This evening, too, I had a little business with Father Letheby. As I entered his parlor11, I carried a tiny slip of printed paper in my hand.
"You'd hardly guess what it is?" I said, holding it from the light.
"A check for a hundred pounds, or my removal!" he exclaimed.
"Neither. Read it!"
I am quite sure it was infinitely12 more gratifying than the check, to say nothing of the removal; and I am quite sure the kindly13 editor, who had sent me that proof of Father Letheby's first poem, would have been amply repaid for his charity if he had seen the shades and flushes of delight and half-alarm that swept like clouds across the face of the young priest. And it was not all charity, either. The good editor spoke14 truly when he declared that the poem was quite original and out of the beaten track, and would probably attract some attention. I think, next to the day of his ordination15, this was the supreme16 day in Father Letheby's life hitherto.
"It was very kind," he said, "very kind indeed. And how am I to thank you, Father Dan?"
"By keeping steadily17 at the work I pointed18 out for you," I replied. "Now, let me see what you have done."
"Do you mean about the books?" he asked.
"Yes," I said determinedly19, "and about the horarium I marked out and arranged for you. Have you conscientiously21 studied during the two hours each evening, and written from 11 a.m. to noon every day, as I appointed?"
"To be candid," he said at once, "I have not. First came the lack of books. Except Butler's 'Lives of the Saints,' I cannot come across a single indication of what Basil and the Gregories did or wrote; and my edition of Butler is expurgated of all the valuable literary notes which, I understand, were in the first editions. Then the moment I take the pen into my hand, in comes Mrs. Luby to know wouldn't I write to the colonel of the Connaught Rangers22 to get her little boy discharged and sent home. He enlisted23 in a fit of drink. Then comes Mrs. Moriarty with the modest request to write to the pastor24 of Santa Barbara about her little girl who emigrated to America sixteen years ago. Then comes—"
"Never mind," I said, "I have been there. But I won't accept these excuses at all. You must work, whether you like or no. Now, I am going to take away all excuses. I have been searching a lot of old catalogues, and I have discovered that these are the books for you. On the subject of 'Modern Pantheism' we will get:—
"(1) Lewes' 'History of Philosophy,' 4 vols.
"(2) Brucker's 'Historia Critica Philosophiæ,' 6 vols.
"(3) Tenneman's 'History of Philosophy' (Cousin).
"(4) Émile Saisset's 'Modern Pantheism,' 2 vols.
"(5) 'History of Pantheism' (Plumtre).
"(6) 'An Essay on Pantheism,' by J. Hunt, D.D.
"(7) 'Spinoza,' by Principal Caird, LL. D.
"(8) 'Spinoza,' by D. J. Martineau.
"(10) 'Spinoza,' by Nourrisson.
"Now, on the subject of Ecclesiastical History we will get, read, and consult:—
"(1) 'Historia Literaria Ecclesiæ,' by Cave.
"(2) Farrar's 'Lives of the Fathers,' 2 vols.
"(3) Cave's 'Lives of the Fathers,' 3 vols.
"(4) 'Lives of the Fathers,' by the S. P. C. K.
"(6) 'Lives of the Fathers,' by the author of 'A Dominican Artist,' 3 vols.
"(7) Neander's 'Church History,' 8 vols.
"(8) Neale's 'Oriental Church.'"
Here Father Letheby stopped me, as he broke from a suppressed chuckle27 into uncontrollable laughter.
"Why, Father Dan, what in the world are you reading? Don't you know that you are calling out a list of the most rampant28 heretics and disbelievers, every one of whom is probably on the Index? Is it possible that you cannot discover any English Catholic authorities on these subjects?"
"I have not seen them," I said mournfully. "And do you mean to say that all these Protestants, and many of them, you say, infidels, have not been interested in these subjects?"
"Well, I presume they would not have gone to the vast trouble of accumulating material, and writing ponderous29 volumes otherwise."
"And what are we doing? And if ever these grave subjects become of importance or interest to our youth, say in the higher systems of education, what books can we put into their hands?"
We were both in a brown study. These things make men thoughtful. At last Father Letheby said:—
"How do they manage in the German and French universities, I wonder?"
"Depend upon it," I replied, "there is no lack of Catholic authors on every subject there. And I'm told the Italian priests take an extraordinary interest in these higher studies. And in France every French priest thinks he is bound to write at least one book."
"I never understood the importance of this matter till I met Ormsby," said Father Letheby. "He opened my eyes. By the way, Father Dan, I must congratulate you on the impression you have made there. Some things you said have made a vivid impression on him. He keeps on saying: 'A sixth sense! A sixth sense. Perhaps he is right, after all.' And that dependence30 on the prayers of little children and the afflicted31 touched him deeply. Do you know, I think he'll come 'round."
"God grant it," I said, rising. "But I suppose this little project of ours is knocked on the head."
"You mean the books?"
"Yes."
"I fear so. The fact is, Father Dan, I find I have no time. Between my two hours with the choir32 on Tuesdays and Fridays, the Saturday and Sunday evenings in the church, the occasional evening out, and my correspondence, I don't know where to get time to fit in everything. And now that you have been so good as to secure the sympathy of the editor of the——for me, I think I may do something for him at intervals33."
"I have regretted a few things during my life, young man," I said; "but I never regretted anything so much as to have sent on that poem of yours instead of sending it up the chimney."
"My dear Father Dan," said he, "what are you saying? Don't you know that the Pope himself writes poetry, and writes it well?"
"May God forgive him!" I said fervently34. Then I got sorry, as this was not reverent35, and a bright thought struck me.
"What kind of poetry does His Holiness write?"
"Why, the most beautiful Latin elegiacs and hexameters."
"I thought so," I said triumphantly36. "I knew that the Holy Father would write nothing but in the style of the divine Mantuan. If you do anything that way, my boy, I'll forgive you. Keep to your classics, keep to your classics, and you're all right."
It was delightful37 to find us, the last remnant of the great generation of the classical priests of Ireland, backed up by the first authority in the world.
It was twilight38 when I left, and I made my usual detour39 around our hamlet. Outside the village and just beyond the school-house, in a little cottage whose diamond windows are almost hidden under green creepers, lived Alice Moylan, the head monitress in our little school. I rather liked Alice, for when she was a little child of seven years, she gave me an idea of something for which I had been long seeking. It was a few years back, when I had not laid up my pen finally, but still retained the belief, with a certain author, that "there is no greater mental excitement, and scarcely a sweeter one, than when a young man strides up and down his room, and boldly resolves to take a quire of writing paper and turn it into a manuscript." And in these latter days of life I still sought for a vision of our Lady, which I could keep before my imagination when writing certain things in her honor. Now (perhaps I have already said it), I had a peculiar40 devotion to the Child-Virgin41 of the Temple and of the House of Nazareth, where in the noontide the Archangel entered and spoke his solemn words. And I never said the Magnificat but on my knees and with a full heart, as I thought on the Child-Prophetess of Hebron and the wondering aged42 saints. But I sought her face everywhere in vain—in pictures, in the faces of my little children; but not one came up to my ideal of what the little maiden43 of the Temple and Nazareth was like. At last, one day, little Alice came, and in her sweet oval face, and calm, entreating44 eyes and raven45 hair, subdued46 beneath such a dainty frilled headdress, I saw our Blessed Lady and wondered and was glad. And in those days of her simple childhood, before the awful dawn of self-consciousness, I used dream and dream, and put into form my dreams; and the face that haunted all my sacred and poetic47 conceptions of our dear Queen was the face of little Alice. But the child grew, and waxed in strength, but waned48 in beauty,—at least the beauty I regarded when the white soul looked out of the beautiful childish face. But Alice grew to be the village beauty, and she knew it. Every one told her of it; but her chief admirer was the little milliner, who lived down near the post-office, and whose simple life was a mixture of very plain, prosaic49 poverty, and very high and lofty romance. From this Miss Levis, who was a confirmed novel-reader, Alice learned that "she had the face and form of an angel"; that "her eyes had a velvety50 softness that drew you like an enchanted51 lake"; that these same eyes were "starry52 in their lustrous53 beauty"; that she had "the complexion54 of a creole, or rather the healthy pallor of the high-born aristocracy of England"; that "her figure was willowy and swayed like a reed in the wind"; and all the other curious jargon55 of the novelette—the deadly enemy of simplicity56 and innocence57. Then Alice grew proud and vain, and her vanity culminated58 on the night of our concert in November, when she drew up for the first time her luxuriant black hair and tied it in a knot and bound it in a fillet, which was said to be the mode à la Grecque. But she was a very pure, innocent girl withal, and exceedingly clever in her work at school.
I had missed her recently, but had been occupied with other thoughts until the time came for the quarterly salaries of the teachers; and I noticed in the returns from the principal teacher that Alice had been absent the greater part of the time. This evening, after leaving Father Letheby, I determined20 to call, unprepared to witness the little tragedy that was before me—one of those little side-scenes in the great drama of existence, which God turns suddenly to the front lest we should ever mistake the fact that our little world is a stage, and that we have all the denizens59 of the veiled eternities for our audience. Mrs. Moylan was one of those beautiful Irish mothers, who, having passed through the stress and storm of life, was moving calmly into the great sea of Death and Eternity60. She had one of those Irish faces that were so typical of our race some years ago, and the intense resignation and patience of which rivalled the sweet innocence of our little Irish children for the admiration61 of such a keen and sympathetic observer as Dr. Newman. There were a few wrinkles in the pallid62 cheeks, and one or two lines across the white forehead, crowned with the clean white cap which our Irish mothers wear. She looked, I thought, a little reproachfully at me as I entered, but only welcomed me with that courteous63 reverence64 which makes us priests so often humbled65 and ashamed. After a few words I inquired for Alice.
"My poor child hasn't been well, your reverence. We were jealous that you never asked for her."
"You can see yourself, your reverence," the poor mother said, silently wiping away a tear. "But," she whispered, "don't pretend to see anything. She feels it very much."
I passed into the little chamber67 and was making my apologies to the poor child, when, in spite of her mother's warning, I started back, shocked and horror-stricken.
"Good God," I could not help crying out, "what has happened to you, my poor child?"
She smiled faintly, and then a tear rolled down the leprous cheek. Ay! indeed! my poor little Madonna, my little child, whose beauty was such a dream of Paradise, was changed. The large, lustrous eyes were untouched; but the fair cheek was one hideous68, leprous sore. The black, glossy69 hair was now a few dirty wisps. The child, whose face and figure every one turned around to look at a second time, was now a revolting mummy, seamed and scarred by some terrible disease. I had presence of mind enough to take up the thin, white hand; she picked the coverlet and said nothing. Her heart was too full of her misery70 to utter a word. I could only say:—
"My poor child! my poor child!"
I turned to the mother.
"This is too dreadful! What has happened?"
"Dreadful enough, your reverence," she cried; "but welcome be the will of God!"
"But what has happened?" I cried.
Then I thought it would be a relief to the poor child's feelings to tell me her own sad tale, so I said:—
"Never mind! Alice will tell me all herself. Now, my child, tell me all."
She did, with all the humility72 and such gentle submission73 to God's decree that I wept freely. It would appear that on the afternoon of that November concert, Alice, like so many other girls, was very much engrossed74 in her preparations for the evening. She had studied the "Young Lady's Journal" and several other works of interest and usefulness, and all day long was highly excited over her appearance. Once, when she was particularly engaged at the looking-glass, she heard some one fumbling75 at the half-door, as if anxious to come into the kitchen. Angry at being disturbed, she burst from her room, and saw in the framework of the door an awful sight. It was a poor woman, whose face was completely eaten away by a dread71 disease called nasal polypus. The nose was completely gone and the upper lip. The eyes stared out as if from a death's-head. The poor creature begged for alms; but Alice, flushed at the thought of her own beauty, and in a rage from being called away from her glass, clapped her hands and shouted:—
"Well, you are a beauty."
"Not so handsome as you, alanna," said the afflicted one. "There was wance when, perhaps, I was. But your time may come. Mockin' is catchin'. Mockin' is catchin'."
And with these words the woman strode away.
"I could not get the thought of my sin out of my head all that day," continued Alice; "her face was always coming before me, until at last I gave up looking at the glass. But when the night came and we were all in the concert-room, my vanity came back again, for I heard people whisper as I was passing, and my foolish head was turned. Then, when it was all over, and the girls broke into groups, and the people were all around, I tried to attract more attention. And I had been reading of a trick in the novels for making one's self more interesting by standing76 on tiptoe and opening the eyes widely; and, God help me! I was practising this foolishness, thinking that some of the young men were admiring me for it, when suddenly Father Letheby saw me, and he gave me a look that struck me like a flash of lightning. I felt dazed and blinded, and asked one of the girls to take me from the room and lead me home. But all that night I never slept, the woman's face and the awful look that Father Letheby gave me were staring at me out of the curtains and out of the dark, until late in the morning I fell into a sleep, only to dream the same dreadful things."
"Well, then, Father, I got up sick and sorrowful, and before my breakfast I went over there to the Blessed Virgin's altar and said a Rosary, and begged and prayed her not to punish me for what I had done. Sure, I said, 't was only a girl's foolishness and I was young; and I promised then and there to give up novel-reading and to be good, and to let my hair fall down, and to drop all my foolish notions; but 't was no use. I saw something in the face of the Blessed Virgin that frightened me, and I knew I was in for something. I didn't think my punishment would be so dreadful."
Here the poor child sobbed again, and picked the coverlet mournfully as she tried to choke down her emotion. I looked over at that statue of the Blessed Virgin and shook my head reproachfully.
"Oh! Father, why does God punish us so terribly for such small sins?" the poor girl went on. "And what must purgatory79 be, and what must hell be when He punishes us so dreadfully here! I thought 't was all over and my fear was vanishing, when one Sunday morning, dressing80 for Mass, I noticed a tiny pimple81 here on my cheek. It wasn't as big as the head of a pin; but it gave me great trouble. Not that I suspected anything; but when our poor heads are turned with vanity, you don't know, Father, what a worry these little blemishes82 are. I just touched it with my finger and it bled. That night 't was an angry spot. I used everything I could think of—lard, and butter, and ointment83. No use. Every day it grew and grew and grew into an ugly sore. Then I wrote, as Miss Levis advised me, to a London doctor, recommended in the journals; he sent me a prescription—"
"For nothing?" I interjected.
"No, indeed, Father. Before I was done with him it cost me a pound. But I applied84 his cosmetics85 and became daily worse. Then my mother spoke of making rounds. But I wouldn't leave her. I went to the school every day, but I saw the girls watching me. I heard them whisper to each other, and sometimes I caught their words. They weren't kind. Then I stopped away. One day, while I was sitting at the door knitting, suddenly the sun was darkened, and there was the dreadful face of that woman over me.
"'I'm asking charity for God's sake,' she said.
"I got up humbly86 and gave her bread and twopence. She looked at me keenly and said: 'God save you, alanna, and purtect you from misfortune. Sure, 't was only a hasty word you said. God save you and purtect you, alanna!'
"Then the frightful87 anger of God coming down upon me suddenly flashed upon me, and I flung aside my knitting and rushed into this room, and cried and screamed, and bit the counterpane until I tore it in threads, and shrieked:—
"'Don't! don't, O Lord; Oh, don't! don't!'
"And then I turned to the Blessed Virgin and said the little prayer 'Remember' that you taught us, Father; 'Remember;' and then I said:—
"'You won't let Him, Mother! you won't let Him! Didn't you say you wouldn't let Him?'
"But the face stared down at me pitilessly, pitilessly. There was no hope."
The poor child stopped again, and to relieve her from the pain of memory I said:—
"But wasn't the doctor called in all this time? The doctor is very clever, you know."
"Oh, he was, Father! And he was very kind. But he was very angry; and I think, Father, he cursed when I told him about these London cosmetics. And one day he asked mother a lot of queer questions about father and grandfather; and then he said something about 'strumous' and 'hereditary88;' and he has done me no good."
"Did Father Letheby call?" I asked.
"Oh, dear, yes, that was my only consolation89. He calls twice a week, sometimes three times; and he brought Miss Campion, and she comes every day and reads for hours with me; and look at those violets and lilies of the valley—'t was she brought them; and sometimes a strange gentleman comes with her, and he sits down and talks and puts queer questions to me—all about God, and what I do be doing, and what I do be thinking. But since Father Letheby told me that there is something behind it all that I don't understand, and that some day I will understand it, and see it is all God's love and not His anger, I am quite resigned, Father, and I do be saying all day: 'Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done.' But I break down when I think of all I've gone through."
"Let me see," I said, as a light began to dawn upon me; "you are now perfectly90 resigned, my poor child, are you not?"
"Oh! yes, Father; and really happy. Only for mother, who frets91 about me so much, I wouldn't care to be well again. Sure, as Father Letheby says, I don't know but that something dreadful was in store for me; and that God, in His mercy, has just saved me."
"Quite right! quite right! my child. And tell me now,—this strange gentleman,—has he ever asked you to pray for him?"
"He did, Father. And I didn't like it at first; but Father Letheby said I should. And I have been saying a Rosary for him every day since. And the last day he was here he asked me: 'Now, Alice, tell me the plain truth. Are you glad this has happened you?' I hesitated for a moment, then I looked at the Wounds of our Lord, and I said firmly: 'I am.' And he said: 'Do you believe God will give you back your beauty, and make it a hundred times greater in heaven for all you have suffered here?' And I said confidently: 'I do.' 'Alice, my child, will you pray and pray strongly for me?' I said: 'I will, sir.' And he went away looking happy. But, you know, Father, these are my good times, when I feel resigned and think God is using me for His own wise purposes; welcome be His Holy Will! But I am sometimes bad, and I get unhappy and miserable92, and I ask myself: 'Why did God do it? Why did God do it?' And once I said to our Blessed Lady, when she looked so cold and stern,—I said—"
"What did you say, dear?"
"I said: 'If Daddy Dan was here, he wouldn't let you do it.'"
And the poor child smiled at her own childishness and simplicity.
"But that's not all, Father. I have told no one but mother and you; but I'm all one running sore down to my feet, and the doctor said something about an operation the other day. Sure, you won't allow that, Daddy Dan, will you?"
She was rolling one of the buttons in my sleeve round and round in her thin fingers, and looking wistfully at me.
"No, my child, no operation! You have gone through too much for that. But now cheer up, Alice, it will all come right. Some of these days you will see how our dear Lord and His Holy Mother love you. Why, don't you know, you little goose, that these are signs of your predestination? Don't you remember all that you have learned about the saints, and how they prayed to be afflicted?"
"I do, Daddy Dan."
"And don't you remember all about those holy women that were marked with the wounds of our Divine Lord?"
"I do, Daddy Dan."
"Very well! Now you're one of them. The Lord has made you His own. Now, good by. I'll come to see you every day in future. But pray! pray! pray! won't you?"
"I will, Daddy Dan! Will you come to-morrow?"
This was all very well; but I was as cross as a bear with a sore head, notwithstanding.
"Wisha, then, Mrs. Moylan," I said, as I was leaving the house, "aren't you the mighty93 proud woman entirely94, never to call in your parish priest, nor send him word about your poor child! What are we coming to, I wonder, when poor people are getting so much above themselves?"
"Well, then, I didn't like to be troubling your reverence. And sure, I thought you knew all about it, and that Father Letheby told you."
"He didn't, then. You and he have kept it a great secret,—a great secret entirely. Never mind. But tell me, is the poor child really resigned?"
"Well, indeed she is, your reverence, excep' now and then, when the whole thing comes back to her. In fact, she's less trouble than when she was well. Then nothing could please her. She was always grumblin' about her clothes, an' her food; and she was short and peevish95. Now she is pleased with everythin'. 'T is 'whatever you like, mother;' or ''t is too good for me, mother;' or 'thank you kindly, mother,' until sometimes I do be wishing that she had some of the old sperrit, and take me short in her answers. But, sure, 't is all God's Blessed and Holy Will. Glory be to His Holy Name!"
I went back through the village again and called upon Father Letheby. He was just sitting down to dinner.
"I don't want to take away your appetite," I said, refusing the chair which he proffered96; "but I am for the first time genuinely angry with you. I suppose you had your reasons for it; but you ought to know that a parish priest has, by every law, natural and canonical97, the right to know about his sick or distressed98 poor people, and that a curate has no right to be keeping these things a secret from him. Reticence99 and secretiveness are excellent things in their way; but this too may be overdone100. I have just been down to Mrs. Moylan's to learn for the first time that her child has been sick for nearly two months. You knew it and you never told me. Now, I'll insist for the future that a sick-call book shall be kept in the sacristy, and that the name of every patient, in the parish shall be entered there. Good evening."
He flushed up, but said nothing.
"Now," I said, "you've carried this entirely too far. Is this the return I've got for all I've done for you for the past fifty years? Think of all the Rosaries I said for you, all the Masses I offered for you, all the May devotions I established for you, all the Brown Scapulars I gave for you—all—all—and this is your return; and she your own child, that I thought was so like you. 'Pon my word, I think I'll blow out that lamp and never light it again."
The mild, brown eyes looked down on me calmly, and then that queer thing called Conscience, that jumps up like a jack-in-the-box when you least expect it, started at me and began:—
"What folly102 is this, Father Dan? Do you think you know more than God and His Blessed Mother? Do you? Your head is so turned with heathen vanity that you think you ought to get the reins103 of the universe into your hands. Here's your classics, and your Spinoza, and your Cappadocians, and your book-writing, and all your castles in the air, and your little children lying on their sick-beds and you knowing nothing about it. Look sharp, old man, your time is at hand, and think what the Judge may do with you when His hand presses so tightly on His little children."
I sat down to my dinner, but couldn't touch a bit. It was a nice little dinner, too,—a little roast chicken and a scrap104 of bacon and some nice floury potatoes. No use. The thought of that child would come before me, and her piteous cry: "Oh, don't, dear Lord, don't!" and, "Sure you won't let Him, Mother; you said you wouldn't;" and with a great big lump in my throat I pushed aside the plate and went over to the darkening window.
After a time Hannah came in, looked at the dishes, and looked at me.
"Was there anything wrong with the chicken?" she said, thinking I was reflecting on her cookery.
"No, Hannah, 't was all right; but I'm not in a humor for eating."
She was surprised. So was I. It was the first time for many years that I bolted. Thank God, a good appetite and His Divine Grace have never deserted105 me.
"I'm thinkin' you're in for somethin'," she said. "And no wondher! I niver knew a man to timpt Providence106 like you. Will you have the hot wather, as you ate nothin'?"
"Don't mind, Hannah. I'll have a cup of tea by and by."
I sat down to the fire, looking into all its glowing crevices107 and crannies, thinking, thinking of many things. By and by, in came Father Letheby. He was subdued and deferential108, but evidently very much hurt at my unaccustomed rudeness. He stood with his back to the fire, looking down on me, and he said, in his best Sunday accent, smoothed and ironed:—
"I confess, sir, I am still quite at a loss to understand your rather—well—forcible remarks this evening. I can see, certainly, a great deal of reason in your irritation109; and I am not at all disposed to contravene110 the principle that you have an indefeasible right to be acquainted with the sorrows and trials of your parishioners; but pardon me for saying it, I was only carrying out, perhaps too logically, your own reiterated111 teaching."
"Look here," said I, "have you had your dinner?"
"Yes, sir," said he.
"Well, then, sit down, and have your coffee here. Touch that bell."
"You were saying something," said I, "about my teaching. When did I ever teach you to keep the most vital interests of these poor people a secret from me?"
"Well," said he, balancing the sugar in his spoon over the cup, "if there was one lesson more than another that was continually dinned113 into my ears, it was: 'When a young man comes into a strange parish, he must be all eyes and ears, but no tongue,' and I think you quoted some grave authorities for that aphorism114."
"Quite so," I replied. "I think it is a most wholesome115 advice. For there never yet was a young man that was not disposed to think that he could run a parish better than all the pastors116 that lived for generations there. But did you understand me to say that we were never to talk over and discuss parochial affairs?"
"Well, I confess," said he, "I did not. But you see, sir, your thoughts were running in quite another channel. You were interested in the classics and in literary matters."
"My conscience, my dear boy, has already made me aware of that, and in somewhat more forcible and less polite language than you have used. Now, I admit that I have been a surly old curmudgeon117 this afternoon, and I am sorry for it; but hereafter, don't leave me in the dark any longer about my parishioners. It seems to me that, if we dropped our occasional uncharitableness about each other and our more occasional criticisms on our superiors, and addressed ourselves to the work God gives us to do in that limited circle He has drawn118 about us, it would be all the better."
"Well, sir, I quite agree with you. But I must say that for the few months I have been here, I do not remember to have heard much uncharitableness about our brethren from you."
There now! How can you be angry with a fellow like that? The black cloud turned softly into gray, and the gray turned slowly round, and showed only the silver lining119.
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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11
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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13
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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14
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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15
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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16
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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17
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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18
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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19
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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21
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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22
rangers
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| 护林者( ranger的名词复数 )； 突击队员 | |
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23
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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24
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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25
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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26
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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27
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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28
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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29
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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30
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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31
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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33
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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34
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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35
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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36
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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37
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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38
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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39
detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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40
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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41
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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42
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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43
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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44
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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45
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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46
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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49
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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50
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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51
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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53
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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54
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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55
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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56
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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57
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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58
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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60
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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61
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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62
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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63
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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64
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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65
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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66
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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67
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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68
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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69
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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70
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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71
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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72
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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73
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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74
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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75
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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76
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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77
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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78
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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79
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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80
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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81
pimple
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| n.丘疹，面泡，青春豆 | |
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82
blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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83
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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84
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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85
cosmetics
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| n.化妆品 | |
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86
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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87
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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88
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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89
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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90
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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91
frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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92
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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93
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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94
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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95
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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96
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
canonical
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| n.权威的；典型的 | |
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98
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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99
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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100
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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101
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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102
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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103
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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104
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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105
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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106
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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107
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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108
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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109
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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110
contravene
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| v.违反，违背，反驳，反对 | |
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111
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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113
dinned
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| vt.喧闹（din的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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114
aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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115
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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116
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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117
curmudgeon
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| n. 脾气暴躁之人，守财奴，吝啬鬼 | |
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118
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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119
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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