With spattered boots.
Cowper, “The Task.”
I
It had rained that April more continuously than capriciously, but this morning April showed at last her fairer face. The sunshine held as yet no sense of heat, only the bracingness of a glad salt wave. Across the spacious2 blue of the Essex sky clouds floated and met and parted in a restful restlessness. The great valley swam in a blue sea of vapour. Men trod as on buoyant sunshine that bore them along. The buds were peeping out from every hedge and tree, the blackthorn was bursting into white, the whole world seemed like a child tiptoeing towards some delightful3 future. Primroses4 nestled in every hollow: the gorse lay golden on the commons. The little leaves of the trees seemed shy, scarcely grown familiar with the fluttering of the birds. All the misery6, pain, and sadness had faded from creation like a bad dream: the stains and pollutions were washed out, leaving only the young clean beauty of the first day. It was a virgin7 planet, fresh from the hands of its Maker8, trembling with morning dew—an earth that had never seen its own blossoming. And the p?an of all this peace and innocence9 throbbed10 exultingly11 in bird-music through all the great landscape. Over the orchard12 of Frog Farm there were only two larks13, but you would have thought a whole orchestra.
A blot14 against this background seemed the blood-red shirt of Caleb Flynt in that same orchard; a wild undulating piece of primeval woodland where plum-trees and pear-trees indeed flourished, but not more so than oaks and chestnuts15, briars and brambles, or fairy mists of bluebells16. The task of regenerating17 it had been annually18 postponed19, but now that Caleb was no longer the Frog Farm “looker,” it formed, like his vegetable garden, his wheat patch, or his wife’s piggery, a pleasant pottering-ground. He worked without coat or smock, chastening the ranker grass while the dew was still on it—or in his own idiom, “while the dag was on the herb.” White-bearded and scythe20-bearing, he suggested—although the beard was short and round and he wore a shapeless grey hat—a figure of Father Time, incarnadined from all his wars. But in sooth no creature breathed more at one with the earth’s mood that morning than this ancient “Peculiar22,” whose parlour bore as its text of honour—in white letters on a lozenge of brown paper: “When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?”
Quietness was, indeed, all around him in this morning freshness: the swish of the scythe, the murmurous23 lapse24 of shorn grass, the drone of insects, the cooing of pigeons from the cote, the elusive25 cry of the new-come cuckoo, seemed forms of silence rather than of sound. And his inner peace matched his outer, for, as his arms automatically wielded26 the scythe, his soul was actually in heaven—or at least in the New Jerusalem which, according to his wife’s novel Christadelphian creed27, was to be let down from heaven for the virtuous28 remnant of earth—and at no distant date! Not that he definitely believed in her descending29 city, though he felt a certain proprietary30 interest in it. “Oi don’t belong to Martha’s Church,” he reassured31 his brethren of the Peculiar faith, “but Oi belongs to she and she belongs to me.”
In this mutual32 belonging he felt himself the brake and Martha the spirited mare33 who could never stand still. No doubt her argument that we were here to learn and to move forward was plausible34 enough—how could he traverse it, he who had himself changed from Churchman to Peculiar? But her rider: “We don’t leave the doctrine35, we carry it with us,” struck him as somewhat shifty. And her move from “Sprinkling” to “Total Immersion”—even if the submergence did in a sense include the sprinkling—was surely enough progression for one lifetime. He did not like “this gospel of gooin’ forrard”: an obstinate36 instinct warned him to hold back, though with an uneasy recognition that her ceaseless explorations of her capacious Bible—to him a sealed book—must naturally yield discoveries denied to his less saintly and altogether illiterate37 self. Discoveries indeed had not been spared him. Ever since she had joined those new-fangled Christadelphians—“Christy Dolphins” as he called them—she had abounded39 in texts as crushing as they were unfamiliar40; and even the glib41 Biblical patter he had picked up from the Peculiars was shown to imply at bottom the new teaching. Curtain lectures are none the less tedious when they are theological, and after a course of many months—each with its twenty-eight to thirty-one nights—Caleb Flynt was grown wearisomely learned in the bold doctrine launched by the great John Thomas that “the Kingdom of God on earth” actually meant on earth and must be brought about there and nowhere else, and that Immortality42 enjoyed except in one’s terrestrial body—however spiritualized—was as absurd a notion as that it was lavished43 indiscriminately upon Tom, Giles, and Jerry.
The worst of it was he could never be sure Martha was not in the right—she had certainly modified his belief in “Sprinkling”—and he fluttered around her “New Jerusalem” like a moth44 around a lighthouse. Had anybody given a penny for his thoughts as he stooped now over his scythe, the fortunate investor45 would have come into possession of “the street of pure gold, as it were transparent46 glass,” not to mention the sapphires47 and emeralds, the beryls and chrysolites and all the other shining swarms48 of precious stones catalogued in Revelation. If he had kept from her the rumour50 that had reached his own ears of such a treasure-city of glass actually arising in London at this very moment, it was not because he believed this was veritably her celestial51 city, but because it might possibly excite her credulity to the pitch of wishing to see it. And the thought of a journey was torture. Already Martha had dropped hints about the difficulties of “upbuilding” in the lack of local Christadelphians to institute a “Lightstand”: the wild dream of some day breaking bread in an “Ecclesia” in London had been adumbrated52: it was possible the restless female mind even contemplated53 London itself as a place to be seen before one died.
But surely the New Jerusalem, if it descended54 at all, would—he felt—descend here, at Little Bradmarsh. A heaven that meant girding up one’s loins and wrenching56 out one’s roots was a very problematic paradise, for all the splendour with which his inward eye was now, despite himself, dazzled.
II
From this jewelled Jerusalem Caleb was suddenly brought back to the breathing beauty of our imperfect earth, to pear-blossom and plum-blossom, to the sun-glinted shadows under his trees and the mellow57 tiles of his roof. The sound of his own name fell from on high—like the city of his daydream—accompanied by a great skirring of wings, and looking up dazedly58, the pearly gates still shimmering60, his eye followed the tarred side-wall of the farmhouse61 till, near the roof, it lit upon his wife’s night-capped head protruded62 from the tiny diamond-paned casement63 that alone broke the sheer black surface of the wood.
A sense of the unusual quickened his pulses. It stole upon him, not mainly from Martha’s face, which, despite its excited distension65, wore—over wrinkles he never saw—the same russet complexion66 and was crowned by the same glory of unblanched brown hair that had gladdened his faithful eyes since the beginning of the century; but, more subtly and subconsciously67, through the open lattice which framed this ever-enchanting vision. In the Flynt tradition, windows—restricted at best by the window tax still in force—were for light, not air. Had folks wanted air, they would have poked68 a hole in the wall; not built a section of it “of transparent glass.” People so much under the sky as Caleb and Martha Flynt had no need to invite colds by artificial draughts69. They were getting a change of air all day long. But their rooms—their small, low-ceiled rooms—were not thus vivified, even in their absence; the ground-floor windows were indeed immovable, and an immemorial mustiness made a sort of slum atmosphere in this spacious, sun-washed solitude70. Hence Caleb’s sense of a jar in his universe at the familiar, flat pattern of the wall dislocated into a third dimension by the out-flung casement: a prodigy71 which he was not surprised to find fluttering the dovecot, and which presaged72, he felt, still vaster cataclysms73. And to add to the auspices74 of change, he observed another piebald pigeon among his snowy flock.
“Yes, dear heart,” he called up, disguising his uneasiness and shearing75 on.
Martha pointed76 a fateful finger towards the high-hedged, oozy77 path meandering78 beyond the orchard gate, and dividing the sown land from the pastures sloping to the Brad. “There’s Bundock coming up the Green Lane!”
“Bundock?” gasped79 Caleb, the scythe stopping short. “You’re a-dreamin’.” That Brother Bundock, who had been prayed over for a decade by himself and every Peculiar in the vicinity, should at last have taken up his bed and walked, was too sudden a proof of their tenets, and the natural man blurted81 out his disbelief.
“But I see his red jacket,” Martha protested, “his bag on his shoulder.”
“Ow!” His tone was divided between relief and disappointment. “You mean Bundock’s buoy-oy!” He drew out the word even longer than usual, and it rose even beyond the high pitch his Essex twang habitually82 gave to his culminating phrases. “Whatever can Posty be doin’ in these pa-arts?” he went on, with a new wonder.
“And the chace that squashy,” said Martha, who from her coign of vantage could see the elderly figure labouring in the remoter windings83, “he’s sinking into it at every step.”
“Ay, the mud’s only hazeled over. Whatever brings the silly youth when the roads be in that state?”
“It’ll be the Census84 again!” groaned85 Martha.
Caleb’s brow gloomed. He feared Martha was right, and anything official must have to do with that terrible paper-filling which had at last by the aid of Jinny been, they had hoped, finally accomplished86 some weeks before. Ever since the first English census had been taken in the first year of the century, Martha had been expecting a plague to fall upon the people as it had upon the Israelites when King David numbered them. But although she had been disappointed, there was no doubt of the plague of the Census itself.
“Haps it’s a letter for the shepherd,” hazarded Caleb to comfort her.
“Who’d be writing Master Peartree a letter? He can’t read.”
“Noa!” he answered complacently87, for his wife’s learning seemed part of their mutual “belonging.” The drawbacks of this vicarious erudition were, however, revealed by his next remark; for on Martha crying out that poor Bundock had sunk up to his knees, Caleb bade her be easy. “He won’t be swallowed up like that minx Cora!”
But Martha’s motherly heart was too agitated88 to recognize the Korah of her Biblical allusions90—she vaguely91 assumed it was some scarlet92 woman englutted in the slimy saltings of Caleb’s birthplace. “Run and lead him into the right path,” she exhorted93.
But Caleb’s brain was not one for quick reactions. Inured94 for nigh seventy years to a world in which nothing happened too suddenly, even thunderbolts giving reasonable notice and bogs95 getting boggier by due degrees, he stood dazedly, his hands paralysed on the nibs96 of his arrested scythe. “Happen the logs Oi put have sunk down!” he soliloquized slowly.
“If I wasn’t in my nightgown I’d go myself,” said Martha impatiently. “?’Tis a lesson from the Lord not to lay abed.”
“The Lord allows for rheumaties, dear heart,” said Caleb soothingly97.
“He’ll be up to his neck, if you don’t stir your stumps98.”
“Not he, Martha. Unless he stands on his head.” Caleb meant this as a literal contribution to the discussion. There was no wilful99 topsy-turveydom. He was as unconscious of his own humour as of other people’s.
“But he’ll spoil his breeches anyways,” retorted Martha with equal gravity. “And the Lord just sending his wife a new baby.”
“Bundock’s breeches be the Queen’s,” said Caleb reassuringly100. But laying down his scythe, he began to move mazedly adown the orchard, and before the postman’s mud-cased leggings had floundered many more rods, the veteran was sitting astride his stile, dangling102 his top-boots over a rotten-planked brook104, and waving in his hairy, mahogany hand his vast red handkerchief like a danger signal.
“Ahoy, Posty!”
Bundock responded with a cheerful blast on his bugle105. “Ahoy, Uncle Flynt!”
“Turn back. Don’t, ye’ll strike a bog-hole.”
“I never go back!” cried the dauntless Bundock. And even as he spoke106, his stature107 shrank till his bag rested on the ooze108.
“The missus was afeared you’d spoil the Queen’s breeches,” said Caleb sympathetically. “Catch hold of yon crab-apple branch.”
“Better spoil her breeches than be unfaithful to her uniform,” said the slimy hero, struggling up as directed. “I’ve got a letter for you.”
Caleb’s flag fell into the brook and startled a water-rat. “A letter for us!”
He splashed into the water, still dazedly, to rescue his handkerchief, avoiding the plank103 as a superfluous109 preliminary to the wetting; and, standing110 statuesque in mid-stream, more like Father Neptune111 now than Father Time, he continued incredulously: “Who’d be sendin’ us a letter?”
“That’s not my business,” cried Bundock sternly. He came on heroically, disregarding a posterior consciousness of damp clay, and picking his way along the grassy112, squashy strip that was starred treacherously113 with peaceful daisies and buttercups, over-hung by wild apple-trees, and hedged from the fields on either hand by a tall, prickly tangle115 and congestion—as of a vegetable slum—in which gorse, holly116, speedwell, mustard, and lily of the valley (still in green sheaths), strove for breathing space. At the edge of a palpable mudhole he paused perforce. Caleb, who, when he recovered from his daze59 at the news of the letter, had advanced with dripping boots to meet him, was equally arrested at the opposite frontier, and the two men now faced each other across some fifteen feet of flowery ooze, two studies in red; Caleb, big-limbed and stolid117, in his crimson118 shirt, and Bundock, dapper and peart, in his scarlet jacket.
The postman’s face was lightly pockmarked, but found by females fascinating, especially under the quasi-military cap. Hairlessness was part of its open charm: his sun-tanned cheek kept him juvenile119 despite his half-century, and preserved from rust120 his consciousness of a worshipping womanhood. Caleb, on the contrary, was all hair, little bushes growing even out of his ears, and whiskers and beard and the silver-grey mop at his crown running into one another without frontiers—the “Nonconformist fringe” in a ragged121 edition.
“Sow sorry to give ye sow much ill-convenience,” he called apologetically. “Oi count,” he added, having had time for reflection, “one of our buoy-oys has written from furrin parts. And he wouldn’t be knowing the weather here.”
“?’Tain’t any of your boys,” said Bundock crossly, “because it comes from London.”
“That’s a pity. The missus’ll get ’sterical when she hears it’s for us, and it’s cruel hard to disappoint her. There ain’t nobody else as we want letters from. Can’t you send it back?”
“Not if I can deliver it,” said Bundock stiffly.
“But ye can’t—unless you chuck it over.”
The slave of duty shook his head. “I daren’t risk the Queen’s mail like that.”
“But it’s my letter.”
“Not yet, Uncle Flynt. When it reaches your hand it may be considered safely, legally, and constitutionally delivered. But, till then, ’tis the Queen’s letter, and don’t you forget it.”
Caleb scratched his head.
“If ’twas the Queen’s letter, she could read it,” he urged obstinately122.
“And so she can,” rejoined Bundock. “She has the right to open any letter smelling of high treason, so to speak, and nobody can say her nay123.”
“But my letter ain’t high treasony,” said Caleb indignantly. “And if Wictoria wants to read it, why God bless her, says Oi.”
Bundock sighed before the bovinity of the illiterate mind.
“The Queen has got better things to do than read every scribble124 her head’s stuck on to.”
“Happen Oi could ha’ retched it with a rake,” Caleb mused125. “What a pity you ain’t got spladges, like when Oi was a buoy-oy, and gatherin’ pin-patches on the sands. And fine and fat they was too when ye got ’em on the pin!” His tongue clucked.
Bundock looked his contempt. “A pretty sight, Her Majesty’s uniform lumbering126 along like a winkle-picker!”
“Bide128 a bit then,” said Caleb, “and Oi’ll thrash through the hedge and work through agen in your rear.”
It was a chivalrous129 offer, for a deep ditch barred the way to the freshly ploughed land, and a tough and prickly chaos130 to the pasture land; but Bundock declined churlishly, if not unheroically, declaring there was a letter for Frog Cottage too. And when Caleb, recovering from this vindication131 of his wife’s prophesyings, offered to transmit it to the shepherd, “What guarantee have I,” asked Bundock, “that it reaches him safely, legally, and constitutionally? Nay, nay, uncle, a man must do his own jobs.”
“Then work through the bushes yourself. Don’t, ye’ll be fit to grow crops on.”
“Lord, how I hate going round—circumbendibus!” groaned Bundock. “I might as well be driving a post-cart.”
“There’s a mort of worser things than gooin’ round,” said Caleb. “And Oi do be marvelling132 a young chap like you should mind a bit of extra leg-work, bein’ as how ye’ve got naught133 else to do but to put one leg afore the ’tother.”
“Indeed?” snapped Bundock, this ignorant summary of his duties aggravating134 the moist clayey consciousness that resided at the seat of Her Majesty’s trousers.
“Ef ye won’t keep to the high roads, you ought to git a hoss what can clear everything,” Caleb went on to advise.
“And break my neck?”
“Posty always had a hoss when I was a cad.”
“Or lay in the road with a broken back and Her Majesty’s mail at the mercy of every tramp?” pursued Bundock. “No, no, one cripple in a family is enough.”
Caleb looked pained. “You dedn’t ought to talk o’ your feyther like that. And him pinchin’ hisself and maybe injurin’ his spinal135 collar to keep you at school till you was a large buoy-oy!”
III
Bundock’s irritation136 at his B?otian critic was suddenly diverted by the spectacle of a female figure bearing down upon him literally137 by leaps and bounds—it seemed as if the steeplechase method recommended by Caleb was already in action. The postman felt for his spectacles, discarded normally in the interests of manly138 fascination139. “Lord!” he cried. “Has your missus joined the Jumpers?” Caleb turned his head, not unalarmed. With so skittish140 a theologian anything was possible. But his agitation141 subsided142 into a smile of admiration143.
“She thinks of everything,” he said.
The practical Martha was in fact advancing with an improvised144 leaping-pole that had already carried her neatly145 over the brook and would obviously bring Bundock over the boglet. But why—Caleb wondered—was she risking her “bettermost” skirt? His own mother, he remembered, had not hesitated to tuck up her petticoats when winkles had to be gathered. And why was Martha’s hair massed in its black net cap with a Sunday stylishness147?
“Morning, Mrs. Flynt,” cried Bundock, becoming as genial148 as the weather. Females, even sexagenarian, so long as not utterly149 uncomely, turned him from an official into a man.
“Morning, Mr. Bundock!” Martha called back across the mudhole. “I hope your father’s no worse!”
Bundock’s brow clouded. Still harping150 on his father.
“He’s not so active as you,” he replied a bit testily151.
“Thank the Lord!” said Caleb fervently152. Then, colouring under Bundock’s stare, “For the missus’s legs,” he explained.
And to cover his confusion he snatched the pole from her and hurled153 it towards Bundock, who had barely time to jump aside into a still squidgier patch. But in another instant the dauntless postman secured it, and with one brave bound—like Sir Walter Scott’s stag—had cleared the slimiest section, and his staggering, sliding form was safely locked in Caleb’s sanguineous shirt-sleeves. Safely but not contentedly154, for at heart he was deeply piqued155 at this inglorious position of Her Majesty’s envoy156; the dignified157 newsbearer, the beguiler158 of loneliness, the gossip welcomed alike in the kitchens of the great and the parlours of the humble160. Morbidly161 conscious of his unpresentable rear, he kept carefully behind the couple, while Caleb explained the situation to Martha, breaking and blunting the news at one hammer-blow.
“There’s a letter for us! From Lunnon!”
Martha was wonderful. “What a piece! What a master!” he thought. One might live with a woman for half a century, yet never fathom163 her depths. Not a gasp80, not a cry, not a sigh of vain yearning164. Merely: “Then it’ll be from Cousin Caroline. When she went back to London at Michaelmas she promised to let us know if she reached home safe, and if your brother George was better.”
“Ay, ay!” he assented166 happily. “Oi’d disremembered Cousin Caroline.”
It was a merciful oblivion, for his Cockney cousin had come from Limehouse in August and stayed two months, protesting that it was impossible to bide a day in a place where there wasn’t a neighbour to speak to except a silly shepherd who was never at home; where water was scooped167 filthily168 from a green-scummy pond instead of flowing naturally from a tap; where on moonless nights you could break your leg at your own doorstep; where frogs croaked169 and cocks crowed and pigeons moaned and foxes barked at the unholiest hours; where disgusting vermin were nailed on the trees and where you broke out in itching170 blotches171, which folks might ascribe to “harvesters,” but which were susceptible172 of a more domestic explanation. Moreover, Cousin Caroline had brought a profuse173 and uninvited progeny174, whose unexpected appearance in Jinny’s cart, though vaguely comforting as recalling the days when the house resounded175 with child-life, was in truth at disturbing discord176 with the Quakerish calm into which Frog Farm had subsided after the flight of its teeming177 chicks. As Caleb came along now, convoying Bundock through the lush orchard grass, the echo of Cousin Caroline’s querulous voice rasped his brain and made him wish she had pretermitted her promise to write. As for his ailing178 brother George, information about whom she was probably sending, it was obvious that he was no worse, else one would assuredly have heard of his funeral. Had not George carefully let him know when he got married? Caroline was a Churchwoman—he remembered suddenly—she had compromised Frog Farm by eking179 out Parson Fallow’s miserable180 congregation. And now she had sent her letter just at a season to plague and muddy a worthy181 Dissenter182.
“Sow sorry to give ye sow much ill-convenience, Mr. Bundock,” he repeated, as they reached the farmhouse.
IV
Frog Farm, before which Bundock stood fumbling184 in his bag, was—as its name implies—situated in a batrachian region, croakily cheerless under a sullen185 sky, a region revealed under the plough as ancient sedge-land, black with rotted flags and rushes. But the scene was redeemed186 at its worst by the misty187 magnificence of great spaces, whose gentle undulations could not counteract188 a sublime189 flatness; not to mention the beauty of the Brad gliding190 like the snake in the grass it sometimes proved. The pasture land behind the farmhouse and sloping softly down to the river—across which, protected by a dyke191 and drained by little black mills working turbine wheels, lay the still lower Long Bradmarsh—was the salvage192 of a swamp roughly provided with a few, far-parted drains by some pioneer squatter193, content—on the higher ground where a farmhouse was possible—to fell and slice his own timber and bake his own tiles. At the topmost rim5, on a road artificially raised to take its wagons194 to the higher ground or “Ridge” of the village, rose this farmhouse with its buildings, all dyked off from the converted marsh55 by a three-foot wall of trunk-fragments and uncouth195 stones, bordered by bushes. The house turned its back on the Brad, and had not even hind162 eyes to see it—another effect of the window tax—and had the rear of the house not been relieved by the quaint196 red chimney bisecting it, the blankness would have been unbearable197. But if little of good could have been said of its architecture behind its back, and if even in front it ended abruptly198 at one extremity199 like a sheer cliff or a halved200 haystack, with one gable crying for another to make both ends meet, it was as a whole picturesque201 enough with all that charm of rough wood, which still seems to keep its life-sap, and beside which your marble hall is a mere165 petrifaction202. Weather-boarded and tarred, it faced you with a black beauty of its own, amid which its diamond-paned little lattices gleamed like an Ethiopian’s eyes. In the foreground, haystacks, cornricks, and strawstacks gave grace and colour, fusing with the spacious landscape as naturally as the barns and byres and storehouses, the troughs and stables and cart-sheds and the mellow, immemorial dung.
But what surprised the stranger more than its lop-sidedness was the duplication of its front door, for there were two little doors, with twin sills and latches203. It had, in fact, been partitioned to allow a couple of rooms to the shepherd-cowman, when that lone64 widower204’s cottage was needed for an extra horseman. Master Peartree’s new home became known as Frog Cottage. The property was what was here called an “off-hand farm,” the owner being “in parts,” or engaged in other enterprises, and for more than a generation Caleb Flynt had lived there as “looker” to old Farmer Gale205, the cute Cornish invader206 who had discovered the fatness of the oozy soil, and who had been glad to install a son of it as a reconciling link between Little Bradmarsh and “the furriner.” Caleb belonged to that almost extinct species of managers who can dispense207 with reading and writing, and his semi-absentee employer found his honesty as meticulous208 as his memory. While the Flynt nestlings were growing up, the parent birds had found the nest a tight fit, but with the gradual flight of the brood to every quarter of the compass, the old pair had receded209 into its snugger210 recesses—living mainly by the kitchen fire under the hanging hams. Thus when last year Farmer Gale’s son, succeeding to the property and foolishly desiring a more scientific and literate38 bailiff, delicately intimated that having bought all the adjoining land, he had been compelled to acquire therewith the rival looker, the old Flynts were glad enough to be allowed for a small rent the life-use of the farmhouse and the bits of waste land around it, subject to their providing living room for old Master Peartree, who was to pasture his flock of sheep and a few kine in the near meadows. Martha, indeed, always maintained that Caleb had made a bad bargain with the new master—did not the whole neighbourhood pronounce the young widower a skinflint?—but Caleb, who had magisterially211 negotiated with the new bailiff the swapping212 of his wood-ashes for straw for her pet pig, Maria, limited his discussions with her to theology. “When one talks law and high business,” he maintained, “we must goo back to the days afore Eve was dug out of Adam.”
V
Bundock, restored to his superiority by the deprecatory expectancy213 of the old couple, observed graciously that there was no need to apologize: anybody was liable to have a letter. Indeed, he added generously, with nine boys dotted about the world, Frog Farm might have been far more troublesome.
“Eleven, Mr. Bundock,” corrected Martha with a quiver in her voice.
“I don’t reckon the dead and buried, Mrs. Flynt. They don’t write—not even to the dead-letter office.” He cut short a chuckle214, remembering this was no laughing matter.
“And the other nine might as well be dead for all the letters you bring me,” Martha retorted bitterly.
“No news is good news, dear heart,” Caleb put in, as though to shield the postman. He was not so sure now that this unfortunate letter had not disturbed her slowly won resignation. “We’ve always yeared of anything unpleasant—like when Daniel married the Kaffir lady.”
“That was Christopher,” said Martha.
“Ow, ay, Christopher. ’Tis a wonder he could take to a thick-lipped lady. Oi couldn’t fancy a black-skinned woman, even if she was the Queen of Sheba. Oi shook hands with one once, though, and it felt soft. They rub theirselves with oil to keep theirselves lithe215.”
Martha replied only with a sigh. The Kaffir lady, for all her coloured and heathen horror, at least supplied a nucleus216 for visualization217, whereas all her other stalwart sons, together with one married daughter, had vanished into the four corners of the Empire—building it up with an unconsciousness mightier218 than the sword—and only the children who had died young—two girls and a boy—remained securely hers, fixed219 against the flux220 of life and adventure. Occasionally indeed an indirect rumour of her live sons’ doings came to her, but correspondence was not the habit of those days when even amid the wealthier classes a boy might go out to India and his safe arrival remain unknown for a semestrium or more. The foreign postage, too, was no inconsiderable check to the literary impulse or encouragement to the lazy. Indeed postage stamps were still confined to half a dozen countries. It was but a decade since they had come in at all and letters with envelopes or an extra sheet had ceased to be “double”; postcards were still unknown, and in many parts postmen came as infrequently as carriers, people often hastening to scrawl221 replies which the same men might convey to the mail-bags.
“Kaffirs ain’t black,” corrected Bundock. “They’re coffee-coloured. That’s what the name means.”
Martha sighed again. So far had her brooding fantasy gone that she sometimes pictured baby grandchildren as innocently dusky as the hybrid222 young fantails which no solicitude223 could keep out of her dovecot, and which were a reminder224 that heaven knew no colour-boundaries.
“Don’t be nervous,” Bundock reassured her. “I’ll find it.”
“Oh, no hurry, no hurry!” said Caleb, beginning to perspire225 distressingly226 under the postman’s exertions227 and to mop his hairy brow with his brook-sopped handkerchief. How these youngsters grew up! he was thinking. Brats228 one had seen spanked229 waxed into mighty230 officers of State. “Shall I brush your breeches, Posty?” he inquired tactlessly.
“What’s the use till they’re dry?” snapped Bundock.
“Come in and dry them before the kitchen fire,” said Martha.
“This sun’ll dry them,” he said coldly.
“Not so slick as the fire,” Caleb blundered on. “?’Tain’t like you was a serpent walking on your belly231.”
Bundock flushed angrily and right-wheeled to hide the seat of his trousers. “Why you should go and catch your letter when the roads are in that state——!” he muttered.
“You could ha’ waited till they dried!” Caleb said deprecatingly.
“I did wait a post-day or so,” said Bundock with undiminished resentment232. “But there’s such a thing, uncle, as duty to my Queen. Things might have got damper instead of drier, like the time the floods were out beyond Long Bradmarsh, and I might have had to swim out to you.”
Caleb was impressed. “But can you swim?” he inquired.
“That’s not the point,” growled233 Bundock. “I don’t say I’d ha’ faced the elements for you, but if somebody with real traffic and entanglement234 were living here, e.g. the Duke of Wellington, I should have come through fire and water.”
“The Dook at a farm!” Caleb smiled incredulously.
“In the Battle of Waterloo,” said Bundock icily, “the whole fight was whether he or Boney should hold a farm.”
“You don’t say!” cried Caleb excitedly. “And who got it?”
“Well, it wasn’t Froggy’s Farm.” And Bundock roared with glee and renewed self-respect. Caleb guffawed235 too, but merely for elation49 at the Frenchy’s defeat.
The calm and piping voice of Martha broke in upon this robustious duet, pointing out that there was no Duke in residence and no need for natation, but that since Jinny called for orders every Friday he might have given her the letter.
“Give the Queen’s mail to a girl!” Bundock looked apoplectic236.
“Jinny never loses anything,” said Martha, unimpressed.
“She’ll lose her character if she ain’t careful,” he said viciously; “driving of a Sunday with Farmer Gale.”
“That’s onny to chapel,” said Caleb.
“A man that rich’ll never take her there!” sneered237 Bundock.
“Why, Jinny’s only a child,” said Martha, roused at last. “And the best girl breathing. Look how she slaves for her grandfather!”
“Jinny! Jinny!” Bundock muttered. “Nothing but Jinny all the day and all the way.” How often indeed had she snatched the gossip from his mouth, staled his earth-shaking tidings, even as the Bellman anticipated his jokes! “Let me catch her carrying letters, that’s all. I’ll have the law on her, child or no child. I expect she blows that horn to make the old folks think she’s got postal238 rights!” He did not mention that in his vendetta239 against the girl it was he who never hesitated to poach on the rival preserves, and that he was even now carrying a certain packet of tracts240 which he had found at “The Black Sheep” awaiting Jinny’s day, and which he had bagged on the ground that he had a letter for the same address.
“Jinny would have saved your legs,” said Martha dryly.
Caleb turned on her. “Ay, and his leggings too!” he burst forth242 with savage243 sarcasm244. But at great moments deep calls to deep. “Women don’t understand a man’s duty. And Posty’s every inch a man.”
Bundock tried to look his full manhood: fortunately the discovery of the letter at this instant enabled him to gain an inch or two by throwing back his shoulders, so long bent245 under the royal yoke246.
“Mrs. Flynt,” he announced majestically247.
“For me?” gasped Martha.
“For you,” said Bundock implacably. “Mrs. Flynt, Frog Farm, Swash End, Little Bradmarsh, near Chipstone, Essex. Not that I hold it’s proper to write to a man’s wife while he’s alive—but my feelings don’t count.” And he tendered her the letter.
“It does seem more becoming for Flynt to have his Cousin Caroline’s letter,” admitted Martha, shrinking back meekly248.
Bundock relaxed in beams. “I’m wonderfully pleased with you, Mrs. Flynt,” he said, handing Caleb the letter. “You’re a shining example, for all you stand up for that chit. When I think of Deacon Mawhood’s wife and how she defies him with that bonnet249 of hers——!”
“What sort of bonnet?” said Martha, pricking250 up her ears.
“You haven’t heard?” Bundock’s satisfaction increased. “It’s like the Queen’s—drat her! I mean, drat Mrs. Mawhood—made with that new plait—‘Brilliant’s’ the name. They turn the border of one edge of the straw inwards and that makes it all splendiferous.”
“Pomps and wanities,” groaned Caleb. “And she a deacon’s wife!”
Bundock sniggered. His sympathy with the husband was deeper and older than theology.
“I told you,” Martha reminded Caleb, “what would come of electing a ratcatcher a deacon.”
“A righteous ratcatcher,” maintained Caleb sturdily, “be higher than a hungodly emperor.”
“You haven’t got any emperors,” said the practical Martha.
“And how many kings have joined your Ecclesia?” put in Bundock.
“All the kings of righteousness!” answered Martha in trumpet-tones.
Bundock was quelled251. “Well, I can’t stop gammicking,” he said, shouldering his bag.
“Won’t you have a glass of pagles wine?” said Martha, relapsing to earth.
“No, thank you. I’ve got a letter for Frog Cottage too!”
“For Master Peartree!” cried Martha. “And all in one morning. Well, if that’s not a miracle!”
“You and your miracles!” he said with a Tom Paine brutality252. “Why I saved up yours till another came for Swash End. And so I’ve managed to kill——” His face suddenly changed. The brutal253 look turned beatific254. But his sentence was frozen. The good couple regarded him dubiously255.
“What’s amiss?” cried Martha.
Bundock gasped for expression like a salmon256 on a slab257. “To kill” burst from his lips again, but the rest was choked in a spasm258 of cachinnation.
“You’ll kill yourself laughin’,” said Caleb.
Bundock mastered himself with a mighty effort. “So as to kill—ha, ha, ha!—to kill—ha, ha, ha!—two frogs—ha, ha, ha!—with one stone!”
Martha corrected him coldly: “Two birds, you mean.”
“Ay,” corroborated259 Caleb, “the proverb be two birds.”
“But here,” Bundock explained between two convulsions, “it’s two frogs.”
Caleb shook his head. “Oi’ve lived here or by the saltings afore you was born, and brought up a mort o’ childer here. Two birds, sonny, two birds.”
Bundock’s closing chuckles260 died into ineffable261 contempt.
“Good morning,” he said firmly.
“You’re sure you won’t have a sip159 o’ pagles wine?” repeated Martha.
He shook his head sternly. “If I had time for drinking I’d have time to tell you all the news.” He turned on his heel, presenting the post-bag at them like a symbol of duty.
“Anything fresh?” murmured Martha.
Bundock veered262 round viciously. “D’you suppose all Bradmarsh is as sleepy as the Froggeries? Fresh? Why, there’s things as fresh as the thatch263 on Farmer Gale’s barn or the paint on Elijah Skindle’s new dog-hospital or the black band on the chimney-sweep’s Sunday hat.”
“Is Mrs. Whitefoot dead?” inquired Martha anxiously.
“No, ’twas only his mother-in-law in London, and when he went up to the funeral he had his pocket picked. Quite spoilt his day, I reckon—ha, ha, ha!”
“Buryin’ ain’t a laughin’ matter,” rebuked264 Caleb stolidly266.
“It depends who’s buried,” said Bundock. “I shouldn’t cry over Mrs. Mawhood. Which reminds me that the Deacon sent out the Bellman to say he couldn’t be responsible for her debts.”
“Good!” cried Caleb. Martha paled, but was silent.
“Only the Bellman spoilt it as usual with his silly old jokes. Proclaimed that the Deacon had put his foot down on his wife’s bonnet.”
“He, he, he!” laughed the old couple.
Bundock turned a hopeless hump. “Good morning!”
“And thank you kindly267 for the letter,” called Martha.
“Don’t mention it,” said Bundock. “And besides I killed—ho, ho, ho!—two frogs!”
They heard his explosions on the quiet air long after he and his royal hump had vanished along the Bradmarsh road.
VI
Caleb’s eyes followed the heaving mail-bag.
“Bundock’s buoy-oy fares to be jolly this mornin’.”
“He does be lively sometimes,” agreed Martha.
Suddenly Caleb became aware of the letter in his hand.
“Dash my buttons, Martha! We disremembered to ask him to read it.”
It can no longer be concealed268 that despite her erudition Martha could not read writing nor write save by imitating print. The cursive alphabet was Ph?nician to her.
“I didn’t forget,” she answered with her masterly calm. “Bundock’s too leaky. You heard him tell all the gossip and scandal. And it ain’t true about Jinny, for Master Peartree saw them riding in the other Sunday and Farmer Gale’s little boy sat between them. Besides, Bundock’s a man, and I don’t want a man to read my letter from Caroline.”
The point seemed arguable, but Caleb meekly suggested the little boy she had just mentioned—only a mile and a half away. He would be at school, Martha pointed out.
Caleb looked at the letter as a knifeless cook at an oyster269.
“What’s the clock-time?” he asked.
“Not quite certain. I set the clock by Jinny last Friday, but it stopped suddenly yesterday, when I was reading you St. Paul’s Epistle to the Corinthians. Haven’t you heard it not striking?”
Caleb shook his head.
“Afeared Oi’m gooin’ deafish, dear heart. But we’ll know the clock-time on Friday,” he added philosophically270. “And when Jinny comes she can read the letter likewise.”
But Martha was blushing. “No, no, not Jinny! She’s a young girl.”
“Thank the Lord for her lively face!” agreed Caleb.
“Maybe she oughtn’t to read a letter to a married woman,” explained Martha shyly, “being a girl without mother or sisters, brought up by her grandfather.”
“But Cousin Caroline wouldn’t write naught improper271.”
“Of course not—but it mightn’t be proper for an orphan272 girl to read. Maybe it’s not even proper for you, and that’s why she addressed it to me.”
Caleb felt as bemused as before a Bundock witticism273.
“Joulterhead!” said Martha, with a loving smile. “And you’ve had fourteen!”
The letter fell from his nerveless fingers. “Cousin Caroline confined again!” And the clacking of all those innumerable infants filled the air—like the barking of the black geese on the wintry mud-flats. But he recovered himself. “Why, she’s a widow, not a pair.”
“Widows can be re-paired,” said Martha.
“Must have been a middlin’ bold man to goo courtin’ a family that size,” Caleb reflected.
He picked up the letter and poised274 it in his hand.
“Don’t feel as weighty as St. Paul’s letters,” he said.
“The text doesn’t mean his letters were heavy,” explained Martha. “?‘His letters, say they, are weighty and powerful’—that’s what I was reading you when the clock stopped. Any fool can write a heavy letter—he’s only got to write on a slate275.”
“That’s a true word,” said Caleb, admiring her.
“Whereas,” pursued Martha, “the whole Bible has been got inside a nutshell.”
“Lord!” said Caleb. “I suppose it was a cokernut!”
“Not at all. Only a walnut276.”
“Fancy! But was there walnuts277 in the Holy Land?”
“I didn’t say ’twas done in Palestine.”
“Then there wasn’t walnuts there?” His face fell.
“I don’t remember—oh, yes—Solomon asked his love to come into the garden of nuts.”
“But it don’t say walnuts?” he inquired wistfully.
“I can’t say it does.”
“Then maybe there won’t be pickled walnuts in the New Jerusalem?”
“Not all the righteous have your carnal appetite,” said Martha severely278.
“You just said Solomon’s sweetheart liked nuts,” said Caleb stoutly279. “And dedn’t the Holy Land flow with milk and honey?” He had a vision of it, seamed and riddled280 like his native mud-flat, but with lacteal creeks281 and mellifluous282 pools.
“You put me out so,” snapped Bundock, suddenly reappearing before the engrossed283 couple, “that I forgot to kill my two frogs after all!” And going to the Frog Cottage doorway284, he knocked officially before opening it and committing the letter to the empty interior.
“You’ll be witness that I delivered it constitutionally,” he said, “for I can’t be expected to come a third time.”
“?’Tis a windfall your coming a second,” cried Caleb eagerly, “bein’ as we can’t read the letter.”
Martha made facial contortions285 to remind him that Bundock was barred. “?’Tain’t you we want to read it,” he hurriedly added, “but when a letter comes all of an onplunge, time a man’s peacefully trimmin’ the werges, he ain’t prepared like. You haven’t got a moment—did, Oi’d be glad o’ your counsel on the matter.”
“Well, since I’ve wasted so much of the Queen’s time——!” said Bundock, flattered.
They adjourned286 to the parlour to give him a rest, and denuding287 himself of both cap and bag of office, he occupied oracularly the long-unused arm-chair, while Caleb, uncomfortably perched on a seat of slippery horsehair, started to unfold the situation.
“Take off your hat,” broke in Martha. “Mr. Bundock will be thinking you’ve no manners.”
“Oi’ll be soon gooin’ outside again,” said Caleb obstinately, and re-started his story.
“Do let me explain,” interrupted Martha at last.
“Do let me get a word in,” cried Caleb.
“Well, take off your hat.”
“Oi’ll be gooin’ outside soon, Oi tell ye.”
“Then you can put it on again.”
“Oi shall never make Bundock sensible, ef you keep interruptin’ me.”
“You see, Mr. Bundock, it’s this way——” began Martha.
“Oi’ve told him all that,” said Caleb. “Let me speak.”
“Well, take off your hat,” said Martha.
“Oi’ll be gooin’ outside agen, won’t Oi?”
Bundock was examining the letter which had been laid on the table as for an operation.
“But it don’t look like a woman’s writing,” he interrupted. “That would be spidery.”
“?’Tain’t likely she could write herself in that condition,” began Caleb, but Martha’s face again hushed him down.
“There’s neither seal nor sticking envelope,” pursued the expert. “Nothing but a wafer. Comes from a poor man.”
“Her new husband,” said Caleb, and set Martha grimacing288 again.
“Oi’ll be soon gooin’ outside,” he protested, misunderstanding.
“What you want,” summed up Bundock judicially289, “is a mixture of discretion290 with matrimony, seasoned with a sprinkle of learning.”
“He talks like the Book!” said Caleb admiringly.
“But where is this mixture?” inquired Martha eagerly.
“She don’t exist,” said Bundock. “But Miss Gentry291 is the nearest lady that can read, and Fate is just sending me with a letter and a packet to her.”
The couple looked doubtful.
“She ain’t matrimony,” said Caleb.
“No,” admitted Bundock, “but I guess she’s old enough to be, though I haven’t seen her census paper—he, he! And besides she’s a dressmaker!”
“What’s that to do with it?” asked Caleb.
“I see your missus understands,” said Bundock mysteriously.
“But she won’t walk five miles to read my letter,” urged the blushing Martha.
Caleb had one of the great inspirations of his life.
“And ain’t it time you got a new gownd?”
Martha flushed up. “Oh, Caleb! Don’t let us run to vanity!”
“Wanity, mother! It ain’t tinkling292 ornaments293 nor cauls nor nose-jewels,” protested Caleb, with a vague reminiscence of her Biblical readings. “And ye’ve had naught since the sucking-pig Oi bought ye for your sixtieth birthday.”
But Martha shook her head, quoting firmly:
“Let me be dressed fine as I will,
?Birds, flowers, and worms exceed me still.”
“Then why not a bonnet?” suggested Bundock. “That would be cheaper than a gown.”
“Ay, a bonnet!” agreed Caleb, though he sounded it a “boarnt.”
Martha flashed a resentful glance which, however, Bundock took for but another thrust at Caleb’s obstinate hat.
“I don’t want a new bonnet,” she cried indignantly.
“It needn’t be new,” said Bundock helpfully. “Just have your old bonnet whitened. That’s on her bill-paper:
‘Bonnets294 Bleached295 As Good As New.’?”
“That’s a good notion,” said Caleb. “You don’t want it bran-span-new. Posty’ll tell her to come over here to get your old boarnt and then we’ll spring Cousin Caroline’s letter on her for her to read!” He chuckled296. Bundock chuckled too, swelling297 at the adoption298 of his advice.
“And now that I’ve stopped gammicking so long, I may as well sample that cowslip wine, Mrs. Flynt,” he observed graciously.
But Martha had vanished.
VII
Miss Gentry had apartments in one of the most elegant cottages to be found in Little Bradmarsh. Protected by palings, it stood all alone on the high road, painted a vivid green, with three pollarded lime-trees in front like sentinel mops. At the base of the trim little garden the front door rose above two wooden steps with a little porch and ostentated a brass299 plate with the inscription300:
Miss Gentry
Late of Colchester
Practical Dressmaker and Milliner.
In proof of which, from the cottage window, whose green shutters301 lay folded back, a visite or jacket of black silk, and a polka jacket, and a trio of straw bonnets, Tuscan or Leghorn, appealed to the passing eye: one of them a bonnet cap with a quilting of net and broad blue strings302, another resplendent with purple ribbons and the new-treated straw plait that the Queen and Mrs. Mawhood favoured, and the third of drawn303 silk on little wires. The pictures of the period with a wonderful unanimity304 and monotony display a single style of bonnet, but artists in those days were men, and Miss Gentry could have told you better. “I’ve looked down from a pew in the gallery of my Colchester Church on Easter Sunday,” she told Jinny once, “and tried in vain to find two fellow-bonnets.”
But her professional door with its immaculate paint and shining brass was so forbiddingly respectable that clients mostly preferred to seek access through her landlady305’s back door, where the flutter of washing from the clothes-line on its green square poles in the little orchard was reassuring101; not to mention her chickens.
“Practical” was the unfailing adjective in those parts. Miss Gentry was not undeserving of it, for her dresses were cheap without being vulgar, while her knack306 of whitening the straw enabled the poorest, in the succession of new bonnets, to keep pace with Victoria on the throne. A stranger might have thought another species of dressmaker existed, whose confections, though exquisite307, would never fit, or who designed, but could not execute; whereas the only other person for miles round at all in the sartorial308 line was an equally “Practical Breeches-Maker,” placarding from a flower-potted cottage window his “Strong, Stylish146 Pantaloons.” But the thought of unpractical pantaloons—say, without buttons or belts—or of theoretical trousers, was simple compared with the image evoked309 by Mr. Henry Whitefoot’s door-plate, proclaiming that victim of the London pick-pocket a “Practical Chimney-Sweep”: as by contrast with some exquisite dream Ethiopian, only platonically black, darkly revolving310 flues and fireplaces, sweeping311 shadow-chimneys with fleckless brushes, and carrying off ideal bags of the soot21 that never was on sea or land.
But perhaps in Miss Gentry’s case the word “Practical” was necessary to offset312 the business-damage of the tradition that had followed her from her native Colchester. For Miss Gentry had had a “revelation.” It had occurred in her girlhood, but the halo of it still circled round her chignon. Seated in church, full of worldly thoughts—possibly studying the infinite variety of bonnets—she had seen the stained-glass angel move. What this flutter of wing and lifting of leg “revealed” had never been clear: unless—as a wag maintained—it portended313 the flight of Miss Gentry herself. That hegira314 of hers from Colchester to Bradmarsh had not, alas315, increased her prophetic prestige: what right has a “furriner” to come with “revelations”? Even her fellow-Churchfolk—she was one of the few Bradmarshians that clung to the Establishment—looked askance on the miracle, feeling it indeed as reprehensibly Papish, and as lending colour to the suspicion that she was a “French” dressmaker: a suspicion strengthened at once by her elegant handiwork, and by her full-bosomed plenitude, swarthy complexion, and more than embryonic316 moustache. It was forgotten that if these did imply Gallic blood, it would have been, not the Papish, but that Huguenot strain whose inpour into the county had at one time carried the French liturgy317 into Essex churches. As a matter of fact Miss Gentry was so fanatical a Church woman that she supplemented all her bills and receipts by tracts in defence of the Establishment, purchased at her own expense from a mysterious reservoir in Colchester. Nevertheless, such is the contrariety of mankind, the large accession she represented to the parish church—where on wet Sundays only the Apostle’s two or three were gathered together—was discounted by her felt queerness.
And it was, still more oddly, from the Peculiars that she received the bulk of her custom, and this despite her top-lofty airs towards them, and the tracts suggesting that souls, no less than bonnets, could be bleached as good as new. Possibly their more elastic318 spirituality vibrated more readily to the moving angel: perhaps the real bond of sympathy was that they knew her unpopular with the Church: like themselves a butt114 of legend, and lacking even their advantage of Bradmarsh birth.
But even the Churchwomen did not utterly deny patronage319 to this talented needlewoman, nor refuse her the deference320 due to weekday gloves, a parasol, and bills with printed headlines; they did not even discountenance her crusade against Dissent183, though her copious322 allusions to Providence323 “moving in a mysterious way” were felt to be too broadly autobiographic. Moreover, in view of the caustic324 remarks upon cardinals325, Puseyites, black-robed priests, and winking326 pictures, by which her tracts began to diversify327 the attack upon Dissent—for John Bull was getting alarmed at the new Roman invasion—it was a source of surprise that she failed to see the beam in her own eye. For if Virgins328 could not wink127 in Rimini, why should Angels wobble in Colchester? To add to her oddity, her brain was full of ancient maggots of astrology and medicine, crept in from “Culpeper’s Herbal,” her one bedside book.
That Bundock should be bringing a bonnet commission to this excellent and industrious329, if freakish female, was the more laudable, inasmuch as he nourished a prejudice against her and her tracts. Not that he held with Catholic or evangelical Dissenters330 any more than with the Church proper. As a follower331 of Tom Paine, whose “Age of Reason” he read piously332 in bed every Sunday morning—the passage asserting that to make a true miracle Jonah should have swallowed the whale was a regular Lesson—he regarded himself as a great free spirit in an illiterate and priest-ridden world, one whose God was everywhere except in Church. Not that he could follow the Master’s excursions into trigonometry or astronomy or knew anything of his idol’s “Rights of Man,” being indeed singularly free from the contemporary unrest of the industrial townsman, and combining, like greater men, a crusty conservatism for the old order with a radical333 rejection334 of its spinal creed. Possibly his devotion to the still youthful Queen was part of his softness for the sex, for the only part of “The Age of Reason” that left him unconvinced was its impugnment335 of the wisdom of Solomon, its contention336 that “seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines are worse than none.” But it was not Tom Paine, nor even Bob Taylor’s “The Devil’s Chaplain,” it was the long years of his father’s paralysis337 that had first sapped his faith in the pharmacop?ian aspects of prayer, though he considerately concealed his defection from his bed-ridden parent, and even the visiting elders withheld338 the racking information. The old Bundock was not, however, to be deceived, on this point at least.
“My son is moral, only moral,” he would say, with a sigh.
To such a temperament339 Miss Gentry must needs be antipathetic, and to mark his distaste, Bundock was wont340 to leave the Colchester packets of tracts as well as the “practical” correspondence at the side door, shedding the light of his countenance321 only on the landlady. But on this occasion, having a message to deliver as well as a missive and a packet, he performed resoundingly on the green knocker, and Miss Gentry herself, attended by Squibs, her ebony cat, appeared in the narrow, little passage, frenziedly stitching at a feminine fabric341. Behind her, through the open back door, was a gleam of blossoming orchard and dangling chemises.
“Good morning, Bundock,” she said graciously; “lovely weather.”
“It’s all right overhead,” he grumbled342, “but underfoot, especially at Frog Farm—whew!”
“You had to go to Frog Farm?” she inquired sympathetically.
“Yes, but there was a letter for Frog Cottage too. So I—he, he!—I killed two frogs with one stone.”
“Two birds, you mean,” said Miss Gentry, embosoming her letter with a romantic air and laying her packet on a chair. She added in alarm: “Would you like a glass of water?”
“I don’t need drink,” said Bundock, mastering the apoplectic assault, “it’s other folks that need brains.”
“My, were the old Flynts unusually trying?” she asked sympathetically.
“They want you to clean the gammer’s bonnet,” he answered brusquely.
“That’s not so foolish.” Her needle was moving busily again. “Have you brought it?”
“No.”
“That does seem foolish.”
“I’m not a bonnet-bearer! They want you to fetch it.”
“Me! Five miles to clean a bonnet! When I’m so busy! And in all that mud!”
“It ain’t so muddy this side o’ Swash End, and it’s not two miles each way by the fields.”
“Yes, with horrid343 cows!”
Bundock felt protective. “Cows ain’t bulls.”
“Well, I won’t go. You tell Mrs. Flynt she must come to me.”
“How can I tell her? I shan’t likely be going that way for months, thank my stars.” Miss Gentry quivered a little at the expression, wondering under what planet he was born.
“Well, I’ll write to her,” she said conclusively344.
“What! And me take the letter!” In his indignation he almost blurted out that the same difficulty of reading it would arise.
“Then I’ll tell Jinny to bring the bonnet!”
Bundock felt baffled. Instead of cunningly helping345 the Flynts to get their letter read, he had only secured that minx of a carrier a commission. He scowled346 at the dressmaker, seeing her moustache as big as a guardsman’s and believing the worst of the legends about it: even that the real reason she left Colchester was that the bristly-bearded oysterman to whom she was engaged had refused to shave unless she did. “I’ll be wishing you a good morning,” he said icily, hitching347 up his bag.
“Good morning,” said Miss Gentry. But she omitted to slam the door in his face as he expected, indeed she had gradually advanced into the porch, stitching unrelaxingly. And Bundock now became acutely aware that he could not turn his back on her without revealing the stain on Her Majesty’s uniform, that even by lowering the mail-bag he had just hitched348 up, he could not cover up what certain rude ploughboys had already commented on. He understood it was green. In this dreadful situation he began backing slowly as from the presence of royalty349, making desperate conversation to cover his retreat.
“I did give you your tracts, didn’t I?” he babbled350.
“If you mean the packet,” said Miss Gentry in stern rebuke265, “there it lies. I haven’t opened it!”
“Do you mean that I have?” he asked indignantly, gaining another yard in this rear-guard action. “We don’t have to open an oyster to know what’s inside.”
Miss Gentry’s brow grew as swarthy as her moustache—at the reminder of her lost oysterman, Bundock supposed in dismay.
“Don’t you always send out tracts after I bring you packets?” he explained hastily, still retreating with his face to the foe351.
“Not when they’re patterns,” said Miss Gentry crushingly. “And how do you know it’s not The Englishwomen’s Magazine?”
She turned back into the passage, and he hoped she would slam the door on her triumph, but she took up the packet instead. “We shall soon see,” and snipping352 the string with mysteriously produced scissors, she read out unctuously353: “Ishmael and the Wilderness354.”
Bundock did not know which way to turn. Why in the name of propriety355 did she not go back to her workroom and close her door? Miss Gentry, without the clue to his lingering attitude, observed invitingly356, tapping the packet: “If this won’t make you see the beauties of the Establishment, nothing will.”
He grinned uncomfortably. “Always willing to see the beauties of any establishment.”
It was very strange. Give him a female, even with a moustache, even tepefied by tracts, and something from the deeps rose up to philander357. Not that there wanted a lurid358 fascination in this exotic and literate lady: his very loathing359 was a tribute to a vivid personality.
Miss Gentry, however, was shocked. She put down the tracts. She knew herself “born under Venus,” but romance and respectability were never disjoined in her day-dreams, and as the channel of a revelation she felt profaned360. “Don’t talk like that,” she said sharply. “You’re a married man.”
“?’Tis a married man knows how to appreciate beauty,” he replied, receding361 farther nevertheless as in ironic362 commentary.
“For shame!” Her needle stabbed on. “And you setting up to be holy!”
“Me?” Surprise brought his strategic retreat to a standstill. “I never set up to be a stained-glass saint.”
Again he had blundered. The black eyes flashed fire. “You who move mountains!” she cried angrily.
“Me move mountains?” Bundock was bewildered.
“A little grain of mustard-seed,” he heard her saying more tremulously. “And if a sycamine-tree could move—! Surely you don’t hold with the unbelievers!”
It was precisely363 whom Bundock did hold with, but the big black eyes seemed suddenly tearful and appealing, her needle seemed entering his breast, and she swam before him as a fine, voluptuous364 female. Through the passage he saw the apple-trees in bridal bloom and the white feminine washing, and the Master’s remark on the apparent miracle of the extraction of electric flashes from the human body thrilled in his memory.
“Of course not,” he heard himself saying soothingly, while his legs felt going forward, losing all the ground so laboriously365 won.
“Then you do believe the angel moved?” she asked eagerly.
“Don’t I see her moving?” he replied.
Miss Gentry looked down from her doorstep more in sorrow than in anger. “You’re a married man!” she reminded him again.
“And does marriage pick out a man’s eyes—like a goat-sucker?” He felt too near her now to back out, and he put forth his hand for hers, not without nervousness at the needle. Could his father have seen him now, he might have thought his son not even “moral.” But Miss Gentry dexterously366 met the amorous367 palm with a tract241. “That’ll open your eyes,” she said.
To feel a flabby piece of paper instead of a warm hand is not conducive368 to theological persuasion369: all Bundock’s dissenting370 blood rushed to his head.
“There’s two opinions about that,” he snorted.
“There are two opinions,” Miss Gentry assented placidly371; “one wrong and the other mine.”
“Oh, of course!” he sneered. “The Church is always infallible.”
“We’re eighteen and a half centuries old,” said Miss Gentry freezingly.
“Did you put that in your census paper?” retorted the humorist.
Miss Gentry winced372. She was weary of the jokes that had desolated373 Bradmarsh, yet she was conscious of having let her landlady’s estimate of her age go by default.
“I had no paper to fill up,” she reminded him frigidly374. “But if there was a census of religions, you’d certainly be among the mushrooms.”
“Better than being among the mummies.” Bundock’s father might have clapped his palsied hands, to hear this defender375 of the faith. But Miss Gentry mistook this fair retort in kind for another allusion89 to the personal census.
“I thought you could discuss like a gentleman!” It was a cunning shaft376, and Squibs, seizing this moment to rub herself against the postman’s leggings, he replied more mildly: “What’s the use of going by age—except the Age of Reason?”
“Then be guided by Reason.” Miss Gentry stitched implacably. “If the Almighty377 meant prayer to be medicine, why did He create castor-oil?”
Bundock was dumbfounded.
“Or Epsom salts?” she added triumphantly378.
“They’re for cattle which can’t pray,” he answered with an inspiration.
Miss Gentry’s needle stabbed the air. But she recovered herself. “Then why do you eat rhubarb pie?”
“Because it’s nice.” He grinned.
“But rhubarb’s a medicine!”
He countered cleverly. “We don’t mind taking medicine—so long as we’re well!” We! He was identifying himself with his despised Brethren: such is human nature under attack. But Miss Gentry was not at the end of her resources.
“Well, what do you do when you break your legs? Pray the bones straight?”
“But we don’t break our legs. I never heard of a Peculiar breaking his leg.”
“But why shouldn’t a Peculiar break his leg?”
“That’s not my affair. He don’t. I’ve got Peculiars all over my beat, and never have I known one to break a leg. A broken heart, now——!”
“But if he did break a leg?” persisted Miss Gentry.
“If any one could break a leg, it would be me!” he said crossly.
“Well, then what would you do—if you broke your leg?”
Bundock was worn out. “What’s the good of meeting troubles half-way?” he snapped, turning on his heel.
“Yours seem to have come more than half-way,” scoffed379 Miss Gentry.
Bundock clapped his hand to the mud-patch, stung in his tenderest part. He wheeled round prestissimo, raging with repartee380. But the door had closed—too late! Solitary381, the sable382 Squibs dominated the doorstep—like a sardonic383 spirit.
Bundock was turning away angrily, though now fearlessly, when with a sudden thought he caught up the cat and plucked out one of her hairs. It was not revenge—it was merely that his youngest daughter had a sty, for which he believed the black hair an infallible remedy.
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1
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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8
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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14
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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regenerating
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的现在分词 )；正反馈 | |
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annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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postponed
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| 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） | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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22
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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lapse
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| 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 | |
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25
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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wielded
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| 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） | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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30
proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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32
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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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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37
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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38
literate
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| n.学者；adj.精通文学的，受过教育的 | |
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39
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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41
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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42
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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43
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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investor
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| n.投资者，投资人 | |
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46
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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47
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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48
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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49
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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50
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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51
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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52
adumbrated
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| v.约略显示，勾画出…的轮廓( adumbrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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54
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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55
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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56
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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57
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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58
dazedly
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| 头昏眼花地，眼花缭乱地，茫然地 | |
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59
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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60
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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61
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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62
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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65
distension
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| n.扩张，膨胀(distention) | |
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66
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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68
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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69
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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70
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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71
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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presaged
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cataclysms
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| n.（突然降临的）大灾难( cataclysm的名词复数 ) | |
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74
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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75
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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76
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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oozy
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| adj.软泥的 | |
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78
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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79
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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80
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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81
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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83
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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84
census
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| n.(官方的)人口调查，人口普查 | |
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85
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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86
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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87
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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88
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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91
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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92
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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93
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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95
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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96
nibs
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| 上司，大人物； 钢笔尖，鹅毛管笔笔尖( nib的名词复数 )； 可可豆的碎粒； 小瑕疵 | |
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97
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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98
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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99
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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101
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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102
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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103
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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104
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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105
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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106
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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107
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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108
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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109
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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110
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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111
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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112
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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113
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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114
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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115
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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116
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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117
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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118
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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119
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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120
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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121
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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122
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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123
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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124
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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125
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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126
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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127
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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128
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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129
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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130
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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131
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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132
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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133
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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134
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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135
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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136
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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137
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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138
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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139
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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140
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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141
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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142
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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143
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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144
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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145
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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146
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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147
stylishness
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148
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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149
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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150
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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151
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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152
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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153
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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154
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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155
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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156
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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157
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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158
beguiler
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| n.欺骗者，消遣者 | |
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159
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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160
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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161
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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162
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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163
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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164
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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165
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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166
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
scooped
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|
| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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168
filthily
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| adv.污秽地，丑恶地，不洁地 | |
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169
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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170
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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171
blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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172
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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173
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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174
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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175
resounded
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|
| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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176
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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177
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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178
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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179
eking
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的现在分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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180
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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181
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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182
dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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183
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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184
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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185
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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186
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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187
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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188
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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189
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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190
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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191
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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192
salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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193
squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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194
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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195
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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196
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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197
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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198
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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199
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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200
halved
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| v.把…分成两半( halve的过去式和过去分词 )；把…减半；对分；平摊 | |
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201
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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202
petrifaction
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| n.石化，化石；吓呆；惊呆 | |
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203
latches
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| n.（门窗的）门闩( latch的名词复数 )；碰锁v.理解( latch的第三人称单数 )；纠缠；用碰锁锁上（门等）；附着（在某物上） | |
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204
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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205
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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206
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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207
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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208
meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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209
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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210
snugger
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| adj.整洁的( snug的比较级 )；温暖而舒适的；非常舒适的；紧身的 | |
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211
magisterially
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| adv.威严地 | |
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212
swapping
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| 交换，交换技术 | |
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213
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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214
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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215
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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216
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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217
visualization
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| n.想像，设想 | |
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218
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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219
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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220
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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221
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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222
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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223
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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224
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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225
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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226
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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227
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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228
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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229
spanked
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| v.用手掌打( spank的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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230
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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231
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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232
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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233
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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234
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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235
guffawed
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| v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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237
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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238
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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239
vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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240
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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241
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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242
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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243
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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244
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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245
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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246
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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247
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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248
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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249
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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250
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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251
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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253
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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254
beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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255
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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256
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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257
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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258
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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259
corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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260
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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261
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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262
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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263
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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264
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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265
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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266
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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267
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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268
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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269
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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270
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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271
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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272
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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273
witticism
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| n.谐语，妙语 | |
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274
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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275
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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276
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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277
walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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278
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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279
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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280
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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281
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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282
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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283
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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284
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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285
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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286
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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287
denuding
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| v.使赤裸( denude的现在分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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288
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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289
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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290
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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291
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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292
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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293
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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294
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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295
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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296
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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297
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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298
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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299
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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300
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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301
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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302
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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303
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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304
unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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305
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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306
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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307
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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308
sartorial
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| adj.裁缝的 | |
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309
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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310
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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311
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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312
offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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313
portended
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| v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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314
hegira
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| n.逃亡 | |
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315
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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316
embryonic
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| adj.胚胎的 | |
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317
liturgy
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| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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318
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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319
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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320
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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321
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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322
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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323
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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324
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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325
cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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326
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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327
diversify
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| v.（使）不同，（使）变得多样化 | |
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328
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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329
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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330
dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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331
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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332
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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333
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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334
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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335
impugnment
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| n.责难，攻击 | |
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336
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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337
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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338
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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339
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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340
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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341
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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342
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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343
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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344
conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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345
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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346
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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347
hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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348
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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349
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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350
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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351
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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352
snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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353
unctuously
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| adv.油腻地，油腔滑调地；假惺惺 | |
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354
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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355
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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356
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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357
philander
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| v.不真诚地恋爱，调戏 | |
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358
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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359
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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360
profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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361
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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362
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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363
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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364
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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365
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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366
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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367
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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368
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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369
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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370
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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371
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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372
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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373
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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374
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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375
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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376
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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377
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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378
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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379
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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380
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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381
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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382
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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383
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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