Helen had been back from London some three weeks, but in spite of her endeavours to settle down again into the village life, she had not been very successful in doing so. Duties which before had seemed tolerable enough had become frightfully tedious, while those which before had seemed tedious had become intolerable. Only the evening before her father had spoken to her about her general behaviour à propos of what he called the “falling-off” of the village choir7. This meant that on the previous Sunday the organist had played one tune8 and the choir had sung another, which had displeased9 his unmusical ear, though Martin, who had been home from Cambridge for the Sunday, had listened with rapt attention, and said to Helen that he thought it extremely Wagnerian. This opinion, it may be remarked, he had not expressed to his father.
“I am afraid your pleasure-trip to London has unsettled you, Helen,” her father had said, “and you should really take yourself in hand, and make up your mind to recapture your habits of industry again. One is often disposed to be impatient with what one calls ‘little duties,’ but, dear girl, there is no such thing as a little duty. There is no such scale possible; duty is duty, and it is all great; and your eager and willing performance of all those things which may seem to you small is just as much a part of real life as to{128} the emperor the discharge of the cares of his empire. For instance, the hymn10 at the morning service on Sunday——“
“But it isn’t my fault if Mr. Milton plays the wrong hymn,” said Helen.
“But it ought to be impossible that such accidents should occur,” said her father. “You should think, dear Helen, in Whose Honour it is that we stand up to sing in church, and that knowledge constantly with you, you will find must elevate the smallest duty and raise the most insignificant11 piece of work into an act of praise and worship.”
“I will try, father,” said she.
“I know you will. Your holiday, all the mirth and innocent pleasure you have had in London, ought to help you to it. Those times of refreshment12 are given us not to make us discontented with our work, but to enable us to bring to it a rested and more active industry.”
But this morning it seemed to have brought to Helen nothing of the kind, but only a rested and more active doubt as to whether any of the things that filled her day could possibly, in the doing, be good for her, or when done for others. The “Sunday Magazine,” for instance, of which at this moment she was pasting the torn pages, seemed to her to be singularly ill adapted to do anything for anybody. There was an essay on the habits of mice, another on the temptations of engine-drivers; answers to correspondents dealt with lotions13 for the hair and the best treatment for burns; while in the forefront of each number was an instalment of a serial14 story connected with incredible ranches15 and mining in California. But, in spite of her conscientious16 doubts, her fingers moved{129} apace, and the stack of healed and mended volumes at her right hand grew quickly tall.
She worked on till about twelve without pause, and then pushed back her chair and began carrying the mended volumes to their shelves. If only she could have entertained any hopes as to the utility of what she was doing she would have accepted her occupation with cheerfulness, for her nature was one of that practical kind which finds almost any pursuit, so long as it has definite and profitable aim, congenial. This afternoon again she would have to take choir-practice in the Room, and even with the eager desire to find “good in everything” she could not see who profited by the cacophonous18 result. And to add to her labours, the ill-inspired ambitions of Mr. Milton had caused him to learn with infinite pains and groanings of the organ in evening hours nothing less than an anthem21 for the Harvest Festival, and it remained for her to teach the choir. Hours would go to the repetition of it before that unmelodious festival; and even if it had been possible that relentless22 practice could make the choir tolerably secure of their notes (which it could not), yet the result, even if it were faultlessly performed, would be deplorable, since it was an anthem of that peculiarly depressing kind produced by minor23 organists, contained a fugal passage which was not a fugue, and, musically speaking, was of the most suburban24 and jerry-built construction.
Helen pushed back her hair, and, slightly amused at the greyness of her own thoughts, smiled to herself as she went backward and forward between table and bookcase. If only she had some one, another sister, to share in these farthing woes25 of a rector’s{130} daughter, she could have laughed at them; she and a friend, at any rate, could have read each other striking extracts from the mended leaves of the “Sunday Magazine.” Then suddenly she heard a step on the gravel26 outside, a step not her father’s, but strangely familiar, and the door opened.
“Why, Lord Yorkshire,” she said. “How delightful27! Do come in.”
Frank had the enviable faculty28 of keeping comparatively cool on very hot days, just as on occasions heating and stirring to the spirit his nature seldom boiled. But to-day he was much hotter spiritually than physically29, and Helen’s genuine pleasure to see him, which shone in her eyes and her smile and vibrated in her voice, did not reduce this genial17 heat.
“I have not done wrong,” he asked, “to come and interrupt you? They told me at the vicarage that you were here.”
“No, indeed, you have not,” said she, shaking hands. “Really, I was longing30 for an interruption. Look!” and she pointed31 to the titles of her mended stack of books.
He glanced at them with a smile.
“Really, without undue32 conceit33, I don’t wonder,” he said. “And so this is the Room you told me about in London?”
His eyes wandered round, looking at the maps and the colored chart of geological formation, at the harmonium, the bagatelle-board. Then suddenly all the girl’s loyalty34 to her father rose in her.
“Ah, don’t laugh,” she said. “I can’t bear that you should laugh.”
He looked at her quite gravely.{131}
“Heaven forbid,” he said. “Here, as in that map of geological strata, there is an auriferous reef. There is to be found a little belt of gold in everything which we may have to do, as long as it is not—not nasty. The trouble sometimes is to find it. Haven’t you struck it this morning?”
Helen sat down with a little sigh.
“No. Help me to dig a little,” she said. “Look at the soil! ‘Sunday Magazine.’ A serial. Then ‘Round the tea-table,’ with a receipt for muffins. ‘Muffins’ is torn. I must mend it. Missionary35 work among the aborigines of Somaliland. Oh, dear! What has it all got to do with me—this me?” she cried.
“Perhaps you have not yet mended enough to find out,” he suggested.
“That is possible. All the same I have mended a good deal. Now I am going to talk ‘Lady Sunningdale’ for two minutes; at least there are fifty distinct and separate things I want to say in one breath. First of all, please smoke; the Room smells of Sunday-school. Yes, and give me one,—if my father appears suddenly you must say it was you. Next, I suppose you have come from Fareham. How is Lady Sunningdale? And you’ll stop for lunch, of course. Next, Martin. He is going to leave Cambridge at the end of the long. He is going to settle in London in the autumn and study under Monsieur Rusoff. Oh, why wasn’t I born a boy? I suppose you can’t tell me. So once again about Martin, thanks. What a good time we had in London! I have never enjoyed a fortnight more. Is every one as kind as that always?”
“I think they always will be to you,” said he. “You two took London by storm. We all went into{132} mourning and retirement36 into the country when you left.”
Helen laughed.
“You don’t look as if any grief particularly weighed on you,” she said.
“Clearly not now,” said he.
This was a little clumsily obvious, and it made her for the moment slightly embarrassed. She dabbed37 a label somewhat crooked38 on to the back of a work about missionary enterprise.
“Can you write a legible hand, Lord Yorkshire?” she said. “If so, and if you will be kind enough, please write ‘Sunday Magazine’ very clearly on twelve labels, with ordinal numbers, one to twelve, below the title. And when I’ve pasted them on, I shall have finished, and we’ll go out. Martin isn’t here, I am afraid. He is up at Cambridge till the end of the month.”
Frank obediently took a pen. He had suffered a slight repulse39.
“A notable charm of life,” he remarked, “is its extreme unexpectedness. If I had been told by a chiromantist that I should shortly be writing the words ‘Sunday Magazine’—is that legible enough?—twelve times over with numerals beneath I should have distrusted everything else he said. Yet, here we go.”
Helen laughed. She was not quite certain whether she was pleased or not at the success with which she had turned the conversation on to topics so alien from herself as the “Sunday Magazine.”
“Quite so,” she said. “And if I had been told that I should be telling you to do so, I should have{133} considered it too wildly improbable to be even funny. Yet, as you say, here we go. Oh!”
Her ear had caught the sound of a step outside, and with a quick sweep of her arm she threw her cigarette out of the window.
“It’s you, remember,” she said, with whispered emphasis.
Frank’s cigarette, however, was still unlit, but he obligingly remedied this, and hurriedly blew out a cloud of smoke and silent laughter. Next moment the vicar entered. He paused for a second on the threshold, his nostrils40 surprised by this unusual aroma41 in the Room, but Frank instantly rose.
“How are you, Mr. Challoner?” he said. “I called at the vicarage, but every one was out. But hopes were held out to me that I might find some of you here, so I came. And behold42 me,” he added, rather felicitously43, “a lay helper,” and he pointed to his half-written labels.
The vicar’s somewhat grim face relaxed. There was a neatness about Frank’s speech which his classical tastes approved.
“It is too kind of you, Lord Yorkshire,” he said. “Helen has impressed you into the service, I suppose. But—I am sure you will excuse me—would you mind finishing your cigarette outside? Our rules about smoking in the Room are stringent44. You will excuse me.”
His eye glanced rather sternly, as he spoke6, at Helen. This was one of the laxities he deplored45 in his children. She knew quite well that smoking was not allowed in the Room. The most infinitesimal moral courage on her part could have stopped it. And{134} he himself knew how she would excuse herself, saying that she did not think it mattered in the morning when there was no one there. It was a rule of the place, however. He had made it; she knew it.
Frank instantly threw his cigarette out of the window.
“I am so sorry,” he said, “and I am afraid I never asked leave.”
“You have no idea what difficulties we have with even quite the small boys of the village,” continued Mr. Challoner. “Children of eight and nine think it manly46 to pull at an inch of bad tobacco. So I am sure you will not even mentally accuse me of faddiness. I gave up smoking myself entirely47 for that reason. You are too kind to help my daughter. You will lunch with us, of course.”
“Thanks, very much. I came over in the motor from Fareham, and Miss Helen had already been so good as to suggest——“
“Of course Martin is away from home, I am sorry to say. Helen has no doubt told you what has been decided48.”
He glanced again at her as her quick, nimble fingers plied49 the work which an hour ago had seemed so distasteful. Certainly now there was in her no trace of that listlessness and want of application and vitality50 that a few days before had occasioned his loving rebukes51. She was all vivid and alert; the fresh, bright colour shone like a sunlit banner in her cheeks, and, as he looked, he realised for the first time this was no longer “my little girl,” but a woman in her own right. Then like an echo to this came the thought that he was not the proprietor52 of his children. Adviser,{135} corrector, pruner53, cultivator he might be, but he could not make nor stop growth if “my little girl” decided otherwise.
This was something of a shock, though only momentary54, and there was no perceptible pause before he spoke again.
“So you will bring Lord Yorkshire home to lunch, Helen,” he said. “I must go on to the village. I only looked in on my way. Half-past one, Lord Yorkshire. And afterwards you must try a cigar that I can give you. A year ago they wanted keeping, and now they have got it.”
For a little while after he had left neither spoke. A label had been put on crookedly55 and required readjustment; something else also had gone crookedly, and Helen had to readjust that, too.
“I’m afraid I must tell him I had been smoking,” she said. “Oh, dear, what a bore!”
“Is not that too transcendental honesty?” he said.
Her eyes flashed their wide light into his.
“Ah, no; there is neither less nor greater in honesty,” she said. “It is a great bore to be honest. I wish I wasn’t. No, I don’t wish that. It is one of the uncomfortable things which one can’t get on without.”
Suddenly he knew that a moment which for weeks had been approaching slowly rushed into the immediate56 future. He sat upright in his chair and quite unconsciously moved it nearer hers. His upper teeth closed on his lower lip, dragging it upward till it was white. Some mad current of blood sang in his ears, some sudden mistiness57 obscured his eyes, and she was but a dim, wavering form close to him.{136}
“Honesty! honesty!” he said. “Helen!”
A long-drawn breath rose in her bosom58, filling it, filling her, filling everything. A “Sunday Magazine” dropped from her hand, and she stood up. He too stood, and they faced each other for a long moment, and the new certainty became the only certainty there was.
“Oh, are you sure, are you sure?” she cried.
And there was no more need of words just then.
“Since you took the hare out of the trap,” she said. “I think I loved you for that.”
“Since you caught my finger in the trap——“
“And it bled,” said she.
“But you bound it up for me.”
She raised her face and held him by the shoulders, arms outstretched.
“And I remember saying to Martin that this was the sort of room in which nothing nice could happen. Oh, Frank, how has it happened? How has it happened?” she said.
“I don’t know how, my darling, but I know why.”
“Why, then?”
“Because it had to happen as far as I was concerned. Because it was you, in fact. How could it have been otherwise?”
Her eyes dropped a moment, and then looked full at him again.
“Is it real?” she asked. “And if it hadn’t happened, what would have become of us? Supposing you had not said ‘Helen’?”
“What else could I have said?”
“You might have said nothing.”{137}
“Nothing? You and I here together, and nothing? I had been saying nothing too long,” he cried.
“No, not too long. It has all been perfect. And—and the ‘Sunday Magazine,’ and—and twelve labels, each with their numbers. Oh, I surrender,” she said.
“When you have utterly59 conquered?”
“Yes, both. And both of us.”
“There is only one.”
It was no descent to return to the unfinished work; the business of label-pasting rather was illuminated60 and made glorious, the putting of the books back in the shelves was a procession of love. Then came the return to the vicarage under the benediction61 of the sun and the intrusion of the presence of others; but as some telegraph from lover to lover throbs62 across hundreds of miles of arid63 and desert country that does not know what secret and blissful tenderness has passed over it, so from each to the other passed unnoticed glances that sent the electric current to and fro, and the words of common life were to them a cypher charged with intimate meaning.
It had been settled between the two that her father should be told at once, and accordingly, after lunch, when he went into his study to get Frank the promised cigar, with a view to coffee on the shady croquet-lawn, the latter followed him, while the two ladies went out, and told him.
“It is the happiest day of my life, Mr. Challoner,” he said, very simply. “Your daughter has accepted my devotion and love.”
Mr. Challoner turned to him quickly.{138}
“Helen?” he said. “You? Lord Yorkshire, this is most unexpected. But I am charmed, delighted, at your news. And I risk the imputation64 of a father’s partiality when I say that I congratulate you most heartily65.”
He shook hands warmly with the young man, and an emotion, very deep and heart-felt, vibrated in his voice.
“May the blessings66 of God be on you both,” he said.
For a single moment Frank felt as if the thermometer had dropped suddenly, but the sensation was so instantaneous that before he could analyze67 it it had passed, and Mr. Challoner still held his hand in his strong, firm grasp.
“And I think, I believe, she is a very fortunate girl,” he added. “When—when did you speak to her?”
“This morning only. We settled to tell you at once.”
“Thank you. That was right of you. How the years pass; why it seems only yesterday—— Well, well,—let us join them outside. Ah, a cigar for you. I declare I had forgotten.”
They crossed the lawn together, and as they approached the group of chairs underneath68 the box-hedge, Mr. Challoner quickened his step a little and advanced to Helen with hands outstretched.
“Helen, my dearest girl,” he said.
The glorified69 hours of the golden afternoon passed too quickly. Parish work soon claimed the vicar, who, as he passed through the village, gave notice{139} in the school that the choir-practice was postponed70 till the next day; Aunt Clara betook herself to district-visiting, and the two were left alone again while the shadows began to grow tall on the grass. Sweet words and sweeter silence sang duets together, and from talk and silence they learned each other. For their falling in love had been an instinctive71 inevitable72 thing, and now that the gracious deed was accomplished73, they explored each other’s nature in the excellent brightness of the love-light.
“Lazy, frightfully lazy,” said he. “Will you take that in hand for me? With the unaccountable delusion74, by the way, that I am extremely hard-worked. I lie in bed in the morning, and groan19 at the thought of all that I shall have to do before I go to bed again. After a very long time I get up—and don’t do it. Helen, how could you have been in the world all these years and I not know it?”
“Oh, what does it matter now? For here we are, and for all the rest of the years we shall both know it. Yes, you shall get up at seven every morning. I will wake you myself.”
“That will be nice. And I needn’t get up at once? And what am I to do when I do get up?”
“Why, all the things you lie groaning20 about,” she said.
“But there aren’t any, really. At least nothing to groan about.”
“Now you’re talking nonsense. I don’t mind, though. You talked a good deal of nonsense on that Sunday, the hare-Sunday, you and Lady Sunningdale. How is she?”
“I forget. I forget everything but—this!”{140}
She bent75 towards him.
“Am I really all that to you?” she asked.
“Yes, all. More than all.”
After a while she spoke again.
“And you have no back-thought? There is no dark place at all, no shadow of any kind?”
He looked up quickly.
“Yes, a possible shadow,” he said.
“Religion?”
“Yes; it had occurred to you, too, then. What do you expect?”
Helen sat with her chin resting on her hand a moment without replying.
“I don’t know,” she said, at length. “Don’t let us think about it just now, Frank. Let this afternoon be perfect. But I can tell you this, that though it may possibly be very painful, it will make no difference to me. I shall be very sorry—very, very sorry, but—— That ‘but’ is you, if you understand.”
“Thank you, my darling,” said he.
Mr. Challoner carried a very thankful heart with him as he went on his various errands that afternoon. To see Helen happily married was a constant desire and prayer of his, and though he would with willingness and thankfulness have given her to the keeping of any good man who could support her and a family, he did not attempt to disguise from himself the satisfaction he felt at her having made what is vulgarly called “a great match.” She had the gifts which should enable her to fill a great position, and to play a great part worthily76 was a bigger and a finer thing,—though he had said “duty was duty and there is{141} neither less nor greater” than to work on a smaller scale. More than that, he had, with all his personal unworldliness, a good deal of pride of race, which Frank with his undeniable birth and breeding gratified. For the man himself, also, he felt a very decided liking77 and respect; he was an admirable landlord, in spite of his avowed78 laziness; he was generally considered to get through the day’s work with credit. In the House of Lords, also, he had already achieved a certain reputation for eminent79 common sense; and though to advocates of extremes his speeches might appear commonplace, that was rather the fault of those who held an extreme view. In other words, he lent his wealth and position to the support of moderation, much as Lord Flintshire had done.
Another matter dearer to Mr. Challoner’s heart than the obscurities of fiscal80 affairs was that Frank was, if not a pillar, at any rate a very sound piece of the fabric81 in the twin-towered building called “Church and State.” His patronage82 was always given to clergy83 of moderate views who did not indulge in what Mr. Challoner called “idolatrous and Romish practices,” while, on the other hand, he always voted dead against any attempt to subtract from the power or position of the English Church as by law established. “A staunch Churchman,” said Mr. Challoner to himself, as he walked with his long, rapid strides through the pathway hedged about with the yellowing corn.
For the time his disappointments about Martin were forgotten. There, it is true, his dreams about his boy’s future had been dispelled84 by a rude and bitter awakening85, but here, at any rate, was something which he had never dreamed being realised, and without{142} overestimating86 the force and value of education and the influences which spring from environment and mode of life, he believed that Helen would assuredly live her mature and wider life on the lines in which she had been brought up. So in this marriage he saw a strong weapon forged of steel and wielded87 by a loyal hand in defence of his mistress the Church. He knew well the immense power which in England a territorial88 magnate is possessed89 of; how by the mere90 fact of his wealth and position he can control the course of wide issues. Hitherto Frank had done just that; he had always ranged himself on the side of education and religion, or rather he had ranged the inert91 weight of all he represented there, while he himself had keenly pursued the artistic92 things of life. But now Helen, with all the influence of her home and upbringing strong within her, would come to add life to this solid weight, making it an active and potent93 instead of a passive instrument of good. He almost envied the girl,—such opportunity was given to few only, and on her would the responsibility and the glory rest.
His district-visiting that afternoon had taken him into the farthest limits of his parish, and a three-mile walk into the glories of the sunset lay before him when he turned homewards. A flush of colour, vivid and delicate as the cheek of youth, incarnadined the west, over which a few light fleeces of crimson94 cloud hung like flames, and further up from the horizon a belt of aqueous green melted into the transparent95 blue of the sky overhead. The sun had already sunk behind the tawny96 line of swelling97 down, and the water-meadows by the Itchen, where his path lay, were full{143} of dusky and deepening shadows. Right down the centre ran the lucent stream, reflecting on its surface the blue and the green and the flush of the sunset sky. Rooks cawed their way homeward to where the elms of Chartries showed black against the luminous98 west, and to the left of the long gabled fa?ade of house-roof rose the grey gothic tower of his church, the lodestar of his life, the mistress of his heart. That was the realest thing in all the world to him; all that was beautiful at this magic hour in earth and sky was but a path that conducted his soul thither99; all that he loved on earth was only the shadow and faint similitude of the great love of his which centred there. Nothing had any real existence except in its relation to that; everything else was but an avenue to an anti-chamber in the house of many mansions100. And as his eye first caught sight of the grey, cross-surmounted tower, he stopped a moment, uncovered his head, and with closed eyes stood still in a Presence more poignantly101 there with him than any. Through his impatience102 with ways and methods not his own, through his intolerance of that of which he had no ability of comprehension, through his instinctive dismissal of all that seemed to him unessential in life, whether it was the benediction of the evening hour, the piano-playing of Martin, the sweet eyes of Helen, through all, at moments like these, when his human emotions were most aroused, his view pierced triumphant103 and saw only the cross of Christ pointing heavenward. Towards that, and that alone, the essential nature of the man was directed, even as the compass-needle, though deflected104 and distracted by other neighbouring agencies, is essentially105 undeviating and loyal in its allegiance to{144} the north. His disapprovals, his censorious judgments106, his want of sympathy for what he did not understand were only the husk of the man, and it was the very strength of his central devotion that made him intolerant of any who seemed to lapse107 in things great or small from his own measure of fervour. Extreme cases, indeed, the case of the Jew, the Turk, the infidel, he left with faith to the mercy of God, though his human comprehension did not see how they could be capable of receiving it. He did not know; he left them before the throne of Infinite Compassion108, and turned his thoughts elsewhere, to his own work of ministering to the sick and needy109, to the cultivation110 of the intellect, the usury111 of that sterling112 talent given to man, and all that should make a man more capable of worship, a fitter instrument in the hand of the great Artificer.
The rose colour in the west faded to the nameless and indescribable hue of the hour after sunset, a single spangle of a star flashed in the vault113 of velvet114 sky, and dusk, like the slow closing of tired eyes, fell layer after layer over field and copse and river. Lights began to twinkle in the cottages of the village; day with its joys and its work and its rewards was over, and rest was ordained115 for the world and its myriads116. Instinctively117 the mood of the tranquil118 hour gained on him, his foot abated119 a little from the vigour120 of its stride, the active fervour of his brain cooled a little, and a very human tenderness rose and suffused121 his thoughts. Here in the church-yard, which he was now crossing, stood the plain marble slab122 with its lettering, now twenty-four years old, below which lay the remains123 of her who had been the one passion,{145} short and sweet and bitter, of his life. How often in those years had he wondered, with aching longing for light, what was the design of that interlude, what was the correct reading, so to speak, of the passion that had for a year so absorbed and mastered and overwhelmed him. His wife and he had no spiritual affinity124; his love for her had not raised and inspired him, and he, strong and loving as he had been, had not helped her with any success towards the strenuous125 and active service which he knew to be the bounden duty of every living soul. Had his passion, then, been merely a casual, carnal longing, a frailty126 of the flesh? Often and often he had been afraid to answer that question honestly, but to-night, as he paused for a moment by the grave, that doubt assailed127 him no longer, and instead a strange yearning128 and regret for a missed opportunity took its place. Had he dealt wisely and gently with that sun-lit child? Had he failed to realise what a child she was, and been harsh and deficient129 in tenderness to a little one?
His head drooped130 for a moment as he stood there, and then, with all the honesty of a nature as upright as a fir-tree, he answered it. He could not justly condemn131 himself: he had done his best according to the light that was given him. He had acted in a way he would have advised another to act,—he would act so again now. It had not been easy. Often he had longed to kiss her face into smiles again, and had been stern instead.
Then briskly again he left the grave, and in the gloaming stepped across the lawn into the long window of his study. The lamp was already there, trimmed and lit, his work was spread on the table in{146} orderly array. There were still ten minutes remaining to him before he need dress for dinner, and from habit long-engrained he sat down at once to use them. He found his place, composed his mind to the topic on hand, and dipped his pen in the ink. But, contrary to habit, his attention wandered, and strayed back to the church-yard and until the dressing-bell sounded he sat there looking out of the window with unseeing eyes, questioning, questioning.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
hue
|
|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
strata
|
|
| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
texture
|
|
| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
choir
|
|
| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
tune
|
|
| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
displeased
|
|
| a.不快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
hymn
|
|
| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
insignificant
|
|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
refreshment
|
|
| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
lotions
|
|
| n.洗液，洗剂，护肤液( lotion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
serial
|
|
| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
ranches
|
|
| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
cacophonous
|
|
| adj.发音不和谐的，粗腔横调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
groan
|
|
| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
groaning
|
|
| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
anthem
|
|
| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
relentless
|
|
| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
minor
|
|
| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
suburban
|
|
| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
woes
|
|
| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
gravel
|
|
| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
physically
|
|
| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
undue
|
|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
conceit
|
|
| n.自负，自高自大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
missionary
|
|
| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
retirement
|
|
| n.退休，退职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
dabbed
|
|
| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
crooked
|
|
| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
repulse
|
|
| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
nostrils
|
|
| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
aroma
|
|
| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
felicitously
|
|
| adv.恰当地，适切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
stringent
|
|
| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
deplored
|
|
| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
plied
|
|
| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
vitality
|
|
| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
rebukes
|
|
| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
proprietor
|
|
| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
pruner
|
|
| 修枝剪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
54
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
crookedly
|
|
| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
mistiness
|
|
| n.雾，模糊，不清楚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
illuminated
|
|
| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
benediction
|
|
| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
throbs
|
|
| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
arid
|
|
| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
imputation
|
|
| n.归罪，责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
blessings
|
|
| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
analyze
|
|
| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
underneath
|
|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
glorified
|
|
| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
postponed
|
|
| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
instinctive
|
|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
delusion
|
|
| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
worthily
|
|
| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
avowed
|
|
| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
eminent
|
|
| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
fiscal
|
|
| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
fabric
|
|
| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
patronage
|
|
| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
clergy
|
|
| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
dispelled
|
|
| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
awakening
|
|
| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
overestimating
|
|
| 对（数量）估计过高，对…作过高的评价( overestimate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
wielded
|
|
| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
territorial
|
|
| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
inert
|
|
| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
potent
|
|
| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
tawny
|
|
| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
swelling
|
|
| n.肿胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
luminous
|
|
| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
thither
|
|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
mansions
|
|
| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
poignantly
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
triumphant
|
|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
deflected
|
|
| 偏离的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
essentially
|
|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
judgments
|
|
| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
lapse
|
|
| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
needy
|
|
| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
cultivation
|
|
| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
usury
|
|
| n.高利贷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
sterling
|
|
| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
vault
|
|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
velvet
|
|
| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
ordained
|
|
| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
myriads
|
|
| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
instinctively
|
|
| adv.本能地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
tranquil
|
|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
abated
|
|
| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
vigour
|
|
| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
suffused
|
|
| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
slab
|
|
| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
affinity
|
|
| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
strenuous
|
|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
frailty
|
|
| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
assailed
|
|
| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
deficient
|
|
| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
drooped
|
|
| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
condemn
|
|
| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |