to me the spring of both: only, to do you justice, you are a farther-sighted and more prudent223 man than the Yankee storekeeper; and having more exquisitely224 developed notions of what your true self-interest is, are content to wait a little longer than he."
"You stab with a jest, Thurnall. You little know how your words hit home."
"Well, then, to turn from a matter of which I know nothing—I must keep you in, and give you parish business to do at home. I am come to consult you as my spiritual pastor225 and master."
Frank looked a little astonished.
"Don't be alarmed. I am not going to confess my own sins—only other people's."
"Pray don't, then. I know far more of them already than I can cure. I am worn out with the daily discovery of fresh evil wherever I go."
"Then why not comfort yourself by trying to find a little fresh good wherever you go?"
Frank sighed.
"Perhaps, though, you don't care for any sort of good except your own sort of good. You are fastidious. Well, you have your excuses. But you can understand a poor fellow like me, who has been dragged through the slums and sewers226 of this wicked world for fifteen years and more, being very well content with any sort of good which I can light on, and not particular as to either quantity or quality."
"Perhaps yours is the healthier state of mind; if you can only find the said good. The vulturine nose, which smells nothing but corruption227, is no credit to its possessor. And it would be pleasant, at least, to find good in every man."
"One can't do that in one's study. Mixing with them is the only plan. No doubt they're inconsistent enough. The more you see of them, the less you trust them; and yet the more you see of them, the more you like them. Can you solve that paradox228 from your books?"
"I will try," said Frank. "I generally have more than one to think over when you go. But, surely, there are men so fallen that they are utterly insensible to good."
"Very likely. There's no saying in this world what may not be. Only I never saw one. I'll tell you a story: you may apply it as you like. When I was on the Texan expedition, and raw to soldiering and camping, we had to sleep in low ground, and suffered terribly from a miasma229. Deadly cold, it was, when it came; and the man who once got chilled through with it, just died. I was lying on the bare ground one night, and chilly230 enough I was—for I was short of clothes, and had lost my buffalo231 robe—but fell asleep: and on waking the next morning, I found myself covered up in my comrade's blankets, even to his coat, while he was sitting shivering in his shirt sleeves. The cold fog had come down in the night, and the man had stripped himself, and sat all night with death staring him in the face, to save my life. And all the reason he gave was, that if one of us must die, it was better the older should go first, and not a youngster like me. And," said Tom, lowering his voice, "that man was a murderer!"
"A murderer!"
"Yes; a drunken, gambling232, cut-throat rowdy as ever grew ripe for the gallows233. Now, will you tell me that there was nothing in that man but what the devil put there?"
Frank sat meditating234 awhile on this strange story, which is moreover a true one; and then looked up with something like tears in his eyes.
"And he did not die?"
"Not he! I saw him die afterwards—shot through the heart, without time even to cry out. But I have not forgotten what he did for me that night; and I'll tell you what, sir! I do not believe that God has forgotten it either."
Frank was silent for a few moments, and then Tom changed the subject.
"I want to know what you can tell me about this Mr. Vavasour."
"Hardly anything, I am sorry to say. I was at his house at tea, two or three times, when I first came; and I had very agreeable evenings, and talks on art and poetry: but I believe I offended him by hinting that he ought to come to church, which he never does, and since then our acquaintance has all but ceased. I suppose you will say, as usual, that I played my cards badly there also."
"Not at all," said Tom, who was disposed to take any one's part against Elsley. "If a clergyman has not a right to tell a man that, I don't see what right he has of any kind. Only," added he, with one of his quaint smiles, "the clergyman, if he compels a man to deal at his store, is bound to furnish him with the articles which he wants."
"Which he needs, or which he likes? For 'wanting' has both these meanings."
"With something that he finds by experience does him good; and so learns to like it, because he knows that he needs it, as my patients do my physic."
"I wish my patients would do so by mine: but, unfortunately, half of them seem to me not to know what their disease is, and the other half do not think they are diseased at all."
"Well," said Tom drily, "perhaps some of them are more right than you fancy. Every man knows his own business best."
"If it were so, they would go about it somewhat differently from what most of the poor creatures do."
"Do you think so? I fancy myself that not one of them does a wrong thing, but what he knows it to be wrong just as well as you do, and is much more ashamed and frightened about it already, than you can ever make him by preaching at him."
"Do you?"
"I do. I judge of others by myself."
"Then would you have a clergyman never warn his people of their sins?"
"If I were he, I'd much sooner take the sins for granted, and say to them, 'Now, my friends, I know you are all, ninety-nine out of the hundred of you, not such bad fellows at bottom, and would all like to be good, if you only knew how; so I'll tell you as far as I know, though I don't know much about the matter. For the truth is, you must have a hundred troubles every day which I never felt in my life; and it must be a very hard thing to keep body and soul together, and to get a little pleasure on this side the grave without making blackguards of yourselves. Therefore I don't pretend to set myself up as a better or a wiser man than you at all: but I do know a thing or two which I fancy may be useful to you. You can but try it. So come up, if you like, any of you, and talk matters over with me as between gentleman and gentleman. I shall keep your secret, of course; and if you find I can't cure your complaint, why, you can but go away and try elsewhere.'"
"And so the doctor's model sermon ends in proposing private confession236!"
"Of course. The thing itself which will do them good, without the red rag of an official name, which sends them cackling off like frightened turkeys.—Such private confession as is going on between you and me now. Here am I confessing to you all my unorthodoxy."
"And I my ignorance," said Frank; "for I really believe you know more about the matter than I do."
"Not at all. I may be all wrong. But the fault of your cloth seems to me to be that they apply their medicines without deigning237, most of them, to take the least diagnosis238 of the case. How could I cure a man without first examining what was the matter with him?"
"So say the old casuists, of whom I have read enough—some would say too much; but they do not satisfy me. They deal with actions, and motives, and so forth; but they do not go down to the one root of wrong which is the same in every man."
"You are getting beyond me: but why do you not apply a little of the worldly wisdom which these same casuists taught you?"
"To tell you the truth, I have tried in past years, and found that the medicine would not act."
"Humph! Well, that would depend, again, on the previous diagnosis of human nature being correct; and those old monks239, I should say, would know about as much of human nature as so many daws in a steeple. Still, you wouldn't say that what was the matter with old Heale was the matter also with Vavasour?"
"I believe from my heart that it is."
"Humph! Then you know the symptoms of his complaint?"
"I know that he never comes to church."
"Nothing more? I am really speaking in confidence. You surely have heard of disagreements between him and Mrs. Vavasour?"
"Never, I assure you; you shock me."
"I am exceedingly sorry, then, that I said a word about it: but the whole parish talks of it," answered Tom, who was surprised at this fresh proof of the little confidence which Aberalva put in their parson.
"Ah!" said Frank sadly, "I am the last person in the parish to hear any news: but this is very distressing240."
"Very, to me. My honour, to tell you the truth, as a medical man, is concerned in the matter; for she is growing quite ill from unhappiness, and I cannot cure her; so I come to you, as soul-doctor, to do what I, the body-doctor, cannot."
Frank sat pondering for a minute, and then—
"You set me on a task for which I am as little fit as any man, by your own showing. What do I know of disagreements between man and wife? And one has a delicacy241 about offering her comfort. She must bestow her confidence on me before I can use it: while he—"
"While he, as the cause of the disease, is what you ought to treat; and not her unhappiness, which is only a symptom of it."
"Spoken like a wise doctor; but to tell you the truth, Thurnall, I have no influence over Mr. Vavasour, and see no means of getting any. If he recognised my authority, as his parish priest, then I should see my way. Let him be as bad as he might, I should have a fixed242 point from which to work; but with his free-thinking notions, I know well—one can judge it too easily from his poems—he would look on me as a pedant142 assuming a spiritual tyranny to which I have no claim."
Tom sat awhile nursing his knee, and then—
"If you saw a man fallen into the water, what do you think would be the shortest way to prove to him that you had authority from heaven to pull him out? Do you give it up? Pulling him out would it not be, without more ado?"
"I should be happy enough to pull poor Vavasour out, if he would let me. But till he believes that I can do it, how can I even begin!"
"How can you expect him to believe, if he has no proof?"
"There are proofs enough in the Bible and elsewhere, if he will but accept them. If he refuses to examine into the credentials243, the fault is his, not mine. I really do not wish to be hard; but would not you do the same, if any one refused to employ you, because he chose to deny that you were a legally qualified244 practitioner245?"
"Not so badly put; but what should I do in that case? Go on quietly curing his neighbours, till he began to alter his mind as to my qualifications, and came in to be cured himself. But here's this difference between you and me. I am not bound to attend to any one who don't send for me; while you think that you are, and carry the notion a little too far, for I expect you to kill yourself by it some day."
"Well?" said Frank, with something of that lazy Oxford246 tone, which is intended to save the speaker the trouble of giving his arguments, when he has already made up his mind, or thinks that he has so done.
"Well, if I thought myself bound to doctor the man, willy-nilly, as you do, I would certainly go to him, and show him, at least, that I understood his complaint. That would be the first step towards his letting me cure him. How else on earth do you fancy that Paul cured those Corinthians about whom I have been reading lately?"
"Are you, too, going to quote Scripture247 against me? I am glad to find that your studies extend to St. Paul."
"To tell you the truth, your sermon last Sunday puzzled me. I could not comprehend (on your showing) how Paul got that wonderful influence over those pagans which he evidently had; and as how to get influence is a very favourite study of mine, I borrowed the book when I went home, and read for myself; and the matter at last seemed clear enough, on Paul's own showing."
"I don't doubt that: but I suspect your interpretation248 of the fact and mine would not agree."
"Mine is simple enough. He says that what proved him to be an apostle was his power. He is continually appealing to his power; and what can he mean by that, but that he could do, and had done, what he professed249 to do? He promised to make those poor heathen rascals250 of Greeks better, and wiser, and happier men; and, I suppose, he made them so; and then there was no doubt of his commission, or his authority, or anything else. He says himself he did not require any credentials, for they were his credentials, read and known of every one; he had made good men of them out of bad ones, and that was proof enough whose apostle he was."
"Well," said Frank half sadly, "I might say a great deal, of course, on the other side of the question, but I prefer hearing what you laymen251 think about it all."
"Will you be angry if I tell you honestly?"
"Did you ever find me angry at anything you said?"
"No. I will do you the justice to say that. Well, what we laymen say is this. If the parsons have the authority of which they boast, why don't they use it? If they have commission to make bad people good, they must have power too; for He whose commission they claim, is not likely, I should suppose, to set a man to do what he cannot do."
"And we can do it, if people would but submit to us. It all comes round again to the same point."
"So it does. How to get them to listen. I tried to find out how Paul achieved that first step; and when I looked he told me plainly enough. By becoming all things to all men; by showing these people that he understood them, and knew what was the matter with them. Now do you go and do likewise by Vavasour, and then exercise your authority like a practical man. If you have power to bind252 and loose, as you told us last Sunday, bind that fellow's ungovernable temper, and loose him from the real slavery which he is in to his miserable conceit and self-indulgence! and then if he does not believe in your 'sacerdotal power,' he is even a greater fool than I take him for."
"Honestly, I will try: God help me!" added Frank in a lower voice; "but as for quarrels between man and wife, as I told you, no one understands them less than I."
"Then marry a wife yourself and quarrel a little with her for experiment, and then you'll know all about it."
Frank laughed in spite of himself.
"Thank you. No man is less likely to try that experiment than I."
"Hum!"
"I have quite enough as a bachelor to distract me from my work, without adding to them those of a wife and family, and those little home lessons in the frailty253 of human nature, in which you advise me to copy Mr. Vavasour."
"And so," said Tom, "having to doctor human beings, nineteen-twentieths of whom are married; and being aware that three parts of the miseries254 of human life come either from wanting to be married, or from married cares and troubles—you think that you will improve your chance of doctoring your flock rightly by avoiding carefully the least practical acquaintance with the chief cause of their disease. Philosophical255 and logical, truly!"
"You seem to have acquired a little knowledge of men and women, my good friend, without encumbering256 yourself with a wife and children."
"Would you like to go to the same school to which I went?" asked Thurnall, with a look of such grave meaning that Frank's pure spirit shuddered257 within him. "And I'll tell you this; whenever I see a woman nursing her baby, or a father with his child upon his knees, I say to myself—they know more, at this minute, of human nature, as of the great law of 'C'est l'amour, l'amour, l'amour, which makes the world go round,' than I am likely to do for many a day. I'll tell you what, sir! These simple natural ties, which are common to us and the dumb animals,—as I live, sir, they are the divinest things I see in the world! I have but one, and that is love to my poor old father; that's all the religion I have as yet: but I tell you, it alone has kept me from being a ruffian and a blackguard. And I'll tell you more," said Tom, warming, "of all diabolical258 dodges259 for preventing the parsons from seeing who they are, or what human beings are, or what their work in the world is, or anything else, the neatest is that celibacy260 of the clergy235. I should like to have you with me in Spanish America, or in France either, and see what you thought of it then. How it ever came into mortal brains is to me the puzzle. I've often fancied, when I've watched those priests—and very good fellows, too, some of them are—that there must be a devil after all abroad in the world, as you say; for no human insanity261 could ever have hit upon so complete and 'cute a device for making parsons do the more harm, the more good they try to do. There, I've preached you a sermon, and made you angry."
"Not in the least: but I must go now and see some sick."
"Well, go, and prosper262; only recollect that the said sick are men and women."
And away Tom went, thinking to himself: "Well, that is a noble, straightforward263, honest fellow, and will do yet, if he'll only get a wife. He's not one of those asses264 who have made up their minds by book that the world is square, and won't believe it to be round for any ocular demonstration265. He'll find out what shape the world is before long, and behave as such, and act accordingly."
Little did Tom think, as he went home that day in full-blown satisfaction with his sermon to Frank, of the misery he had caused, and was going to cause for many a day, to poor Grace Harvey. It was a rude shock to her to find herself thus suspected; though perhaps it was one which she needed. She had never, since one first trouble ten years ago, known any real grief; and had therefore had all the more time to make a luxury of unreal ones. She was treated by the simple folk around her as all but inspired; and being possessed266 of real powers as miraculous100 in her own eyes as those which were imputed267 to her were in theirs (for what are real spiritual experiences but daily miracles?) she was just in that temper of mind in which she required, as ballast, all her real goodness, lest the moral balance should topple headlong after the intellectual, and the downward course of vanity, excitement, deception268, blasphemous269 assumptions be entered on. Happy for her that she was in Protestant and common-sense England, and in a country parish, where mesmerism and spirit-rapping were unknown. Had she been an American, she might have become one of the most lucrative270 "mediums;" had she been born in a Romish country, she would have probably become an even more famous personage. There is no reason why she should not have equalled or surpassed, the ecstasies271 of St. Theresa, or of St. Hildegardis, or any other sweet dreamer of sweet dreams; have founded a new order of charity, have enriched the clergy of a whole province, and have died in seven years, maddened by alternate paroxysms of self-conceit and revulsions of self-abasement. Her own preachers and class-leaders, indeed (so do extremes meet), would not have been sorry to make use of her in somewhat the same manner, however feebly and coarsely: but her innate272 self-respect and modesty273 had preserved her from the snares275 of such clumsy poachers; and more than one good-looking young preacher had fled desperately from a station where, instead of making a tool of Grace Harvey, he could only madden his own foolish heart with love for her.
So Grace had reigned276 upon her pretty little throne of not unbearable277 sorrows, till a real and bitter woe60 came; one which could not be hugged and cherished, like the rest; one which she tried to fling from her, angrily, scornfully, and found to her horror, that, instead of her possessing it, it possessed her, and coiled itself round her heart, and would not be flung away. She—she, of all beings, to be suspected as a thief, and by the very man whose life she had saved! She was willing enough to confess herself—and confessed herself night and morning—a miserable sinner, and her heart a cage of unclean birds, deceitful, and desperately wicked—except in that. The conscious innocence278 flashed up in pride and scorn, in thoughts, even when she was alone, in words, of which she would not have believed herself capable. With hot brow and dry eyes she paced her little chamber279, sat down on the bed, staring into vacancy280, sprang up and paced again: but she went into no trance—she dare not. The grief was too great; she felt that, if she once gave way enough to lose her self-possession, she should go mad. And the first, and perhaps not the least good effect of that fiery281 trial was, that it compelled her to a stern self-restraint, to which her will, weakened by mental luxuriousness282, had been long a stranger.
But a fiery trial it was. The first wild (and yet not unnatural) fancy, that heaven had given Thurnall to her, had deepened day by day, by the mere indulgence of it. But she never dreamt of him as her husband: only as a friendless stranger to be helped and comforted. And that he was worthy of help; that some great future was in store for him; that he was a chosen vessel283 marked out for glory, she had persuaded herself utterly; and the persuasion284 grew in her day by day, as she heard more and more of his cleverness, honesty, and kindliness285, mysterious and, to her, miraculous learning. Therefore she did not make haste; she did not even try to see him, or to speak to him; a civil bow in passing was all that she took or gave; and she was content with that, and waited till the time came, when she was destined to do for him—what she knew not; but it would be done if she were strong enough. So she set herself to learn, and read, and trained her mind and temper more earnestly than ever, and waited in patience for God's good time. And now, behold, a black, unfathomable gulf286 of doubt and shame had opened between them, perhaps for ever. And a tumult287 arose in her soul, which cannot be, perhaps ought not to be, analysed in words; but which made her know too well, by her own crimson cheeks, that it was none other than human love strong as death, and jealousy288 cruel as the grave.
At last long and agonising prayer brought gentler thoughts, and mere physical exhaustion289 a calmer mood. How wicked she had been; how rebellious290! Why not forgive him, as One greater than she had forgiven? It was ungrateful of him; but was he not human? Why should she expect his heart to be better than hers? Besides, he might have excuses for his suspicion. He might be the best judge, being a man, and such a clever one too. Yes; it was God's cross, and she would bear it; she would try and forget him. No; that was impossible; she must hear of him, if not see him, day by day: besides, was not her fate linked up with his? And yet shut out from him by that dark wall of suspicion! It was very bitter. But she could pray for him; she would pray for him now. Yes; it was God's cross, and she would bear it. He would right her if He thought fit; and if not, what matter? Was she not born to sorrow? Should she complain if another drop, and that the bitterest of all, was added to the cup?
And bear her cross she did, about with her, coming in, and going out, for many a weary day. There was no change in her habits or demeanour; she was never listless for a moment in her school; she was more gay and amusing than ever, when she gathered her little ones around her for a story: but still there was the unseen burden, grinding her heart slowly, till she felt as if every footstep was stained with a drop of her heart's blood…. Why not? It would be the sooner over.
Then, at times came that strange woman's pleasure in martyrdom, the secret pride of suffering unjustly: but even that, after a while, she cast away from her, as a snare274, and tried to believe that she deserved all her sorrow—deserved it, that is, in the real honest sense of the word; that she had worked it out, and earned it, and brought it on herself—how, she knew not, but longed and strove to know. No; it was no martyrdom. She would not allow herself so silly a cloak of pride; and she went daily to her favourite "Book of Martyrs," to contemplate291 there the stories of those who really innocent, really suffered for welldoing. And out of that book she began to draw a new and a strange enjoyment292, for she soon found that her intense imagination enabled her to re-enact those sad and glorious stories in her own person; to tremble, agonise, and conquer with those heroines who had been for years her highest ideals—and what higher ones could she have? And many a night, after extinguishing the light, and closing her eyes, she would lie motionless for hours on her little bed, not to sleep, but to feel with Perpetua the wild bull's horns, to hang with St. Maura on the cross, or lie with Julitta on the rack, or see with triumphant smile, by Anne Askew's side, the fire flare293 up around her at the Smithfield stake, or to promise, with dying Dorothea, celestial294 roses to the mocking youth, whose face too often took the form of Thurnall's; till every nerve quivered responsive to her fancy in agonies of actual pain, which died away at last into heavy slumber295, as body and mind alike gave way before the strain. Sweet fool! she knew not—how could she know?—that she might be rearing in herself the seeds of idiotcy and death: but who that applauds a Rachel or a Ristori, for being able to make awhile their souls and their countenances296 the homes of the darkest passions, can blame her for enacting297 in herself, and for herself alone, incidents in which the highest and holiest virtue takes shape in perfect tragedy?
But soon another, and a yet darker cause of sorrow arose in her. It was clear, from what Willis had told her, that she had held the lost belt in her hand. The question was, how had she lost it?
Did her mother know anything about it? That question could not but arise in her mind, though, for very reverence211 she dared not put it to her mother; and with it arose the recollection of her mother's strange silence about the matter. Why had she put away the subject, carelessly, and yet peevishly298, when it was mentioned? Yes. Why? Did her mother know anything? Was she—? Grace dared not pronounce the adjective, even in thought; dashed it away as a temptation of the devil; dashed away, too, the thought which had forced itself on her too often already, that her mother was not altogether one who possessed the single eye; that in spite of her deep religious feeling, her assurance of salvation299, her fits of bitter self-humiliation and despondency, there was an inclination300 to scheming and intrigue301, ambition, covetousness302; that the secrets which she gained as class-leader too, were too often (Grace could but fear) used to her own advantage; that in her dealings her morality was not above the average of little country shopkeepers; that she was apt to have two prices; to keep her books with unnecessary carelessness when the person against whom the account stood was no scholar. Grace had more than once remonstrated303 in her gentle way; and had been silenced, rather than satisfied, by her mother's commonplaces as to the right of "making those who could pay, pay for those who could not;" that "it was very hard to get a living, and the Lord knew her temptations," and "that God saw no sin in His elect," and "Christ's merits were infinite," and "Christians304 always had been a backsliding generation;" and all the other commonplaces by which such people drug their consciences to a degree which is utterly incredible, except to those who have seen it with their own eyes, and heard it with their own ears, from childhood.
Once, too, in those very days, some little meanness on her mother's part brought the tears into Grace's eyes, and a gentle rebuke305 to her lips: but her mother bore the interference less patiently than usual; and answered, not by cant88, but by counter-reproach. "Was she the person to accuse a poor widowed mother, struggling to leave her child something to keep her out of the workhouse? A mother that lived for her, would die for her, sell her soul for her, perhaps—"
And there Mrs. Harvey stopped short, turned pale, and burst into such an agony of tears, that Grace, terrified, threw her arms round her neck, and entreated306 forgiveness, all the more intensely on account of those thoughts within which she dared not reveal. So the storm passed over. But not Grace's sadness. For she could not but see, with her clear pure spiritual eye, that her mother was just in that state in which some fearful and shameful307 fall is possible, perhaps wholesome308. "She would sell her soul for me? What if she have sold it, and stopped short just now, because she had not the heart to tell me that love for me had been the cause? Oh! if she have sinned for my sake! Wretch that I am! Miserable myself, and bringing misery with me! Why was I ever born? Why cannot I die—and the world be rid of me?"
No, she would not believe it. It was a wicked, horrible, temptation of the devil. She would rather believe that she herself had been the thief, tempted309 during her unconsciousness; that she had hidden it somewhere; that she should recollect, confess, restore all some day. She would carry it to him herself, grovel310 at his feet, and entreat forgiveness. "He will surely forgive, when he finds that I was not myself when—that it was not altogether my fault—not as if I had been waking—yes, he will forgive!" And then on that thought followed a dream of what might follow, so wild that a moment after she had hid her blushes in her hands, and fled to books to escape from thoughts.
点击收听单词发音
1 cove | |
n.小海湾,小峡谷 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
2 bogged | |
adj.陷于泥沼的v.(使)陷入泥沼, (使)陷入困境( bog的过去式和过去分词 );妨碍,阻碍 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
3 portent | |
n.预兆;恶兆;怪事 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
4 recesses | |
n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
5 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
6 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
7 dodge | |
v.闪开,躲开,避开;n.妙计,诡计 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
8 quill | |
n.羽毛管;v.给(织物或衣服)作皱褶 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
9 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
10 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
11 entreat | |
v.恳求,恳请 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
12 hop | |
n.单脚跳,跳跃;vi.单脚跳,跳跃;着手做某事;vt.跳跃,跃过 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
13 manor | |
n.庄园,领地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
14 manors | |
n.庄园(manor的复数形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
15 metaphor | |
n.隐喻,暗喻 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
16 testy | |
adj.易怒的;暴躁的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
17 grumble | |
vi.抱怨;咕哝;n.抱怨,牢骚;咕哝,隆隆声 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
18 ace | |
n.A牌;发球得分;佼佼者;adj.杰出的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
19 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
20 devoured | |
吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
21 proxy | |
n.代理权,代表权;(对代理人的)委托书;代理人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
22 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
23 spoke | |
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
24 sauciest | |
adj.粗鲁的( saucy的最高级 );粗俗的;不雅的;开色情玩笑的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
25 tormenting | |
使痛苦的,使苦恼的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
26 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
27 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
28 isle | |
n.小岛,岛 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
29 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
30 sonnet | |
n.十四行诗 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
31 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
32 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
33 humbugs | |
欺骗( humbug的名词复数 ); 虚伪; 骗子; 薄荷硬糖 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
34 rogue | |
n.流氓;v.游手好闲 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
35 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
36 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
37 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
38 lurking | |
潜在 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
39 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
40 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
41 synonym | |
n.同义词,换喻词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
42 licentiousness | |
n.放肆,无法无天 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
43 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
44 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
45 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
46 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
47 misused | |
v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 );把…派作不正当的用途;虐待;滥用 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
48 guild | |
n.行会,同业公会,协会 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
49 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
50 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
51 touchiness | |
n.易动气,过分敏感 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
52 drudgery | |
n.苦工,重活,单调乏味的工作 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
53 dens | |
n.牙齿,齿状部分;兽窝( den的名词复数 );窝点;休息室;书斋 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
54 sloughs | |
n.沼泽( slough的名词复数 );苦难的深渊;难以改变的不良心情;斯劳(Slough)v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的第三人称单数 );舍弃;除掉;摒弃 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
55 filth | |
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
56 verges | |
边,边缘,界线( verge的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
57 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
58 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
59 woes | |
困境( woe的名词复数 ); 悲伤; 我好苦哇; 某人就要倒霉 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
60 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
61 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
62 sensuous | |
adj.激发美感的;感官的,感觉上的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
63 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
64 expended | |
v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 );使用(钱等)做某事;用光;耗尽 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
65 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
66 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
67 dwellers | |
n.居民,居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
68 sleepers | |
n.卧铺(通常以复数形式出现);卧车( sleeper的名词复数 );轨枕;睡觉(呈某种状态)的人;小耳环 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
69 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
70 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
71 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
72 nether | |
adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
73 sonnets | |
n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
74 Pluto | |
n.冥王星 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
75 cannon | |
n.大炮,火炮;飞机上的机关炮 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
76 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
77 hemp | |
n.大麻;纤维 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
78 delirious | |
adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
79 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
80 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
81 scorched | |
烧焦,烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(植物)枯萎,把…晒枯; 高速行驶; 枯焦 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
82 everlasting | |
adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
83 prophesy | |
v.预言;预示 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
84 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
85 tyrants | |
专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 ); 暴君似的人; (古希腊的)僭主; 严酷的事物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
86 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
87 crafty | |
adj.狡猾的,诡诈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
88 cant | |
n.斜穿,黑话,猛扔 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
89 canto | |
n.长篇诗的章 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
90 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
91 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
92 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
93 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
94 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
95 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
96 virgins | |
处女,童男( virgin的名词复数 ); 童贞玛利亚(耶稣之母) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
97 scrambling | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
98 chasm | |
n.深坑,断层,裂口,大分岐,利害冲突 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
99 miraculously | |
ad.奇迹般地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
100 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
101 shipwreck | |
n.船舶失事,海难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
102 gunpowder | |
n.火药 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
103 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
104 aesthetic | |
adj.美学的,审美的,有美感 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
105 toads | |
n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
106 abhorrence | |
n.憎恶;可憎恶的事 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
107 ledges | |
n.(墙壁,悬崖等)突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 );(平窄的)壁架;横档;(尤指)窗台 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
108 scrambled | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
109 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
110 caverns | |
大山洞,大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
111 boulder | |
n.巨砾;卵石,圆石 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
112 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
113 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
114 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
115 cormorant | |
n.鸬鹚,贪婪的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
116 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
117 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
118 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
119 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
120 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
121 hues | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
122 chrysanthemums | |
n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
123 mimic | |
v.模仿,戏弄;n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
124 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
125 gaudy | |
adj.华而不实的;俗丽的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
126 refreshing | |
adj.使精神振作的,使人清爽的,使人喜欢的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
127 bower | |
n.凉亭,树荫下凉快之处;闺房;v.荫蔽 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
128 mosses | |
n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
129 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
130 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
131 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
132 gall | |
v.使烦恼,使焦躁,难堪;n.磨难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
133 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
134 condemn | |
vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
135 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
136 hopping | |
n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
137 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
138 meditative | |
adj.沉思的,冥想的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
139 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
140 gasping | |
adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
141 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
142 pedant | |
n.迂儒;卖弄学问的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
143 pedantry | |
n.迂腐,卖弄学问 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
144 steadfastly | |
adv.踏实地,不变地;岿然;坚定不渝 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
145 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
146 microscopic | |
adj.微小的,细微的,极小的,显微的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
147 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
148 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
149 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
150 cynical | |
adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的,不信世道向善的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
151 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
152 cholera | |
n.霍乱 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
153 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
154 parables | |
n.(圣经中的)寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
155 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
156 idol | |
n.偶像,红人,宠儿 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
157 guardians | |
监护人( guardian的名词复数 ); 保护者,维护者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
158 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
159 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
160 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
161 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
162 justifiable | |
adj.有理由的,无可非议的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
163 layman | |
n.俗人,门外汉,凡人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
164 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
165 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
166 quaintest | |
adj.古色古香的( quaint的最高级 );少见的,古怪的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
167 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句: |
|
|
168 amputation | |
n.截肢 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
169 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
170 proffered | |
v.提供,贡献,提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
171 foamed | |
泡沫的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
172 aggrieved | |
adj.愤愤不平的,受委屈的;悲痛的;(在合法权利方面)受侵害的v.令委屈,令苦恼,侵害( aggrieve的过去式);令委屈,令苦恼,侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
173 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
174 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
175 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
176 imputation | |
n.归罪,责难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
177 tout | |
v.推销,招徕;兜售;吹捧,劝诱 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
178 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
179 wrung | |
绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 ); 握紧(尤指别人的手); 把(湿衣服)拧干; 绞掉(水) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
180 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
181 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
182 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
183 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
184 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
185 pints | |
n.品脱( pint的名词复数 );一品脱啤酒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
186 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
187 forestalled | |
v.先发制人,预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
188 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
189 vowing | |
起誓,发誓(vow的现在分词形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
190 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
191 yokels | |
n.乡下佬,土包子( yokel的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
192 conversion | |
n.转化,转换,转变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
193 slander | |
n./v.诽谤,污蔑 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
194 slanderous | |
adj.诽谤的,中伤的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
195 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
196 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
197 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
198 slanderer | |
造谣中伤者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
199 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
200 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
201 allude | |
v.提及,暗指 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
202 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
203 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
204 trump | |
n.王牌,法宝;v.打出王牌,吹喇叭 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
205 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
206 irritable | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
207 condescended | |
屈尊,俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 ); 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
208 frugal | |
adj.节俭的,节约的,少量的,微量的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
209 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
210 irreverence | |
n.不尊敬 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
211 reverence | |
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
212 siesta | |
n.午睡 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
213 whatsoever | |
adv.(用于否定句中以加强语气)任何;pron.无论什么 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
214 dissenters | |
n.持异议者,持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
215 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
216 bate | |
v.压制;减弱;n.(制革用的)软化剂 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
217 jot | |
n.少量;vi.草草记下;vt.匆匆写下 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
218 steer | |
vt.驾驶,为…操舵;引导;vi.驾驶 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
219 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
220 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
221 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
222 payable | |
adj.可付的,应付的,有利益的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
223 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
224 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
225 pastor | |
n.牧师,牧人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
226 sewers | |
n.阴沟,污水管,下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
227 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
228 paradox | |
n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法;自相矛盾的人(物) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
229 miasma | |
n.毒气;不良气氛 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
230 chilly | |
adj.凉快的,寒冷的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
231 buffalo | |
n.(北美)野牛;(亚洲)水牛 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
232 gambling | |
n.赌博;投机 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
233 gallows | |
n.绞刑架,绞台 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
234 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
235 clergy | |
n.[总称]牧师,神职人员 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
236 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
237 deigning | |
v.屈尊,俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
238 diagnosis | |
n.诊断,诊断结果,调查分析,判断 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
239 monks | |
n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
240 distressing | |
a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
241 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
242 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
243 credentials | |
n.证明,资格,证明书,证件 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
244 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
245 practitioner | |
n.实践者,从事者;(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
246 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
247 scripture | |
n.经文,圣书,手稿;Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》,《圣经》中的一段 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
248 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
249 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
250 rascals | |
流氓( rascal的名词复数 ); 无赖; (开玩笑说法)淘气的人(尤指小孩); 恶作剧的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
251 laymen | |
门外汉,外行人( layman的名词复数 ); 普通教徒(有别于神职人员) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
252 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
253 frailty | |
n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
254 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
255 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
256 encumbering | |
v.妨碍,阻碍,拖累( encumber的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
257 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
258 diabolical | |
adj.恶魔似的,凶暴的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
259 dodges | |
n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 );躲避;伎俩;妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 );回避 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
260 celibacy | |
n.独身(主义) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
261 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
262 prosper | |
v.成功,兴隆,昌盛;使成功,使昌隆,繁荣 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
263 straightforward | |
adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
264 asses | |
n. 驴,愚蠢的人,臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
265 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
266 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
267 imputed | |
v.把(错误等)归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
268 deception | |
n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
269 blasphemous | |
adj.亵渎神明的,不敬神的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
270 lucrative | |
adj.赚钱的,可获利的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
271 ecstasies | |
狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 ); 出神; 入迷; 迷幻药 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
272 innate | |
adj.天生的,固有的,天赋的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
273 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
274 snare | |
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
275 snares | |
n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 );圈套;诱人遭受失败(丢脸、损失等)的东西;诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉,诱陷,陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
276 reigned | |
vi.当政,统治(reign的过去式形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
277 unbearable | |
adj.不能容忍的;忍受不住的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
278 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
279 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
280 vacancy | |
n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
281 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
282 luxuriousness | |
参考例句: |
|
|
283 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
284 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
285 kindliness | |
n.厚道,亲切,友好的行为 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
286 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
287 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
288 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
289 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
290 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
291 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
292 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
293 flare | |
v.闪耀,闪烁;n.潮红;突发 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
294 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
295 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
296 countenances | |
n.面容( countenance的名词复数 );表情;镇静;道义支持 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
297 enacting | |
制定(法律),通过(法案)( enact的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
298 peevishly | |
adv.暴躁地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
299 salvation | |
n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
300 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
301 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
302 covetousness | |
参考例句: |
|
|
303 remonstrated | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 );告诫 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
304 Christians | |
n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
305 rebuke | |
v.指责,非难,斥责 [反]praise | |
参考例句: |
|
|
306 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
307 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
308 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
309 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
310 grovel | |
vi.卑躬屈膝,奴颜婢膝 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
欢迎访问英文小说网 |