Dan Pavey was about thirty-five years old, of medium height and of medium appearance except as to his hat (a hard black bowler19 which seemed never to belong to him, though he had worn it for years) and as to his nose. It was an ugly nose, big as a253 baby’s elbow; he had been born thus, it had not been broken or maltreated, though it might have engaged in some pre-natal conflict when it was malleable21, since when nature had healed, but had not restored it. But there was ever a soft smile that covered his ugliness, which made it genial22 and said, or seemed to say: Don’t make a fool of me, I am a friendly man, this is really my hat, and as for my nose—God made it so.
The six hamlets which he supplied with newspapers lie along the Icknield Vale close under the ridge23 of woody hills, and the inhabitants adjacent to the woods fell the beech24 timber and, in their own homes, turn it into rungs or stretchers for chair manufacturers who, somewhere out of sight beyond the hills, endlessly make chair, and nothing but chair. Sometimes in a wood itself there may be seen a shanty25 built of faggots in which sits a man turning pieces of chair on a treadle lathe26. Tall, hollow, and greenly dim are the woods, very solemn places, and they survey the six little towns as a man might look at six tiny pebbles27 lying on a green rug at his feet.
One August morning the newspaper man was riding back to Thasper. The day was sparkling like a diamond, but he was not singing, he was thinking of Scroope, the new rector of Thasper parish, and the thought of Scroope annoyed him. It was not only the tone of the sermon he had preached on Sunday, “The poor we have always with us,” though that was in bad taste from a man reputed rich and with a heart—people said—as hard as a door-knocker; it was something more vital, a congenital difference254 between them as profound as it was disagreeable. The Rev29. Faudel Scroope was wealthy, he seemed to have complete confidence in his ability to remain so, and he was the kind of man with whom Dan Pavey would never be able to agree. As for Mrs. Scroope, gloom pattered upon him in a strong sighing shower at the least thought of her.
At Larkspur Lane he came suddenly upon the rector talking to an oldish man, Eli Bond, who was hacking32 away at a hedge. Scroope never wore a hat, he had a curly bush of dull hair. Though his face was shaven clean it remained a regular plantation33 of ridges34 and wrinkles; there was a stoop in his shoulders, a lurch35 in his gait, and he had a voice that howled.
“All those years,” the parson went on talking to the hedger; “all those years, dear me!”
“I were born in Thasper sixty-six year ago, come the twenty-third of October, sir, the same day—but two years before—as Lady Hesseltine eloped with Rudolf Moxley. I was reared here and I worked here sin’ I were six year old. Twalve children I have had (though five on ’em come to naught37 and two be in the army) and I never knowed what was to be out of work for one single day in all that sixty year. Never. I can’t thank my blessed master enough for it.”
“Isn’t that splendidly feudal,” murmured the priest, “who is your good master?”
The old man solemnly touched his hat and said:255 “God.”
“O, I see, yes, yes,” cried the Rev. Scroope. “Well, good health and constant, and good work and plenty of it, are glorious things. The man who has never done a day’s work is a dog, and the man who deceives his master is a dog too.”
“I never donn that, sir.”
“And you’ve had happy days in Thasper, I’m sure?”
“Right-a-many, sir.”
“Splendid. Well ... um ... what a heavy rain we had in the night.”
“Ah, that was heavy! At five o’clock this morning I daren’t let my ducks out—they’d a bin38 drownded, sir.”
“Ha, now, now, now!” warbled the rector as he turned away with Dan.
“Capital old fellow, happy and contented39. I wish there were more of the same breed. I wish....” The parson sighed pleasantly as he and Dan walked on together until they came to the village street where swallows were darting40 and flashing very low. A small boy stood about, trying to catch them in his hands as they swooped41 close to him. Dan’s own dog pranced42 up to his master for a greeting. It was black, somewhat like a greyhound, but stouter43. Its tail curled right over its back and it was cocky as a bird, for it was young; it could fight like a tiger and run like the wind—many a hare had had proof of that.
Said Mr. Scroope, eyeing the dog: “Is there much poaching goes on here?”
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“Poaching, sir?”
“I am told there is. I hope it isn’t true for I have rented most of the shooting myself.”
“I never heard tell of it, sir. Years ago, maybe. The Buzzlebury chaps one time were rare hands at taking a few birds, so I’ve heard, but I shouldn’t think there’s an onlicensed gun for miles around.”
“I’m not thinking so much of guns. Farmer Prescott had his warren netted by someone last week and lost fifty or sixty rabbits. There’s scarcely a hare to be seen, and I find wires wherever I go. It’s a crime like anything else, you know,” Scroope’s voice was loud and strident, “and I shall deal very severely44 with poaching of any kind. O yes, you have to, you know, Pavey. O yes. There was a man in my last parish was a poacher, cunning scoundrel of the worst type, never did a stroke of work, and he had a dog, it wasn’t unlike your dog—this is your dog, isn’t it? You haven’t got your name on its collar, you should have your name on a dog’s collar—well, he had a perfect brute45 of a dog, carried off my pheasants by the dozen; as for hares, he exterminated46 them. Man never did anything else, but we laid him by the heels and in the end I shot the dog myself.”
“Shot it?” said Dan. “No, I couldn’t tell a poacher if I was to see one. I know no more about 'em than a bone in the earth.”
“We shall be,” continued Scroope, “very severe with them. Let me see—are you singing the Purcell on Sunday evening?“
”He Shall Feed His Flock—sir—like a Shepherd.”
“Splendid! Good-day, Pavey.”
Dan, followed by his bounding, barking dog,257 pedalled home to a little cottage that seemed to sag28 under the burden of its own thatch47; it had eaves a yard wide, and birds’ nests in the roof at least ten years old. Here Dan lived with his mother, Meg Pavey, for he had never married. She kept an absurd little shop for the sale of sweets, vinegar, boot buttons and such things, and was a very excellent old dame49, but as na?ve as she was vague. If you went in to her counter for a newspaper and banged down a halfcrown she would as likely as not give you change for sixpence—until you mentioned the discrepancy50, when she would smilingly give you back your halfcrown again.
Dan passed into the back room where Meg was preparing dinner, threw off his bag, and sat down without speaking. His mother was making a heavy succession of journeys between the table and a larder51.
“Mrs. Scroope’s been here,” said Meg, bringing a loaf to the table.
“What did she want?”
“She wanted to reprimand me.”
“And what have you been doing?”
Meg was in the larder again. “’Tis not me, ’tis you.”
“What do you mean, mother?”
“She’s been a-hinting,” here Meg pushed a dish of potatoes to the right of the bread, and a salt-cellar to the left of the yawning remains52 of a rabbit pie,258 “about your not being a teetotal. She says the boozing do give the choir a bad name and I was to persuade you to give it up.”
“I should like to persuade her it was time she is dead. I don’t go for to take any pattern from that rich trash. Are we the grass under their feet? And can you tell me why parsons’ wives are always so much more awful than the parsons themselves? I never shall understand that if I lives a thousand years. Name o’ God, what next?”
“Well, ’tis as she says. Drink is no good to any man, and she can’t say as I ain’t reprimanded you.”
“Name o’ God,” he replied, “do you think I booze just for the sake o’ the booze, because I like booze? No man does that. He drinks so that he shan’t be thought a fool, or rank himself better than his mates—though he knows in his heart he might be if he weren’t so poor or so timid. Not that one would mind to be poor if it warn’t preached to him that he must be contented. How can the poor be contented as long as there’s the rich to serve? The rich we have always with us, that’s our responsibility, we are the grass under their feet. Why should we be proud of that? When a man’s poor the only thing left him is hope—for something better: and that’s called envy. If you don’t like your riches you can always give it up, but poverty you can’t desert, nor it won’t desert you.”
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“If I had my way I’d be an independent man and live by myself a hundred miles from anywheres or anybody. But that’s madness, that’s madness, the world don’t expect you to go on like that, so I do as other folks do, not because I want to, but because I a’nt the pluck to be different. You taught me a good deal, mother, but you never taught me courage and I wasn’t born with any, so I drinks with a lot of fools who drink with me for much the same reason, I expect. It’s the same with other things besides drink.”
His indignation lasted throughout the afternoon as he sat in the shed in his yard turning out his usual quantity of chair. He sang not one note, he but muttered and mumbled54 over all his anger. Towards evening he recovered his amiability56 and began to sing with a gusto that astonished even his mother. He went out into the dusk humming like a bee, taking his dog with him. In the morning the Rev. Scroope found a dead hare tied by the neck to his own door-knocker, and at night (it being Saturday) Dan Pavey was merrier than ever in “The White Hart.” If he was not drunk he was what Thasper calls “tightish,” and had never before sung so many of those ribald songs (mostly of his own composition) for which he was noted57.
A few evenings later Dan attended a meeting of the Church Men’s Guild58. A group of very mute countrymen sat in the village hall and were goaded59 into speech by the rector.
“Thasper,” declared Mr. Scroope, “has a great name for its singing. All over the six hamlets there is surprising musical genius. There’s the Buzzlebury band—it is a capital band.”
“It is that,” interrupted a maroon-faced butcher from Buzzlebury,260 “it can play as well at nine o’clock in the morning as it can at nine o’clock at night, and that’s a good band as can do it.”
“Now I want our choir to compete at the county musical festival next year. Thasper is going to show those highly trained choristers what a native choir is capable of. Yes, and I’m sure our friend Pavey can win the tenor solo competition. Let us all put our backs into it and work agreeably and consistently. Those are the two main springs of good human conduct—consistency60 and agreeability. The consistent man will always attain61 his legitimate62 ends, always. I remember a man in my last parish, Tom Turkem, known and loved throughout the county; he was not only the best cricketer in our village, he was the best for miles around. He revelled63 in cricket, and cricket only; he played cricket and lived for cricket. The years went on and he got old, but he never dreamed of giving up cricket. His bowling64 average got larger every year and his batting average got smaller, but he still went on, consistent as ever. His order of going in dropped down to No. 6 and he seldom bowled; then he got down to No. 8 and never bowled. For a season or two the once famous Tom Turkem was really the last man in! After that he became umpire, then scorer, and then he died. He had got a little money, very little, just enough to live comfortably on. No, he never married. He was a very happy, hearty65, hale old man. So you see? Now there is a cricket club at Buzzlebury, and one at Trinkel. Why not a cricket club at Thasper? Shall we do that?... Good!”
The parson went on outlining his projects, and261 although it was plain to Dan that the Rev. Scroope had very little, if any, compassion66 for the weaknesses natural to mortal flesh, and attached an extravagant67 value to the virtues68 of decency69, sobriety, consistency, and, above all, loyalty70 to all sorts of incomprehensible notions, yet his intentions were undeniably agreeable and the Guild was consistently grateful.
“One thing, Pavey,” said Scroope when the meeting had dispersed71, “one thing I will not tolerate in this parish, and that is gambling72.”
“Gambling? I have never gambled in my life, sir. I couldn’t tell you hardly the difference between spades and clubs.”
“Now that’s a thing I never see in my life, Mr. Scroope.”
“Ah, you need not go to the races to bet on horses; the slips of paper and money can be collected by men who are agents for racing bookmakers. And that is going on all round the six hamlets, and the man who does the collecting, even if he does not bet himself, is a social and moral danger, he is a criminal, he is against the law. Whoever he is,” said the vicar, moderating his voice, but confidently beaming and patting Dan’s shoulder, “I shall stamp him out mercilessly. Good-night, Pavey.”
Dan went away with murder in his heart. Timid strangers here and there had fancied that a man with such a misshapen face would be capable of committing a crime, not a mere74 peccadillo—you wouldn’t take notice of that, of course—but a solid substantial misdemeanour like murder. And it was true, he was262 capable of murder—just as everybody else is, or ought to be. But he was also capable of curbing75 that distressing76 tendency in the usual way, and in point of fact he never did commit a murder.
These rectorial denunciations troubled the air but momentarily, and he still sang gaily77 and beautifully on his daily ride from Cobbs Mill along the little roads to Trinkel and Nuncton. The hanging richness of the long woods yellowing on the fringe of autumn, the long solemn hills themselves, cold sunlight, coloured berries in briary loops, the brown small leaves of hawthorn78 that had begun to drop from the hedge and flutter in the road like dying moths79, teams of horses sturdily ploughing, sheepfolds already thatched into little nooks where the ewes could lie—Dan said—as warm as a pudding: these things filled him with tiny ecstasies80 too incoherent for him to transcribe—he could only sing.
On Bonfire Night the lads of the village lit a great fire on the space opposite “The White Hart.” Snow was falling; it was not freezing weather, but the snow lay in a soft thin mat upon the road. Dan was returning on his bicycle from a long journey and the light from the bonfire was cheering. It lit up the courtyard of the inn genially81 and curiously82, for the recumbent hart upon the balcony had a pad of snow upon its wooden nose, which somehow made it look like a camel, in spite of the huddled84 snow on its back which gave it the resemblance of a sheep. A few boys stood with bemused wrinkled faces before the roaring warmth. Dan dismounted very carefully opposite the blaze, for a tiny boy rode on the back263 of the bicycle, wrapped up and tied to the frame by a long scarf; very small, very silent, about five years old. A red wool wrap was bound round his head and ears and chin, and a green scarf encircled his neck and waist, almost hiding his jacket; gaiters of grey wool were drawn85 up over his knickerbockers. Dan lifted him down and stood him in the road, but he was so cumbered with clothing that he could scarcely walk. He was shy; he may have thought it ridiculous; he moved a few paces and turned to stare at his footmarks in the snow.
“Cold?” asked Dan.
The child shook its head solemnly at him and then put one hand in Dan’s and gazed at the fire that was bringing a brightness into the longlashed dark eyes and tenderly flushing the pale face.
“Hungry?”
The child did not reply. It only silently smiled when the boys brought him a lighted stick from the faggots. Dan caught him up into his arms and pushed the cycle across the way into his own home.
Plump Meg had just shredded86 up two or three red cabbages and rammed87 them into a crock with a shower of peppercorns and some terrible knots of ginger88. There was a bright fire and a sharp odour of vinegar—always some strange pleasant smell in Meg Pavey’s home—she had covered the top of the crock with a shield of brown paper, pinioned89 that with string, licked a label: “Cabege Novenbr 5t,” and smoothed it on the crock, when the latch90 lifted and Dan carried in his little tiny boy.
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“Here he is, mother.”
Where Dan stood him, there the child remained; he did not seem to see Mother Pavey, his glance had happened to fall on the big crock with the white label—and he kept it there.
“Whoever’s that?” asked the astonished Meg with her arms akimbo as Dan began to unwrap the child.
“Yours! How long have it been yours?”
“Since ’twas born. No, let him alone, I’ll undo14 him, he’s full up wi’ pins and hooks. I’ll undo him.”
Meg stood apart while Dan unravelled92 his offspring.
“But it is not your child, surely, Dan?”
“Ay, I’ve brought him home for keeps, mother. He can sleep wi’ me.”
“Who’s its mother?”
“’Tis no matter about that. Dan Cupid did it.”
“You’re making a mock of me. Who is his mother? Where is she? You’re fooling, Dan, you’re fooling!”
“I’m making no mock of anyone. There, there’s a bonny grandson for you!”
Meg gathered the child into her arms, peering into its face, perhaps to find some answer to the riddle93, perhaps to divine a familiar likeness94. But there was nothing in its soft smooth features that at all resembled her rugged95 Dan’s.
“Who are you? What’s your little name?”
The child whispered: “Martin.”
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“It’s a pretty, pretty thing, Dan.”
“Ah!” said her son, “that’s his mother. We were rare fond of each other—once. Now she’s wedd’n another chap and I’ve took the boy, for it’s best that way. He’s five year old. Don’t ask me about her, it’s our secret and always has been. It was a good secret and a grand secret, and it was well kept. That’s her ring.”
The child’s thumb had a ring upon it, a golden ring with a small green stone. The thumb was crooked96, and he clasped the ring safely.
But the long-kept secret, as Dan soon discovered, began to bristle98 with complications. The boy was his, of course it was his—he seemed to rejoice in his paternity of the quiet, pretty, illegitimate creature. As if that brazen99 turpitude100 was not enough to confound him he was taken a week later in the act of receiving betting commissions and heavily fined in the police court, although it was quite true that he himself did not bet, and was merely a collecting agent for a bookmaker who remained discreetly101 in the background and who promptly102 paid his fine.
There was naturally a great racket in the vestry about these things—there is no more rhadamanthine formation than that which can mount the ornamental103 forehead of a deacon—and Dan was bidden to an interview at the “Scroopery.” After some hesitation104 he visited it.
“Ah, Pavey,” said the rector, not at all minatory105 but very subdued106 and unhappy. “So the blow has fallen, in spite of my warning. I am more sorry266 than I can express, for it means an end to a very long connection. It is very difficult and very disagreeable for me to deal with the situation, but there is no help for it now, you must understand that. I offer no judgment107 upon these unfortunate events, no judgment at all, but I can find no way of avoiding my clear duty. Your course of life is incompatible108 with your position in the choir, and I sadly fear it reveals not only a social misdemeanour but a religious one—it is a mockery, a mockery of God.”
The rector sat at a table with his head pressed on his hands. Pavey sat opposite him, and in his hands he dangled109 his bowler hat.
“You may be right enough in your way, sir, but I’ve never mocked God. For the betting, I grant you. It may be a dirty job, but I never ate the dirt myself, I never betted in my life. It’s a way of life, a poor man has but little chance of earning more than a bare living, and there’s many a dirty job there’s no prosecution110 for, leastways not in this world.”
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“Let me say, Pavey, that the betting counts less heavily with me than the question of this unfortunate little boy. I offer no judgment upon the matter, your acknowledgment of him is only right and proper. But the fact of his existence at all cannot be disregarded; that at least is flagrant, and as far as concerns your position in my church, it is a mockery of God.”
“You may be right, sir, as far as your judgment goes, or you may not be. I beg your pardon for that, but we can only measure other people by our own scales, and as we can never understand one another entirely, so we can’t ever judge them rightly, for they all differ from us and from each other in some special ways. But as for being a mocker of God, why it looks to me as if you was trying to teach the Almighty111 how to judge me.”
“Pavey,” said the rector with solemnity, “I pity you from the bottom of my heart. We won’t continue this painful discussion, we should both regret it. There was a man in the parish where I came from who was an atheist113 and mocked God. He subsequently became deaf. Was he convinced? No, he was not—because the punishment came a long time after his offence. He mocked God again, and became blind. Not at once: God has eternity114 to work in. Still he was not convinced. That,” said the rector ponderously115, “is what the Church has to contend with; a failure to read the most obvious signs, and an indisposition even to remedy that failure. Klopstock was that poor man’s name. His sister—you know her well, Jane Klopstock—is now my cook.”
The rector then stood up and held out his hand. “God bless you, Pavey.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Dan. “I quite understand.”
He went home moodily116 reflecting. Nobody else in the village minded his misdeeds, they did not care a button, and none condemned117 him. On the contrary, indeed. But the blow had fallen, there was nothing that he could now do, the shock of it had been anticipated, but it was severe. And the pang118 would last, for he was deprived of his chief opportunity for singing, that art in which he excelled, in268 that perfect quiet setting he so loved. Rancour grew upon him, and on Saturday he had a roaring audacious evening at “The White Hart” where, to the tune10 of “The British Grenadiers,” he sung a doggerel119:
Our parson loves his motor car
And he loves his beef for I’ve remarked
His belly’s brave expansion;
As he loved his beer at college,
And so he loves his housemaid (not
With Mrs. parson’s knowledge.)
Our parson lies both hot and strong,
It does not suit his station,
But still his reverend soul delights
In much dissimulation122;
Both in and out and roundabout
He practises distortion,
And he lies with a public sinner when
Grass widowhood’s his portion.
All of which was a savage123 libel on a very worthy124 man, composed in anger and regretted as soon as sung.
From that time forward Dan gave up his boozing and devoted125 himself to the boy, little Martin, who, a Thasper joker suggested, might have some kinship with the notorious Betty of that name. But Dan’s voice was now seldom heard singing upon the roads he travelled. They were icy wintry roads, but that was not the cause of his muteness. It was severance126 from the choir; not from its connoted spirit of religion—there was little enough of that in Dan Pavey—but from the solemn beauty of the chorale, which it was his unique gift to adorn127, and in which269 he had shared with eagerness and pride since his boyhood. To be cast out from that was to be cast from something he held most dear, the opportunity of expression in an art which he had made triumphantly128 his own.
With the coming of spring he repaired one evening to a town some miles away and interviewed a choirmaster. Thereafter Dan Pavey journeyed to and fro twice every Sunday to sing in a church that lay seven or eight miles off, and he kept it all a profound secret from Thasper until his appearance at the county musical festival, where he won the treasured prize for tenor soloists129. Then Dan was himself again. To his crude apprehension130 he had been vindicated131, and he was heard once more carolling in the lanes of the Vale as he had been heard any time for these twenty years.
The child began its schooling132, but though he was free to go about the village little Martin did not wander far. The tidy cluster of hair about his poll was of deep chestnut133 colour. His skin—Meg said—was like “ollobarster”: it was soft and unfreckled, always pale. His eyes were two wet damsons—so Meg declared: they were dark and ever questioning. As for his nose, his lips, his cheeks, his chin, Meg could do no other than call it the face of a blessed saint; and indeed, he had some of the bearing of a saint, so quiet, so gentle, so shy. The golden ring he no longer wore; it hung from a tintack on the bedroom wall.
Old John, who lived next door, became a friend of his. He was very aged20—in the Vale you got to270 be a hundred before you knew where you were—and he was very bent83; he resembled a sickle134 standing135 upon its handle. Very bald, too, and so very sharp.
Martin was staring up at the roof of John’s cottage.
“What you looking at, my boy?”
“Chimbley,” whispered the child.
“O ah! that’s crooked, a’nt it?”
“Yes, crooked.”
“I know ’tis, but I can’t help it; my chimney’s crooked, and I can’t putt it straight, neither, I can’t putt it right. My chimney’s crooked, a’nt it, ah, and I’m crooked, too.”
“Yes,” said Martin.
“I know, but I can’t help it. It is crooked, a’nt it?” said the old man, also staring up at a red pot tilted136 at an angle suggestive of conviviality137.
“Yes.”
“That chimney’s crooked. But you come along and look at my beautiful bird.”
A cock thrush inhabited a cage in the old gaffer’s kitchen. Martin stood before it.
“There’s a beautiful bird. Hoicks!” cried old John, tapping the bars of the cage with his terrible finger-nail. “But he won’t sing.”
“Won’t he sing?”
“He donn make hisself at home. He donn make hisself at home at all, do ’ee, my beautiful bird? No, he donn’t. So I’m a-going to chop his head off,” said the laughing old man, “and then I shall bile him.”
Afterwards Martin went every day to see if the thrush was still there. And it was.
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Martin grew. Almost before Dan was aware of it the child had grown into a boy. At school he excelled nobody in anything except, perhaps, behaviour, but he had a strange little gift for unobtrusively not doing the things he did not care for, and these were rather many unless his father was concerned in them. Even so, the affection between them was seldom tangibly138 expressed, their alliance was something far deeper than its expression. Dan talked with him as if he were a grown man, and perhaps he often regarded him as one; he was the only being to whom he ever opened his mind. As they sat together in the evening while Dan put in a spell at turning chair—at which he was astoundingly adept—the father would talk to his son, or rather he would heap upon him all the unuttered thoughts that had accumulated in his mind during his adult years. The dog would loll with its head on Martin’s knees; the boy would sit nodding gravely, though seldom speaking: he was an untiring listener. “Like sire, like son,” thought Dan, “he will always coop his thoughts up within himself.” It was the one characteristic of the boy that caused him anxiety.
“Never take pattern by me,” he would adjure139 him, “not by me. I’m a fool, a failure, just grass, and I’m trying to instruct you, but you’ve no call to follow in my fashion; I’m a weak man. There’s been thoughts in my mind that I daren’t let out. I wanted to do things that other men don’t seem to do and don’t want to do. They were not evil things—and what they were I’ve nigh forgotten now. I never had much ambition, I wasn’t clever, I wanted to live a272 simple life, in a simple way, the way I had a mind to—I can’t remember that either. But I did not do any of those things because I had a fear of what other people might think of me. I walked in the ruck with the rest of my mates and did the things I didn’t ever want to do—and now I can only wonder why I did them. I sung them the silly songs they liked, and not the ones I cherished. I agreed with most everybody, and all agreed with me. I’m a friendly man, too friendly, and I went back on my life, I made nought140 of my life, you see, I just sat over the job like a snob141 codgering an old boot.”
The boy would sit regarding him as if he already understood. Perhaps that curious little mind did glean142 some flavour of his father’s tragedy.
“You’ve no call to follow me, you’ll be a scholar. Of course I know some of those long words at school take a bit of licking together—like elephant and saucepan. You get about half-way through ’em and then you’re done, you’re mastered. I was just the same (like sire, like son), and I’m no better now. If you and me was to go to yon school together, and set on the same stool together, I warrant you would win the prize and I should wear the dunce’s cap—all except sums, and there I should beat ye. You’d have all the candy and I’d have all the cane143, you’d be king and I’d be the dirty rascal144, so you’ve no call to follow me. What you want is courage, and to do the things you’ve a mind to. I never had any and I didn’t.”
Dan seldom kissed his son, neither of them sought that tender expression, though Meg was for ever ruffling145 the boy for these pledges of affection, and he273 was always gracious to the old woman. There was a small mole146 in the centre of her chin, and in the centre of the mole grew one short stiff hair. It was a surprise to Martin when he first kissed her.
Twice a week father and son bathed in the shed devoted to chair. The tub was the half of a wooden barrel. Dan would roll up two or three buckets of water from the well, they would both strip to the skin, the boy would kneel in the tub and dash the water about his body for a few moments. While Martin towelled himself Dan stepped into the tub, and after laving his face and hands and legs he would sit down in it. “Ready?” Martin would ask, and scooping147 up the water in an iron basin he would pour it over his father’s head.
“Name O’ God, that’s sharpish this morning,” Dan would say, “it would strip the bark off a crocodile. Broo-o-o-oh! But there: winter and summer I go up and down the land and there’s not—Broo-o-o-oh!—a mighty112 difference between ’em, it’s mostly fancy. Come day, go day, frost or fair doings, all alike I go about the land, and there’s little in winter I havn’t the heart to rejoice in. (On with your breeches or I’ll be at the porridge pot afore you’re clad.) All their talk about winter and their dread148 of it shows poor spirit. Nothing’s prettier than a fall of snow, nothing more grand than the storms upending the woods. There’s no more rain in winter than in summer, you can be shod for it, and there’s a heart back of your ribs149 that’s proof against any blast. (Is this my shirt or yours? Dashed if they buttons a’nt the plague of my life.) Country is274 grand year’s end to year’s end, whether or no. I once lived in London—only a few weeks—and for noise, and for terror, and for filth—name O’ God, there was bugs150 in the butter there, once there was!”
But the boy’s chosen season was that time of year when the plums ripened151. Pavey’s garden was then a tiny paradise.
“You put a spell on these trees,” Dan would declare to his son every year when they gathered the fruit. “I planted them nearly twenty years ago, two 'gages and one magny bonum, but they never growed enough to make a pudden. They always bloomed well and looked well. I propped152 ’em and I dunged 'em, but they wouldn’t beer at all, and I’m a-going to cut ’em down—when, along comes you!”
Well, hadn’t those trees borne remarkable153 ever since he’d come there?
“Of course, good luck’s deceiving, and it’s never bothered our family overmuch. Still, bad luck is one thing and bad life’s another. And yet—I dunno—they come to much the same in the end, there’s very little difference. There’s so much misunderstanding, half the folks don’t know their own good intentions, nor all the love that’s sunk deep in their own minds.”
But nothing in the world gave (or could give) Dan such flattering joy as his son’s sweet treble voice. Martin could sing! In the dark months no evening passed without some instruction by the proud father. The living room at the back of the shop was the tiniest of rooms, and its smallness was not lessened154, nor its tidiness increased, by the stacks of merchandise275 that had strayed from Meg’s emporium into every corner, and overflowed155 every shelf in packages, piles, and bundles. The metalliferous categories—iron nails, lead pencils, tintacks, zinc156 ointment157, and brass158 hinges—were there. Platoons of bottles were there, bottles of blue-black writing fluid, bottles of scarlet—and presumably plebeian—ink, bottles of lollipops159 and of oil (both hair and castor). Balls of string, of blue, of peppermint160, and balls to bounce were adjacent to an assortment161 of prim-looking books—account memorandum162, exercise, and note. But the room was cosy163, and if its inhabitants fitted it almost as closely as birds fit their nests they were as happy as birds, few of whom (save the swallows) sing in their nests. With pitchpipe to hand and a bundle of music before them Dan and Martin would begin. The dog would snooze on the rug before the fire; Meg would snooze amply in her armchair until roused by the sudden terrific tinkling164 of her shop-bell. She would waddle165 off to her dim little shop—every step she took rattling166 the paraffin lamp on the table, the coal in the scuttle167, and sometimes the very panes168 in the window—and the dog would clamber into her chair. Having supplied an aged gaffer with an ounce of carraway seed, or some gay lad with a packet of cigarettes, Meg would waddle back and sink down upon the dog, whereupon its awful indignation would sound to the very heavens, drowning the voices even of Dan and his son.
“What shall we wind up with?” Dan would ask at the close of the lesson, and as often as not Martin would say:276 “You must sing ‘Timmie.’”
This was “Timmie,” and it had a tune something like the chorus to “Father O’Flynn.”
O Timmie my brother,
Best son of our mother,
A holiday take you,
The loss it won’t break you,
A day’s never lost if a holiday’s won.
We’ll go with clean faces
To see the horse races,
And if the luck chances we’ll gather some gear;
But never a jockey
Will win it, my cocky,
Who catches one glance from a girl I know there.
There’s lords and there’s ladies
Wi’ pretty sunshadies,
And farmers and jossers and fat men and small;
But the pride of these trips is
The scallywag gipsies
Wi’ not a whole rag to the backs of ’em all.
There ’s cokernut shying,
And devil defying,
And a racket and babel to hear and to see,
Wi’ boxing and shooting,
And fine high faluting
From chaps wi’ a table and thimble and pea.
My Nancy will be there,
The best thing to see there,
And she has a sister—
I wonder you’ve missed her—
As sweet as the daisies and fit for a duke. 277
Come along, brother Timmie,
Don’t linger, but gimme
My hat and my purse and your company there;
For sporting and courting,
The cream of resorting,
And nothing much worse, Timmie—Come to the fair.
On the third anniversary of Martin’s homecoming Dan rose up very early in the dark morn, and leaving his son sleeping he crept out of the house followed by his dog. They went away from Thasper, though the darkness was profound and the grass filled with dew, out upon the hills towards Chapel172 Cheary. The night was starless, but Dan knew every trick and turn of the paths, and after an hour’s walk he met a man waiting by a signpost. They conversed173 for a few minutes and then went off together, the dog at their heels, until they came to a field gate. Upon this they fastened a net and then sent the dog into the darkness upon his errand, while they waited for the hare which the dog would drive into the net. They waited so long that it was clear the dog had not drawn its quarry174. Dan whistled softly, but the dog did not return. Dan opened the gate and went down the fields himself, scouring175 the hedges for a long time, but he could not find the dog. The murk of the night had begun to lift, but the valley was filled with mist. He went back to the gate: the net had been taken down, his friend had departed—perhaps he had been disturbed? The dog had now been missing for an hour. Dan still hung about, but neither friend nor dog came back. It grew grey and more grey, though little could be distinguished, the raw mist278 obscuring everything that the dawn uncovered. He shivered with gloom and dampness, his boots were now as pliable176 as gloves, his eyebrows177 had grey drops upon them, so had his moustache and the backs of his hands. His dark coat looked as if it was made of grey wool; it was tightly buttoned around his throat and he stood with his chin crumpled178, unconsciously holding his breath until it burst forth179 in a gasp180. But he could not abandon his dog, and he roamed once more down into the misty181 valley towards woods that he knew well, whistling softly and with great caution a repetition of two notes.
And he found his dog. It was lying on a heap of dead sodden182 leaves. It just whimpered. It could not rise, it could not move, it seemed paralysed. Dawn was now really upon them. Dan wanted to get the dog away, quickly, it was a dangerous quarter, but when he lifted it to his feet the dog collapsed183 like a scarecrow. In a flash Dan knew he was poisoned, he had probably picked up some piece of dainty flesh that a farmer had baited for the foxes. He seized a knob of chalk that lay thereby184, grated some of it into his hands, and forced it down the dog’s throat. Then he tied the lead to its neck. He was going to drag the dog to its feet and force it to walk. But the dog was past all energy, it was limp and mute. Dan dragged him by the neck for some yards as a man draws behind him a heavy sack. It must have weighed three stone, but Dan lifted him on to his own shoulders and staggered back up the hill. He carried it thus for half a mile, but then he was still four miles from home, and it was daylight, at any279 moment he might meet somebody he would not care to meet. He entered a ride opening into some coverts185, and, bending down, slipped the dog over his head to rest upon the ground. He was exhausted186 and felt giddy, his brains were swirling187 round—trying to slop out of his skull—and—yes—the dog was dead, his old dog dead. When he looked up, he saw a keeper with a gun standing a few yards off.
“Good morning,” said Dan. All his weariness was suddenly gone from him.
“I’ll have your name and address,” replied the keeper, a giant of a man, with a sort of contemptuous affability.
“What for?”
“You’ll hear about what for,” the giant grinned. “I’ll be sure to let ye know, in doo coorse.” He laid his gun upon the ground and began searching in his pockets, while Dan stood up with rage in his heart and confusion in his mind. So the Old Imp16 was at him again!
“Humph!” said the keeper. “I’ve alost my notebook somewheres. Have you got a bit of paper on ye?”
The culprit searched his pockets and produced a folded fragment.
“Thanks.” The giant did not cease to grin. “What is it?”
“Your name and address.”
“Ah, but what do you want it for. What do you think I’m doing?” protested Dan.
280
“I’ve a net in my pocket which I took from a gate about an hour ago. I saw summat was afoot, and me and a friend o’ mine have been looking for ’ee. Now let’s have your name and no nonsense.”
“My name,” said Dan, “my name? Well, it is ... Piper.”
“Piper is it, ah! Was you baptized ever?”
“Peter Piper! Well, you’ve picked a tidy pepper-carn this time.”
Again he was searching his pockets. There was a frown on his face. “You’d better lend me a bit o’ pencil too.”
Dan produced a stump190 of lead pencil and the gamekeeper, smoothing the paper on his lifted knee, wrote down the name of Peter Piper.
“And where might you come from?” He peered up at the miserable191 man, who replied: “From Leasington”—naming a village several miles to the west of his real home.
“Leasington!” commented the other. “You must know John Eustace, then?” John Eustace was a sporting farmer famed for his stock and his riches.
“Know him!” exclaimed Dan. “He’s my uncle!”
“O ah!” The other carefully folded the paper and put it into his breast pocket. “Well, you can trot192 along home now, my lad.”
Dan knelt down and unbuckled the collar from his dead dog’s neck. He was fond of his dog, it looked piteous now. And kneeling there it suddenly came upon Dan that he had been a coward again, he had told nothing but lies, foolish lies, and he had let a281 great hulking flunkey walk roughshod over him. In one astonishing moment the reproving face of his little son seemed to loom30 up beside the dog, the blood flamed in his brain.
“I’ll take charge of that,” said the keeper, snatching the collar from his hand.
“Blast you!” Dan sprang to his feet, and suddenly screaming like a madman: “I’m Dan Pavey of Thasper,” he leapt at the keeper with a fury that shook even that calm stalwart.
“You would, would ye?” he yapped, darting for his gun. Dan also seized it, and in their struggle the gun was fired off harmlessly between them. Dan let go.
“My God!” roared the keeper, “you’d murder me, would ye? Wi’ my own gun, would ye?” He struck Dan a swinging blow with the butt48 of it, yelling: “Would ye? Would ye? Would ye?” And he did not cease striking until Dan tumbled senseless and bloody193 across the body of the dog.
Soon another keeper came hurrying through the trees.
“Tried to murder me—wi’ me own gun, he did,” declared the big man, “wi’ me own gun!”
They revived the stricken Pavey after a while and then conveyed him to a policeman, who conveyed him to a gaol194.
The magistrates195 took a grave view of the case and sent it for trial at the assizes. They were soon held, he had not long to wait, and before the end of November he was condemned. The assize court was a place of intolerable gloom, intolerable formality,282 intolerable pain, but the public seemed to enjoy it. The keeper swore Dan had tried to shoot him, and the prisoner contested this. He did not deny that he was the aggressor. The jury found him guilty. What had he to say? He had nothing to say, but he was deeply moved by the spectacle of the Rev. Scroope standing up and testifying to his sobriety, his honesty, his general good repute, and pleading for a lenient196 sentence because he was a man of considerable force of character, misguided no doubt, a little unfortunate, and prone197 to recklessness.
Said the judge, examining the papers of the indictment198: “I see there is a previous conviction—for betting offences.”
“That was three years ago, my lord. There has been nothing of the kind since, my lord, of that I am sure, quite sure.”
Scroope showed none of his old time confident aspect, he was perspiring199 and trembling. The clerk of the assize leaned up and held a whispered colloquy200 with the judge, who then addressed the rector.
“Apparently he is still a betting agent. He gave a false name and address, which was taken down by the keeper on a piece of paper furnished by the prisoner. Here it is, on one side the name of Peter Pope (Piper, sir!) Piper: and on the other side this is written:
3 o/c race. Pretty Dear, 5/- to win. J. Klopstock.
Are there any Klopstocks in your parish?”
“Klopstock!” murmured the parson, “it is the name of my cook.”
What had the prisoner to say about that? The283 prisoner had nothing to say, and he was sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment201 with hard labour.
So Dan was taken away. He was a tough man, an amenable202 man, and the mere rigours of the prison did not unduly203 afflict204 him. His behaviour was good, and he looked forward to gaining the maximum remission of his sentence. Meg, his mother, went to see him once, alone, but she did not repeat the visit. The prison chaplain paid him special attention. He, too, was a Scroope, a huge fellow, not long from Oxford205, and Pavey learned that he was related to the Thasper rector. The new year came, February came, March came, and Dan was afforded some privileges. His singing in chapel was much admired, and occasionally he was allowed to sing to the prisoners. April came, May came, and then his son Martin was drowned in a boating accident, on a lake, in a park. The Thasper children had been taken there for a holiday. On hearing it, Pavey sank limply to the floor of his cell. The warders sat him up, but they could make nothing of him, he was dazed, and he could not speak. He was taken to the hospital wing. “This man has had a stroke, he is gone dumb,” said the doctor. On the following day he appeared to be well enough, but still he could not speak. He went about the ward55 doing hospital duty, dumb as a ladder; he could not even mourn, but a jig206 kept flickering207 through his voiceless mind:
In a park there was a lake,
On the lake there was a boat,
In the boat there was a boy.
Hour after hour the stupid jingle208 flowed through284 his consciousness. Perhaps it kept him from going mad, but it did not bring him back his speech, he was dumb, dumb. And he remembered a man who had been stricken deaf, and then blind—Scroope knew him too, it was some man who had mocked God.
In a park there was a lake,
On the lake there was a boat,
In the boat there was a boy.
On the day of the funeral Pavey imagined that he had been let out of prison; he dreamed that someone had been kind and set him free for an hour or two to bury his dead boy. He seemed to arrive at Thasper when the ceremony was already begun, the coffin209 was already in the church. Pavey knelt down beside his mother. The rector intoned the office, the child was taken to its grave. Dumb dreaming Pavey turned his eyes from it. The day was too bright for death, it was a stainless210 day. The wind seemed to flow in soft streams, rolling the lilac blooms. A small white feather, blown from a pigeon on the church gable, whirled about like a butterfly. “We give thee hearty thanks,” the priest was saying, “for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries211 of this sinful world.” At the end of it all Pavey kissed his mother, and saw himself turn back to his prison. He went by the field paths away to the railway junction212. The country had begun to look a little parched213, for rain was wanted—vividly he could see all this—but things were growing, corn was thriving greenly, the beanfields smelled sweet. A frill of yellow kilk and wild white carrot spray lined every hedge. Cattle dreamed in the285 grass, the colt stretched itself unregarded in front of its mother. Larks31, wrens214, yellow-hammers. There were the great beech trees and the great hills, calm and confident, overlooking Cobbs and Peter, Thasper and Trinkel, Buzzlebury and Nuncton. He sees the summer is coming on, he is going back to prison. “Courage is vain,” he thinks, “we are like the grass underfoot, a blade that excels is quickly shorn. In this sort of a world the poor have no call to be proud, they had only need be penitent215.”
In the park there was a lake,
On the lake ... boat,
In the boat....
点击
收听单词发音
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1
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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2
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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3
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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4
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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5
anthems
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| n.赞美诗( anthem的名词复数 )；圣歌；赞歌；颂歌 | |
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6
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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7
rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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8
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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9
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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10
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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11
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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12
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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13
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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14
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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15
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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16
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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17
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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18
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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19
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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20
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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21
malleable
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| adj.(金属)可锻的;有延展性的；(性格)可训练的 | |
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22
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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23
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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24
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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25
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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26
lathe
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| n.车床，陶器，镟床 | |
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27
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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28
sag
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| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
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29
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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30
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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31
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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32
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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33
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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34
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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35
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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36
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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37
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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38
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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39
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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40
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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41
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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44
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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45
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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46
exterminated
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| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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48
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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49
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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50
discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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51
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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52
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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53
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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54
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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56
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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57
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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58
guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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59
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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60
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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61
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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62
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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63
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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64
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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65
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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66
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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67
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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68
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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69
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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70
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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71
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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72
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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73
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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74
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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75
curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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76
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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77
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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78
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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79
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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80
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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81
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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82
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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83
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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84
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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85
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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86
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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88
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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89
pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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91
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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92
unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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93
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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94
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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95
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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96
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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97
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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98
bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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99
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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100
turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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101
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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102
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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103
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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104
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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105
minatory
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| adj.威胁的；恫吓的 | |
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106
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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107
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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108
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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109
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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110
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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111
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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112
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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113
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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114
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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115
ponderously
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116
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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117
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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118
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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119
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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120
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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121
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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122
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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123
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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124
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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125
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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126
severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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127
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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128
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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129
soloists
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| n.独唱者，独奏者，单飞者( soloist的名词复数 ) | |
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130
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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131
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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132
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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133
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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134
sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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135
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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136
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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137
conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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138
tangibly
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| adv.可触摸的，可触知地，明白地 | |
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139
adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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140
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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141
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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142
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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143
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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144
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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145
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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146
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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147
scooping
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| n.捞球v.抢先报道( scoop的现在分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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148
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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149
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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150
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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151
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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154
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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155
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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156
zinc
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| n.锌；vt.在...上镀锌 | |
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157
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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158
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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159
lollipops
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| n.棒糖，棒棒糖( lollipop的名词复数 )；（用交通指挥牌让车辆暂停以便儿童安全通过马路的）交通纠察 | |
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160
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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161
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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162
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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163
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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164
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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165
waddle
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| vi.摇摆地走；n.摇摆的走路(样子) | |
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166
rattling
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|
| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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167
scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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168
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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169
prospers
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| v.成功，兴旺( prosper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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170
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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171
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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172
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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173
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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174
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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175
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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176
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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177
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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178
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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179
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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180
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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181
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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182
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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183
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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184
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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185
coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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186
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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187
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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188
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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189
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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190
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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191
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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192
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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193
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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194
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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195
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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196
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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197
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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198
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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199
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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200
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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201
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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202
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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203
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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204
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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205
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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206
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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207
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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208
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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209
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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210
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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211
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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212
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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213
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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214
wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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215
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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