Great was the consternation1 caused by the arrest of a gentleman so high in social rank and scholastic2 and theological reputation as the Rev3. Thurston Willcoxen, and upon a charge, too, so awful as that for which he stood committed! It was the one all-absorbing subject of thought and conversation. People neglected their business, forgetting to work, to bargain, buy or sell. Village shopkeepers, instead of vamping their wares4, leaned eagerly over their counters, and with great dilated5 eyes and dogmatical forefingers6, discussed with customers the merits or demerits of the great case. Village mechanics, occupied solely7 with the subject of the pastor8's guilt9 or innocence10, disappointed with impunity12 customers who were themselves too deeply interested and too highly excited by the same subject, to remember, far less to rebuke13 them, for unfulfilled engagements. Even women totally neglected, or badly fulfilled, their domestic avocations15; for who in the parish could sit down quietly to the construction of a garment or a pudding while their beloved pastor, the "all praised" Thurston Willcoxen, lay in prison awaiting his trial for a capital crime?
As usual in such cases, there was very little cool reasoning, and very much passionate16 declamation17. The first astonishment18 had given place to conjecture19, which yielded in turn to dogmatic judgments—acquiescing or condemning20, as the self-constituted judges happened to be favorable or adverse21 to the cause of the minister.
When the first Sabbath after the arrest came, and the church was closed because the pulpit was unoccupied, the dispersed22 congregation, haunted by the vision of the absent pastor in his cell, discussed the matter anew, and differed and disputed, and fell out worse than ever. Parties formed for and against the minister, and party feuds23 raged high.
Upon the second Sabbath—being the day before the county court should sit—a substitute filled the pulpit of Mr. Willcoxen, and his congregation reassembled to hear an edifying24 discourse25 from the text: "I myself have seen the ungodly in great power, and flourishing like a green bay-tree. I went by, and lo! he was gone; I sought him, but his place was nowhere to be found."
This sermon bore rather hard (by pointed11 allusions) upon the great elevation26 and sudden downfall of the celebrated27 minister, and, in consequence, delighted one portion of the audience and enraged28 the other. The last-mentioned charged the new preacher with envy, hatred29 and malice30, and all uncharitableness, besides the wish to rise on the ruin of his unfortunate predecessor31, and they went home in high indignation, resolved not to set foot within the parish church again until the honorable acquittal of their own beloved pastor should put all his enemies, persecutors and slanderers to shame.
The excitement spread and gained force and fire with space. The press took it up, and went to war as the people had done. And as far as the name of Thurston Willcoxen had been wafted32 by the breath of fame, it was now blown by the "Blatant33 Beast." Ay, and farther, too! for those who had never even heard of his great talents, his learning, his eloquence34, his zeal35 and his charity, were made familiar with his imputed36 crime and shuddered37 while they denounced. And this was natural and well, so far as it went to prove that great excellence38 is so much less rare than great evil, as to excite less attention. The news of this signal event spread like wildfire all over the country, from Maine to Louisiana, and from Missouri to Florida, producing everywhere great excitement, but falling in three places with the crushing force of a thunderbolt.
First by Marian's fireside.
In a private parlor39 of a quiet hotel, in one of the Eastern cities, sat the lady, now nearly thirty years of age, yet still in the bloom of her womanly beauty.
She had lately arrived from Europe, charged with one of those benevolent40 missions which it was the business and the consolation41 of her life to fulfill14.
It was late in the afternoon, and the low descending42 sun threw its golden gleam across the round table at which she sat, busily engaged with reading reports, making notes, and writing letters connected with the affair upon which she had come.
Seven years had not changed Marian much—a little less vivid, perhaps, the bloom on cheeks and lips, a shade paler the angel brow, a shade darker the rich and lustrous44 auburn tresses, softer and calmer, fuller of thought and love the clear blue eyes—sweeter her tones, and gentler all her motions—that was all. Her dress was insignificant45 in material, make and color, yet the wearer unconsciously imparted a classic and regal grace to every fold and fall of the drapery. No splendor46 of apparel could have given such effect to her individual beauty as this quiet costume; I would I were an artist that I might reproduce her image as she was—the glorious face and head, the queenly form, in its plain but graceful47 robe of I know not what—gray serge, perhaps.
Her whole presence—her countenance48, manner and tone revealed the richness, strength and serenity49 of a faithful, loving, self-denying, God-reliant soul—of one who could recall the past, endure the present, and anticipate the future without regret, complaint or fear.
Sometimes the lady's soft eyes would lift themselves from her work to rest with tenderness upon the form of a little child, so small and still that you would not have noticed her presence but in following the lady's loving glance. She sat in a tiny rocking chair, nursing a little white rabbit on her lap. She was not a beautiful child—she was too diminutive50 and pale, with hazy51 blue eyes and faded yellow hair; yet her little face was so demure52 and sweet, so meek53 and loving, that it would haunt and soften54 you more than that of a beautiful child could. The child had been orphaned55 from her birth, and when but a few days old had been received into the "Children's Home."
Marian never had a favorite among her children, but this little waif was so completely orphaned, so desolate56 and destitute57, and withal so puny58, fragile and lifeless that Marian took her to her own heart day and night, imparting from her own fine vital temperament59 the warmth and vigor60 that nourished the perishing little human blossom to life and health. If ever a mother's heart lived in a maiden's bosom61, it was in Marian's. As she had cherished Miriam, she now cherished Angel, and she was as fondly loved by the one as she had been by the other. And so for five years past Angel had been Marian's inseparable companion. She sat with her little lesson, or her sewing, or her pet rabbit, at Marian's feet while she worked; held her hand when she walked out, sat by her side at the table or in the carriage, and slept nestled in her arms at night. She was the one earthly blossom that bloomed in Marian's solitary62 path.
Angel now sat with her rabbit on her knees, waiting demurely63 till Marian should have time to notice her.
And the lady still worked on, stopping once in a while to smile upon the child. There was a file of the evening papers lying near at hand upon the table where she wrote, but Marian had not yet had time to look at them. Soon, however, she had occasion to refer to one of them for the names of the members of the Committee on Public Lands. In casting her eyes over the paper, her glance suddenly lighted upon a paragraph that sent all the blood from her cheeks to her heart. She dropped the paper, sank back in her chair, and covered her blanched64 face with both hands, and strove for self-control.
Angel softly put down the rabbit and gently stole to her side and looked up with her little face full of wondering sympathy.
Presently Marian began passing her hands slowly over her forehead, with a sort of unconscious self-mesmerism, and then she dropped them wearily upon her lap, and Angel saw how pallid65 was her face, how ashen66 and tremulous her lip, how quivering her hands. But after a few seconds Marian stooped and picked the paper up and read the long, wonder-mongering affair, in which all that had been and all that had seemed, as well as many things could neither be nor seem, were related at length, or conjectured67, or suggested. It began by announcing the arrest of the Rev. Thurston Willcoxen upon the charge of murder, and then went back to the beginning and related the whole story, from the first disappearance68 of Marian Mayfield to the late discoveries that had led to the apprehension69 of the supposed murderer, with many additions and improvements gathered in the rolling of the ball of falsehood. Among the rest, that the body of the unhappy young lady had been washed ashore70 several miles below the scene of her dreadful fate, and had been charitably interred71 by some poor fisherman. The article concluded by describing the calm demeanor72 of the accused and the contemptuous manner in which he treated a charge so grave, scorning even to deny it.
"Oh, I do not wonder at the horror and consternation this matter has caused. When the deed was attempted, more than the intended death wound didn't overcome me! And nothing, nothing in the universe but the evidence of my own senses could have convinced me of his purposed guilt! And still I cannot realize it! He must have been insane! But he treats the discovery of his intended and supposed crime with scorn and contempt! Alas73! alas! is this the end of years of suffering and probation74? Is this the fruit of that long remorse75, from which I had hoped so much for his redemption—a remorse without repentance76, and barren of reformation! Yet I must save him."
She arose and rang the bell, and gave orders to have two seats secured for her in the coach that would leave in the morning for Baltimore. And then she began to walk up and down the floor, to try and walk off the excitement that was fast gaining upon her.
Before this night and this discovery, not for the world would Marian have made her existence known to him, far less would she have sought his presence. Nay77, deeming such a meeting improper78 as it was impossible, her mind had never contemplated79 it for an instant. She had watched his course, sent anonymous80 donations to his charities, hoped much from his repentance and good works, but never hoped in any regard to herself. But now it was absolutely necessary that she should make her existence known to him. She would go to him! She must save him! She should see him, and speak to him—him whom she had never hoped to meet again in life! She would see him again in three days! The thought was too exciting even for her strong heart and frame and calm, self-governing nature! And in defiance81 of reason and of will, her long-buried youthful love, her pure, earnest, single-hearted love, burst its secret sepulchre, and rejoiced through all her nature. The darkness of the past was, for the time, forgotten. Memory recalled no picture of unkindness, injustice82 or inconstancy. Even the scene upon the beach was faded, gone, lost! But the light of the past glowed around her—their seaside strolls and woodland wanderings—
"The still, green places where they met,
The moonlit branches dewy wet,
The greeting and the parting word,
The smile, the embrace, the tone that made
An Eden of the forest shade—"
kindling83 a pure rapture84 from memory, and a wild longing85 from hope, that her full heart could scarce contain.
But soon came on another current of thought and feeling opposed to the first—doubt and fear of the meeting. For herself she felt that she could forget all the sorrows of the past; aye! and with fervent86 glowing soul, and flushed cheeks, and tearful eyes, and clasped hands, she adored the Father in Heaven that He had put no limit to forgiveness—no! in that blessed path of light all space was open to the human will, and the heart might forgive infinitely—and to its own measureless extent.
But how would Thurston meet her? He had suffered such tortures from remorse that doubtless he would rejoice "with exceeding great joy" to find that the deed attempted in some fit of madness had really not been effected. But his sufferings had sprung from remorse of conscience, not from remorse of love. No! except as his deliverer, he would probably not be pleased to see her. As soon as this thought had seized her mind, then, indeed, all the bitterer scenes in the past started up to life, and broke down the defenses reared by love, and faith, and hope, and let in the tide of anguish87 and despair that rolled over her soul, shaking it as it had not been shaken for many years. And her head fell upon her bosom, and her hands were clasped convulsively, as she walked up and down the floor—striving with herself—striving to subdue88 the rebel passions of her heart—striving to attain89 her wonted calmness, and strength, and self-possession, and at last praying earnestly: "Oh, Father! the rains descend43, and the floods come, and the winds blow and beat upon my soul; let not its strength fall as if built upon the sand." And so she walked up and down, striving and praying; nor was the struggle in vain—once more she "conquered a peace" in her own bosom.
She turned her eyes upon little Angel. The infant was drooping90 over one arm of her rocking-chair like a fading lily, but her soft, hazy eyes, full of vague sympathy, followed the lady wherever she went.
Marian's heart smote91 her for her temporary forgetfulness of the child's wants. It was now twilight92, and Marian rang for lights, and Angel's milk and bread, which were soon brought.
And then with her usual quiet tenderness she undressed the little one, heard her prayers, took her up, and as she rocked, sang a sweet, low evening hymn93, that soothed94 the child to sleep and her own heart to perfect rest. And early the next morning Marian and little Angel set out by the first coach for Baltimore, on their way to St. Mary's County.
* * * * *
The Convent of Bethlehem was not only the sanctuary95 of professed96 nuns97, the school for girls, the nursery of orphans99, but it was also the temporary home of those Sisters of Mercy who go forth100 into the world only on errands of Christian101 love and charity, and return to their convent often only to die, worn out by toil102 among scenes and sufferers near which few but themselves would venture. And as they pass hence to Heaven, their ranks are still filled up from the world—not always by the weary and disappointed. Often young Catholic girls voluntarily leave the untried world that is smiling fair before them to enter upon a life of poverty, self-denial and merciful ministrations; so even in this century the order of the Sisters of Mercy is kept up.
Among the most active and zealous103 of the order of Bethlehem was the Sister Theresa, the youngest of the band. Youthful as she was, however, this Sister's heart was no sweet sacrifice of "a flower offered in the bud;" on the contrary, I am afraid that Sister Theresa had trifled with, and pinched, and bruised104, and trampled105 the poor budding heart, until she thought it good for nothing upon earth before she offered it to Heaven. I fear it was nothing higher than that strange revulsion of feeling, world-weariness, disappointment, disgust, remorse, fanaticism—either, any, or all of these, call it what you will, that in past ages and Catholic countries have filled monasteries106 with the whilom, gay, worldly and ambitious; that has sent many a woman in the prime of her beauty and many a man at the acme107 of his power into a convent; that transformed the mighty108 Emperor Charles V. into a cowled and shrouded109 monk110; the reckless swashbuckler, Ignatius Loyola, into a holy saint, and the beautiful Louise de la Valliere into an ascetic111 nun98; which finally metamorphosed the gayest, maddest, merriest elf that ever danced in the moonlight into—Sister Theresa.
Poor Jacquelina! for, of course, you can have no doubt that it is of her we are speaking—she perpetrated her last lugubrious112 joke on the day that she was to have made her vows114, for when asked what patron saint she would select by taking that saint's name in religion, she answered—St. Theresa, because St. Theresa would understand her case the best, having been, like herself, a scamp and a rattle-brain before she took it into her head to astonish her friends by becoming a saint. Poor Jacko said this with the solemnest face and the most serious earnestness; but, with such a reputation as she had had for pertness, of course nobody would believe but that she was making fun of the "Blessed Theresa," and so she was put upon further probation, with the injunction to say the seven penitential Psalms115 seven times a day, until she was in a holier frame of mind; which she did, though under protest that she didn't think the words composed by David to express his remorse for his own enormous sin exactly suited her case. Sister Theresa, if the least steady and devout116, was certainly the most active and zealous and courageous117 among them all. She yawned horribly over the long litanies and long sermons; but if ever there was a work of mercy requiring extraordinary labor118, privation, exposure and danger, Sister Theresa was the one to face, in the cause, lightning and tempest, plague, pestilence119 and famine, battle and murder, and sudden death! Happy was she? or content? No; she was moody120, hysterical121 and devotional by turns—sometimes a zeal for good works would possess her; sometimes the old fun and quaintness122 would break out, and sometimes an overwhelming fit of remorse—each depending upon the accidental cause that would chance to arouse the moods.
Humane123 creatures are like climates—some of a temperate124 atmosphere, taking even life-long sorrow serenely—never forgetting, and never exaggerating its cause—never very wretched, if never quite happy. Others of a more torrid nature have long, sunny seasons of bird-like cheerfulness and happy forgetfulness, until some slight cause, striking "the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound," shall startle up memory—and grief, intensely realized, shall rise to anguish, and a storm shall pass through the soul, shaking it almost to dissolution, and the poor subject thinks, if she can think, that her heart must go to pieces this time! But the storm passes, and nature, instead of being destroyed, is refreshed and ready for the sunshine and the song-birds again. The elastic125 heart throws off its weight, the spirits revive, and life goes on joyously126 in harmony with nature.
So it was with Jacquelina, with this sad difference, that as her trouble was more than sorrow—for it was remorse—it was never quite thrown off. It was not that her conscience reproached her for the fate of Dr. Grimshaw, which was brought on by his own wrongdoing, but Marian's fate—that a wild, wanton frolic of her own should have caused the early death of one so young, and beautiful, and good as Marian! that was the thought that nearly drove poor Jacquelina mad with remorse, whenever she realized it. Dr. Grimshaw was forgiven, and—forgotten; but the thought of Marian was the "undying worm," that preyed127 upon her heart. And so, year after year, despite the arguments and persuasions128 of nearest friends, and the constancy of poor Cloudy, Jacquelina tearfully turned from love, friendship, wealth and ease, and renewed her vows of poverty, celibacy129, obedience130, and the service of the poor, sick and ignorant, in the hope of expiating131 her offense132, soothing133 the voice of conscience, and gaining peace. Jacquelina would have made her vows perpetual by taking the black veil, but her Superior constantly dissuaded134 her from it. She was young, and life, with its possibilities, was all before her; she must wait many years before she took the step that could not be retracted135 without perjury136. And so each year she renewed her vow113 a twelvemonth. The seventh year of her religious life was drawing to its close, and she had notified her superior of her wish now, after so many years of probation, to take the black veil, and make her vows perpetual. And the Abbess had, at length, listened favorably to her expressed wishes.
But a few days after this, as the good old Mother, Martha, the portress, sat dozing137 over her rosary, behind the hall grating, the outer door was thrown open, and a young man, in a midshipman's undress uniform, entered rather brusquely, and came up to the grating. Touching138 his hat precisely139 as if the old lady had been his superior officer, he said, hastily:
"Madam, if you please, I wish to see Mrs. ——; you know who I mean, I presume? my cousin, Jacquelina."
The portress knew well enough, for she had seen Cloudy there several times before, but she replied:
Mrs. Grimshaw, but in religion Sister Theresa?"
"Fal lal!—that is—I beg your pardon, Mother, but I wish to see the lady immediately. Can I do so?"
"The dear sister Theresa is at present making her retreat, preparatory to taking the black veil."
"The what!" exclaimed Cloudy, with as much horror as if it had been the "black dose" she was going to take.
"The black veil—and so she cannot be seen."
"Madam, I have a very pressing form of invitation here, which people are not very apt to disregard. Did you ever hear of a subpoena141, dear Mother?"
The good woman never had, but she thought it evidently something "uncanny," for she said, "I will send for the Abbess;" and she beckoned142 to a nun within, and sent her on the errand—and soon the Abbess appeared, and Cloudy made known the object of his visit.
"Go into the parlor, sir, and Sister Theresa will attend you," said that lady.
And Cloudy turned to a side door on his right hand, and went into the little receiving-room, three sides of which were like other rooms, but the fourth side was a grating instead of a wall. Behind this grating appeared Jacquelina—so white and thin with confinement143, fasting and vigil, and so disguised by her nun's dress as to be unrecognizable to any but a lover's eyes: with her was the Abbess.
Cloudy went up to the grating. Jacquelina put her hand through, and spoke144 a kind greeting; but Cloudy glanced at the Abbess, looked reproachfully at Jacquelina, and then turning to the former, said:
"Madam, I wish to say a few words in confidence to my cousin here. Can I be permitted to do so?"
"Most certainly, young gentleman; Sister Theresa is not restricted. It was at her own request that I attended her hither."
"Thank you, dear lady—that which I have to say to—Sister Theresa—involves the confidence of others: else I should not have made the request that you have so kindly145 granted," said Cloudy, considerably146 mollified.
Cloudy looked at Jacquelina reproachfully.
"Are you going to be a nun, Lina?"
"Yes. Oh, Cloudy, Cloudy! what do you come here to disturb my thoughts so for? Oh, Cloudy! every time you come to see me, you do so upset and confuse my mind! You have no idea how many aves and paters, and psalms and litanies I have to say before I can quiet my mind down again! And now this is worse than all. Dear, dear Cloudy!—St. Mary, forgive me, I never meant that—I meant plain Cloudy—see how you make me sin in words! What did you send Mother Ettienne away for?"
"That I might talk to you alone. Why do you deny me that small consolation, Lina? How have I offended, that you should treat me so?"
"In no way at all have you offended, dearest Cloudy—St. Peter! there it is again—I mean only Cloudy."
"Never mind explaining the distinction. You are going to be a nun, you say! Very well—let that pass, too! But you must leave your convent, and go into the world yet once more, and then I shall have opportunities of talking to you before your return."
"No, no; never will I leave my convent—never will I subject my soul to such a temptation."
"My dear Lina, I have the cabalistic words that must draw you forth—listen! Our cousin, Thurston Willcoxen, is in prison, charged with the murder of Marian Mayfield"—a stifled148 shriek149 from Jacquelina—"and there is circumstantial evidence against him strong enough to ruin him forever, if it does not cost him his life. Now, Lina, I cannot be wrong in supposing that you know who struck that death-blow, and that your evidence can thoroughly150 exonerate151 Thurston from suspicion! Am I right?"
"You will go, then?"
"Yes! yes."
"When?"
"In an hour—this moment—with you."
"With me?"
"Yes! I may do so in such a case. I must do so! Oh! Heaven knows, I have occasioned sin enough, without causing more against poor Thurston!"
"You will get ready, then, immediately, dear Lina. Are you sure there will be no opposition153?"
"Certainly not. Why, Cloudy, are you one of those who credit 'raw head and bloody154 bones' fables155 about convents? I have no jailer but my own conscience, Cloudy. Besides, my year's vows expired yesterday, and I am free for awhile, before renewing them perpetually," said Jacquelina, hurrying away to get ready.
"And may I be swung to the yard-arm if ever I let you renew them," said
Cloudy, while he waited for her.
Jacquelina was soon ready, and Cloudy rejoined her in the front entry, behind the grating of which the good old portress, as she watched the handsome middy drive off with her young postulant, devoutly156 crossed herself, and diligently157 told her beads158.
Commodore Waugh and his family were returning slowly from the South, stopping at all the principal towns for long rests on their way homeward.
The commodore was now a wretched, helpless old man, depending almost for his daily life upon the care and tenderness of Mrs. Waugh.
Good Henrietta, with advancing years, had continued to "wax fat," and now it was about as much as she could do, with many grunts159, to get up and down stairs. Since her double bereavement161 of her "Hebe" and her "Lapwing," her kind, motherly countenance had lost somewhat of its comfortable jollity, and her hearty162 mellow163 laugh was seldom heard. Still, good Henrietta was passably happy, as the world goes, for she had the lucky foundation of a happy temper and temperament—she enjoyed the world, her friends and her creature comforts—her sound, innocent sleep—her ambling164 pony165, or her easy carriage—her hearty meals and her dreamy doze166 in the soft armchair of an afternoon, while Mrs. L'Oiseau droned, in a dreary167 voice, long homilies for the good of the commodore's soul.
Mrs. L'Oiseau had got to be one of the saddest and maddest fanatics168 that ever afflicted169 a family. And there were hours when, by holding up too graphic170, terrific, and exasperating171 pictures of the veteran's past and present wickedness and impenitence172, and his future retribution, in the shape of an external roasting in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone—she drove the old man half frantic173 with rage and fright! And then she would nearly finish him by asking: "If hell was so horrible to hear of for a little while, what must it be to feel forever and ever?"
They had reached Charleston, on their way home. Mrs. L'Oiseau, too much fatigued174 to persecute175 her uncle for his good, had gone to her chamber176.
The commodore was put comfortably to bed.
And Mrs. Waugh took the day's paper, and sat down by the old man's side, to read him the news until he should get sleepy. As she turned the paper about, her eyes fell upon the same paragraph that had so agitated177 Marian. Now, Henrietta was by no means excitable—on the contrary, she was rather hard to be moved; but on seeing this announcement of the arrest of Mr. Willcoxen, for the crime with which he was charged, an exclamation178 of horror and amazement179 burst from her lips. In another moment she had controlled herself, and would gladly have kept the exciting news from the sick man until the morning.
But it was too late—the commodore had heard the unwonted cry, and now, raised upon his elbow, lay staring at her with his great fat eyes, and insisting upon knowing what the foul180 fiend she meant by screeching181 out in that manner?
And Mrs. Waugh told him.
"And by the bones of Paul Jones, I always believed it!" falsely swore the commodore; and thereupon he demanded to hear "all about it."
Mrs. Waugh commenced, and in a very unsteady voice read the long account quite through. The commodore made no comment, except an occasional grunt160 of satisfaction, until she had finished it, when he growled183 out:
"Knew it!—hope they'll hang him!—d——d rascal184! If it hadn't been for him, there'd been no trouble in the family! Now call Festus to help to turn me over, and tuck me up, Henrietta; I want to go to sleep!"
That night Mrs. Waugh said nothing, but the next morning she proposed hurrying homeward with all possible speed.
But the commodore would hear of no such thing. He swore roundly that he would not stir to save the necks of all the scoundrels in the world, much less that of Thurston, who, if he did not kill Marian, deserved richly to be hanged for giving poor Nace so much trouble.
Mrs. Waugh coaxed185 and urged in vain. The commodore rather liked to hear her do so, and so the longer she pleaded, the more obstinate186 and dogged he grew, until at last Henrietta desisted—telling him, very well!—justice and humanity alike required her presence near the unhappy man, and so, whether the commodore chose to budge187 or not, she should surely leave Charleston in that very evening's boat for Baltimore, so as to reach Leonardtown in time for the trial. Upon hearing this, the commodore swore furiously; but knowing of old that nothing could turn Henrietta from the path of duty, and dreading188 above all things to lose her comfortable attentions, and be left to the doubtful mercies of Mary L'Oiseau, he yielded, though with the worst possible grace, swearing all the time that he hoped the villain189 would swing for it yet.
And then the trunks were packed, and the travelers resumed their homeward journey.
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1
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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2
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forefingers
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| n.食指( forefinger的名词复数 ) | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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18
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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19
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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20
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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21
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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22
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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23
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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24
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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25
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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26
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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27
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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28
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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29
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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30
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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31
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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32
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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34
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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35
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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36
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
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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38
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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39
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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40
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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41
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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42
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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43
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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44
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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45
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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46
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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47
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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48
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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49
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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50
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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51
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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52
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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53
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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54
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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55
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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56
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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57
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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58
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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59
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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60
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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61
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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62
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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63
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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64
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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65
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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66
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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67
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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69
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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70
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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71
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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73
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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74
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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75
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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76
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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77
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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78
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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79
contemplated
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|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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80
anonymous
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|
| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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81
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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82
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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83
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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84
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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85
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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86
fervent
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|
| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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87
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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88
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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89
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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90
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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91
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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92
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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93
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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94
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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95
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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96
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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97
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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98
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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99
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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100
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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101
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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102
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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103
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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104
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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105
trampled
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|
| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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106
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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107
acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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108
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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109
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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110
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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111
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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112
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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113
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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114
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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115
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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116
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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117
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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118
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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119
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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120
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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121
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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122
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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123
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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124
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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125
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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126
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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127
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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128
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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129
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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130
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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131
expiating
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的现在分词 ) | |
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132
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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133
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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134
dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
retracted
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|
| v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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136
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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137
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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138
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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139
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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140
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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141
subpoena
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| n.（法律）传票；v.传讯 | |
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142
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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144
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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145
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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146
considerably
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|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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147
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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148
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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149
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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150
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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151
exonerate
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| v.免除责任，确定无罪 | |
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152
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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153
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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154
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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155
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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156
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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157
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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158
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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159
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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160
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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161
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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162
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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163
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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164
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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165
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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166
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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167
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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168
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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169
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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170
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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171
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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172
impenitence
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| n.不知悔改，顽固 | |
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173
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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174
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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175
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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176
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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177
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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178
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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179
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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180
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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181
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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182
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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183
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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184
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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185
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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186
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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187
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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188
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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189
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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