It was not only that Mr. Trumbull had been murdered. So great and wise a man as Lord Trowbridge would, no doubt, know very well, that in a free country, such as England, a man could not be specially6 protected from the hands of murderers, or others, by the fact of his being the tenant2, or dependent,—by his being in some sort the possession of a great nobleman. The Marquis’s people were all expected to vote for his candidates, and would soon have ceased to be the Marquis’s people had they failed to do so. They were constrained7, also in many respects, by the terms of their very short leases. They could not kill a head of game on their farms. They could not sell their own hay off the land, nor, indeed, any produce other than their corn or cattle. They were compelled to crop their land in certain rotation8; and could take no other lands than those held under the Marquis without his leave. In return for all this, they became the Marquis’s people. Each tenant shook hands with the Marquis perhaps once in three years; and twice a year was allowed to get drunk at the Marquis’s expense—if such was his taste—provided that he had paid his rent. If the duties were heavy, the privileges were great. So the Marquis himself felt; and he knew that a mantle10 of security, of a certain thickness, was spread upon the shoulders of each of his people by reason of the tenure11 which bound them together. But he did not conceive that this mantle would be proof against the bullet of the ordinary assassin, or the hammer of the outside ruffian. But here the case was very different. The hammer had been the hammer of no outside ruffian. To the best of his lordship’s belief,—and in that belief he was supported by the constabulary of the whole county,—the hammer had been wielded13 by a man of Bullhampton,—had been wielded against his tenant by the son of “a person who holds land under a gentleman who has some property in the parish.” It was thus the Marquis was accustomed to speak of his neighbour, Mr. Gilmore, who, in the Marquis’s eyes, was a man not big enough to have his tenants called his people. That such a man as Sam Brattle should have murdered such a one as Mr. Trumbull, was to the Marquis an insult rather than an injury; and now it was to be enhanced by the release of the man from prison, and that by order of a bench of magistrates14 on which Mr. Gilmore sat!
And there was more in it even than all this. It was very well known at Turnover16 Park,—the seat of Lord Trowbridge, near Westbury,—that Mr. Gilmore, the gentleman who held property in his lordship’s parish of Bullhampton, and Mr. Fenwick, who was vicar of the same, were another Damon and Pythias. Now the ladies at Turnover, who were much devoted17 to the Low Church, had heard and doubtless believed, that our friend, Mr. Fenwick, was little better than an infidel. When first he had come into the county, they had been very anxious to make him out to be a High Churchman, and a story or two about a cross and a candlestick were fabricated for their gratification. There was at that time the remnant of a great fight going on between the Trowbridge people and another great family in the neighbourhood on this subject; and it would have suited the Ladies Stowte,—John Augustus Stowte was the Marquis of Trowbridge,—to have enlisted18 our parson among their enemies of this class; but the accusation19 fell so plump to the ground, was so impossible of support, that they were obliged to content themselves with knowing that Mr. Fenwick was—an infidel! To do the Marquis justice, we must declare that he would not have troubled himself on this score, if Mr. Fenwick would have submitted himself to become one of his people. The Marquis was master at home, and the Ladies Sophie and Carolina would have been proud to entertain Mr. Fenwick by the week together at Turnover, had he been willing, infidel or believer, to join that faction20. But he never joined that faction, and he was not only the bosom21 friend of the “gentleman who owned some land in the parish;” but he was twice more rebellious22 than that gentleman himself. He had contradicted the Marquis flat to his face,—so the Marquis said himself,—when they met once about some business in the parish; and again, when, in the Vicar’s early days in Bullhampton, some gathering23 for school-festival purposes was made in the great home field behind Farmer Trumbull’s house, Mrs. Fenwick misbehaved herself egregiously24.
“Upon my word, she patronised us,” said Lady Sophie, laughing. “She did, indeed! And you know what she was. Her father was just a common builder at Loring, who made some money by a speculation25 in bricks and mortar26.”
When Lady Sophie said this she was, no doubt, ignorant of the fact that Mr. Balfour had been the younger son of a family much more ancient than her own, that he had taken a double-first at Oxford27, had been a member of half the learned societies in Europe, and had belonged to two or three of the best clubs in London.
From all this it will be seen that the Marquis of Trowbridge would be disposed to think ill of whatever might be done in regard to the murder by the Gilmore-Fenwick party in the parish. And then there were tales about for which there was perhaps some foundation, that the Vicar and the murderer had been very dear friends. It was certainly believed at Turnover that the Vicar and Sam Brattle had for years past spent the best part of their Sundays fishing together. There were tales of rat-killing matches in which they had been engaged,—originating in the undeniable fact of a certain campaign against rats at the mill, in which the Vicar had taken an ardent28 part. Undoubtedly29 the destruction of vermin, and, in regard to one species, its preservation30 for the sake of destruction,—and the catching31 of fish,—and the shooting of birds,—were things lovely in the Vicar’s eyes. He, perhaps, did let his pastoral dignity go a little by the board, when he and Sam stooped together, each with a ferret in his hand, grovelling32 in the dust to get at certain rat-advantages in the mill. Gilmore, who had seen it, had told him of this. “I understand it all, old fellow,” Fenwick had said to his friend, “and know very well I have got to choose between two things. I must be called a hypocrite, or else I must be one. I have no doubt that as years go on with me I shall see the advantage of choosing the latter.” There were at that time frequent discussions between them on the same subject, for they were friends who could dare to discuss each other’s modes of life; but the reader need not be troubled further now with this digression. The position which the Vicar held in the estimation of the Marquis of Trowbridge will probably be sufficiently33 well understood.
The family at Turnover Park would have thought it a great blessing34 to have had a clergyman at Bullhampton with whom they could have cordially co-operated; but, failing this, they had taken Mr. Puddleham, the Methodist minister, to their arms. From Mr. Puddleham they learned parish facts and parish fables35, which would never have reached them but for his assistance. Mr. Fenwick was well aware of this, and used to declare that he had no objection to it. He would protest that he could not see why Mr. Puddleham should not get along in the parish just as well as himself, he having, and meaning to keep to himself, the slight advantages of the parish church, the vicarage-house, and the small tithes36. Of this he was quite sure, that Mr. Puddleham’s religious teaching was better than none at all; and he was by no means convinced,—so he said,—that, for some of his parishioners, Mr. Puddleham was not a better teacher than he himself. He always shook hands with Mr. Puddleham, though Mr. Puddleham would never look him in the face, and was quite determined37 that Mr. Puddleham should not be a thorn in his side.
In this matter of Sam Brattle’s imprisonment38 and now intended liberation, tidings from the parish were doubtless conveyed by Mr. Puddleham to Turnover,—probably not direct, but still in such a manner that the great people at Turnover knew to whom they were indebted. Now Mr. Gilmore had certainly, from the first, been by no means disposed to view favourably39 the circumstances attaching to Sam Brattle on that Saturday night. When the great blow fell on the Brattle family, his demeanour to them was changed, and he forgave the miller’s contumacy; but he had always thought that Sam had been guilty. The parson had from the first regarded the question with great doubt, but, nevertheless, his opinion too had at first been averse40 to Sam. Even now, when he was so resolute41 that Sam should be released, he founded his demand, not on Sam’s innocence42, but on the absence of any evidence against him.
“He’s entitled to fair play, Harry43,” he would say to Gilmore, “and he is not getting it, because there is a prejudice against him. You hear what that old ass12, Sir Thomas, says.”
“Sir Thomas is a very good magistrate15.”
“If he don’t take care, he’ll find himself in trouble for keeping the lad locked up without authority. Is there a juryman in the country would find him guilty because he was lying in the old man’s ditch a week before?” In this way Gilmore also became a favourer of Sam’s claim to be released; and at last it came to be understood that on the next Tuesday he would be released, unless further evidence should be forthcoming.
And then it came to pass that a certain very remarkable44 meeting took place in the parish. Word was brought to Mr. Gilmore on Monday, the 5th October, that the Marquis of Trowbridge was to be at the Church Farm,—poor Trumbull’s farm,—on that day at noon, and that his lordship thought that it might be expedient45 that he and Mr. Gilmore should meet on the occasion. There was no note, but the message was brought by Mr. Packer, a sub-agent, one of the Marquis’s people, with whom Mr. Gilmore was very well acquainted.
“I’ll walk down about that time, Packer,” said Mr. Gilmore, “and shall be very happy to see his lordship.”
Now the Marquis never sat as a magistrate at the Heytesbury bench, and had not been present on any of the occasions on which Sam had been examined; nor had Mr. Gilmore seen the Marquis since the murder,—nor, for the matter of that, for the last twelve months. Mr. Gilmore had just finished breakfast when the news was brought to him, and he thought he might as well walk down and see Fenwick first. His interview with the parson ended in a promise that he, Fenwick, would also look in at the farm.
At twelve o’clock the Marquis was seated in the old farmer’s arm-chair, in the old farmer’s parlour. The house was dark and gloomy, never having been altogether opened since the murder. With the Marquis was Packer, who was standing46, and the Marquis was pretending to cast his eye over one or two books which had been brought to him. He had been taken all over the house; had stood looking at the bed where the old man lay when he was attacked, as though he might possibly discover, if he looked long enough, something that would reveal the truth; had gazed awe-struck at the spot on which the body had been found, and had taken occasion to remark to himself that the house was a good deal out of order. The Marquis was a man nearer seventy than sixty, but very hale, and with few signs of age. He was short and plump, with hardly any beard on his face, and short grey hair, of which nothing could be seen when he wore his hat. His countenance47 would not have been bad, had not the weight of his marquisate always been there; nor would his heart have been bad, had it not been similarly burdened. But he was a silly, weak, ignorant man, whose own capacity would hardly have procured48 bread for him in any trade or profession, had bread not been so adequately provided for him by his fathers before him.
“Mr. Gilmore said he would be here at twelve, Packer?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And it’s past twelve now?”
“One minute, my lord.”
Then the peer looked again at poor old Trumbull’s books.
“I shall not wait, Packer.”
“No, my lord.”
“You had better tell them to put the horses to.”
“Yes, my lord.”
But just as Packer went out into the passage for the sake of giving the order he met Mr. Gilmore, and ushered49 him into the room.
“Ha! Mr. Gilmore; yes, I am very glad to see you, Mr. Gilmore;” and the Marquis came forward to shake hands with his visitor. “I thought it better that you and I should meet about this sad affair in the parish;—a very sad affair, indeed.”
“It certainly is, Lord Trowbridge; and the mystery makes it more so.”
“I suppose there is no real mystery, Mr. Gilmore? I suppose there can be no doubt that that unfortunate young man did,—did,—did bear a hand in it at least?”
“I think that there is very much doubt, my lord.”
“Do you, indeed? I think there is none,—not the least. And all the police force are of the same opinion. I have considerable experiences of my own in these matters; but I should not venture, perhaps, to express my opinion so confidently, if I were not backed by the police. You are aware, Mr. Gilmore, that the police are—very—seldom wrong?”
“I should be tempted50 to say that they are very seldom right—except when the circumstances are all under their noses.”
“I must say I differ from you entirely51, Mr. Gilmore. Now, in this case—” The Marquis was here interrupted by a knock at the door, and, before the summons could be answered, the parson entered the room. And with the parson came Mr. Puddleham. The Marquis had thought that the parson might, perhaps, intrude52; and Mr. Puddleham was in waiting as a make-weight, should he be wanting. When Mr. Fenwick had met the minister hanging about the farmyard, he had displayed not the slightest anger. If Mr. Puddleham chose to come in also, and make good his doing so before the Marquis, it was nothing to Mr. Fenwick. The great man looked up, as though he were very much startled and somewhat offended; but he did at last condescend53 to shake hands, first with one clergyman and then with the other, and to ask them to sit down. He explained that he had come over to make some personal inquiry54 into the melancholy55 matter, and then proceeded with his opinion respecting Sam Brattle. “From all that I can hear and see,” said his lordship, “I fear there can be no doubt that this murder has been due to the malignity56 of a near neighbour.”
“Do you mean the poor boy that is in prison, my lord?” asked the parson.
“Of course I do, Mr. Fenwick. The constabulary are of opinion—”
“We know that, Lord Trowbridge.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Fenwick, you will allow me to express my own ideas. The constabulary, I say, are of opinion that there is no manner of doubt that he was one of those who broke into my tenant’s house on that fatal night; and, as I was explaining to Mr. Gilmore when you did us the honour to join us, in the course of a long provincial57 experience I have seldom known the police to be in error.”
“Why, Lord Trowbridge—!”
“If you please, Mr. Fenwick, I will go on. My time here cannot be long, and I have a proposition which I am desirous of making to Mr. Gilmore, as a magistrate acting58 in this part of the county. Of course, it is not for me to animadvert upon what the magistrates may do at the bench to-morrow.”
“I am sure your lordship would make no such animadversion,” said Mr. Gilmore.
“I do not intend it, for many reasons. But I may go so far as to say that a demand for the young man’s release will be made.”
“He is to be released, I presume, as a matter of course,” said the parson.
The Marquis made no allusion59 to this, but went on. “If that be done,—and I must say that I think no such step would be taken by the bench at Westbury,—whither will the young man betake himself?”
“Home to his father, of course,” said the parson.
“Back into this parish, with his paramour, to murder more of my tenants.”
“My lord, I cannot allow such an unjust statement to be made,” said the parson.
“I wish to speak for one moment; and I wish it to be remembered that I am addressing myself especially to your neighbour, Mr. Gilmore, who has done me the honour of waiting upon me here at my request. I do not object to your presence, Mr. Fenwick, or to that of any other gentleman,” and the Marquis bowed to Mr. Puddleham, who had stood by hitherto without speaking a word; “but, if you please, I must carry out the purpose that has brought me here. I shall think it very sad indeed, if this young man be allowed to take up his residence in the parish after what has taken place.”
“His father has a house here,” said Mr. Gilmore.
“I am aware of the fact,” said the Marquis. “I believe that the young man’s father holds a mill from you, and some few acres of land?”
“He has a very nice farm.”
“So be it. We will not quarrel about terms. I believe there is no lease?—though, of course, that is no business of mine.”
“I must say that it is not, my lord,” said Mr. Gilmore, who was waxing wrothy and becoming very black about the brows.
“I have just said so; but I suppose you will admit that I have some interest in this parish? I presume that these two gentlemen, who are God’s ministers here, will acknowledge that it is my duty, as the owner of the greater part of the parish, to interfere60?”
“Certainly, my lord,” said Mr. Puddleham.
Mr. Fenwick said nothing. He sat, or rather leant, against the edge of a table, and smiled. His brow was not black, like that of his friend; but Gilmore, who knew him, and who looked into his face, began to fear that the Marquis would be addressed before long in terms stronger than he himself, Mr. Gilmore, would approve.
“And when I remember,” continued his lordship, “that the unfortunate man who has fallen a victim had been for nearly half a century a tenant of myself and of my family, and that he was foully61 murdered on my own property,—dragged from his bed in the middle of the night, and ruthlessly slaughtered62 in this very house in which I am sitting, and that this has been done in a parish of which I own, I think, something over two-thirds—”
“Two thousand and two acres out of two thousand nine hundred and ten,” said Mr. Puddleham.
“I suppose so. Well, Mr. Puddleham, you need not have interrupted me.”
“I beg pardon, my lord.”
“What I mean to say is this, Mr. Gilmore,—that you should take steps to prevent that young man’s return among our people. You should explain to the father that it cannot be allowed. From what I hear, it would be no loss if the whole family left the parish. I am told that one of the daughters is a—prostitute.”
“It is too true, my lord,” said Mr. Puddleham.
The parson turned round and looked at his colleague, but said nothing. It was one of the principles of his life that he wouldn’t quarrel with Mr. Puddleham; and at the present moment he certainly did not wish to waste his anger on so weak an enemy.
“I think that you should look to this, Mr. Gilmore,” said the Marquis, completing his harangue63.
“I cannot conceive, my lord, what right you have to dictate64 to me in such a matter,” said Mr. Gilmore.
“I have not dictated65 at all; I have simply expressed my opinion,” said the Marquis.
“Now, my lord, will you allow me for a moment?” said Mr. Fenwick. “In the first place, if Sam Brattle could not find a home at the mill,—which I hope he will do for many a long year to come,—he should have one at the Vicarage.”
“I dare say,” said the Marquis.
Mr. Puddleham held up both hands.
“You might as well hold your tongue, Frank,” said Gilmore.
“It is a matter on which I wish to say a word or two, Harry. I have been appealed to as one of God’s ministers here, and I acknowledge my responsibility. I never in my life heard any proposition more cruel or inhuman66 than that made by Lord Trowbridge. This young man is to be turned out because a tenant of his lordship has been murdered! He is to be adjudged to be guilty by us, without any trial, in the absence of all evidence, in opposition67 to the decision of the magistrates—”
“It is not in opposition to the magistrates, sir,” said the Marquis.
“And to be forbidden to return to his own home, simply because Lord Trowbridge thinks him guilty! My lord, his father’s house is his own, to entertain whom he may please, as much as is yours. And were I to suggest to you to turn out your daughters, it would be no worse an offence than your suggesting to Mr. Brattle that he should turn out his son.”
“My daughters!”
“Yes, your daughters, my lord.”
“How dare you mention my daughters?”
“The ladies, I am well aware, are all that is respectable. I have not the slightest wish that you should ill-use them. But if you desire that your family concerns should be treated with reserve and reticence68, you had better learn to treat the family affairs of others in the same way.”
The Marquis by this time was on his feet, and was calling for Packer,—was calling for his carriage and horses,—was calling on the very gods to send down their thunder to punish such insolence69 as this. He had never heard of the like in all his experience. His daughters! And then there came across his dismayed mind an idea that his daughters had been put upon a par3 with that young murderer, Sam Brattle,—perhaps even on a par with something worse than this. And his daughters were such august persons,—old and ugly, it is true, and almost dowerless in consequence of the nature of the family settlements and family expenditure70. It was an injury and an insult that Mr. Fenwick should make the slightest allusion to his daughters; but to talk of them in such a way as this, as though they were mere71 ordinary human beings, was not to be endured! The Marquis had hitherto had his doubts, but now he was quite sure that Mr. Fenwick was an infidel. “And a very bad sort of infidel, too,” as he said to Lady Carolina on his return home. “I never heard of such conduct in all my life,” said Lord Trowbridge, walking down to his carriage. “Who can be surprised that there should be murderers and prostitutes in the parish?”
“My lord, they don’t sit under me,” said Mr. Puddleham.
“I don’t care who they sit under,” said his lordship.
As they walked away together, Mr. Fenwick had just a word to say to Mr. Puddleham. “My friend,” he said, “you were quite right about his lordship’s acres.”
“Those are the numbers,” said Mr. Puddleham.
“I mean that you were quite right to make the observation. Facts are always valuable, and I am sure Lord Trowbridge was obliged to you. But I think you were a little wrong as to another statement.”
“What statement, Mr. Fenwick?”
“What you said about poor Carry Brattle. You don’t know it as a fact.”
“Everybody says so.”
“How do you know she has not married, and become an honest woman?”
“It is possible, of course. Though as for that,—when a young woman has once gone astray—”
“As did Mary Magdalene, for instance!”
“Mr. Fenwick, it was a very bad case.”
“And isn’t my case very bad,—and yours? Are we not in a bad way,—unless we believe and repent72? Have we not all so sinned as to deserve eternal punishment?”
“Certainly, Mr. Fenwick.”
“Then there can’t be much difference between her and us. She can’t deserve more than eternal punishment. If she believes and repents73, all her sins will be white as snow.”
“Certainly, Mr. Fenwick.”
“Then speak of her as you would of any other sister or brother,—not as a thing that must be always vile9 because she has fallen once. Women will so speak,—and other men. One sees something of a reason for it. But you and I, as Christian74 ministers, should never allow ourselves to speak so thoughtlessly of sinners. Good morning, Mr. Puddleham.”
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1
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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turnover
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| n.人员流动率，人事变动率；营业额，成交量 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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egregiously
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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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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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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repents
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的第三人称单数 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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