My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite8 testimonials relating to Lucy’s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from Mr. Gisborne. The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was again serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately10 self-reproachful and stoically repellent. It was evident that when he thought of Mary—her short life—how he had wronged her, and of her violent death, he could hardly find words severe enough for his own conduct; and from this point of view, the curse that Bridget had laid upon him and his was regarded by him as a prophetic doom, to the utterance11 of which she was moved by a Higher Power, working for the fulfilment of a deeper vengeance12 than for the death of the poor dog. But then, again, when he came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance13 which the conduct of the demoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but ill disguised under a show of profound indifference15 as to Lucy’s fate. One almost felt as if he would have been as content to put her out of existence, as he would have been to destroy some disgusting reptile16 that had invaded his chamber17 or his couch.
The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all—was nothing.
My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our house in Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an inextricable coil of misery18. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that was little; and we dared not see each other for dread19 of the fearful Third, who had more than once taken her place at our meetings. My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be put up, on the ensuing Sabbath, in many a church and meeting-house in London, for one grievously tormented20 by an evil spirit. He had faith in prayers—I had none; I was fast losing faith in all things. So we sat—he trying to interest me in the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one thought—when our old servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had something remarkable22 about his dress, betraying his profession to be that of the Roman Catholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first, then at me. It was to me he bowed.
“I did not give my name,” said he, “because you would hardly have recognised it; unless, sir, when in the north, you heard of Father Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?”
I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had utterly24 forgotten it; so I professed25 myself a complete stranger to him; while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and bade Anthony bring glasses and a fresh jug26 of claret.
Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful27 ease and pleasant acknowledgment which belongs to the man of the world. Then he turned to scan me with his keen glance. After some slight conversation, entered into on his part, I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely—
“I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you have shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents28, in Antwerp—one Bridget Fitzgerald.”
“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I. “In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, all that you can about her.”
“There is much to be said,” he replied. “But may I inquire if this gentleman—if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which you and I stand informed?”
“All that I know, he knows,” said I, eagerly laying my hand on my uncle’s arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.
“Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ from me in faith, are yet fully30 impressed with the fact, that there are evil powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil thoughts; and, if their Master gives them power, to bring them into overt31 action. Such is my theory of the nature of that sin, of which I dare not disbelieve—as some sceptics would have us do—the sin of witchcraft32. Of this deadly sin, you and I are aware Bridget Fitzgerald has been guilty. Since you saw her last, many prayers have been offered in our churches, many masses sung, many penances34 undergone, in order that, if God and the Holy Saints so willed it, her sin might be blotted36 out. But it has not been so willed.”
“Explain to me,” said I, “who you are, and how you come connected with Bridget. Why is she at Antwerp? I pray you, sir, tell me more. If I am impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish37, and in consequence bewildered.”
There was something to me inexpressibly soothing38 in the tone of voice with which he began to narrate39, as it were from the beginning, his acquaintance with Bridget.
“I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes at Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the confessor of the whole family, isolated40 as they were from the offices of the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour who professed the true faith. Of course, you are aware that facts revealed in confession41 are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt enough of Bridget’s character to be convinced that I had to do with no common woman; one powerful for good as for evil. I believe that I was able to give her spiritual assistance from time to time, and that she looked upon me as a servant of that Holy Church, which has such wonderful power of moving men’s hearts, and relieving them of the burden of their sins. I have known her cross the moors43 on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and be absolved44; and then she would return, calmed and subdued45, to her daily work about her mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that most passed in sleep upon their beds. After her daughter’s departure—after Mary’s mysterious disappearance46—I had to impose many a long penance35, in order to wash away the sin of impatient repining that was fast leading her into the deeper guilt33 of blasphemy48. She set out on that long journey of which you have possibly heard—that fruitless journey in search of Mary—and during her absence, my superiors ordered my return to my former duties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget.
“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw a woman sitting crouched49 up under the shrine50 of the Holy Mother of Sorrows. Her hood23 was drawn51 over her head, so that the shadow caused by the light of the lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were clasped round her knees. It was evident that she was some one in hopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to stop and speak. I naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing her to be one of the lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did not look up. Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but speaking it so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, and consequently spoke52 to her in my own native tongue. She recognised my voice; and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine, and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:
“‘O Holy Virgin53! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him; for you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal broken hearts. Hear him!’
“She turned to me.
“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears me: she and all the saints in Heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil One carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard, pray for me!’
“I prayed for one in sore distress54, of what nature I could not say; but the Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping55 with eagerness at the sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and, making the sign of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in the name of the Holy Church, when she shrank away like some terrified creature, and said:
“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’
“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with me.’ And I led the way into one of the confessionals of St. Jacques.
“She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she approached confession.
“She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or else esteemed56 her to be one crazed—as, indeed, her wild and excited manner might easily have led any one to think—that they had neglected the sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her deadly sin, and after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knew Bridget of old, and felt that she was a penitent29 sent to me. I went through those holy offices appointed by our church for the relief of such a case. I was the more bound to do this, as I found that she had come to Antwerp for the sole purpose of discovering me, and making confession to me. Of the nature of that fearful confession I am forbidden to speak. Much of it you know; possibly all.
“It now remains57 for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set others free from the consequences thereof. No prayers, no masses, will ever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by which alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed. Her words of passion, and cries for revenge—her unholy prayers could never reach the ears of the Holy Saints! Other powers intercepted58 them, and wrought59 so that the curses thrown up to Heaven have fallen on her own flesh and blood; and so, through her very strength of love, have bruised60 and crushed her heart. Henceforward her former self must be buried,—yea, buried quick, if need be,—but never more to make sign, or utter cry on earth! She has become a Poor Clare, in order that, by perpetual penance and constant service of others, she may at length so act as to obtain final absolution and rest for her soul. Until then, the innocent must suffer. It is to plead for the innocent that I come to you; not in the name of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of all men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.”
“Sir,” said I, “I listen to your request with respect; only I may tell you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one, love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absented myself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, a member of the English Church—my uncle, a Puritan—pray morning and night for her by name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray for one unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness. Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the great calm of her soul. She lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed and untainted, though all men fall off from her. I would I could have her faith!”
My uncle now spoke.
“Nephew,” said he, “it seems to me that this gentleman, although professing61 what I consider an erroneous creed62, has touched upon the right point in exhorting63 Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to wipe out her sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after our fashion, by almsgiving and visiting of the needy64 and fatherless, to make our prayers acceptable. Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and take charge of the maiden65. I am too old to be daunted66 by man or demon14. I will bring her to this house as to a home; and let the Double come if it will! A company of godly divines shall give it the meeting, and we will try issue.”
The kindly67, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing68.
“All hate,” said he, “cannot be quenched69 in her heart; all Christian70 forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would have lost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was still tormented?”
“Still tormented!” I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke’s last letter.
He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the occasion of his coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of the Jacobites. Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.
Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated71 my uncle to leave her where she was,—dreading, as I learnt, lest if she came, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me, that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be doomed72. And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of my affection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to the nerves which she observed that the demoniac visitation caused in all.
I was restless and miserable73. I devoted74 myself to good works; but I performed them from no spirit of love, but solely75 from the hope of reward and payment, and so the reward was never granted. At length, I asked my uncle’s leave to travel; and I went forth76, a wanderer, with no distincter end than that of many another wanderer—to get away from myself. A strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and commotions77 then raging in the Low Countries—or rather, perhaps, the very craving78 to become interested in something external, led me into the thick of the struggle then going on with the Austrians. The cities of Flanders were all full at that time of civil disturbances80 and rebellions, only kept down by force, and the presence of an Austrian garrison81 in every place.
I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry82 for Father Bernard. He was away in the country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of Poor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim, pent-up, gray walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest part of the town. My landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some loathsome84 disease, or in desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares would have taken me, and tended me. He spoke of them as an order of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing85 scantily86 in the coarsest materials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of Antwerp chose to bestow87, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs88 with the poor and helpless that swarmed89 all around; receiving no letters or communication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the alleviation90 of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed others upon what was given in charity.
“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them! Would they quietly lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity91?”
“If such were their rule, the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but their founder92 appointed a remedy for such extreme case as you suggest. They have a bell—’tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never been rung in the memory of man: when the Poor Clares have been without food for twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our good people of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who have taken such blessed care of us in all our straits.”
It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not say what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister Magdalen.
“Yes,” said he, rather under his breath; “news will creep out, even from a convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great sinner or a great saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the other nuns93 put together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all the rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.”
“You never saw her?” asked I.
“Never,” he replied.
I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp. The political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its height by the scarcity94 of food consequent on many deficient95 harvests. I saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish eyes at my sleek96 skin and handsome clothes.
At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which he told me that, curiously97 enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was serving in one of the Austrian regiments98, then in garrison at Antwerp. I asked Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do. But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined responding to any advances on my part, saying he had abjured99 his country, and hated his countrymen.
Probably he recollected100 my name in connection with that of his daughter Lucy. Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his acquaintance. Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the “blouses” of Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I rather craved101 the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave.
One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from his years, might have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed102 was that countenance103; scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war. ’Twas but a moment our eyes met. We each turned round, and went on our separate way.
But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed104 on it, made but an incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance. Because he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively105 to meet him everywhere. At last he must have become aware of my pertinacity106, for he gave me a haughty107 scowl108 whenever I passed him. In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to him. He was turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight but skilful109 cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr. Gisborne nor the mutinous111 group of plebeians112 owed me much gratitude113 for my interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed114 his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sent them away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling115 in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary116 a burden just then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that prevented their attacking me. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with them; and I heard some of their grievances117. Sore and heavy to be borne were they, and no wonder the sufferers were savage118 and desperate.
The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another of the group heard his inquiry, and made answer:
“I know the man. He is one Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.”
He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I sauntered away and back to my lodgings119.
That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel120; only, from time to time, the boom of a great cannon121 swept sullenly122 over the town. But, if they expected the disturbance79 to die away, and spend itself in a few hours’ fury, they were mistaken. In a day or two, the rioters held possession of the principal municipal buildings. Then the Austrians poured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, as they marched to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no more to them than the swarms123 of buzzing summer flies. Their practised man?uvres, their well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the place of one slain124 rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge125 his loss. But a deadly foe126, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce and dear for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperate efforts were being made to bring provisions into the city, for the rioters had friends without. Close to the city port nearest to the Scheldt, a great struggle took place. I was there, helping127 the rioters, whose cause I had adopted. We had a savage encounter with the Austrians. Numbers fell on both sides; I saw them lie bleeding for a moment; then a volley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they were dead—trampled upon or smothered128, pressed down and hidden by the freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low. And then a gray-robed and gray-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns, and stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing129 away; sometimes it was to give him drink from cans which they carried slung130 at their sides, sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers were being uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din47 and clangour, but listened to by One above. I saw all this as in a dream: the reality of that stern time was battle and carnage. But I knew that these gray figures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and their faces hidden by their veils, were the Poor Clares—sent forth now because dire131 agony was abroad and imminent132 danger at hand. Therefore, they left their cloistered133 shelter, and came into that thick and evil mêlée.
Close to me—driven past me by the struggle of many fighters—came the Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had recognised his opponent.
“Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!” he cried, and threw himself upon him with redoubled fury. He had struck him hard—the Englishman was down; when out of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under the uplifted flashing sword. The burgess’s arm stood arrested. Neither Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.
“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice. “He is mine enemy—mine for many years.”
Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet. I remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at the extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength. My landlord sat watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out. Yes! the struggle still continued, but the famine was sore; and some, he had heard, had died for lack of food. The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke. But soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural cheerfulness returned. Father Bernard had been to see me—no one else. (Who should, indeed?) Father Bernard would come back that afternoon—he had promised. But Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and looking eagerly for him.
My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every mouthful I seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at my evident enjoyment134 with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite became satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured—for, indeed, at that time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine. Suddenly, there was a sound of many rushing feet past our window. My landlord opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what was going on. Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling135 bell, coming shrill136 upon the air, clear and distinct from all other sounds. “Holy Mother!” exclaimed my landlord, “the Poor Clares!”
He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed137 them into my hands, bidding me follow. Down-stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in the street, moving along with the great current, all tending towards the Convent of the Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle138 of the bell. In that strange crowd were old men trembling and sobbing139, as they carried their little pittance140 of food; women with the tears running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions they had in the vessels141 in which they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases much greater than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping tight the morsel142 of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men—yea, both Anversois and Austrians—pressing onwards with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle—that cry for help in extremity.
We met the first torrent143 of people returning with blanched144 and piteous faces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings of others. “Haste, haste!” said they. “A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us, and our city!”
We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the conventual name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, with others, was forced into Sister Magdalen’s cell. On her couch lay Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead. By his side was a cup of water, and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had pushed out of his reach, and could not move to obtain. Over against his bed were these words, copied in the English version: “Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.”
Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some famished145 wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but that one solemn toll146, which in all Christian countries tells of the passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity147; and again a murmur148 gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with awed149 breath, “A Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!”
Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into the chapel150 belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high altar, lay a woman—lay sister Magdalen—lay Bridget Fitzgerald. By her side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the Church, as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin. I pushed on with passionate9 force, till I stood close to the dying woman, as she received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed hush151 of the multitude around. Her eyes were glazing152, her limbs were stiffening153; but when the rite154 was over and finished, she raised her gaunt figure slowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy, as, with the gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she seemed like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed155 and fearful creature.
“She is freed from the curse!” said she, as she fell back dead.
Now, of all our party who had first listened to my Lady Ludlow, Mr. Preston was the only one who had not told us something, either of information, tradition, history, or legend. We naturally turned to him; but we did not like asking him directly for his contribution, for he was a grave, reserved, and silent man.
He understood us, however, and, rousing himself as it were, he said:
“I know you wish me to tell you, in my turn, of something which I have learnt or heard during my life. I could tell you something of my own life, and of a life dearer still to my memory; but I have shrunk from narrating156 anything so purely157 personal. Yet, shrink as I will, no other but those sad recollections will present themselves to my mind. I call them sad when I think of the end of it all. However, I am not going to moralize. If my dear brother’s life and death does not speak for itself, no words of mine will teach you what may be learnt from it.”
THE HALF-BROTHERS.
My mother was twice married. She never spoke of her first husband, and it is only from other people that I have learnt what little I know about him. I believe, she was scarcely seventeen when she was married to him: and he was barely one-and-twenty. He rented a small farm up in Cumberland, somewhere towards the sea-coast; but he was perhaps too young and inexperienced to have the charge of land and cattle: anyhow, his affairs did not prosper83, and he fell into ill health, and died of consumption before they had been three years man and wife, leaving my mother a young widow of twenty, with a little child only just able to walk, and the farm on her hands for four years more by the lease, with half the stock on it dead, or sold off one by one to pay the more pressing debts, and with no money to purchase more, or even to buy the provisions needed for the small consumption of every day. There was another child coming, too; and sad and sorry, I believe, she was to think of it. A dreary winter she must have had in her lonesome dwelling158, with never another near it for miles around; her sister came to bear her company, and they two planned and plotted how to make every penny they could raise go as far as possible. I can’t tell you how it happened that my little sister, whom I never saw, came to sicken and die; but, as if my poor mother’s cup was not full enough, only a fortnight before Gregory was born the little girl took ill of scarlet159 fever, and in a week she lay dead. My mother was, I believe, just stunned160 with this last blow. My aunt has told me that she did not cry; aunt Fanny would have been thankful if she had; but she sat holding the poor wee lassie’s hand, and looking in her pretty, pale, dead face, without so much as shedding a tear. And it was all the same, when they had to take her away to be buried. She just kissed the child, and sat her down in the window-seat to watch the little black train of people (neighbours—my aunt, and one far-off cousin, who were all the friends they could muster) go winding161 away amongst the snow, which had fallen thinly over the country the night before. When my aunt came back from the funeral, she found my mother in the same place, and as dry-eyed as ever. So she continued until after Gregory was born; and, somehow, his coming seemed to loosen the tears, and she cried day and night, day and night, till my aunt and the other watcher looked at each other in dismay, and would fain have stopped her if they had but known how. But she bade them let her alone, and not be over-anxious, for every drop she shed eased her brain, which had been in a terrible state before for want of the power to cry. She seemed after that to think of nothing but her new little baby; she hardly appeared to remember either her husband or her little daughter that lay dead in Brigham churchyard—at least so aunt Fanny said; but she was a great talker, and my mother was very silent by nature, and I think aunt Fanny may have been mistaken in believing that my mother never thought of her husband and child just because she never spoke about them. Aunt Fanny was older than my mother, and had a way of treating her like a child; but, for all that, she was a kind, warm-hearted creature, who thought more of her sister’s welfare than she did of her own; and it was on her bit of money that they principally lived, and on what the two could earn by working for the great Glasgow sewing-merchants. But by-and-by my mother’s eye-sight began to fail. It was not that she was exactly blind, for she could see well enough to guide herself about the house, and to do a good deal of domestic work; but she could no longer do fine sewing and earn money. It must have been with the heavy crying she had had in her day, for she was but a young creature at this time, and as pretty a young woman, I have heard people say, as any on the country side. She took it sadly to heart that she could no longer gain anything towards the keep of herself and her child. My aunt Fanny would fain have persuaded her that she had enough to do in managing their cottage and minding Gregory; but my mother knew that they were pinched, and that aunt Fanny herself had not as much to eat, even of the commonest kind of food, as she could have done with; and as for Gregory, he was not a strong lad, and needed, not more food—for he always had enough, whoever went short—but better nourishment162, and more flesh-meat. One day—it was aunt Fanny who told me all this about my poor mother, long after her death—as the sisters were sitting together, aunt Fanny working, and my mother hushing Gregory to sleep, William Preston, who was afterwards my father, came in. He was reckoned an old bachelor; I suppose he was long past forty, and he was one of the wealthiest farmers thereabouts, and had known my grandfather well, and my mother and my aunt in their more prosperous days. He sat down, and began to twirl his hat by way of being agreeable; my aunt Fanny talked, and he listened and looked at my mother. But he said very little, either on that visit, or on many another that he paid before he spoke out what had been the real purpose of his calling so often all along, and from the very first time he came to their house. One Sunday, however, my aunt Fanny stayed away from church, and took care of the child, and my mother went alone. When she came back, she ran straight up-stairs, without going into the kitchen to look at Gregory or speak any word to her sister, and aunt Fanny heard her cry as if her heart was breaking; so she went up and scolded her right well through the bolted door, till at last she got her to open it. And then she threw herself on my aunt’s neck, and told her that William Preston had asked her to marry him, and had promised to take good charge of her boy, and to let him want for nothing, neither in the way of keep nor of education, and that she had consented. Aunt Fanny was a good deal shocked at this; for, as I have said, she had often thought that my mother had forgotten her first husband very quickly, and now here was proof positive of it, if she could so soon think of marrying again. Besides, as aunt Fanny used to say, she herself would have been a far more suitable match for a man of William Preston’s age than Helen, who, though she was a widow, had not seen her four-and-twentieth summer. However, as aunt Fanny said, they had not asked her advice; and there was much to be said on the other side of the question. Helen’s eye-sight would never be good for much again, and as William Preston’s wife she would never need to do anything, if she chose to sit with her hands before her; and a boy was a great charge to a widowed mother; and now there would be a decent, steady man to see after him. So, by-and-by, aunt Fanny seemed to take a brighter view of the marriage than did my mother herself, who hardly ever looked up, and never smiled after the day when she promised William Preston to be his wife. But much as she had loved Gregory before, she seemed to love him more now. She was continually talking to him when they were alone, though he was far too young to understand her moaning words, or give her any comfort, except by his caresses163.
At last William Preston and she were wed21; and she went to be mistress of a well-stocked house, not above half-an-hour’s walk from where aunt Fanny lived. I believe she did all that she could to please my father; and a more dutiful wife, I have heard him himself say, could never have been. But she did not love him, and he soon found it out. She loved Gregory, and she did not love him. Perhaps, love would have come in time, if he had been patient enough to wait; but it just turned him sour to see how her eye brightened and her colour came at the sight of that little child, while for him who had given her so much, she had only gentle words as cold as ice. He got to taunt164 her with the difference in her manner, as if that would bring love: and he took a positive dislike to Gregory,—he was so jealous of the ready love that always gushed165 out like a spring of fresh water when he came near. He wanted her to love him more, and perhaps that was all well and good; but he wanted her to love her child less, and that was an evil wish. One day, he gave way to his temper, and cursed and swore at Gregory, who had got into some mischief166, as children will; my mother made some excuse for him; my father said it was hard enough to have to keep another man’s child, without having it perpetually held up in its naughtiness by his wife, who ought to be always in the same mind that he was; and so from little they got to more; and the end of it was, that my mother took to her bed before her time, and I was born that very day. My father was glad, and proud, and sorry, all in a breath; glad and proud that a son was born to him; and sorry for his poor wife’s state, and to think how his angry words had brought it on. But he was a man who liked better to be angry than sorry, so he soon found out that it was all Gregory’s fault, and owed him an additional grudge167 for having hastened my birth. He had another grudge against him before long. My mother began to sink the day after I was born. My father sent to Carlisle for doctors, and would have coined his heart’s blood into gold to save her, if that could have been; but it could not. My aunt Fanny used to say sometimes, that she thought that Helen did not wish to live, and so just let herself die away without trying to take hold on life; but when I questioned her, she owned that my mother did all the doctors bade her do, with the same sort of uncomplaining patience with which she had acted through life. One of her last requests was to have Gregory laid in her bed by my side, and then she made him take hold of my little hand. Her husband came in while she was looking at us so, and when he bent168 tenderly over her to ask her how she felt now, and seemed to gaze on us two little half-brothers, with a grave sort of kindliness169, she looked up in his face and smiled, almost her first smile at him; and such a sweet smile! as more besides aunt Fanny have said. In an hour she was dead. Aunt Fanny came to live with us. It was the best thing that could be done. My father would have been glad to return to his old mode of bachelor life, but what could he do with two little children? He needed a woman to take care of him, and who so fitting as his wife’s elder sister? So she had the charge of me from my birth; and for a time I was weakly, as was but natural, and she was always beside me, night and day watching over me, and my father nearly as anxious as she. For his land had come down from father to son for more than three hundred years, and he would have cared for me merely as his flesh and blood that was to inherit the land after him. But he needed something to love, for all that, to most people, he was a stern, hard man, and he took to me as, I fancy, he had taken to no human being before—as he might have taken to my mother, if she had had no former life for him to be jealous of. I loved him back again right heartily170. I loved all around me, I believe, for everybody was kind to me. After a time, I overcame my original weakliness of constitution, and was just a bonny, strong-looking lad whom every passer-by noticed, when my father took me with him to the nearest town.
At home I was the darling of my aunt, the tenderly-beloved of my father, the pet and plaything of the old domestic, the “young master” of the farm-labourers, before whom I played many a lordly antic, assuming a sort of authority which sat oddly enough, I doubt not, on such a baby as I was.
Gregory was three years older than I. Aunt Fanny was always kind to him in deed and in action, but she did not often think about him, she had fallen so completely into the habit of being engrossed171 by me, from the fact of my having come into her charge as a delicate baby. My father never got over his grudging172 dislike to his stepson, who had so innocently wrestled173 with him for the possession of my mother’s heart. I mistrust me, too, that my father always considered him as the cause of my mother’s death and my early delicacy174; and utterly unreasonable175 as this may seem, I believe my father rather cherished his feeling of alienation176 to my brother as a duty, than strove to repress it. Yet not for the world would my father have grudged177 him anything that money could purchase. That was, as it were, in the bond when he had wedded178 my mother. Gregory was lumpish and loutish179, awkward and ungainly, marring whatever he meddled180 in, and many a hard word and sharp scolding did he get from the people about the farm, who hardly waited till my father’s back was turned before they rated the stepson. I am ashamed—my heart is sore to think how I fell into the fashion of the family, and slighted my poor orphan181 step-brother. I don’t think I ever scouted182 him, or was wilfully183 ill-natured to him; but the habit of being considered in all things, and being treated as something uncommon184 and superior, made me insolent185 in my prosperity, and I exacted more than Gregory was always willing to grant, and then, irritated, I sometimes repeated the disparaging186 words I had heard others use with regard to him, without fully understanding their meaning. Whether he did or not I cannot tell. I am afraid he did. He used to turn silent and quiet—sullen and sulky my father thought it; stupid, aunt Fanny used to call it. But every one said he was stupid and dull, and this stupidity and dullness grew upon him. He would sit without speaking a word, sometimes, for hours; then my father would bid him rise and do some piece of work, maybe, about the farm. And he would take three or four tellings before he would go. When we were sent to school, it was all the same. He could never be made to remember his lessons; the schoolmaster grew weary of scolding and flogging, and at last advised my father just to take him away, and set him to some farm-work that might not be above his comprehension. I think he was more gloomy and stupid than ever after this, yet he was not a cross lad; he was patient and good-natured, and would try to do a kind turn for any one, even if they had been scolding or cuffing187 him not a minute before. But very often his attempts at kindness ended in some mischief to the very people he was trying to serve, owing to his awkward, ungainly ways. I suppose I was a clever lad; at any rate, I always got plenty of praise; and was, as we called it, the cock of the school. The schoolmaster said I could learn anything I chose, but my father, who had no great learning himself, saw little use in much for me, and took me away betimes, and kept me with him about the farm. Gregory was made into a kind of shepherd, receiving his training under old Adam, who was nearly past his work. I think old Adam was almost the first person who had a good opinion of Gregory. He stood to it that my brother had good parts, though he did not rightly know how to bring them out; and, for knowing the bearings of the Fells, he said he had never seen a lad like him. My father would try to bring Adam round to speak of Gregory’s faults and shortcomings; but, instead of that, he would praise him twice as much as soon as he found out what my father’s object was.
One winter-time, when I was about sixteen, and Gregory nineteen, I was sent by my father on an errand to a place about seven miles distant by the road, but only about four by the Fells. He bade me return by the road, whichever way I took in going, for the evenings closed in early, and were often thick and misty188; besides which, old Adam, now paralytic189 and bedridden, foretold190 a downfall of snow before long. I soon got to my journey’s end, and soon had done my business; earlier by an hour, I thought, than my father had expected, so I took the decision of the way by which I would return into my own hands, and set off back again over the Fells, just as the first shades of evening began to fall. It looked dark and gloomy enough; but everything was so still that I thought I should have plenty of time to get home before the snow came down. Off I set at a pretty quick pace. But night came on quicker. The right path was clear enough in the day-time, although at several points two or three exactly similar diverged191 from the same place; but when there was a good light, the traveller was guided by the sight of distant objects,—a piece of rock,—a fall in the ground—which were quite invisible to me now. I plucked up a brave heart, however, and took what seemed to me the right road. It was wrong, however, and led me whither I knew not, but to some wild boggy192 moor42 where the solitude193 seemed painful, intense, as if never footfall of man had come thither194 to break the silence. I tried to shout,—with the dimmest possible hope of being heard—rather to reassure195 myself by the sound of my own voice; but my voice came husky and short, and yet it dismayed me; it seemed so weird196 and strange in that noiseless expanse of black darkness. Suddenly the air was filled thick with dusky flakes197, my face and hands were wet with snow. It cut me off from the slightest knowledge of where I was, for I lost every idea of the direction from which I had come, so that I could not even retrace198 my steps; it hemmed199 me in, thicker, thicker, with a darkness that might be felt. The boggy soil on which I stood quaked under me if I remained long in one place, and yet I dared not move far. All my youthful hardiness200 seemed to leave me at once. I was on the point of crying, and only very shame seemed to keep it down. To save myself from shedding tears, I shouted—terrible, wild shouts for bare life they were. I turned sick as I paused to listen; no answering sound came but the unfeeling echoes. Only the noiseless, pitiless snow kept falling thicker, thicker—faster, faster! I was growing numb110 and sleepy. I tried to move about, but I dared not go far, for fear of the precipices201 which, I knew, abounded202 in certain places on the Fells. Now and then, I stood still and shouted again; but my voice was getting choked with tears, as I thought of the desolate203, helpless death I was to die, and how little they at home, sitting round the warm, red, bright fire, wotted what was become of me,—and how my poor father would grieve for me—it would surely kill him—it would break his heart, poor old man! Aunt Fanny too—was this to be the end of all her cares for me? I began to review my life in a strange kind of vivid dream, in which the various scenes of my few boyish years passed before me like visions. In a pang204 of agony, caused by such remembrance of my short life, I gathered up my strength and called out once more, a long, despairing, wailing205 cry, to which I had no hope of obtaining any answer, save from the echoes around, dulled as the sound might be by the thickened air. To my surprise, I heard a cry—almost as long, as wild as mine—so wild that it seemed unearthly, and I almost thought it must be the voice of some of the mocking spirits of the Fells, about whom I had heard so many tales. My heart suddenly began to beat fast and loud. I could not reply for a minute or two. I nearly fancied I had lost the power of utterance. Just at this moment a dog barked. Was it Lassie’s bark—my brother’s collie?—an ugly enough brute206, with a white, ill-looking face, that my father always kicked whenever he saw it, partly for its own demerits, partly because it belonged to my brother. On such occasions, Gregory would whistle Lassie away, and go off and sit with her in some out-house. My father had once or twice been ashamed of himself, when the poor collie had yowled out with the suddenness of the pain, and had relieved himself of his self-reproach by blaming my brother, who, he said, had no notion of training a dog, and was enough to ruin any collie in Christendom with his stupid way of allowing them to lie by the kitchen fire. To all which Gregory would answer nothing, nor even seem to hear, but go on looking absent and moody207.
Yes! there again! It was Lassie’s bark! Now or never! I lifted up my voice and shouted “Lassie! Lassie! For God’s sake, Lassie!” Another moment, and the great white-faced Lassie was curving and gambolling208 with delight round my feet and legs, looking, however, up in my face with her intelligent, apprehensive209 eyes, as if fearing lest I might greet her with a blow, as I had done oftentimes before. But I cried with gladness, as I stooped down and patted her. My mind was sharing in my body’s weakness, and I could not reason, but I knew that help was at hand. A gray figure came more and more distinctly out of the thick, close-pressing darkness. It was Gregory wrapped in his maud.
“Oh, Gregory!” said I, and I fell upon his neck, unable to speak another word. He never spoke much, and made me no answer for some little time. Then he told me we must move, we must walk for the dear life—we must find our road home, if possible; but we must move or we should be frozen to death.
“Don’t you know the way home?” asked I.
“I thought I did when I set out, but I am doubtful now. The snow blinds me, and I am feared that in moving about just now, I have lost the right gait homewards.”
He had his shepherd’s staff with him, and by dint210 of plunging211 it before us at every step we took—clinging close to each other, we went on safely enough, as far as not falling down any of the steep rocks, but it was slow, dreary work. My brother, I saw, was more guided by Lassie and the way she took than anything else, trusting to her instinct. It was too dark to see far before us; but he called her back continually, and noted212 from what quarter she returned, and shaped our slow steps accordingly. But the tedious motion scarcely kept my very blood from freezing. Every bone, every fibre in my body seemed first to ache, and then to swell213, and then to turn numb with the intense cold. My brother bore it better than I, from having been more out upon the hills. He did not speak, except to call Lassie. I strove to be brave, and not complain; but now I felt the deadly fatal sleep stealing over me.
“I can go no farther,” I said, in a drowsy214 tone. I remember, I suddenly became dogged and resolved. Sleep I would, were it only for five minutes. If death were to be the consequence, sleep I would. Gregory stood still. I suppose, he recognised the peculiar215 phase of suffering to which I had been brought by the cold.
“It is of no use,” said he, as if to himself. “We are no nearer home than we were when we started, as far as I can tell. Our only chance is in Lassie. Here! roll thee in my maud, lad, and lay thee down on this sheltered side of this bit of rock. Creep close under it, lad, and I’ll lie by thee, and strive to keep the warmth in us. Stay! hast gotten aught about thee they’ll know at home?”
I felt him unkind thus to keep me from slumber216, but on his repeating the question, I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief, of some showy pattern, which Aunt Fanny had hemmed for me—Gregory took it, and tied it round Lassie’s neck.
“Hie thee, Lassie, hie thee home!” And the white-faced, ill-favoured brute was off like a shot in the darkness. Now I might lie down—now I might sleep. In my drowsy stupor217 I felt that I was being tenderly covered up by my brother; but what with I neither knew nor cared—I was too dull, too selfish, too numb to think and reason, or I might have known that in that bleak218 bare place there was nought219 to wrap me in, save what was taken off another. I was glad enough when he ceased his cares and lay down by me. I took his hand.
“Thou canst not remember, lad, how we lay together thus by our dying mother. She put thy small, wee hand in mine—I reckon, she sees us now; and belike we shall soon be with her. Anyhow, God’s will be done.”
“Dear Gregory,” I muttered, and crept nearer to him for warmth. He was talking still, and again about our mother, when I fell asleep. In an instant—or so it seemed—there were many voices about me—many faces hovering220 round me—the sweet luxury of warmth was stealing into every part of me. I was in my own little bed at home. I am thankful to say, my first word was “Gregory?”
A look passed from one to another—my father’s stern old face strove in vain to keep its sternness; his mouth quivered, his eyes filled slowly with unwonted tears.
“I would have given him half my land—I would have blessed him as my son,—oh God! I would have knelt at his feet, and asked him to forgive my hardness of heart.”
I heard no more. A whirl came through my brain, catching222 me back to death.
I came slowly to my consciousness, weeks afterwards. My father’s hair was white when I recovered, and his hands shook as he looked into my face.
We spoke no more of Gregory. We could not speak of him; but he was strangely in our thoughts. Lassie came and went with never a word of blame; nay223, my father would try to stroke her, but she shrank away; and he, as if reproved by the poor dumb beast, would sigh, and be silent and abstracted for a time.
Aunt Fanny—always a talker—told me all. How, on that fatal night, my father, irritated by my prolonged absence, and probably more anxious than he cared to show, had been fierce and imperious, even beyond his wont221, to Gregory: had upbraided224 him with his father’s poverty, his own stupidity which made his services good for nothing—for so, in spite of the old shepherd, my father always chose to consider them. At last, Gregory had risen up, and whistled Lassie out with him—poor Lassie, crouching225 underneath226 his chair for fear of a kick or a blow. Some time before, there had been some talk between my father and my aunt respecting my return; and when Aunt Fanny told me all this, she said she fancied that Gregory might have noticed the coming storm, and gone out silently to meet me. Three hours afterwards, when all were running about in wild alarm, not knowing whither to go in search of me—not even missing Gregory, or heeding227 his absence, poor fellow—poor, poor fellow!—Lassie came home, with my handkerchief tied round her neck. They knew and understood, and the whole strength of the farm was turned out to follow her, with wraps, and blankets, and brandy, and everything that could be thought of. I lay in chilly228 sleep, but still alive, beneath the rock that Lassie guided them to. I was covered over with my brother’s plaid, and his thick shepherd’s coat was carefully wrapped round my feet. He was in his shirt-sleeves—his arm thrown over me—a quiet smile (he had hardly ever smiled in life) upon his still, cold face.
My father’s last words were, “God forgive me my hardness of heart towards the fatherless child!”
And what marked the depth of his feeling of repentance229, perhaps more than all, considering the passionate love he bore my mother, was this: we found a paper of directions after his death, in which he desired that he might lie at the foot of the grave, in which, by his desire, poor Gregory had been laid with OUR MOTHER.
THE END.
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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recreant
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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blanching
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| adj.漂白的n.热烫v.使变白( blanch的现在分词 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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utterance
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vengeance
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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reptile
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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misery
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dread
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tormented
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wed
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remarkable
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hood
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utterly
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professed
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jug
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graceful
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penitents
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penitent
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overt
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witchcraft
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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34
penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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35
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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36
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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37
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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38
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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39
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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40
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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41
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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42
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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43
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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45
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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46
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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47
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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48
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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49
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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54
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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55
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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56
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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57
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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58
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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59
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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60
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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61
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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62
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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63
exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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64
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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65
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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66
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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68
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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69
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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70
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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71
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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73
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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74
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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75
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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76
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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77
commotions
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| n.混乱，喧闹，骚动( commotion的名词复数 ) | |
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78
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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79
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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80
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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81
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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82
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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83
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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84
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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85
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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86
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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87
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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88
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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89
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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90
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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91
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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92
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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93
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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94
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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95
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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96
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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97
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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98
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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99
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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100
recollected
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| 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 ) | |
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101
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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102
scathed
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| v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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104
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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106
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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107
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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108
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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109
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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110
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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111
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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112
plebeians
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| n.平民( plebeian的名词复数 )；庶民；平民百姓；平庸粗俗的人 | |
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113
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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114
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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115
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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116
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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117
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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118
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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119
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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120
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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121
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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122
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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123
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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124
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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125
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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126
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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127
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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128
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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129
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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130
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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131
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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132
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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133
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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135
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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136
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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137
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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138
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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139
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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140
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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141
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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142
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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143
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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144
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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145
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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146
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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147
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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148
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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149
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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151
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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152
glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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153
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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154
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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155
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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156
narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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157
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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158
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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159
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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160
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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161
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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162
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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163
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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164
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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165
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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166
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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167
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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168
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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169
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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170
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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171
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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172
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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173
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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174
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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175
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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176
alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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177
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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178
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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180
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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182
scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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183
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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184
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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185
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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186
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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187
cuffing
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的现在分词 )；袖口状白血球聚集 | |
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188
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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189
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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190
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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192
boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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193
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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194
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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195
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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196
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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197
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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198
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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199
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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200
hardiness
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| n.耐劳性，强壮；勇气，胆子 | |
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201
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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202
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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204
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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205
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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206
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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207
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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208
gambolling
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的现在分词 ) | |
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209
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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210
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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211
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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212
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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213
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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214
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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215
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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216
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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217
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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218
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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219
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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220
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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221
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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222
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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223
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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224
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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225
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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226
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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227
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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228
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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229
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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