When the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow and elsewhere, in good company, the balance continued to waver between the rational explanation founded on the tinder-box, and the theory of an impenetrable mystery that mocked investigation15. The advocates of the tinder-box-and-pedlar view considered the other side a muddle16-headed and credulous17 set, who, because they themselves were wall-eyed, supposed everybody else to have the same blank outlook; and the adherents18 of the inexplicable19 more than hinted that their antagonists20 were animals inclined to crow before they had found any corn—mere21 skimming-dishes in point of depth—whose clear-sightedness consisted in supposing there was nothing behind a barn-door because they couldn't see through it; so that, though their controversy22 did not serve to elicit23 the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited24 some true opinions of collateral25 importance.
But while poor Silas's loss served thus to brush the slow current of Raveloe conversation, Silas himself was feeling the withering26 desolation of that bereavement27 about which his neighbours were arguing at their ease. To any one who had observed him before he lost his gold, it might have seemed that so withered28 and shrunken a life as his could hardly be susceptible29 of a bruise30, could hardly endure any subtraction31 but such as would put an end to it altogether. But in reality it had been an eager life, filled with immediate32 purpose which fenced him in from the wide, cheerless unknown. It had been a clinging life; and though the object round which its fibres had clung was a dead disrupted thing, it satisfied the need for clinging. But now the fence was broken down—the support was snatched away. Marner's thoughts could no longer move in their old round, and were baffled by a blank like that which meets a plodding33 ant when the earth has broken away on its homeward path. The loom34 was there, and the weaving, and the growing pattern in the cloth; but the bright treasure in the hole under his feet was gone; the prospect35 of handling and counting it was gone: the evening had no phantasm of delight to still the poor soul's craving36. The thought of the money he would get by his actual work could bring no joy, for its meagre image was only a fresh reminder37 of his loss; and hope was too heavily crushed by the sudden blow for his imagination to dwell on the growth of a new hoard38 from that small beginning.
He filled up the blank with grief. As he sat weaving, he every now and then moaned low, like one in pain: it was the sign that his thoughts had come round again to the sudden chasm—to the empty evening-time. And all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his dull fire, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his head with his hands, and moaned very low—not as one who seeks to be heard.
And yet he was not utterly40 forsaken42 in his trouble. The repulsion Marner had always created in his neighbours was partly dissipated by the new light in which this misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man who had more cunning than honest folks could come by, and, what was worse, had not the inclination43 to use that cunning in a neighbourly way, it was now apparent that Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own. He was generally spoken of as a "poor mushed creatur"; and that avoidance of his neighbours, which had before been referred to his ill-will and to a probable addiction45 to worse company, was now considered mere craziness.
This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various ways. The odour of Christmas cooking being on the wind, it was the season when superfluous46 pork and black puddings are suggestive of charity in well-to-do families; and Silas's misfortune had brought him uppermost in the memory of housekeepers47 like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. Crackenthorp, too, while he admonished48 Silas that his money had probably been taken from him because he thought too much of it and never came to church, enforced the doctrine49 by a present of pigs' pettitoes, well calculated to dissipate unfounded prejudices against the clerical character. Neighbours who had nothing but verbal consolation50 to give showed a disposition51 not only to greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some length when they encountered him in the village, but also to take the trouble of calling at his cottage and getting him to repeat all the details on the very spot; and then they would try to cheer him by saying, "Well, Master Marner, you're no worse off nor other poor folks, after all; and if you was to be crippled, the parish 'ud give you a 'lowance."
I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to comfort our neighbours with our words is that our goodwill52 gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass our lips. We can send black puddings and pettitoes without giving them a flavour of our own egoism; but language is a stream that is almost sure to smack53 of a mingled54 soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery and bungling56 sort, and took the shape least allied57 to the complimentary58 and hypocritical.
Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening expressly to let Silas know that recent events had given him the advantage of standing59 more favourably60 in the opinion of a man whose judgment61 was not formed lightly, opened the conversation by saying, as soon as he had seated himself and adjusted his thumbs—
"Come, Master Marner, why, you've no call to sit a-moaning. You're a deal better off to ha' lost your money, nor to ha' kep it by foul62 means. I used to think, when you first come into these parts, as you were no better nor you should be; you were younger a deal than what you are now; but you were allays63 a staring, white-faced creatur, partly like a bald-faced calf64, as I may say. But there's no knowing: it isn't every queer-looksed thing as Old Harry's had the making of—I mean, speaking o' toads65 and such; for they're often harmless, like, and useful against varmin. And it's pretty much the same wi' you, as fur as I can see. Though as to the yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if you brought that sort o' knowledge from distant parts, you might ha' been a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge wasn't well come by, why, you might ha' made up for it by coming to church reg'lar; for, as for the children as the Wise Woman charmed, I've been at the christening of 'em again and again, and they took the water just as well. And that's reasonable; for if Old Harry's a mind to do a bit o' kindness for a holiday, like, who's got anything against it? That's my thinking; and I've been clerk o' this parish forty year, and I know, when the parson and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, there's no cussing o' folks as have a mind to be cured without a doctor, let Kimble say what he will. And so, Master Marner, as I was saying—for there's windings66 i' things as they may carry you to the fur end o' the prayer-book afore you get back to 'em—my advice is, as you keep up your sperrits; for as for thinking you're a deep un, and ha' got more inside you nor 'ull bear daylight, I'm not o' that opinion at all, and so I tell the neighbours. For, says I, you talk o' Master Marner making out a tale—why, it's nonsense, that is: it 'ud take a 'cute man to make a tale like that; and, says I, he looked as scared as a rabbit."
During this discursive67 address Silas had continued motionless in his previous attitude, leaning his elbows on his knees, and pressing his hands against his head. Mr. Macey, not doubting that he had been listened to, paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, but Marner remained silent. He had a sense that the old man meant to be good-natured and neighbourly; but the kindness fell on him as sunshine falls on the wretched—he had no heart to taste it, and felt that it was very far off him.
"Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to say to that?" said Mr. Macey at last, with a slight accent of impatience68.
"Aye, aye, to be sure: I thought you would," said Mr. Macey; "and my advice is—have you got a Sunday suit?"
"No," said Marner.
"I doubted it was so," said Mr. Macey. "Now, let me advise you to get a Sunday suit: there's Tookey, he's a poor creatur, but he's got my tailoring business, and some o' my money in it, and he shall make a suit at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can come to church, and be a bit neighbourly. Why, you've never heared me say "Amen" since you come into these parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it'll be poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I mayn't be equil to stand i' the desk at all, come another winter." Here Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting some sign of emotion in his hearer; but not observing any, he went on. "And as for the money for the suit o' clothes, why, you get a matter of a pound a-week at your weaving, Master Marner, and you're a young man, eh, for all you look so mushed. Why, you couldn't ha' been five-and-twenty when you come into these parts, eh?"
Silas started a little at the change to a questioning tone, and answered mildly, "I don't know; I can't rightly say—it's a long while since."
After receiving such an answer as this, it is not surprising that Mr. Macey observed, later on in the evening at the Rainbow, that Marner's head was "all of a muddle", and that it was to be doubted if he ever knew when Sunday came round, which showed him a worse heathen than many a dog.
Another of Silas's comforters, besides Mr. Macey, came to him with a mind highly charged on the same topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright's wife. The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely70 regular in their church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a person in the parish who would not have held that to go to church every Sunday in the calendar would have shown a greedy desire to stand well with Heaven, and get an undue71 advantage over their neighbours—a wish to be better than the "common run", that would have implied a reflection on those who had had godfathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and had an equal right to the burying-service. At the same time, it was understood to be requisite72 for all who were not household servants, or young men, to take the sacrament at one of the great festivals: Squire Cass himself took it on Christmas-day; while those who were held to be "good livers" went to church with greater, though still with moderate, frequency.
Mrs. Winthrop was one of these: she was in all respects a woman of scrupulous73 conscience, so eager for duties that life seemed to offer them too scantily74 unless she rose at half-past four, though this threw a scarcity75 of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, which it was a constant problem with her to remove. Yet she had not the vixenish temper which is sometimes supposed to be a necessary condition of such habits: she was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it was to seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of life, and pasture her mind upon them. She was the person always first thought of in Raveloe when there was illness or death in a family, when leeches76 were to be applied, or there was a sudden disappointment in a monthly nurse. She was a "comfortable woman"—good-looking, fresh-complexioned, having her lips always slightly screwed, as if she felt herself in a sick-room with the doctor or the clergyman present. But she was never whimpering; no one had seen her shed tears; she was simply grave and inclined to shake her head and sigh, almost imperceptibly, like a funereal77 mourner who is not a relation. It seemed surprising that Ben Winthrop, who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along so well with Dolly; but she took her husband's jokes and joviality78 as patiently as everything else, considering that "men would be so", and viewing the stronger sex in the light of animals whom it had pleased Heaven to make naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey-cocks.
This good wholesome79 woman could hardly fail to have her mind drawn80 strongly towards Silas Marner, now that he appeared in the light of a sufferer; and one Sunday afternoon she took her little boy Aaron with her, and went to call on Silas, carrying in her hand some small lard-cakes, flat paste-like articles much esteemed81 in Raveloe. Aaron, an apple-cheeked youngster of seven, with a clean starched82 frill which looked like a plate for the apples, needed all his adventurous83 curiosity to embolden85 him against the possibility that the big-eyed weaver might do him some bodily injury; and his dubiety was much increased when, on arriving at the Stone-pits, they heard the mysterious sound of the loom.
"Ah, it is as I thought," said Mrs. Winthrop, sadly.
They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them; but when he did come to the door he showed no impatience, as he would once have done, at a visit that had been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly86, his heart had been as a locked casket with its treasure inside; but now the casket was empty, and the lock was broken. Left groping in darkness, with his prop55 utterly gone, Silas had inevitably87 a sense, though a dull and half-despairing one, that if any help came to him it must come from without; and there was a slight stirring of expectation at the sight of his fellow-men, a faint consciousness of dependence88 on their goodwill. He opened the door wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise returning her greeting than by moving the armchair a few inches as a sign that she was to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon as she was seated, removed the white cloth that covered her lard-cakes, and said in her gravest way—
"I'd a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the lard-cakes turned out better nor common, and I'd ha' asked you to accept some, if you'd thought well. I don't eat such things myself, for a bit o' bread's what I like from one year's end to the other; but men's stomichs are made so comical, they want a change—they do, I know, God help 'em."
Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, who thanked her kindly and looked very close at them, absently, being accustomed to look so at everything he took into his hand—eyed all the while by the wondering bright orbs89 of the small Aaron, who had made an outwork of his mother's chair, and was peeping round from behind it.
"There's letters pricked90 on 'em," said Dolly. "I can't read 'em myself, and there's nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but they've a good meaning, for they're the same as is on the pulpit-cloth at church. What are they, Aaron, my dear?"
Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork.
"Oh, go, that's naughty," said his mother, mildly. "Well, whativer the letters are, they've a good meaning; and it's a stamp as has been in our house, Ben says, ever since he was a little un, and his mother used to put it on the cakes, and I've allays put it on too; for if there's any good, we've need of it i' this world."
"It's I. H. S.," said Silas, at which proof of learning Aaron peeped round the chair again.
"Well, to be sure, you can read 'em off," said Dolly. "Ben's read 'em to me many and many a time, but they slip out o' my mind again; the more's the pity, for they're good letters, else they wouldn't be in the church; and so I prick91 'em on all the loaves and all the cakes, though sometimes they won't hold, because o' the rising—for, as I said, if there's any good to be got we've need of it i' this world—that we have; and I hope they'll bring good to you, Master Marner, for it's wi' that will I brought you the cakes; and you see the letters have held better nor common."
Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but there was no possibility of misunderstanding the desire to give comfort that made itself heard in her quiet tones. He said, with more feeling than before—"Thank you—thank you kindly." But he laid down the cakes and seated himself absently—drearily unconscious of any distinct benefit towards which the cakes and the letters, or even Dolly's kindness, could tend for him.
"Ah, if there's good anywhere, we've need of it," repeated Dolly, who did not lightly forsake41 a serviceable phrase. She looked at Silas pityingly as she went on. "But you didn't hear the church-bells this morning, Master Marner? I doubt you didn't know it was Sunday. Living so lone39 here, you lose your count, I daresay; and then, when your loom makes a noise, you can't hear the bells, more partic'lar now the frost kills the sound."
"Yes, I did; I heard 'em," said Silas, to whom Sunday bells were a mere accident of the day, and not part of its sacredness. There had been no bells in Lantern Yard.
"Dear heart!" said Dolly, pausing before she spoke44 again. "But what a pity it is you should work of a Sunday, and not clean yourself—if you didn't go to church; for if you'd a roasting bit, it might be as you couldn't leave it, being a lone man. But there's the bakehus, if you could make up your mind to spend a twopence on the oven now and then,—not every week, in course—I shouldn't like to do that myself,—you might carry your bit o' dinner there, for it's nothing but right to have a bit o' summat hot of a Sunday, and not to make it as you can't know your dinner from Saturday. But now, upo' Christmas-day, this blessed Christmas as is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to the bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly92 and the yew93, and hear the anthim, and then take the sacramen', you'd be a deal the better, and you'd know which end you stood on, and you could put your trust i' Them as knows better nor we do, seein' you'd ha' done what it lies on us all to do."
Dolly's exhortation94, which was an unusually long effort of speech for her, was uttered in the soothing95 persuasive96 tone with which she would have tried to prevail on a sick man to take his medicine, or a basin of gruel97 for which he had no appetite. Silas had never before been closely urged on the point of his absence from church, which had only been thought of as a part of his general queerness; and he was too direct and simple to evade98 Dolly's appeal.
"No!" said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. Then bethinking herself of Silas's advent84 from an unknown country, she said, "Could it ha' been as they'd no church where you was born?"
"Oh, yes," said Silas, meditatively100, sitting in his usual posture101 of leaning on his knees, and supporting his head. "There was churches—a many—it was a big town. But I knew nothing of 'em—I went to chapel102."
Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she was rather afraid of inquiring further, lest "chapel" might mean some haunt of wickedness. After a little thought, she said—
"Well, Master Marner, it's niver too late to turn over a new leaf, and if you've niver had no church, there's no telling the good it'll do you. For I feel so set up and comfortable as niver was, when I've been and heard the prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o' God, as Mr. Macey gives out—and Mr. Crackenthorp saying good words, and more partic'lar on Sacramen' Day; and if a bit o' trouble comes, I feel as I can put up wi' it, for I've looked for help i' the right quarter, and gev myself up to Them as we must all give ourselves up to at the last; and if we'n done our part, it isn't to be believed as Them as are above us 'ull be worse nor we are, and come short o' Their'n."
Poor Dolly's exposition of her simple Raveloe theology fell rather unmeaningly on Silas's ears, for there was no word in it that could rouse a memory of what he had known as religion, and his comprehension was quite baffled by the plural103 pronoun, which was no heresy104 of Dolly's, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous105 familiarity. He remained silent, not feeling inclined to assent106 to the part of Dolly's speech which he fully107 understood—her recommendation that he should go to church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the brief questions and answers necessary for the transaction of his simple business, that words did not easily come to him without the urgency of a distinct purpose.
But now, little Aaron, having become used to the weaver's awful presence, had advanced to his mother's side, and Silas, seeming to notice him for the first time, tried to return Dolly's signs of good-will by offering the lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a little, and rubbed his head against his mother's shoulder, but still thought the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his hand out for it.
"Oh, for shame, Aaron," said his mother, taking him on her lap, however; "why, you don't want cake again yet awhile. He's wonderful hearty," she went on, with a little sigh—"that he is, God knows. He's my youngest, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the father must allays hev him in our sight—that we must."
She stroked Aaron's brown head, and thought it must do Master Marner good to see such a "pictur of a child". But Marner, on the other side of the hearth108, saw the neat-featured rosy109 face as a mere dim round, with two dark spots in it.
"And he's got a voice like a bird—you wouldn't think," Dolly went on; "he can sing a Christmas carril as his father's taught him; and I take it for a token as he'll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes110 so quick. Come, Aaron, stan' up and sing the carril to Master Marner, come."
Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his mother's shoulder.
"Oh, that's naughty," said Dolly, gently. "Stan' up, when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake till you've done."
Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even to an ogre, under protecting circumstances; and after a few more signs of coyness, consisting chiefly in rubbing the backs of his hands over his eyes, and then peeping between them at Master Marner, to see if he looked anxious for the "carril", he at length allowed his head to be duly adjusted, and standing behind the table, which let him appear above it only as far as his broad frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head untroubled with a body, he began with a clear chirp111, and in a melody that had the rhythm of an industrious112 hammer
"God rest you, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
For Jesus Christ our Savior
Was born on Christmas-day."
Dolly listened with a devout113 look, glancing at Marner in some confidence that this strain would help to allure114 him to church.
"That's Christmas music," she said, when Aaron had ended, and had secured his piece of cake again. "There's no other music equil to the Christmas music—"Hark the erol angils sing." And you may judge what it is at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and the voices, as you can't help thinking you've got to a better place a'ready—for I wouldn't speak ill o' this world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows best—but what wi' the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad illnesses, and the hard dying, as I've seen times and times, one's thankful to hear of a better. The boy sings pretty, don't he, Master Marner?"
"Yes," said Silas, absently, "very pretty."
The Christmas carol, with its hammer-like rhythm, had fallen on his ears as strange music, quite unlike a hymn115, and could have none of the effect Dolly contemplated116. But he wanted to show her that he was grateful, and the only mode that occurred to him was to offer Aaron a bit more cake.
"Oh, no, thank you, Master Marner," said Dolly, holding down Aaron's willing hands. "We must be going home now. And so I wish you good-bye, Master Marner; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, as you can't fend117 for yourself, I'll come and clean up for you, and get you a bit o' victual, and willing. But I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a Sunday, for it's bad for soul and body—and the money as comes i' that way 'ull be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, if it doesn't fly away, nobody knows where, like the white frost. And you'll excuse me being that free with you, Master Marner, for I wish you well—I do. Make your bow, Aaron."
Silas said "Good-bye, and thank you kindly," as he opened the door for Dolly, but he couldn't help feeling relieved when she was gone—relieved that he might weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple view of life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer him, was only like a report of unknown objects, which his imagination could not fashion. The fountains of human love and of faith in a divine love had not yet been unlocked, and his soul was still the shrunken rivulet118, with only this difference, that its little groove119 of sand was blocked up, and it wandered confusedly against dark obstruction120.
And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions121 of Mr. Macey and Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christmas-day in loneliness, eating his meat in sadness of heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighbourly present. In the morning he looked out on the black frost that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the half-icy red pool shivered under the bitter wind; but towards evening the snow began to fall, and curtained from him even that dreary122 outlook, shutting him close up with his narrow grief. And he sat in his robbed home through the livelong evening, not caring to close his shutters123 or lock his door, pressing his head between his hands and moaning, till the cold grasped him and told him that his fire was grey.
Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was the same Silas Marner who had once loved his fellow with tender love, and trusted in an unseen goodness. Even to himself that past experience had become dim.
But in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the church was fuller than all through the rest of the year, with red faces among the abundant dark-green boughs124—faces prepared for a longer service than usual by an odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green boughs, the hymn and anthem125 never heard but at Christmas—even the Athanasian Creed126, which was discriminated127 from the others only as being longer and of exceptional virtue128, since it was only read on rare occasions—brought a vague exulting129 sense, for which the grown men could as little have found words as the children, that something great and mysterious had been done for them in heaven above and in earth below, which they were appropriating by their presence. And then the red faces made their way through the black biting frost to their own homes, feeling themselves free for the rest of the day to eat, drink, and be merry, and using that Christian130 freedom without diffidence.
At Squire Cass's family party that day nobody mentioned Dunstan—nobody was sorry for his absence, or feared it would be too long. The doctor and his wife, uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual Christmas talk was carried through without any omissions131, rising to the climax132 of Mr. Kimble's experience when he walked the London hospitals thirty years back, together with striking professional anecdotes133 then gathered. Whereupon cards followed, with aunt Kimble's annual failure to follow suit, and uncle Kimble's irascibility concerning the odd trick which was rarely explicable to him, when it was not on his side, without a general visitation of tricks to see that they were formed on sound principles: the whole being accompanied by a strong steaming odour of spirits-and-water.
But the party on Christmas-day, being a strictly134 family party, was not the pre-eminently brilliant celebration of the season at the Red House. It was the great dance on New Year's Eve that made the glory of Squire Cass's hospitality, as of his forefathers135', time out of mind. This was the occasion when all the society of Raveloe and Tarley, whether old acquaintances separated by long rutty distances, or cooled acquaintances separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway136 calves137, or acquaintances founded on intermittent138 condescension139, counted on meeting and on comporting140 themselves with mutual141 appropriateness. This was the occasion on which fair dames142 who came on pillions sent their bandboxes before them, supplied with more than their evening costume; for the feast was not to end with a single evening, like a paltry143 town entertainment, where the whole supply of eatables is put on the table at once, and bedding is scanty144. The Red House was provisioned as if for a siege; and as for the spare feather-beds ready to be laid on floors, they were as plentiful145 as might naturally be expected in a family that had killed its own geese for many generations.
Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year's Eve with a foolish reckless longing146, that made him half deaf to his importunate147 companion, Anxiety.
"Dunsey will be coming home soon: there will be a great blow-up, and how will you bribe148 his spite to silence?" said Anxiety.
"Oh, he won't come home before New Year's Eve, perhaps," said Godfrey; "and I shall sit by Nancy then, and dance with her, and get a kind look from her in spite of herself."
"But money is wanted in another quarter," said Anxiety, in a louder voice, "and how will you get it without selling your mother's diamond pin? And if you don't get it...?"
"Well, but something may happen to make things easier. At any rate, there's one pleasure for me close at hand: Nancy is coming."
"Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters to a pass that will oblige you to decline marrying her—and to give your reasons?"
"Hold your tongue, and don't worry me. I can see Nancy's eyes, just as they will look at me, and feel her hand in mine already."
But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas company; refusing to be utterly quieted even by much drinking.
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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brawn
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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preservatives
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| n.防腐剂( preservative的名词复数 ) | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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16
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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17
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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18
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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19
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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20
antagonists
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| 对立[对抗] 者，对手，敌手( antagonist的名词复数 )； 对抗肌； 对抗药 | |
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21
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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22
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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23
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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24
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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26
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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27
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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28
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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29
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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30
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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31
subtraction
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| n.减法，减去 | |
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32
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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33
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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34
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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35
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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36
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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37
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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38
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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39
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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40
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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41
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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42
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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43
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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44
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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45
addiction
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| n.上瘾入迷，嗜好 | |
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46
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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47
housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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48
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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49
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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50
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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51
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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52
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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53
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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54
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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55
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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56
bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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57
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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58
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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59
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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60
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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61
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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62
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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63
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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65
toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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66
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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67
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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68
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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69
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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70
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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71
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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72
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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73
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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74
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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75
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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76
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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77
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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78
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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79
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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80
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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81
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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82
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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84
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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85
embolden
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| v.给…壮胆，鼓励 | |
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86
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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87
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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88
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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89
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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90
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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91
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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92
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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93
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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94
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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95
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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96
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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97
gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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98
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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99
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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100
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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101
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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102
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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103
plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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104
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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105
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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106
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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107
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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108
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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109
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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110
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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111
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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112
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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113
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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114
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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115
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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116
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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117
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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118
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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119
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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120
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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121
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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122
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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123
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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124
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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125
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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126
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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127
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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128
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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129
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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130
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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131
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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132
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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133
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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134
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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135
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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136
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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137
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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138
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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139
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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140
comporting
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| v.表现( comport的现在分词 ) | |
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141
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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142
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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143
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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144
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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145
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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146
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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147
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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148
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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