"I had something to say to my brother, Mr. Smith, but—"
"And you wish to be alone with him? With all my heart," I said.
"Not at all, Mr. Smith," she answered, with one of her smiles, which were quite incomprehensible to me, until I hit upon the theory that she kept a stock of them for general use, as stingy old ladies keep up their half worn ribbons to make presents of to servant-maids; "I only wanted to know, before I made a remark to the colonel, whether Dr. Armstrong—"
"Mr. Armstrong lays no claim to the rank of a physician."
"So much the better for my argument. But is he a friend of yours,
Mr. Smith?"
"Oh, then, I am in no danger of hurting your feelings."
"I don't know that," thought I, but I did not say it.
"Well, Colonel Cathcart—excuse the liberty I am taking—but surely you do not mean to dismiss Dr. Wade2, and give a young man like that the charge of your daughter's health at such a crisis."
"Dr. Wade is dismissed already, Jane. He did her no more good than any old woman might have done."
"But such a young man!"
"Not so very young," I ventured to say. "He is thirty at least."
But the colonel was angry with her interference; for, an impetuous man always, he had become irritable4 of late.
"Jane," he said, "is a man less likely to be delicate because he is young? Or does a man always become more refined as he grows older? For my part—" and here his opposition5 to his unpleasant sister-in-law possibly made him say more than he would otherwise have conceded—"I have never seen a young man whose manners and behaviour I liked better."
"Much good that will do her! It will only hasten the mischief6. You men are so slow to take a hint, brother; and it is really too hard to be forced to explain one's self always. Don't you see that, whether he cures her or not, he will make her fall in love with him? And you won't relish7 that, I fancy."
"You won't relish it, at all events. But mayn't he fall in love with her as well?" thought I; which thought, a certain expression in the colonel's face kept me from uttering. I saw at once that his sister's words had set a discord8 in the good man's music. He made no reply; and Mrs. Cathcart saw that her arrow had gone to the feather. I saw what she tried to conceal—the flash of success on her face. But she presently extinguished it, and rose and left the room. I thought with myself that such an arrangement would be the very best thing for Adela; and that, if the blessedness of woman lies in any way in the possession of true manhood, she, let her position in society be what it might compared with his, and let her have all the earls in the kingdom for uncles, would be a fortunate woman indeed, to marry such a man as Harry9 Armstrong;—for so much was I attracted to the man, that I already called him Harry, when I and Myself talked about him. But I was concerned to see my old friend so much disturbed. I hoped however that his good generous heart would right its own jarring chords before long, and that he would not spoil a chance of Adela's recovery, however slight, by any hasty measures founded on nothing better than paternal10 jealousy11. I thought, indeed, he had gone too far to make that possible for some time; but I did not know how far his internal discomfort12 might act upon his behaviour as host, and so interfere3 with the homeliness13 of our story-club, upon which I depended not a little for a portion of the desired result.
The motive14 of Mrs. Cathcart's opposition was evident. She was a partizan of Percy; for Adela was a very tolerable fortune, as people say.
These thoughts went through my mind, as thoughts do, in no time at all; and when the lady had closed the door behind her with protracted15 gentleness, I was ready to show my game; in which I really considered my friend and myself partners.
"Those women," I said, (women forgive me!), with a laugh which I trust the colonel did not discover to be a forced one—"Those women are always thinking about falling in love and that sort of foolery. I wonder she isn't jealous of me now! Well, I do love Adela better than any man will, for some weeks to come. I've been a sweetheart of hers ever since she was in long clothes." Here I tried to laugh again, and, to judge from the colonel, I verily believe I succeeded. The cloud lightened on his face, as I made light of its cause, till at last he laughed too. If I thought it all nonsense, why should he think it earnest? So I turned the conversation to the club, about which I was more concerned than about the love-making at present, seeing the latter had positively16 no existence as yet.
"Adela seemed quite to enjoy the reading last night," I said.
"I thought she looked very grave," he answered.
The good man had been watching her face all the time, I saw, and evidently paying no heed17 to the story. I doubted if he was the better judge for this—observing only ab extra, and without being in sympathy with her feelings as moved by the tale.
"Now that is just what I should have wished to see," I answered. "We don't want her merry all at once. What we want is, that she should take an interest in something. A grave face is a sign of interest. It is all the world better than a listless face."
"But what good can stories do in sickness?"
"That depends on the origin of the sickness. My conviction is, that, near or far off, in ourselves, or in our ancestors—say Adam and Eve, for comprehension's sake—all our ailments18 have a moral cause. I think that if we were all good, disease would, in the course of generations, disappear utterly19 from the face of the earth."
Mystical, is it not?"
"But I meant to go on to say that, in Adela's case, I believe, from conversation I have had with her, that the operation of mind on body is far more immediate21 than that I have hinted at."
"You cannot mean to imply," said my friend, in some alarm, that Adela has anything upon her conscience?"
"Certainly not. But there may be moral diseases that do not in the least imply personal wrong or fault. They may themselves be transmitted, for instance. Or even if such sprung wholly from present physical causes, any help given to the mind would react on those causes. Still more would the physical ill be influenced through the mental, if the mind be the source of both.
"Now from whatever cause, Adela is in a kind of moral atrophy22, for she cannot digest the food provided for her, so as to get any good of it. Suppose a patient in a corresponding physical condition, should show a relish for anything proposed to him, would you not take it for a sign that that was just the thing to do him good? And we may accept the interest Adela shows in any kind of mental pabulum provided for her, as an analogous23 sign. It corresponds to relish, and is a ground for expecting some benefit to follow—in a word, some nourishment24 of the spiritual life. Relish may be called the digestion25 of the palate; interest, the digestion of the inner ears; both significant of further digestion to follow. The food thus relished26 may not be the best food; and yet it may be the best for the patient, because she feels no repugnance27 to it, and can digest and assimilate, as well as swallow it. For my part, I believe in no cramming28, bodily or mental. I think nothing learned without interest, can be of the slightest after benefit; and although the effort may comprise a moral good, it involves considerable intellectual injury. All I have said applies with still greater force to religious teaching, though that is not definitely the question now."
"Well, Smith, I can't talk philosophy like you; but what you say sounds to me like sense. At all events, if Adela enjoys it, that is enough for me. Will the young doctor tell stories too?"
"I don't know. I fancy he could. But to-night we have his brother."
"I shall make them welcome, anyhow."
This was all I wanted of him; and now I was impatient for the evening, and the clergyman's tale. The more I saw of him the better I liked him, and felt the more interest in him. I went to church that same day, and heard him read prayers, and liked him better still; so that I was quite hungry for the story he was going to read to us.
The evening came, and with it the company. Arrangements, similar to those of the evening before, having been made, with some little improvements, the colonel now occupying the middle place in the half-circle, and the doctor seated, whether by chance or design, at the corner farthest from the invalid's couch, the clergyman said, as he rolled and unrolled the manuscript in his hand:
"To explain how I came to write a story, the scene of which is in Scotland, I may be allowed to inform the company that I spent a good part of my boyhood in a town in Aberdeenshire, with my grandfather, who was a thorough Scotchman. He had removed thither29 from the south, where the name is indigenous30; being indeed a descendant of that Christy, whom his father, Johnie Armstrong, standing with the rope about his neck, ready to be hanged—or murdered, as the ballad31 calls it—apostrophizes in these words:
'And God be with thee, Christy, my son,
Where thou sits on thy nurse's knee!
But an' thou live this hundred year,
Thy father's better thou'lt never be.'
But I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen all, for this has positively nothing to do with the story. Only please to remember that in those days it was quite respectable to be hanged."
We all agreed to this with a profusion32 of corroboration33, except the colonel; who, I thought, winced34 a little. But presently our attention was occupied with the story, thus announced:
He read in a great, deep, musical voice, with a wealth of pathos36 in it—always suppressed, yet almost too much for me in the more touching37 portions of the story.
"One interruption more," he said, before he began. "I fear you will find it a sad story."
And he looked at Adela.
I believe that he had chosen the story on the homoeopathic principle.
"I like sad stories," she answered; and he went on at once.
"THE BELL.
"A SKETCH IN PEN AND INK.
"Elsie Scott had let her work fall on her knees, and her hands on her work, and was looking out of the wide, low window of her room, which was on one of the ground floors of the village street. Through a gap in the household shrubbery of fuchsias and myrtles filling the window-sill, one passing on the foot-pavement might get a momentary38 glimpse of her pale face, lighted up with two blue eyes, over which some inward trouble had spread a faint, gauze-like haziness39. But almost before her thoughts had had time to wander back to this trouble, a shout of children's voices, at the other end of the street, reached her ear. She listened a moment. A shadow of displeasure and pain crossed her countenance40; and rising hastily, she betook herself to an inner apartment, and closed the door behind her.
"Meantime the sounds drew nearer; and by and by, an old man, whose strange appearance and dress showed that he had little capacity either for good or evil, passed the window. His clothes were comfortable enough in quality and condition, for they were the annual gift of a benevolent41 lady in the neighbourhood; but, being made to accommodate his taste, both known and traditional, they were somewhat peculiar in cut and adornment42. Both coat and trousers were of a dark grey cloth; but the former, which, in its shape, partook of the military, had a straight collar of yellow, and narrow cuffs43 of the same; while upon both sleeves, about the place where a corporal wears his stripes, was expressed, in the same yellow cloth, a somewhat singular device. It was as close an imitation of a bell, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, as the tailor's skill could produce from a single piece of cloth. The origin of the military cut of his coat was well known. His preference for it arose in the time of the wars of the first Napoleon, when the threatened invasion of the country caused the organization of many volunteer regiments44. The martial45 show and exercises captivated the poor man's fancy; and from that time forward nothing pleased his vanity, and consequently conciliated his good will more, than to style him by his favourite title—the Colonel. But the badge on his arm had a deeper origin, which will be partially46 manifest in the course of the story—if story it can be called. It was, indeed, the baptism of the fool, the outward and visible sign of his relation to the infinite and unseen. His countenance, however, although the features were not of any peculiarly low or animal type, showed no corresponding sign of the consciousness of such a relation, being as vacant as human countenance could well be.
"The cause of Elsie's annoyance47 was that the fool was annoyed; for, he was turned his rank into scorn, and assailed48 him with epithets49 hateful to him. Although the most harmless of creatures when let alone, he was dangerous when roused; and now he stooped repeatedly to pick up stones and hurl50 them at his tormentors, who took care, while abusing him, to keep at a considerable distance, lest he should get hold of them. Amidst the sounds of derision that followed him, might be heard the words frequently repeated—'Come hame, come hame.' But in a few minutes the noise ceased, either from the interference of some friendly inhabitant, or that the boys grew weary, and departed in search of other amusement. By and by, Elsie might be seen again at her work in the window; but the cloud over her eyes was deeper, and her whole face more sad.
"Indeed, so much did the persecution51 of the poor man affect her, that an onlooker52 would have been compelled to seek the cause in some yet deeper sympathy than that commonly felt for the oppressed, even by women. And such a sympathy existed, strange as it may seem, between the beautiful girl (for many called her a bonnie lassie) and this 'tatter of humanity.' Nothing would have been farther from the thoughts of those that knew them, than the supposition of any correspondence or connection between them; yet this sympathy sprung in part from a real similarity in their history and present condition.
"All the facts that were known about Feel Jock's origin were these: that seventy years ago, a man who had gone with his horse and cart some miles from the village, to fetch home a load of peat from a desolate53 moss54, had heard, while toiling55 along as rough a road on as lonely a hill-side as any in Scotland, the cry of a child; and, searching about, had found the infant, hardly wrapt in rags, and untended, as if the earth herself had just given him birth,—that desert moor56, wide and dismal57, broken and watery58, the only bosom59 for him to lie upon, and the cold, clear night-heaven his only covering. The man had brought him home, and the parish had taken parish-care of him. He had grown up, and proved what he now was—almost an idiot. Many of the townspeople were kind to him, and employed him in fetching water for them from the river and wells in the neighbourhood, paying him for his trouble in victuals60, or whisky, of which he was very fond. He seldom spoke61; and the sentences he could utter were few; yet the tone, and even the words of his limited vocabulary, were sufficient to express gratitude62 and some measure of love towards those who were kind to him, and hatred63 of those who teased and insulted him. He lived a life without aim, and apparently64 to no purpose; in this resembling most of his more gifted fellow-men, who, with all the tools and materials needful for the building of a noble mansion65, are yet content with a clay hut.
"Elsie, on the contrary, had been born in a comfortable farmhouse66, amidst homeliness and abundance. But at a very early age, she had lost both father and mother; not so early, however, but that she had faint memories of warm soft times on her mother's bosom, and of refuge in her mother's arms from the attacks of geese, and the pursuit of pigs. Therefore, in after-times, when she looked forward to heaven, it was as much a reverting67 to the old heavenly times of childhood and mother's love, as an anticipation68 of something yet to be revealed. Indeed, without some such memory, how should we ever picture to ourselves a perfect rest? But sometimes it would seem as if the more a heart was made capable of loving, the less it had to love; and poor Elsie, in passing from a mother's to a brother's guardianship69, felt a change of spiritual temperature, too keen. He was not a bad man, or incapable70 of benevolence71 when touched by the sight of want in anything of which he would himself have felt the privation; but he was so coarsely made, that only the purest animal necessities affected72 him; and a hard word, or unfeeling speech, could never have reached the quick of his nature through the hide that enclosed it. Elsie, on the contrary, was excessively and painfully sensitive, as if her nature constantly protended an invisible multitude of half-spiritual, half-nervous antennae73, which shrunk and trembled in every current of air at all below their own temperature. The effect of this upon her behaviour was such, that she was called odd; and the poor girl felt that she was not like other people, yet could not help it. Her brother, too, laughed at her without the slightest idea of the pain he occasioned, or the remotest feeling of curiosity as to what the inward and consistent causes of the outward abnormal condition might be. Tenderness was the divine comforting she needed; and it was altogether absent from her brother's character and behaviour.
"Her neighbours looked on her with some interest, but they rather shunned74 than courted her acquaintance; especially after the return of certain nervous attacks, to which she had been subject in childhood, and which were again brought on by the events I must relate. It is curious how certain diseases repel75, by a kind of awe76, the sympathies of the neighbours: as if, by the fact of being subject to them, the patient were removed into another realm of existence, from which, like the dead with the living, she can hold communion with those around her only partially, and with a mixture of dread77 pervading78 the intercourse79. Thus some of the deepest, purest wells of spiritual life, are, like those in old castles, choked up by the decay of the outer walls. But what tended more than anything, perhaps, to keep up the painful unrest of her soul (for the beauty of her character was evident in the fact, that the irritation80 seldom reached her mind), was a circumstance at which, in its present connection, some of my readers will smile, and others feel a shudder81 corresponding in kind to that of Elsie.
"Her brother was very fond of a rather small, but ferocious-looking bull-dog, which followed close at his heels, wherever he went, with hanging head and slouching gait, never leaping or racing82 about like other dogs. When in the house, he always lay under his master's chair. He seemed to dislike Elsie, and she felt an unspeakable repugnance to him. Though she never mentioned her aversion, her brother easily saw it by the way in which she avoided the animal; and attributing it entirely83 to fear—which indeed had a great share in the matter—he would cruelly aggravate84 it, by telling her stories of the fierce hardihood and relentless85 persistency86 of this kind of animal. He dared not yet further increase her terror by offering to set the creature upon her, because it was doubtful whether he might be able to restrain him; but the mental suffering which he occasioned by this heartless conduct, and for which he had no sympathy, was as severe as many bodily sufferings to which he would have been sorry to subject her. Whenever the poor girl happened inadvertently to pass near the dog, which was seldom, a low growl87 made her aware of his proximity88, and drove her to a quick retreat. He was, in fact, the animal impersonation of the animal opposition which she had continually to endure. Like chooses like; and the bull-dog in her brother made choice of the bull-dog out of him for his companion. So her day was one of shrinking fear and multiform discomfort.
"But a nature capable of so much distress89, must of necessity be capable of a corresponding amount of pleasure; and in her case this was manifest in the fact, that sleep and the quiet of her own room restored her wonderfully. If she was only let alone, a calm mood, filled with images of pleasure, soon took possession of her mind.
"Her acquaintance with the fool had commenced some ten years previous to the time I write of, when she was quite a little girl, and had come from the country with her brother, who, having taken a small farm close to the town, preferred residing in the town to occupying the farm-house, which was not comfortable. She looked at first with some terror on his uncouth90 appearance, and with much wonderment on his strange dress. This wonder was heightened by a conversation she overheard one day in the street, between the fool and a little pale-faced boy, who, approaching him respectfully, said, 'Weel, cornel!' 'Weel, laddie!' was the reply. 'Fat dis the wow say, cornel?' 'Come hame, come hame!' answered the colonel, with both accent and quantity heaped on the word hame. She heard no more, and knew not what the little she had heard, meant. What the wow could be, she had no idea; only, as the years passed on, the strange word became in her mind indescribably associated with the strange shape in yellow cloth on his sleeves. Had she been a native of the town, she could not have failed to know its import, so familiar was every one with it, although the word did not belong to the local vocabulary; but, as it was, years passed away before she discovered its meaning. And when, again and again, the fool, attempting to convey his gratitude for some kindness she had shown him, mumbled91 over the words—'The wow o' Rivven—the wow o' Rivven,' the wonder would return as to what could be the idea associated with them in his mind, but she made no advance towards their explanation.
"That, however, which most attracted her to the old man, was his persecution by the children. They were to him what the bull-dog was to her—the constant source of irritation and annoyance. They could hardly hurt him, nor did he appear to dread other injury from them than insult, to which, fool though he was, he was keenly alive. Human gad-flies that they were! they sometimes stung him beyond endurance, and he would curse them in the impotence of his anger. Once or twice Elsie had been so far carried beyond her constitutional timidity, by sympathy for the distress of her friend, that she had gone out and talked to the boys,—even scolded them, so that they slunk away ashamed, and began to stand as much in dread of her as of the clutches of their prey92. So she, gentle and timid to excess, acquired among them the reputation of a termagant. Popular opinion among children, as among men, is often just, but as often very unjust; for the same manifestations93 may proceed from opposite principles; and, therefore, as indices to character, any mislead as often as enlighten.
"Next door to the house in which Elsie resided, dwelt a tradesman and his wife, who kept an indefinite sort of shop, in which various kinds of goods were exposed to sale. Their youngest son was about the same age as Elsie; and while they were rather more than children, and less than young people, he spent many of his evenings with her, somewhat to the loss of position in his classes at the parish school. They were, indeed, much attached to each other; and, peculiarly constituted as Elsie was, one may imagine what kind of heavenly messenger a companion stronger than herself must have been to her. In fact, if she could have framed the undefinable need of her child-like nature into an articulate prayer, it would have been—'Give me some one to love me stronger than I.' Any love was helpful, yes, in its degree, saving to her poor troubled soul; but the hope, as they grew older together, that the powerful, yet tender-hearted youth, really loved her, and would one day make her his wife, was like the opening of heavenly eyes of life and love in the hitherto blank and death-like face of her existence. But nothing had been said of love, although they met and parted like lovers.
"Doubtless if the circles of their thought and feeling had continued as now to intersect each other, there would have been no interruption to their affection; but the time at length arrived when the old couple seeing the rest of their family comfortably settled in life, resolved to make a gentleman of the youngest; and so sent him from school to college. The facilities existing in Scotland for providing a professional training, enabled them to educate him as a surgeon. He parted from Elsie with some regret; but, far less dependent on her than she was on him, and full of the prospects94 of the future, he felt none of that sinking at the heart which seemed to lay her whole nature open to a fresh inroad of all the terrors and sorrows of her peculiar existence. No correspondence took place between them. New pursuits and relations, and the development of his tastes and judgments95, entirely altered the position of poor Elsie in his memory. Having been, during their intercourse, far less of a man than she of a woman, he had no definite idea of the place he had occupied in her regard; and in his mind she receded96 into the background of the past, without his having any idea that she would suffer thereby97, or that he was unjust towards her; while, in her thoughts, his image stood in the highest and clearest relief. It was the centre-point from which and towards which all lines radiated and converged98; and although she could not but be doubtful about the future, yet there was much hope mingled99 with her doubts.
"But when, at the close of two years, he visited his native village, and she saw before her, instead of the homely100 youth who had left her that winter evening, one who, to her inexperienced eyes, appeared a finished gentleman, her heart sank within her, as if she had found Nature herself false in her ripening101 processes, destroying the beautiful promise of a former year by changing instead of developing her creations. He spoke kindly103 to her, but not cordially. To her ear the voice seemed to come from a great distance out of the past; and while she looked upon him, that optical change passed over her vision, which all have experienced after gazing abstractedly on any object for a time: his form grew very small, and receded to an immeasurable distance; till, her imagination mingling104 with the twilight105 haze106 of her senses, she seemed to see him standing far off on a hill, with the bright horizon of sunset for a back-ground to his clearly defined figure.
"She knew no more till she found herself in bed in the dark; and the first message that reached her from the outer world, was the infernal growl of the bull-dog from the room below. Next day she saw her lover walking with two ladies, who would have thought it some degree of condescension107 to speak to her; and he passed the house without once looking towards it.
"One who is sufficiently108 possessed109 by the demon110 of nervousness to be glad of the magnetic influences of a friend's company in a public promenade111, or of a horse beneath him in passing through a churchyard, will have some faint idea of how utterly exposed and defenceless poor Elsie now felt on the crowded thoroughfare of life. And the insensibility which had overtaken her, was not the ordinary swoon with which Nature relieves the over-strained nerves, but the return of the epileptic fits of her early childhood; and if the condition of the poor girl had been pitiable before, it was tenfold more so now. Yet she did not complain, but bore all in silence, though it was evident that her health was giving way. But now, help came to her from a strange quarter; though many might not be willing to accord the name of help to that which rather hastened than retarded112 the progress of her decline.
"She had gone to spend a few of the summer days with a relative in the country, some miles from her home, if home it could be called. One evening, towards sunset, she went out for a solitary113 walk. Passing from the little garden gate, she went along a bare country road for some distance, and then, turning aside by a footpath114 through a thicket115 of low trees, she came out in a lonely little churchyard on the hill-side. Hardly knowing whether or not she had intended to go there, she seated herself on a mound116 covered with long grass, one of many. Before her stood the ruins of an old church which was taking centuries to crumble117. Little remained but the gable-wall, immensely thick, and covered with ancient ivy118. The rays of the setting sun fell on a mound at its foot, not green like the rest, but of a rich, red-brown in the rosy119 sunset, and evidently but newly heaped up. Her eyes, too, rested upon it. Slowly the sun sank below the near horizon.
"As the last brilliant point disappeared, the ivy darkened, and a wind arose and shook all its leaves, making them look cold and troubled; and to Elsie's ear came a low faint sound, as from a far-off bell. But close beside her—and she started and shivered at the sound—rose a deep, monotonous120, almost sepulchral121 voice: 'Come hame, come hame! The wow, the wow!'
"At once she understood the whole. She sat in the churchyard of the ancient parish church of Ruthven; and when she lifted up her eyes, there she saw, in the half-ruined belfry, the old bell, all but hidden with ivy, which the passing wind had roused to utter one sleepy tone; and there, beside her, stood the fool with the bell on his arm; and to him and to her the wow o' Rivven said, 'Come hame, come hame!' Ah, what did she want in the whole universe of God but a home? And though the ground beneath was hard, and the sky overhead far and boundless122, and the hill-side lonely and companionless, yet somewhere within the visible, and beyond these the outer surfaces of creation, there might be a home for her; as round the wintry house the snows lie heaped up cold and white and dreary123 all the long forenight, while within, beyond the closed shutters124, and giving no glimmer125 through the thick stone walls, the fires are blazing joyously126, and the voices and laughter of young unfrozen children are heard, and nothing belongs to winter but the grey hairs on the heads of the parents, within whose warm hearts child-like voices are heard, and child-like thoughts move to and fro. The kernel128 of winter itself is spring, or a sleeping summer.
"It was no wonder that the fool, cast out of the earth on a far more desolate spot than this, should seek to return within her bosom at this place of open doors, and should call it home. For surely the surface of the earth had no home for him. The mound at the foot of the gable contained the body of one who had shown him kindness. He had followed the funeral that afternoon from the town, and had remained behind with the bell. Indeed, it was his custom, though Elsie had not known it, to follow every funeral going to this, his favourite churchyard of Ruthven; and, possibly in imitation of its booming, for it was still tolled129 at the funerals, he had given the old bell the name of the wow, and had translated its monotonous clangour into the articulate sounds—come home, come home. What precise meaning he attached to the words, it is impossible to say; but it was evident that the place possessed a strange attraction for him, drawing him towards it by the cords of some spiritual magnetism130. It is possible that in the mind of the idiot there may have been some feeling about this churchyard and bell, which, in the mind of another, would have become a grand poetic131 thought; a feeling as if the ghostly old bell hung at the church-door of the invisible world, and ever and anon rung out joyous127 notes (though they sounded sad in the ears of the living), calling to the children of the unseen to come home, come home.—She sat for some time in silence; for the bell did not ring again, and the fool spoke no more; till the dews began to fall, when she rose and went home, followed by her companion, who passed the night in the barn.
"From that hour Elsie was furnished with a visual image of the rest she sought; an image which, mingling with deeper and holier thoughts, became, like the bow set in the cloud, the earthly pledge and sign of the fulfilment of heavenly hopes. Often when the wintry fog of cold discomfort and homelessness filled her soul, all at once the picture of the little churchyard—with the old gable and belfry, and the slanting132 sunlight steeping down to the very roots the long grass on the graves—arose in the darkened chamber133 (camera obscura) of her soul; and again she heard the faint AEolian sound of the bell, and the voice of the prophet-fool who interpreted the oracle134; and the inward weariness was soothed135 by the promise of a long sleep. Who can tell how many have been counted fools simply because they were prophets; or how much of the madness in the world may be the utterance136 of thoughts true and just, but belonging to a region differing from ours in its nature and scenery!
"But to Elsie looking out of her window came the mocking tones of the idle boys who had chosen as the vehicle of their scorn the very words which showed the relation of the fool to the eternal, and revealed in him an element higher far than any yet developed in them. They turned his glory into shame, like the enemies of David when they mocked the would-be king. And the best in a man is often that which is most condemned137 by those who have not attained138 to his goodness. The words, however, even as repeated by the boys, had not solely139 awakened140 indignation at the persecution of the old man: they had likewise comforted her with the thought of the refuge that awaited both him and her.
"But the same evening a worse trial befell her. Again she sat near the window, oppressed by the consciousness that her brother had come in. He had gone up-stairs, and his dog had remained at the door, exchanging surly compliments with some of his own kind; when the fool came strolling past, and, I do not know from what cause, the dog flew at him. Elsie heard his cry and looked up. Her fear of the brute141 vanished in a moment before her sympathy for her friend. She darted142 from the house, and rushed towards the dog to drag him off the defenceless idiot, calling him by his name in a tone of anger and dislike. He left the fool, and, springing at Elsie, seized her by the arm above the elbow with such a gripe that, in the midst of her agony, she fancied she heard the bone crack. But she uttered no cry, for the most apprehensive143 are sometimes the most courageous144. Just then, however, her former lover was coming along the street, and, catching145 a glimpse of what had happened, was on the spot in an instant, took the dog by the throat with a gripe not inferior to his own, and having thus compelled him to give up his hold, dashed him on the ground with a force that almost stunned146 him, and then with a superadded kick sent him away limping and howling; whereupon the fool, attacking him furiously with a stick, would certainly have finished him, had not his master descried147 his plight148 and come to his rescue.
"Meantime the young surgeon had carried Elsie into the house; for, as soon as she was rescued from the dog, she had fallen down in one of her fits, which were becoming more and more frequent of themselves, and little needed such a shock as this to increase their violence. He was dressing149 her arm when she began to recover; and when she opened her eyes, in a state of half-consciousness, the first object she beheld150, was his face bending over her. Re-calling nothing of what had occurred, it seemed to her, in the dreamy condition in which the fit had left her, the same face, unchanged, which had once shone in upon her tardy151 spring-time, and promised to ripen102 it into summer. She forgot that it had departed and left her in the wintry cold. And so she uttered wild words of love and trust; and the youth, while stung with remorse152 at his own neglect, was astonished to perceive the poetic forms of beauty in which the soul of the uneducated maiden153 burst into flower. But as her senses recovered themselves, the face gradually changed to her, as if the slow alteration154 of two years had been phantasmagorically compressed into a few moments; and the glow departed from the maiden's thoughts and words, and her soul found itself at the narrow window of the present, from which she could behold155 but a dreary country.—From the street came the iambic cry of the fool, 'Come hame, come hame."
"Tycho Brahe, I think, is said to have kept a fool, who frequently sat at his feet in his study, and to whose mutterings he used to listen in the pauses of his own thought. The shining soul of the astronomer156 drew forth157 the rainbow of harmony from the misty158 spray of words ascending159 ever from the dark gulf160 into which the thoughts of the idiot were ever falling. He beheld curious concurrences161 of words therein, and could read strange meanings from them—sometimes even received wondrous162 hints for the direction of celestial163 inquiry164, from what, to any other, and it may be to the fool himself, was but a ceaseless and aimless babble165. Such power lieth in words. It is not then to be wondered at, that the sounds I have mentioned should fall on the ears of Elsie, at such a moment, as a message from God himself. This then—all this dreariness—was but a passing show like the rest, and there lay somewhere for her a reality—a home. The tears burst up from her oppressed heart. She received the message, and prepared to go home. From that time her strength gradually sank, but her spirits as steadily166 rose.
"The strength of the fool, too, began to fail, for he was old. He bore all the signs of age, even to the grey hairs, which betokened167 no wisdom. But one cannot say what wisdom might be in him, or how far he had not fought his own battle, and been victorious168. Whether any notion of a continuance of life and thought dwelt in his brain, it is impossible to tell; but he seemed to have the idea that this was not his home; and those who saw him gradually approaching his end, might well anticipate for him a higher life in the world to come. He had passed through this world without ever awakening169 to such a consciousness of being, as is common to mankind. He had spent his years like a weary dream through a long night—a strange, dismal, unkindly dream; and now the morning was at hand. Often in his dream had he listened with sleepy senses to the ringing of the bell, but that bell would awake him at last. He was like a seed buried too deep in the soil, to which, therefore, has never forced its way upwards170 to the open air, never experienced the resurrection of the dead. But seeds will grow ages after they have fallen into the earth; and, indeed, with many kinds, and within some limits, the older the seed before it germinates171, the more plentiful172 is the fruit. And may it not be believed of many human beings, that, the great Husbandman having sown them like seeds in the soil of human affairs, there they lie buried a life long; and only after the upturning of the soil by death, reach a position in which the awakening of their aspiration173 and the consequent growth become possible. Surely he has made nothing in vain.
"A violent cold and cough brought him at last near to his end, and, hearing that he was ill, Elsie ventured one bright spring day to go to see him. When she entered the miserable174 room where he lay, he held out his hand to her with something like a smile, and muttered feebly and painfully, 'I'm gaein' to the wow, nae to come back again.' Elsie could not restrain her tears; while the old man, looking fixedly175 at her, though with meaningless eyes, muttered, for the last time, 'Come hame! come hame!' and sank into a lethargy, from which nothing could rouse him, till, next morning, he was waked by friendly death from the long sleep of this world's night. They bore him to his favourite church-yard, and buried him within the site of the old church, below his loved bell, which had ever been to him as the cuckoo-note of a coming spring. Thus he at length obeyed its summons, and went home.
"Elsie lingered till the first summer days lay warm on the land. Several kind hearts in the village, hearing of her illness, visited her and ministered to her. Wondering at her sweetness and patience, they regretted they had not known her before. How much consolation177 might not their kindness have imparted, and how much might not their sympathy have strengthened her on her painful road! But they could not long have delayed her going home. Nor, mentally constituted as she was, would this have been at all to be desired. Indeed it was chiefly the expectation of departure that quieted and soothed her tremulous nature. It is true that a deep spring of hope and faith kept singing on in her heart, but this alone, without the anticipation of speedy release, could only have kept her mind at peace. It could not have reached, at least for a long time, the border land between body and mind, in which her disease lay.
"One still night of summer, the nurse who watched by her bedside heard her murmur178 through her sleep, 'I hear it: come hame—come hame. I'm comin', I'm comin'—I'm gaein' hame to the wow, nae to come back.' She awoke at the sound of her own words, and begged the nurse to convey to her brother her last request, that she might be buried by the side of the fool, within the old church of Ruthven. Then she turned her face to the wall, and in the morning was found quiet and cold. She must have died within a few minutes after her last words. She was buried according to her request; and thus she, too, went home.
"Side by side rest the aged179 fool and the young maiden; for the bell called them, and they obeyed; and surely they found the fire burning bright, and heard friendly voices, and felt sweet lips on theirs, in the home to which they went. Surely both intellect and love were waiting them there.
"Still the old bell hangs in the old gable; and whenever another is borne to the old churchyard, it keeps calling to those who are left behind, with the same sad, but friendly and unchanging voice—'Come hame! come hame! come hame!'"
For a full minute, there was silence in the little company. I myself dared not look up, but the movement of indistinct and cloudy white over my undirected eyes, let me know that two or three, amongst them Adela, were lifting their handkerchiefs to their faces. At length a voice broke the silence.
"How much of your affecting tale is true, Mr. Armstrong?"
The voice belonged to Mrs. Cathcart.
"I object to the question," said I. "I don't want to know. Suppose, Mrs. Cathcart, I were to put this story-club, members, stories, and all, into a book, how would any one like to have her real existence questioned? It would at least imply that I had made a very bad portrait of that one."
The lady cast rather a frightened look at me, which I confess I was not sorry to see. But the curate interposed.
"I have not the slightest objection to answer your question, Mrs. Cathcart; and if our friend Mr. Smith does not want to hear the answer, I will wait till he stops his ears."
He glanced to me, his black eyes twinkling with fun. I saw that it was all he could do to keep from winking182; but he did.
"Oh no," I answered; "I will share what is going."
"Well, then, the fool is a real character, in every point. But I learned after I had written the sketch, that I had made one mistake. He was in reality about seventeen, when he was found on the hill. The bell is a real character too. Elsie is a creature of my own. So of course are the brother and the dog."
"I don't know whether to be glad or sorry that there was no Elsie," said his wife. "But did you know the fool yourself?"
"Perfectly183 well, and had a great respect for him. When a little boy, I was quite proud of the way he behaved to me. He occasionally visited the general persecution of the boys, upon any boy he chanced to meet on the road; but as often as I met him, he walked quietly past me, muttering 'Auntie's folk!' or returning my greeting of 'A fine day, Colonel!' with a grunted184 'Ay!'"
"What did he mean by 'Auntie's folk?'" asked Mrs. Armstrong.
"My grandmother was kind to him, and he always called her Auntie. I cannot tell how the fancy originated; but certainly he knew all her descendants somehow—a degree of intelligence not to have been expected of him—and invariably murmured 'Auntie's folk,' as often as he passed any of them on the road, as if to remind himself that these were friends, or relations. Possibly he had lived with an aunt before he was exposed on the moor."
"Is wow a word at all?" I asked.
"If you look into Jamieson's Dictionary," said Armstrong, "as I have done for the express purpose, you will find that the word is used differently in different quarters of the country—chiefly, however, as a verb. It means to bark, to howl; likewise to wave or beckon185; also to woo, or make love to. Any of these might be given as an explanation of his word. But I do not think it had anything to do with these meanings; nor was the word used, in that district, in either of the last two senses, in my time at least. It was used, however, in the meaning of alas—a form of woe186 in fact; as wow's me! But I believe it was, in the fool's use, an attempt to reproduce the sound which the bell made. If you repeat the word several times, resting on the final w, and pausing between each repetition—wow! wow! wow!—you will find that the sound is not at all unlike the tolling187 of a funeral bell; and therefore the word is most probably an onomatopoetic invention of the fool's own."
Adela offered no remark upon the story, and I knew from her countenance that she was too much affected to be inclined to speak. Her eyes had that fixed176, forward look, which, combined with haziness, indicates deep emotion, while the curves of her mouth were nearly straightened out by the compression of her lips. I had thought, while the reader went on, that she could hardly fail to find in the story of Elsie, some correspondence to her own condition and necessities: I now believe that she had found that correspondence. More talk was not desirable; and I was glad when, after a few attempts at ordinary conversation, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield rose to take their leave, which was accepted by the whole company as a signal for departure.
"But stay," I interposed; "who is to read or tell next?"
"Why, I will be revenged on Harry," said the clergyman.
"That you can't," said the doctor; "for I have nothing to give you."
"You don't mean to say you are going to jib?"
"No. I don't say I won't read. In fact I have a story in my head, and a bit of it on paper; but I positively can't read next time."
"Will you oblige us with a story, Colonel?" said I.
"My dear fellow, you know I never put pen to paper in my life, except when I could not help it. I may tell you a story before it is all over, but write one I cannot."
"A tale that is told is the best tale of all," I said. "Shall we book you for next time?"
"No, no! not next time; positively not. My story must come of itself, else I cannot tell it at all."
"Well, there's nobody left but you, Mr. Bloomfield. So you can't get rid of it."
"I don't think I ever wrote what was worth calling a story; but I don't mind reading you something of the sort which I have at home, on one condition."
"What is that?"
"That nobody ask any questions about it."
"Oh! certainly."
"But my only reason is, that somehow I feel it would all come to pieces if you did. It is nothing, as a story; but there are feelings expressed in it, which were very strong in me when I wrote it, and which I do not feel willing to talk about, although I have no objection to having them thought about."
"Well, that is settled. When shall we meet again?"
"To-morrow, or the day after," said the colonel; "which you please."
"Oh! the day after, if I may have a word in it," said the doctor. "I shall be very busy to-morrow—and we mustn't crowd remedies either, you know."
The close of the sentence was addressed to me only. The rest of the company had taken leave, and were already at the door, when he made the last remark. He now came up to his patient, felt her pulse, and put the question,
"How have you slept the last two nights?"
"Better, thank you."
"And do you feel refreshed when you wake?"
"More so than for some time."
"I won't give you anything to-night.—Good night."
"Good night. Thank you."
This was all that passed between them. Jealousy, with the six eyes of Colonel, Mrs., and Percy Cathcart, was intent upon the pair during the brief conversation. And I thought Adela perceived the fact.
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1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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3
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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7
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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8
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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9
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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10
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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12
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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13
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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14
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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15
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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16
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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17
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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18
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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19
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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21
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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22
atrophy
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| n./v.萎缩，虚脱，衰退 | |
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23
analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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24
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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28
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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32
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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34
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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36
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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39
haziness
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| 有薄雾，模糊； 朦胧之性质或状态； 零能见度 | |
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40
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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41
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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42
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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43
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
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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45
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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46
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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47
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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48
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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49
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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50
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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51
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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52
onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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53
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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54
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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55
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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56
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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57
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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58
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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59
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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60
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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61
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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62
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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63
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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64
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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65
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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66
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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67
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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68
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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69
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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70
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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71
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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72
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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73
antennae
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| n.天线；触角 | |
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74
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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76
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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77
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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78
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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79
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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80
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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81
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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82
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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83
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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84
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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85
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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86
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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87
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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88
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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89
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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90
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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91
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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93
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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94
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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95
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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96
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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97
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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98
converged
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| v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的过去式 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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99
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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100
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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101
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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102
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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103
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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104
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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105
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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106
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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107
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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108
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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109
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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110
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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111
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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112
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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113
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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114
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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115
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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116
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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117
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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118
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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119
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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120
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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121
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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122
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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123
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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124
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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125
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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126
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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127
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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128
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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129
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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130
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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131
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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132
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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133
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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134
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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135
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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136
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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137
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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138
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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139
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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140
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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141
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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142
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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143
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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144
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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145
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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146
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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147
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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148
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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149
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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150
beheld
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| 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 | |
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151
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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152
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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153
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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154
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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155
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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156
astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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157
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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158
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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159
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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160
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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161
concurrences
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| n.同意，一致( concurrence的名词复数 )；同时发生或出现 | |
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162
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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163
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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164
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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165
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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166
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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167
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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169
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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170
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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171
germinates
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| n.（使）发芽( germinate的名词复数 )v.（使）发芽( germinate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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172
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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173
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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174
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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175
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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176
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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177
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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178
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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179
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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180
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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181
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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182
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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183
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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184
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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185
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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186
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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187
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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