He was sitting there this afternoon—a little old man, sadly twisted with rheumatism7; his head was abnormally large, thatched with long, wiry black hair; his face was heavily lined and swarthily sunburned; his eyes were deep-set and black, with occasional peculiar8 golden flashes in them. A strange looking man was old Abel Blair; and as strange was he as he looked. Lower Carmody people would have told you.
Old Abel was almost always sober in these, his later years. He was sober to-day. He liked to bask10 in that ripe sunlight as well as his dog and cat did; and in such baskings he almost always looked out of his doorway11 at the far, fine blue sky over the tops of the crowding maples. But to-day he was not looking at the sky, instead, he was staring at the black, dusty rafters of his kitchen, where hung dried meats and strings12 of onions and bunches of herbs and fishing tackle and guns and skins.
But old Abel saw not these things; his face was the face of a man who beholds13 visions, compact of heavenly pleasure and hellish pain, for old Abel was seeing what he might have been—and what he was; as he always saw when Felix Moore played to him on the violin. And the awful joy of dreaming that he was young again, with unspoiled life before him, was so great and compelling that it counterbalanced the agony in the realization14 of a dishonoured15 old age, following years in which he had squandered16 the wealth of his soul in ways where Wisdom lifted not her voice.
Felix Moore was standing17 opposite to him, before an untidy stove, where the noon fire had died down into pallid18, scattered19 ashes. Under his chin he held old Abel’s brown, battered20 fiddle21; his eyes, too, were fixed22 on the ceiling; and he, too, saw things not lawful23 to be uttered in any language save that of music; and of all music, only that given forth24 by the anguished25, enraptured27 spirit of the violin. And yet this Felix was little more than twelve years old, and his face was still the face of a child who knows nothing of either sorrow or sin or failure or remorse29. Only in his large, gray-black eyes was there something not of the child—something that spoke30 of an inheritance from many hearts, now ashes, which had aforetime grieved and joyed, and struggled and failed, and succeeded and grovelled31. The inarticulate cries of their longings32 had passed into this child’s soul, and transmuted34 themselves into the expression of his music.
Felix was a beautiful child. Carmody people, who stayed at home, thought so; and old Abel Blair, who had roamed afar in many lands, thought so; and even the Rev35. Stephen Leonard, who taught, and tried to believe, that favour is deceitful and beauty is vain, thought so.
He was a slight lad, with sloping shoulders, a slim brown neck, and a head set on it with stag-like grace and uplift. His hair, cut straight across his brow and falling over his ears, after some caprice of Janet Andrews, the minister’s housekeeper36, was a glossy37 blue-black. The skin of his face and hands was like ivory; his eyes were large and beautifully tinted—gray, with dilating38 pupils; his features had the outlines of a cameo. Carmody mothers considered him delicate, and had long foretold39 that the minister would never bring him up; but old Abel pulled his grizzled moustache when he heard such forebodings and smiled.
“Felix Moore will live,” he said positively40. “You can’t kill that kind until their work is done. He’s got a work to do—if the minister’ll let him do it. And if the minister don’t let him do it, then I wouldn’t be in that minister’s shoes when he comes to the judgment—no, I’d rather be in my own. It’s an awful thing to cross the purposes of the Almighty41, either in your own life or anybody else’s. Sometimes I think it’s what’s meant by the unpardonable sin—ay, that I do!”
Carmody people never asked what old Abel meant. They had long ago given up such vain questioning. When a man had lived as old Abel had lived for the greater part of his life, was it any wonder he said crazy things? And as for hinting that Mr. Leonard, a man who was really almost too good to live, was guilty of any sin, much less an unpardonable one—well, there now! what use was it to be taking any account of old Abel’s queer speeches? Though, to be sure, there was no great harm in a fiddle, and maybe Mr. Leonard was a mite42 too strict that way with the child. But then, could you wonder at it? There was his father, you see.
Felix finally lowered the violin, and came back to old Abel’s kitchen with a long sigh. Old Abel smiled drearily43 at him—the smile of a man who has been in the hands of the tormentors.
“It’s awful the way you play—it’s awful,” he said with a shudder44. “I never heard anything like it—and you that never had any teaching since you were nine years old, and not much practice, except what you could get here now and then on my old, battered fiddle. And to think you make it up yourself as you go along! I suppose your grandfather would never hear to your studying music—would he now?”
Felix shook his head.
“I know he wouldn’t, Abel. He wants me to be a minister. Ministers are good things to be, but I’m afraid I can’t be a minister.”
“Not a pulpit minister. There’s different kinds of ministers, and each must talk to men in his own tongue if he’s going to do ‘em any real good,” said old Abel meditatively46. “YOUR tongue is music. Strange that your grandfather can’t see that for himself, and him such a broad-minded man! He’s the only minister I ever had much use for. He’s God’s own if ever a man was. And he loves you—yes, sir, he loves you like the apple of his eye.”
“And I love him,” said Felix warmly. “I love him so much that I’ll even try to be a minister for his sake, though I don’t want to be.”
“What do you want to be?”
“A great violinist,” answered the child, his ivory-hued face suddenly warming into living rose. “I want to play to thousands—and see their eyes look as yours do when I play. Sometimes your eyes frighten me, but oh, it’s a splendid fright! If I had father’s violin I could do better. I remember that he once said it had a soul that was doing purgatory49 for its sins when it had lived on earth. I don’t know what he meant, but it did seem to me that HIS violin was alive. He taught me to play on it as soon as I was big enough to hold it.”
“Did you love your father?” asked old Abel, with a keen look.
“No,” he said, “I didn’t; but,” he added, gravely and deliberately52, “I don’t think you should have asked me such a question.”
It was old Abel’s turn to blush. Carmody people would not have believed he could blush; and perhaps no living being could have called that deepening hue48 into his weather-beaten cheek save only this gray-eyed child of the rebuking53 face.
“No, I guess I shouldn’t,” he said. “But I’m always making mistakes. I’ve never made anything else. That’s why I’m nothing more than ‘Old Abel’ to the Carmody people. Nobody but you and your grandfather ever calls me ‘Mr. Blair.’ Yet William Blair at the store up there, rich and respected as he is, wasn’t half as clever a man as I was when we started in life: you mayn’t believe that, but it’s true. And the worst of it is, young Felix, that most of the time I don’t care whether I’m Mr. Blair or old Abel. Only when you play I care. It makes me feel just as a look I saw in a little girl’s eyes some years ago made me feel. Her name was Anne Shirley and she lived with the Cuthberts down at Avonlea. We got into a conversation at Blair’s store. She could talk a blue streak54 to anyone, that girl could. I happened to say about something that it didn’t matter to a battered old hulk of sixty odd like me. She looked at me with her big, innocent eyes, a little reproachful like, as if I’d said something awful heretical. ‘Don’t you think, Mr. Blair,’ she says, ‘that the older we get the more things ought to matter to us?’—as grave as if she’d been a hundred instead of eleven. ‘Things matter SO much to me now,’ she says, clasping her hands thisaway, ‘and I’m sure that when I’m sixty they’ll matter just five times as much to me.’ Well, the way she looked and the way she spoke made me feel downright ashamed of myself because things had stopped mattering with me. But never mind all that. My miserable55 old feelings don’t count for much. What come of your father’s fiddle?”
“Grandfather took it away when I came here. I think he burned it. And I long for it so often.”
“Well, you’ve always got my old brown fiddle to come to when you must.”
“Yes, I know. And I’m glad for that. But I’m hungry for a violin all the time. And I only come here when the hunger gets too much to bear. I feel as if I oughtn’t to come even then—I’m always saying I won’t do it again, because I know grandfather wouldn’t like it, if he knew.”
“He has never forbidden it, has he?”
“No, but that is because he doesn’t know I come here for that. He never thinks of such a thing. I feel sure he WOULD forbid it, if he knew. And that makes me very wretched. And yet I HAVE to come. Mr. Blair, do you know why grandfather can’t bear to have me play on the violin? He loves music, and he doesn’t mind my playing on the organ, if I don’t neglect other things. I can’t understand it, can you?”
“I have a pretty good idea, but I can’t tell you. It isn’t my secret. Maybe he’ll tell you himself some day. But, mark you, young Felix, he has got good reasons for it all. Knowing what I know, I can’t blame him over much, though I think he’s mistaken. Come now, play something more for me before you go—something that’s bright and happy this time, so as to leave me with a good taste in my mouth. That last thing you played took me straight to heaven,—but heaven’s awful near to hell, and at the last you tipped me in.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Felix, drawing his fine, narrow black brows together in a perplexed56 frown.
“No—and I wouldn’t want you to. You couldn’t understand unless you was an old man who had it in him once to do something and be a MAN, and just went and made himself a devilish fool. But there must be something in you that understands things—all kinds of things—or you couldn’t put it all into music the way you do. How do you do it? How in—how DO you do it, young Felix?”
“I don’t know. But I play differently to different people. I don’t know how that is. When I’m alone with you I have to play one way; and when Janet comes over here to listen I feel quite another way—not so thrilling, but happier and lonelier. And that day when Jessie Blair was here listening I felt as if I wanted to laugh and sing—as if the violin wanted to laugh and sing all the time.”
The strange, golden gleam flashed through old Abel’s sunken eyes.
“God,” he muttered under his breath, “I believe the boy can get into other folk’s souls somehow, and play out what HIS soul sees there.”
“What’s that you say?” inquired Felix, petting his fiddle.
“Nothing—never mind—go on. Something lively now, young Felix. Stop probing into my soul, where you haven’t no business to be, you infant, and play me something out of your own—something sweet and happy and pure.”
“I’ll play the way I feel on sunshiny mornings, when the birds are singing and I forget I have to be a minister,” said Felix simply.
A witching, gurgling, mirthful strain, like mingled58 bird and brook59 song, floated out on the still air, along the path where the red and golden maple3 leaves were falling very softly, one by one. The Reverend Stephen Leonard heard it, as he came along the way, and the Reverend Stephen Leonard smiled. Now, when Stephen Leonard smiled, children ran to him, and grown people felt as if they looked from Pisgah over to some fair land of promise beyond the fret60 and worry of their care-dimmed earthly lives.
Mr. Leonard loved music, as he loved all things beautiful, whether in the material or the spiritual world, though he did not realize how much he loved them for their beauty alone, or he would have been shocked and remorseful61. He himself was beautiful. His figure was erect62 and youthful, despite seventy years. His face was as mobile and charming as a woman’s, yet with all a man’s tried strength and firmness in it, and his dark blue eyes flashed with the brilliance63 of one and twenty; even his silken silvery hair could not make an old man of him. He was worshipped by everyone who knew him, and he was, in so far as mortal man may be, worthy64 of that worship.
“Old Abel is amusing himself with his violin again,” he thought. “What a delicious thing he is playing! He has quite a gift for the violin. But how can he play such a thing as that,—a battered old hulk of a man who has, at one time or another, wallowed in almost every sin to which human nature can sink? He was on one of his sprees three days ago—the first one for over a year—lying dead-drunk in the market square in Charlottetown among the dogs; and now he is playing something that only a young archangel on the hills of heaven ought to be able to play. Well, it will make my task all the easier. Abel is always repentant66 by the time he is able to play on his fiddle.”
Mr. Leonard was on the door-stone. The little black dog had frisked down to meet him, and the gray cat rubbed her head against his leg. Old Abel did not notice him; he was beating time with uplifted hand and smiling face to Felix’s music, and his eyes were young again, glowing with laughter and sheer happiness.
“Felix! what does this mean?”
The violin bow clattered67 from Felix’s hand upon the floor; he swung around and faced his grandfather. As he met the passion of grief and hurt in the old man’s eyes, his own clouded with an agony of repentance68.
“Grandfather—I’m sorry,” he cried brokenly.
“Now, now!” Old Abel had risen deprecatingly. “It’s all my fault, Mr. Leonard. Don’t you blame the boy. I coaxed69 him to play a bit for me. I didn’t feel fit to touch the fiddle yet myself—too soon after Friday, you see. So I coaxed him on—wouldn’t give him no peace till he played. It’s all my fault.”
“No,” said Felix, throwing back his head. His face was as white as marble, yet it seemed ablaze70 with desperate truth and scorn of old Abel’s shielding lie. “No, grandfather, it isn’t Abel’s fault. I came over here on purpose to play, because I thought you had gone to the harbour. I have come here often, ever since I have lived with you.”
“Ever since you have lived with me you have been deceiving me like this, Felix?”
There was no anger in Mr. Leonard’s tone—only measureless sorrow. The boy’s sensitive lips quivered.
“Forgive me, grandfather,” he whispered beseechingly71.
“You never forbid him to come,” old Abel broke in angrily. “Be just, Mr. Leonard—be just.”
“I AM just. Felix knows that he has disobeyed me, in the spirit if not in the letter. Do you not know it, Felix?”
“Yes, grandfather, I have done wrong—I’ve known that I was doing wrong every time I came. Forgive me, grandfather.”
“Felix, I forgive you, but I ask you to promise me, here and now, that you will never again, as long as you live, touch a violin.” Dusky crimson rushed madly over the boy’s face. He gave a cry as if he had been lashed57 with a whip. Old Abel sprang to his feet.
“Don’t you ask such a promise of him, Mr. Leonard,” he cried furiously. “It’s a sin, that’s what it is. Man, man, what blinds you? You ARE blind. Can’t you see what is in the boy? His soul is full of music. It’ll torture him to death—or to worse—if you don’t let it have way.”
“There is a devil in such music,” said Mr. Leonard hotly.
“Ay, there may be, but don’t forget that there’s a Christ in it, too,” retorted old Abel in a low tense tone.
Mr. Leonard looked shocked; he considered that old Abel had uttered blasphemy72. He turned away from him rebukingly73.
“Felix, promise me.”
There was no relenting in his face or tone. He was merciless in the use of the power he possessed74 over that young, loving spirit. Felix understood that there was no escape; but his lips were very white as he said,
“I promise, grandfather.”
Mr. Leonard drew a long breath of relief. He knew that promise would be kept. So did old Abel. The latter crossed the floor and sullenly75 took the violin from Felix’s relaxed hand. Without a word or look he went into the little bedroom off the kitchen and shut the door with a slam of righteous indignation. But from its window he stealthily watched his visitors go away. Just as they entered on the maple path Mr. Leonard laid his hand on Felix’s head and looked down at him. Instantly the boy flung his arm up over the old man’s shoulder and smiled at him. In the look they exchanged there was boundless77 love and trust—ay, and good-fellowship. Old Abel’s scornful eyes again held the golden flash.
Mr. Leonard went to his study to pray when he got home. He knew that Felix had run for comforting to Janet Andrews, the little, thin, sweet-faced, rigid-lipped woman who kept house for them. Mr. Leonard knew that Janet would disapprove79 of his action as deeply as old Abel had done. She would say nothing, she would only look at him with reproachful eyes over the teacups at suppertime. But Mr. Leonard believed he had done what was best and his conscience did not trouble him, though his heart did.
Thirteen years before this, his daughter Margaret had almost broken that heart by marrying a man of whom he could not approve. Martin Moore was a professional violinist. He was a popular performer, though not in any sense a great one. He met the slim, golden-haired daughter of the manse at the house of a college friend she was visiting in Toronto, and fell straightway in love with her. Margaret had loved him with all her virginal heart in return, and married him, despite her father’s disapproval81. It was not to Martin Moore’s profession that Mr. Leonard objected, but to the man himself. He knew that the violinist’s past life had not been such as became a suitor for Margaret Leonard; and his insight into character warned him that Martin Moore could never make any woman lastingly82 happy.
Margaret Leonard did not believe this. She married Martin Moore and lived one year in paradise. Perhaps that atoned83 for the three bitter years which followed—that, and her child. At all events, she died as she had lived, loyal and uncomplaining. She died alone, for her husband was away on a concert tour, and her illness was so brief that her father had not time to reach her before the end. Her body was taken home to be buried beside her mother in the little Carmody churchyard. Mr. Leonard wished to take the child, but Martin Moore refused to give him up.
Six years later Moore, too, died, and at last Mr. Leonard had his heart’s desire—the possession of Margaret’s son. The grandfather awaited the child’s coming with mingled feelings. His heart yearned84 for him, yet he dreaded85 to meet a second edition of Martin Moore. Suppose Margaret’s son resembled his handsome vagabond of a father! Or, worse still, suppose he were cursed with his father’s lack of principle, his instability, his Bohemian instincts. Thus Mr. Leonard tortured himself wretchedly before the coming of Felix.
The child did not look like either father or mother. Instead, Mr. Leonard found himself looking into a face which he had put away under the grasses thirty years before—the face of his girl bride, who had died at Margaret’s birth. Here again were her lustrous87 gray-black eyes, her ivory outlines, her fine-traced arch of brow; and here, looking out of those eyes, seemed her very spirit again. From that moment the soul of the old man was knit to the soul of the child, and they loved each other with a love surpassing that of women.
Felix’s only inheritance from his father was his love of music. But the child had genius, where his father had possessed only talent. To Martin Moore’s outward mastery of the violin was added the mystery and intensity88 of his mother’s nature, with some more subtle quality still, which had perhaps come to him from the grandmother he so strongly resembled. Moore had understood what a career was naturally before the child, and he had trained him in the technique of his art from the time the slight fingers could first grasp the bow. When nine-year-old Felix came to the Carmody manse, he had mastered as much of the science of the violin as nine out of ten musicians acquire in a lifetime; and he brought with him his father’s violin; it was all Martin Moore had to leave his son—but it was an Amati, the commercial value of which nobody in Carmody suspected. Mr. Leonard had taken possession of it and Felix had never seen it since. He cried himself to sleep many a night for the loss of it. Mr. Leonard did not know this, and if Janet Andrews suspected it she held her tongue—an art in which she excelled. She “saw no harm in a fiddle,” herself, and thought Mr. Leonard absurdly strict in the matter, though it would not have been well for the luckless outsider who might have ventured to say as much to her. She had connived89 at Felix’s visits to old Abel Blair, squaring the matter with her Presbyterian conscience by some peculiar process known only to herself.
When Janet heard of the promise which Mr. Leonard had exacted from Felix she seethed90 with indignation; and, though she “knew her place” better than to say anything to Mr. Leonard about it, she made her disapproval so plainly manifest in her bearing that the stern, gentle old man found the atmosphere of his hitherto peaceful manse unpleasantly chill and hostile for a time.
It was the wish of his heart that Felix should be a minister, as he would have wished his own son to be, had one been born to him. Mr. Leonard thought rightly that the highest work to which any man could be called was a life of service to his fellows; but he made the mistake of supposing the field of service much narrower than it is—of failing to see that a man may minister to the needs of humanity in many different but equally effective ways.
Janet hoped that Mr. Leonard might not exact the fulfilment of Felix’s promise; but Felix himself, with the instinctive92 understanding of perfect love, knew that it was vain to hope for any change of viewpoint in his grandfather. He addressed himself to the keeping of his promise in letter and in spirit. He never went again to old Abel’s; he did not even play on the organ, though this was not forbidden, because any music wakened in him a passion of longing33 and ecstasy93 which demanded expression with an intensity not to be borne. He flung himself grimly into his studies and conned94 Latin and Greek verbs with a persistency95 which soon placed him at the head of all competitors.
Only once in the long winter did he come near to breaking his promise. One evening, when March was melting into April, and the pulses of spring were stirring under the lingering snow, he was walking home from school alone. As he descended96 into the little hollow below the manse a lively lilt of music drifted up to meet him. It was only the product of a mouth-organ, manipulated by a little black-eyed, French-Canadian hired boy, sitting on the fence by the brook; but there was music in the ragged97 urchin98 and it came out through his simple toy. It tingled99 over Felix from head to foot; and, when Leon held out the mouth-organ with a fraternal grin of invitation, he snatched at it as a famished100 creature might snatch at food.
Then, with it half-way to his lips, he paused. True, it was only the violin he had promised never to touch; but he felt that if he gave way ever so little to the desire that was in him, it would sweep everything before it. If he played on Leon Buote’s mouth-organ, there in that misty101 spring dale, he would go to old Abel’s that evening; he KNEW he would go. To Leon’s amazement102, Felix threw the mouth-organ back at him and ran up the hill as if he were pursued. There was something in his boyish face that frightened Leon; and it frightened Janet Andrews as Felix rushed past her in the hall of the manse.
“Child, what’s the matter with you?” she cried. “Are you sick? Have you been scared?”
“No, no. Leave me alone, Janet,” said Felix chokingly, dashing up the stairs to his own room.
He was quite composed when he came down to tea, an hour later, though he was unusually pale and had purple shadows under his large eyes.
Mr. Leonard scrutinized103 him somewhat anxiously; it suddenly occurred to the old minister that Felix was looking more delicate than his wont104 this spring. Well, he had studied hard all winter, and he was certainly growing very fast. When vacation came he must be sent away for a visit.
“They tell me Naomi Clark is real sick,” said Janet. “She has been ailing91 all winter, and now she’s fast to her bed. Mrs. Murphy says she believes the woman is dying, but nobody dares tell her so. She won’t give in she’s sick, nor take medicine. And there’s nobody to wait on her except that simple creature, Maggie Peterson.”
“I wonder if I ought to go and see her,” said Mr. Leonard uneasily.
“What use would it be to bother yourself? You know she wouldn’t see you—she’d shut the door in your face like she did before. She’s an awful wicked woman—but it’s kind of terrible to think of her lying there sick, with no responsible person to tend her.”
“Naomi Clark is a bad woman and she lived a life of shame, but I like her, for all that,” remarked Felix, in the grave, meditative47 tone in which he occasionally said rather startling things.
Mr. Leonard looked somewhat reproachfully at Janet Andrews, as if to ask her why Felix should have attained105 to this dubious106 knowledge of good and evil under her care; and Janet shot a dour107 look back which, being interpreted, meant that if Felix went to the district school she could not and would not be held responsible if he learned more there than arithmetic and Latin.
“What do you know of Naomi Clark to like or dislike?” she asked curiously108. “Did you ever see her?”
“Oh, yes,” Felix replied, addressing himself to his cherry preserve with considerable gusto. “I was down at Spruce Cove109 one night last summer when a big thunderstorm came up. I went to Naomi’s house for shelter. The door was open, so I walked right in, because nobody answered my knock. Naomi Clark was at the window, watching the cloud coming up over the sea. She just looked at me once, but didn’t say anything, and then went on watching the cloud. I didn’t like to sit down because she hadn’t asked me to, so I went to the window by her and watched it, too. It was a dreadful sight—the cloud was so black and the water so green, and there was such a strange light between the cloud and the water; yet there was something splendid in it, too. Part of the time I watched the storm, and the other part I watched Naomi’s face. It was dreadful to see, like the storm, and yet I liked to see it.
“After the thunder was over it rained a while longer, and Naomi sat down and talked to me. She asked me who I was, and when I told her she asked me to play something for her on her violin,”—Felix shot a deprecating glance at Mr. Leonard—“because, she said, she’d heard I was a great hand at it. She wanted something lively, and I tried just as hard as I could to play something like that. But I couldn’t. I played something that was terrible—it just played itself—it seemed as if something was lost that could never be found again. And before I got through, Naomi came at me, and tore the violin from me, and—SWORE. And she said, ‘You big-eyed brat110, how did you know THAT?’ Then she took me by the arm—and she hurt me, too, I can tell you—and she put me right out in the rain and slammed the door.”
“The rude, unmannerly creature!” said Janet indignantly.
“Oh, no, she was quite in the right,” said Felix composedly. “It served me right for what I played. You see, she didn’t know I couldn’t help playing it. I suppose she thought I did it on purpose.”
“What on earth did you play, child?”
“I don’t know.” Felix shivered. “It was awful—it was dreadful. It was fit to break your heart. But it HAD to be played, if I played anything at all.”
“I don’t understand what you mean—I declare I don’t,” said Janet in bewilderment.
“I think we’ll change the subject of conversation,” said Mr. Leonard.
It was a month later when “the simple creature, Maggie” appeared at the manse door one evening and asked for the preached.
“I shall go, certainly,” said Mr. Leonard gently. “Is she very ill?”
“Her’s dying,” said Maggie with a broad grin. “And her’s awful skeered of hell. Her just knew ter-day her was dying. Maggie told her—her wouldn’t believe the harbour women, but her believed Maggie. Her yelled awful.”
Maggie chuckled112 to herself over the gruesome remembrance. Mr. Leonard, his heart filled with pity, called Janet and told her to give the poor creature some refreshment113. But Maggie shook her head.
“No, no, preacher, Maggie must get right back to Naomi. Maggie’ll tell her the preacher’s coming ter save her from hell.”
“The Lord save us!” said Janet in an awed116 tone. “I knew the poor girl was simple, but I didn’t know she was like THAT. And are you going, sir?”
“Yes, of course. I pray God I may be able to help the poor soul,” said Mr. Leonard sincerely. He was a man who never shirked what he believed to be his duty; but duty had sometimes presented itself to him in pleasanter guise117 than this summons to Naomi Clark’s death-bed.
The woman had been the plague spot of Lower Carmody and Carmody Harbour for a generation. In the earlier days of his ministry118 to the congregation he had tried to reclaim119 her, and Naomi had mocked and flouted120 him to his face. Then, for the sake of those to whom she was a snare121 or a heart-break, he had endeavoured to set the law in motion against her, and Naomi had laughed the law to scorn. Finally, he had been compelled to let her alone.
Yet Naomi had not always been an outcast. Her girlhood had been innocent; but she was the possessor of a dangerous beauty, and her mother was dead. Her father was a man notorious for his harshness and violence of temper. When Naomi made the fatal mistake of trusting to a false love that betrayed and deserted122, he drove her from his door with taunts123 and curses.
Naomi took up her quarters in a little deserted house at Spruce Cove. Had her child lived it might have saved her. But it died at birth, and with its little life went her last chance of worldly redemption. From that time forth, her feet were set in the way that takes hold on hell.
For the past five years, however, Naomi had lived a tolerably respectable life. When Janet Peterson had died, her idiot daughter, Maggie, had been left with no kin9 in the world. Nobody knew what was to be done with her, for nobody wanted to be bothered with her. Naomi Clark went to the girl and offered her a home. People said she was no fit person to have charge of Maggie, but everybody shirked the unpleasant task of interfering124 in the matter, except Mr. Leonard, who went to expostulate with Naomi, and, as Janet said, for his pains got her door shut in his face.
But from the day when Maggie Peterson went to live with her, Naomi ceased to be the harbour Magdalen.
The sun had set when Mr. Leonard reached Spruce Cove, and the harbour was veiling itself in a wondrous125 twilight126 splendour. Afar out, the sea lay throbbing127 and purple, and the moan of the bar came through the sweet, chill spring air with its burden of hopeless, endless longing and seeking. The sky was blossoming into stars above the afterglow; out to the east the moon was rising, and the sea beneath it was a thing of radiance and silver and glamour128; and a little harbour boat that went sailing across it was transmuted into an elfin shallop from the coast of fairyland.
Mr. Leonard sighed as he turned from the sinless beauty of the sea and sky to the threshold of Naomi Clark’s house. It was very small—one room below, and a sleeping-loft above; but a bed had been made up for the sick woman by the down-stairs window looking out on the harbour; and Naomi lay on it, with a lamp burning at her head and another at her side, although it was not yet dark. A great dread86 of darkness had always been one of Naomi’s peculiarities129.
She was tossing restlessly on her poor couch, while Maggie crouched130 on a box at the foot. Mr. Leonard had not seen her for five years, and he was shocked at the change in her. She was much wasted; her clear-cut, aquiline131 features had been of the type which becomes indescribably witch-like in old age, and, though Naomi Clark was barely sixty, she looked as if she might be a hundred. Her hair streamed over the pillow in white, uncared-for tresses, and the hands that plucked at the bed-clothes were like wrinkled claws. Only her eyes were unchanged; they were as blue and brilliant as ever, but now filled with such agonized132 terror and appeal that Mr. Leonard’s gentle heart almost stood still with the horror of them. They were the eyes of a creature driven wild with torture, hounded by furies, clutched by unutterable fear.
Naomi sat up and dragged at his arm.
“Can you help me? Can you help me?” she gasped133 imploringly134. “Oh, I thought you’d never come! I was skeered I’d die before you got here—die and go to hell. I didn’t know before today that I was dying. None of those cowards would tell me. Can you help me?”
“If I cannot, God can,” said Mr. Leonard gently. He felt himself very helpless and inefficient135 before this awful terror and frenzy136. He had seen sad death-beds—troubled death-beds—ay, and despairing death-beds, but never anything like this. “God!” Naomi’s voice shrilled137 terribly as she uttered the name. “I can’t go to God for help. Oh, I’m skeered of hell, but I’m skeereder still of God. I’d rather go to hell a thousand times over than face God after the life I’ve lived. I tell you, I’m sorry for living wicked—I was always sorry for it all the time. There ain’t never been a moment I wasn’t sorry, though nobody would believe it. I was driven on by fiends of hell. Oh, you don’t understand—you CAN’T understand—but I was always sorry!”
“No, He can’t! Sins like mine can’t be forgiven. He can’t—and He won’t.”
“He can and He will. He is a God of love, Naomi.”
“No,” said Naomi with stubborn conviction. “He isn’t a God of love at all. That’s why I’m skeered of him. No, no. He’s a God of wrath139 and justice and punishment. Love! There ain’t no such thing as love! I’ve never found it on earth, and I don’t believe it’s to be found in God.”
“Naomi, God loves us like a father.”
“Like MY father?” Naomi’s shrill138 laughter, pealing140 through the still room, was hideous141 to hear.
“No—no! As a kind, tender, all-wise father, Naomi—as you would have loved your little child if it had lived.”
“Oh, I wish I could believe THAT. I wouldn’t be frightened if I could believe that. MAKE me believe it. Surely you can make me believe that there’s love and forgiveness in God if you believe it yourself.”
“Jesus Christ forgave and loved the Magdalen, Naomi.”
“Jesus Christ? Oh, I ain’t afraid of HIM. Yes, HE could understand and forgive. He was half human. I tell you, it’s God I’m skeered of.”
“They are one and the same,” said Mr. Leonard helplessly. He knew he could not make Naomi realize it. This anguished death-bed was no place for a theological exposition on the mysteries of the Trinity.
“Christ died for you, Naomi. He bore your sins in His own body on the cross.”
“We bear our own sins,” said Naomi fiercely. “I’ve borne mine all my life—and I’ll bear them for all eternity144. I can’t believe anything else. I CAN’T believe God can forgive me. I’ve ruined people body and soul—I’ve broken hearts and poisoned homes—I’m worse than a murderess. No—no—no, there’s no hope for me.” Her voice rose again into that shrill, intolerable shriek145. “I’ve got to go to hell. It ain’t so much the fire I’m skeered of as the outer darkness. I’ve always been so skeered of darkness—it’s so full of awful things and thoughts. Oh, there ain’t nobody to help me! Man ain’t no good and I’m too skeered of God.”
She wrung146 her hands. Mr. Leonard walked up and down the room in the keenest anguish26 of spirit he had ever known. What could he do? What could he say? There was healing and peace in his religion for this woman as for all others, but he could express it in no language which this tortured soul could understand. He looked at her writhing147 face; he looked at the idiot girl chuckling148 to herself at the foot of the bed; he looked through the open door to the remote, starlit night—and a horrible sense of utter helplessness overcame him. He could do nothing—nothing! In all his life he had never known such bitterness of soul as the realization brought home to him.
“What is the good of you if you can’t help me?” moaned the dying woman. “Pray—pray—pray!” she shrilled suddenly.
Mr. Leonard dropped on his knees by the bed. He did not know what to say. No prayer that he had ever prayed was of use here. The old, beautiful formulas, which had soothed149 and helped the passing of many a soul, were naught150 save idle, empty words to Naomi Clark. In his anguish of mind Stephen Leonard gasped out the briefest and sincerest prayer his lips had ever uttered.
“O, God, our Father! Help this woman. Speak to her in a tongue which she can understand.”
A beautiful, white face appeared for a moment in the light that streamed out of the doorway into the darkness of the night. No one noticed it, and it quickly drew back into the shadow. Suddenly, Naomi fell back on her pillow, her lips blue, her face horribly pinched, her eyes rolled up in her head. Maggie started up, pushed Mr. Leonard aside, and proceeded to administer some remedy with surprising skill and deftness151. Mr. Leonard, believing Naomi to be dying, went to the door, feeling sick and bruised152 in soul.
Presently a figure stole out into the light.
“Felix, is that you?” said Mr. Leonard in a startled tone.
“Yes, sir.” Felix came up to the stone step. “Janet got frightened that you might fall on that rough road after dark, so she made me come after you with a lantern. I’ve been waiting behind the point, but at last I thought I’d better come and see if you would be staying much longer. If you will be, I’ll go back to Janet and leave the lantern here with you.” “Yes, that will be the best thing to do. I may not be ready to go home for some time yet,” said Mr. Leonard, thinking that the death-bed of sin behind him was no sight for Felix’s young eyes.
“Is that your grandson you’re talking to?” Naomi spoke clearly and strongly. The spasm153 had passed. “If it is, bring him in. I want to see him.”
Reluctantly, Mr. Leonard signed Felix to enter. The boy stood by Naomi’s bed and looked down at her with sympathetic eyes. But at first she did not look at him—she looked past him at the minister.
“I might have died in that spell,” she said, with sullen76 reproach in her voice, “and if I had, I’d been in hell now. You can’t help me—I’m done with you. There ain’t any hope for me, and I know it now.”
She turned to Felix.
“Take down that fiddle on the wall and play something for me,” she said imperiously. “I’m dying—and I’m going to hell—and I don’t want to think of it. Play me something to take my thoughts off it—I don’t care what you play. I was always fond of music—there was always something in it for me I never found anywhere else.”
Felix looked at his grandfather. The old man nodded, he felt too ashamed to speak; he sat with his fine silver head in his hands, while Felix took down and tuned154 the old violin, on which so many godless lilts had been played in many a wild revel155. Mr. Leonard felt that he had failed his religion. He could not give Naomi the help that was in it for her.
Felix drew the bow softly, perplexedly over the strings. He had no idea what he should play. Then his eyes were caught and held by Naomi’s burning, mesmeric, blue gaze as she lay on her crumpled156 pillow. A strange, inspired look came over the boy’s face. He began to play as if it were not he who played, but some mightier157 power, of which he was but the passive instrument.
Sweet and soft and wonderful was the music that stole through the room. Mr. Leonard forgot his heartbreak and listened to it in puzzled amazement. He had never heard anything like it before. How could the child play like that? He looked at Naomi and marvelled158 at the change in her face. The fear and frenzy were going out of it; she listened breathlessly, never taking her eyes from Felix. At the foot of the bed the idiot girl sat with tears on her cheeks.
In that strange music was the joy of the innocent, mirthful childhood, blent with the laughter of waves and the call of glad winds. Then it held the wild, wayward dreams of youth, sweet and pure in all their wildness and waywardness. They were followed by a rapture28 of young love—all-surrendering, all-sacrificing love. The music changed. It held the torture of unshed tears, the anguish of a heart deceived and desolate159. Mr. Leonard almost put his hands over his ears to shut out its intolerable poignancy160. But on the dying woman’s face was only a strange relief, as if some dumb, long-hidden pain had at last won to the healing of utterance161.
The sullen indifference162 of despair came next, the bitterness of smouldering revolt and misery163, the reckless casting away of all good. There was something indescribably evil in the music now—so evil that Mr. Leonard’s white soul shuddered away in loathing164, and Maggie cowered and whined165 like a frightened animal.
Again the music changed. And in it now there was agony and fear—and repentance and a cry for pardon. To Mr. Leonard there was something strangely familiar in it. He struggled to recall where he had heard it before; then he suddenly knew—he had heard it before Felix came in Naomi’s terrible words! He looked at his grandson with something like awe115. Here was a power of which he knew nothing—a strange and dreadful power. Was it of God? Or of Satan?
For the last time the music changed. And now it was not music at all—it was a great, infinite forgiveness, an all-comprehending love. It was healing for a sick soul; it was light and hope and peace. A Bible text, seemingly incongruous, came into Mr. Leonard’s mind—“This is the house of God; this is the gate of heaven.”
Felix lowered the violin and dropped wearily on a chair by the bed. The inspired light faded from his face; once more he was only a tired boy. But Stephen Leonard was on his knees, sobbing166 like a child; and Naomi Clark was lying still, with her hands clasped over her breast.
“I understand now,” she said very softly. “I couldn’t see it before—and now it’s so plain. I just FEEL it. God IS a God of love. He can forgive anybody—even me—even me. He knows all about it. I ain’t skeered any more. He just loves me and forgives me as I’d have loved and forgiven my baby if she’d lived, no matter how bad she was, or what she did. The minister told me that but I couldn’t believe it. I KNOW it now. And He sent you here to-night, boy, to tell it to me in a way that I could feel it.”
Naomi Clark died just as the dawn came up over the sea. Mr. Leonard rose from his watch at her bedside and went to the door. Before him spread the harbour, gray and austere167 in the faint light, but afar out the sun was rending168 asunder169 the milk-white mists in which the sea was scarfed, and under it was a virgin80 glow of sparkling water.
The fir trees on the point moved softly and whispered together. The whole world sang of spring and resurrection and life; and behind him Naomi Clark’s dead face took on the peace that passes understanding.
The old minister and his grandson walked home together in a silence that neither wished to break. Janet Andrews gave them a good scolding and an excellent breakfast. Then she ordered them both to bed; but Mr. Leonard, smiling at her, said:
“Presently, Janet, presently. But now, take this key, go up to the black chest in the garret, and bring me what you will find there.”
When Janet had gone, he turned to Felix.
“Felix, would you like to study music as your life-work?”
“Oh, grandfather! Oh, grandfather!”
“You may do so, my child. After this night I dare not hinder you. Go with my blessing170, and may God guide and keep you, and make you strong to do His work and tell His message to humanity in your own appointed way. It is not the way I desired for you—but I see that I was mistaken. Old Abel spoke truly when he said there was a Christ in your violin as well as a devil. I understand what he meant now.”
He turned to meet Janet, who came into the study with a violin. Felix’s heart throbbed171; he recognized it. Mr. Leonard took it from Janet and held it out to the boy.
“This is your father’s violin, Felix. See to it that you never make your music the servant of the power of evil—never debase it to unworthy ends. For your responsibility is as your gift, and God will exact the accounting172 of it from you. Speak to the world in your own tongue through it, with truth and sincerity173; and all I have hoped for you will be abundantly fulfilled.”
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1
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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3
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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7
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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8
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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9
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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10
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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11
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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12
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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13
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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14
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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15
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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16
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
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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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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19
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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20
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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21
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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22
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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23
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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25
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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27
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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29
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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30
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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31
grovelled
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| v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的过去式和过去分词 )；趴 | |
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32
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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33
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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34
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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36
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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37
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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38
dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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39
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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41
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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42
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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43
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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44
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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45
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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46
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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47
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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48
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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49
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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50
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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52
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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53
rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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54
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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55
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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56
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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57
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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58
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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59
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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60
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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61
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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62
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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63
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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64
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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65
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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66
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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67
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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68
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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69
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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70
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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71
beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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72
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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73
rebukingly
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74
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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75
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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76
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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77
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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78
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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79
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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80
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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81
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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82
lastingly
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| [医]有残留性，持久地，耐久地 | |
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83
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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84
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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86
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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87
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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88
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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89
connived
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| v.密谋 ( connive的过去式和过去分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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90
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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91
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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92
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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93
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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94
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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96
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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97
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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98
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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99
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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101
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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102
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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103
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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105
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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106
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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107
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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108
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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109
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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110
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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111
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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112
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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114
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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115
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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116
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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117
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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118
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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119
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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120
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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122
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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123
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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124
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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125
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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126
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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127
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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128
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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129
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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130
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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132
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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133
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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134
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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135
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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136
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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137
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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139
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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140
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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141
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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142
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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143
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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144
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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145
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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146
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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147
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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148
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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149
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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150
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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151
deftness
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152
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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153
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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154
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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155
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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156
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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157
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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158
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
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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160
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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161
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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162
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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163
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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164
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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165
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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166
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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167
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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168
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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169
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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170
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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171
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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172
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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173
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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