Nobody recognized him at the station or noticed him at the tavern, and after his supper he put on his overcoat and started out for a walk, aimlessly hoping that he might meet a friend, or failing that, intending to call on some of his old neighbors, with the view of hearing the village news and securing some information which might help him to decide when he had better lay himself and his misfortunes at Nancy Wentworth's feet. They were pretty feet! He remembered that fact well enough under the magical influence of familiar sights and sounds and odors. He was restless, miserable2, anxious, homesick—not for Detroit, but for some heretofore unimagined good; yet, like Bunyan's shepherd boy in the Valley of humiliation3, he carried “the herb called Heartsease in his bosom,” for he was at last loving consciously.
How white the old church looked, and how green the blinds! It must have been painted very lately: that meant that the parish was fairly prosperous. There were new shutters4 in the belfry tower, too; he remembered the former open space and the rusty5 bell, and he liked the change. Did the chimney use to be in that corner? No; but his father had always said it would have drawn6 better if it had been put there in the beginning. New shingles7 within a year: that was evident to a practiced eye. He wondered if anything had been done to the inside of the building, but he must wait until the morrow to see, for, of course, the doors would be locked. No; the one at the right side was ajar. He opened it softly and stepped into the tiny square entry that he recalled so well—the one through which the Sunday-School children ran out to the steps from their catechism, apparently8 enjoying the sunshine after a spell of orthodoxy; the little entry where the village girls congregated9 while waiting for the last bell to ring—they made a soft blur10 of pink and blue and buff, a little flutter of curls and braids and fans and sun-shades, in his mind's eye, as he closed the outer door behind him and gently opened the inner one. The church was flooded with moon-light and snowlight, and there was one lamp burning at the back of the pulpit; a candle, too, on the pulpit steps. There was the tip-tap-tip of a tack-hammer going on in a distant corner. Was somebody hanging Christmas garlands? The new red carpet attracted his notice, and as he grew accustomed to the dim light, it carried his eye along the aisle11 he had trod so many years of Sundays, to the old familiar pew. The sound of the hammer ceased, and a woman rose from her knees. A stranger was doing for the family honor what he ought himself to have done. The woman turned to shake her skirt, and it was Nancy Wentworth. He might have known it. Women were always faithful; they always remembered old land-marks, old days, old friends, old duties. His father and mother and Esther were all gone; who but dear Nancy would have made the old Peabody pew right and tidy for the Christmas festival? Bless her kind, womanly heart!
She looked just the same to him as when he last saw her. Mercifully he seemed to have held in remembrance all these years not so much her youthful bloom as her general qualities of mind and heart: her cheeriness, her spirit, her unflagging zeal12, her bright womanliness. Her gray dress was turned up in front over a crimson13 moreen petticoat. She had on a cozy14 jacket, a fur turban of some sort with a red breast in it, and her cheeks were flushed from exertion15. “Sweet records, and promises as sweet,” had always met in Nancy's face, and either he had forgotten how pretty she was, or else she had absolutely grown prettier during his absence.
Nancy would have chosen the supreme16 moment of meeting very differently, but she might well have chosen worse. She unpinned her skirt and brushed the threads off, smoothed the pew cushions carefully, and took a last stitch in the ragged17 hassock. She then lifted the Bible and the hymn-book from the rack, and putting down a bit of flannel18 on the pulpit steps, took a flatiron from an oil-stove, and opening the ancient books, pressed out the well-thumbed leaves one by one with infinite care. After replacing the volumes in their accustomed place, she first extinguished the flame of her stove, which she tucked out of sight, and then blew out the lamp and the candle. The church was still light enough for objects to be seen in a shadowy way, like the objects in a dream, and Justin did not realize that he was a man in the flesh, looking at a woman; spying, it might be, upon her privacy. He was one part of a dream and she another, and he stood as if waiting, and fearing, to be awakened19.
Nancy, having done all, came out of the pew, and standing20 in the aisle, looked back at the scene of her labors21 with pride and content. And as she looked, some desire to stay a little longer in the dear old place must have come over her, or some dread22 of going back to her lonely cottage, for she sat down in Justin's corner of the pew with folded hands, her eyes fixed23 dreamily on the pulpit and her ears hearing:—
Not as though I wrote a new commandment unto thee, but that
which we had from the beginning.
Justin's grasp on the latch24 tightened25 as he prepared to close the door and leave the place, but his instinct did not warn him quickly enough, after all, for, obeying some uncontrollable impulse, Nancy suddenly fell on her knees in the pew and buried her face in the cushions. The dream broke, and in an instant Justin was a man—worse than that, he was an eavesdropper26, ashamed of his unsuspected presence. He felt himself standing, with covered head and feet shod, in the holy temple of a woman's heart.
But his involuntary irreverence27 brought abundant grace with it. The glimpse and the revelation wrought28 their miracles silently and irresistibly29, not by the slow processes of growth which Nature demands for her enterprises, but with the sudden swiftness of the spirit. In an instant changes had taken place in Justin's soul which his so-called “experiencing religion” twenty-five years back had been powerless to effect. He had indeed been baptized then, but the recording30 angel could have borne witness that this second baptism fructified31 the first, and became the real herald32 of the new birth and the new creature.
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1 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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2 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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3 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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4 shutters | |
百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 ); (照相机的)快门 | |
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5 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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6 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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7 shingles | |
n.带状疱疹;(布满海边的)小圆石( shingle的名词复数 );屋顶板;木瓦(板);墙面板 | |
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8 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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9 congregated | |
(使)集合,聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10 blur | |
n.模糊不清的事物;vt.使模糊,使看不清楚 | |
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11 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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12 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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13 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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14 cozy | |
adj.亲如手足的,密切的,暖和舒服的 | |
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15 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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16 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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17 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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18 flannel | |
n.法兰绒;法兰绒衣服 | |
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19 awakened | |
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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20 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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21 labors | |
v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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22 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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23 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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24 latch | |
n.门闩,窗闩;弹簧锁 | |
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25 tightened | |
收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)变紧; (使)绷紧; 加紧 | |
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26 eavesdropper | |
偷听者 | |
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27 irreverence | |
n.不尊敬 | |
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28 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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29 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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30 recording | |
n.录音,记录 | |
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31 fructified | |
v.结果实( fructify的过去式和过去分词 );使结果实,使多产,使土地肥沃 | |
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32 herald | |
vt.预示...的来临,预告,宣布,欢迎 | |
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