Perplexity among Honest People
Thomasin looked as if quite overcome by her aunt's change of manner. "It means just what it seems to mean: I am--not married," she replied faintly. "Excuse me--for humiliating you, Aunt, by this mishap--I am sorry for it. But I cannot help it."
"Me? Think of yourself first."
"It was nobody's fault. When we got there the parson wouldn't marry us because of some trifling1 irregularity in the license2."
"What irregularity?"
"I don't know. Mr. Wildeve can explain. I did not think when I went away this morning that I should come back like this." It being dark, Thomasin allowed her emotion to escape her by the silent way of tears, which could roll down her cheek unseen.
"I could almost say that it serves you right--if I did not feel that you don't deserve it," continued Mrs. Yeobright, who, possessing two distinct moods in close contiguity3, a gentle mood and an angry, flew from one to the other without the least warning. "Remember, Thomasin, this business was none of my seeking; from the very first, when you began to feel foolish about that man, I warned you he would not make you happy. I felt it so strongly that I did what I would never have believed myself capable of doing--stood up in the church, and made myself the public talk for weeks. But having once consented, I don't submit to these fancies without good reason. Marry him you must after this."
"Do you think I wish to do otherwise for one moment?" said Thomasin, with a heavy sigh. "I know how wrong it was of me to love him, but don't pain me by talking like that, Aunt! You would not have had me stay there with him, would you?--and your house is the only home I have to return to. He says we can be married in a day or two."
"I wish he had never seen you."
"Very well; then I will be the miserablest woman in the world, and not let him see me again. No, I won't have him!"
"It is too late to speak so. Come with me. I am going to the inn to see if he has returned. Of course I shall get to the bottom of this story at once. Mr. Wildeve must not suppose he can play tricks upon me, or any belonging to me."
"It was not that. The license was wrong, and he couldn't get another the same day. He will tell you in a moment how it was, if he comes."
"Why didn't he bring you back?"
"That was me!" again sobbed5 Thomasin. "When I found we could not be married I didn't like to come back with him, and I was very ill. Then I saw Diggory Venn, and was glad to get him to take me home. I cannot explain it any better, and you must be angry with me if you will."
"I shall see about that," said Mrs. Yeobright; and they turned towards the inn, known in the neighbourhood as the Quiet Woman, the sign of which represented the figure of a matron carrying her head under her arm, beneath which gruesome design was written the couplet so well known to frequenters of the inn:-
SINCE THE WOMAN'S QUIET LET NO MAN BREED A RIOT.[1]
[1] The inn which really bore this sign and legend stood some miles to the northwest of the present scene, wherein the house more immediately referred to is now no longer an inn; and the surroundings are much changed. But another inn, some of whose features are also embodied6 in this description, the RED LION at Winfrith, still remains7 as a haven8 for the wayfarer9 (1912).
The front of the house was towards the heath and Rainbarrow, whose dark shape seemed to threaten it from the sky. Upon the door was a neglected brass10 plate, bearing the unexpected inscription11, "Mr. Wildeve, Engineer"--a useless yet cherished relic12 from the time when he had been started in that profession in an office at Budmouth by those who had hoped much from him, and had been disappointed. The garden was at the back, and behind this ran a still deep stream, forming the margin13 of the heath in that direction, meadow-land appearing beyond the stream.
But the thick obscurity permitted only skylines to be visible of any scene at present. The water at the back of the house could be heard, idly spinning whirpools in its creep between the rows of dry feather-headed reeds which formed a stockade15 along each bank. Their presence was denoted by sounds as of a congregation praying humbly16, produced by their rubbing against each other in the slow wind.
The window, whence the candlelight had shone up the vale to the eyes of the bonfire group, was uncurtained, but the sill lay too high for a pedestrian on the outside to look over it into the room. A vast shadow, in which could be dimly traced portions of a masculine contour, blotted17 half the ceiling.
"He seems to be at home," said Mrs. Yeobright.
"Must I come in, too, Aunt?" asked Thomasin faintly. "I suppose not; it would be wrong."
"You must come, certainly--to confront him, so that he may make no false representations to me. We shall not be five minutes in the house, and then we'll walk home."
Entering the open passage, she tapped at the door of the private parlour, unfastened it, and looked in.
The back and shoulders of a man came between Mrs. Yeobright's eyes and the fire. Wildeve, whose form it was, immediately turned, arose, and advanced to meet his visitors.
He was quite a young man, and of the two properties, form and motion, the latter first attracted the eye in him. The grace of his movement was singular--it was the pantomimic expression of a lady-killing18 career. Next came into notice the more material qualities, among which was a profuse19 crop of hair impending20 over the top of his face, lending to his forehead the high-cornered outline of an early Gothic shield; and a neck which was smooth and round as a cylinder21. The lower half of his figure was of light build. Altogether he was one in whom no man would have seen anything to admire, and in whom no woman would have seen anything to dislike.
He discerned the young girl's form in the passage, and said, "Thomasin, then, has reached home. How could you leave me in that way, darling?" And turning to Mrs. Yeobright--"It was useless to argue with her. She would go, and go alone."
"But what's the meaning of it all?" demanded Mrs. Yeobright haughtily22.
"Take a seat," said Wildeve, placing chairs for the two women. "Well, it was a very stupid mistake, but such mistakes will happen. The license was useless at Anglebury. It was made out for Budmouth, but as I didn't read it I wasn't aware of that."
"But you had been staying at Anglebury?"
"No. I had been at Budmouth--till two days ago--and that was where I had intended to take her; but when I came to fetch her we decided23 upon Anglebury, forgetting that a new license would be necessary. There was not time to get to Budmouth afterwards."
"I think you are very much to blame," said Mrs. Yeobright.
"It was quite my fault we chose Anglebury," Thomasin pleaded. "I proposed it because I was not known there."
"I know so well that I am to blame that you need not remind me of it," replied Wildeve shortly.
"Such things don't happen for nothing," said the aunt. "It is a great slight to me and my family; and when it gets known there will be a very unpleasant time for us. How can she look her friends in the face tomorrow? It is a very great injury, and one I cannot easily forgive. It may even reflect on her character."
"Nonsense," said Wildeve.
Thomasin's large eyes had flown from the face of one to the face of the other during this discussion, and she now said anxiously, "Will you allow me, Aunt, to talk it over alone with Damon for five minutes? Will you, Damon?"
"Certainly, dear," said Wildeve, "if your aunt will excuse us." He led her into an adjoining room, leaving Mrs. Yeobright by the fire.
As soon as they were alone, and the door closed, Thomasin said, turning up her pale, tearful face to him, "It is killing me, this, Damon! I did not mean to part from you in anger at Anglebury this morning; but I was frightened and hardly knew what I said. I've not let Aunt know how much I suffered today; and it is so hard to command my face and voice, and to smile as if it were a slight thing to me; but I try to do so, that she may not be still more indignant with you. I know you could not help it, dear, whatever Aunt may think."
"She is very unpleasant."
"Yes," Thomasin murmured, "and I suppose I seem so now....Damon, what do you mean to do about me?"
"Do about you?"
"Yes. Those who don't like you whisper things which at moments make me doubt you. We mean to marry, I suppose, don't we?"
"Of course we do. We have only to go to Budmouth on Monday, and we marry at once."
"Then do let us go!--O Damon, what you make me say!" She hid her face in her handkerchief. "Here am I asking you to marry me, when by rights you ought to be on your knees imploring24 me, your cruel mistress, not to refuse you, and saying it would break your heart if I did. I used to think it would be pretty and sweet like that; but how different!"
"Yes, real life is never at all like that."
"But I don't care personally if it never takes place," she added with a little dignity; "no, I can live without you. It is Aunt I think of. She is so proud, and thinks so much of her family respectability, that she will be cut down with mortification25 if this story should get abroad before--it is done. My cousin Clym, too, will be much wounded."
"Then he will be very unreasonable26. In fact, you are all rather unreasonable."
Thomasin coloured a little, and not with love. But whatever the momentary27 feeling which caused that flush in her, it went as it came, and she humbly said, "I never mean to be, if I can help it. I merely feel that you have my aunt to some extent in your power at last."
"As a matter of justice it is almost due to me," said Wildeve. "Think what I have gone through to win her consent; the insult that it is to any man to have the banns forbidden--the double insult to a man unlucky enough to be cursed with sensitiveness, and blue demons28, and Heaven knows what, as I am. I can never forget those banns. A harsher man would rejoice now in the power I have of turning upon your aunt by going no further in the business."
She looked wistfully at him with her sorrowful eyes as he said those words, and her aspect showed that more than one person in the room could deplore29 the possession of sensitiveness. Seeing that she was really suffering he seemed disturbed and added, "This is merely a reflection you know. I have not the least intention to refuse to complete the marriage, Tamsie mine--I could not bear it."
"You could not, I know!" said the fair girl, brightening. "You, who cannot bear the sight of pain in even an insect, or any disagreeable sound, or unpleasant smell even, will not long cause pain to me and mine."
"I will not, if I can help it."
"Your hand upon it, Damon."
He carelessly gave her his hand.
"Ah, by my crown, what's that?" he said suddenly.
There fell upon their ears the sound of numerous voices singing in front of the house. Among these, two made themselves prominent by their peculiarity30: one was a very strong bass31, the other a wheezy thin piping. Thomasin recognized them as belonging to Timothy Fairway and Grandfer Cantle respectively.
"What does it mean--it is not skimmity-riding, I hope?" she said, with a frightened gaze at Wildeve.
"Of course not; no, it is that the heath-folk have come to sing to us a welcome. This is intolerable!" He began pacing about, the men outside singing cheerily-
"He told' her that she' was the joy' of his life', And if' she'd con-sent' he would make her his wife'; She could' not refuse' him; to church' so they went', Young Will was forgot', and young Sue' was content'; And then' was she kiss'd' and set down' on his knee', No man' in the world' was so lov'-ing as he'!"
Mrs. Yeobright burst in from the outer room. "Thomasin, Thomasin!" she said, looking indignantly at Wildeve; "here's a pretty exposure! Let us escape at once. Come!"
It was, however, too late to get away by the passage. A rugged32 knocking had begun upon the door of the front room. Wildeve, who had gone to the window, came back.
"Stop!" he said imperiously, putting his hand upon Mrs. Yeobright's arm. "We are regularly besieged33. There are fifty of them out there if there's one. You stay in this room with Thomasin; I'll go out and face them. You must stay now, for my sake, till they are gone, so that it may seem as if all was right. Come, Tamsie dear, don't go making a scene--we must marry after this; that you can see as well as I. Sit still, that's all--and don't speak much. I'll manage them. Blundering fools!"
He pressed the agitated34 girl into a seat, returned to the outer room and opened the door. Immediately outside, in the passage, appeared Grandfer Cantle singing in concert with those still standing35 in front of the house. He came into the room and nodded abstractedly to Wildeve, his lips still parted, and his features excruciatingly strained in the emission36 of the chorus. This being ended, he said heartily37, "Here's welcome to the new-made couple, and God bless 'em!"
"Thank you," said Wildeve, with dry resentment38, his face as gloomy as a thunderstorm.
At the Grandfer's heels now came the rest of the group, which included Fairway, Christian39, Sam the turf-cutter, Humphrey, and a dozen others. All smiled upon Wildeve, and upon his tables and chairs likewise, from a general sense of friendliness40 towards the articles as well as towards their owner.
"We be not here afore Mrs. Yeobright after all," said Fairway, recognizing the matron's bonnet41 through the glass partition which divided the public apartment they had entered from the room where the women sat. "We struck down across, d'ye see, Mr. Wildeve, and she went round by the path."
"And I see the young bride's little head!" said Grandfer, peeping in the same direction, and discerning Thomasin, who was waiting beside her aunt in a miserable4 and awkward way. "Not quite settled in yet--well, well, there's plenty of time."
Wildeve made no reply; and probably feeling that the sooner he treated them the sooner they would go, he produced a stone jar, which threw a warm halo over matters at once.
"That's a drop of the right sort, I can see," said Grandfer Cantle, with the air of a man too wellmannered to show any hurry to taste it.
"Yes," said Wildeve, "'tis some old mead14. I hope you will like it."
"O ay!" replied the guests, in the hearty42 tones natural when the words demanded by politeness coincide with those of deepest feeling. "There isn't a prettier drink under the sun."
"I'll take my oath there isn't," added Grandfer Cantle. "All that can be said against mead is that 'tis rather heady, and apt to lie about a man a good while. But tomorrow's Sunday, thank God."
"I feel'd for all the world like some bold soldier after I had had some once," said Christian.
"You shall feel so again," said Wildeve, with condescension43, "Cups or glasses, gentlemen?"
"Well, if you don't mind, we'll have the beaker, and pass 'en round; 'tis better than heling it out in dribbles44."
"Jown the slippery glasses," said Grandfer Cantle. "What's the good of a thing that you can't put down in the ashes to warm, hey, neighbours; that's what I ask?"
"Right, Grandfer," said Sam; and the mead then circulated.
"Well," said Timothy Fairway, feeling demands upon his praise in some form or other, "'tis a worthy45 thing to be married, Mr. Wildeve; and the woman you've got is a dimant, so says I. Yes," he continued, to Grandfer Cantle, raising his voice so as to be heard through the partition, "her father (inclining his head towards the inner room) was as good a feller as ever lived. He always had his great indignation ready against anything underhand."
"Is that very dangerous?" said Christian.
"And there were few in these parts that were upsides with him," said Sam. "Whenever a club walked he'd play the clarinet in the band that marched before 'em as if he'd never touched anything but a clarinet all his life. And then, when they got to church door he'd throw down the clarinet, mount the gallery, snatch up the bass viol, and rozum away as if he'd never played anything but a bass viol. Folk would say--folk that knowed what a true stave was--'Surely, surely that's never the same man that I saw handling the clarinet so masterly by now!"
"I can mind it," said the furze-cutter. "'Twas a wonderful thing that one body could hold it all and never mix the fingering."
"There was Kingsbere church likewise," Fairway recommenced, as one opening a new vein46 of the same mine of interest.
Wildeve breathed the breath of one intolerably bored, and glanced through the partition at the prisoners.
"He used to walk over there of a Sunday afternoon to visit his old acquaintance Andrew Brown, the first clarinet there; a good man enough, but rather screechy47 in his music, if you can mind?"
"'A was."
"And neighbour Yeobright would take Andrey's place for some part of the service, to let Andrey have a bit of a nap, as any friend would naturally do."
"As any friend would," said Grandfer Cantle, the other listeners expressing the same accord by the shorter way of nodding their heads.
"No sooner was Andrey asleep and the first whiff of neighbour Yeobright's wind had got inside Andrey's clarinet than everyone in church feeled in a moment there was a great soul among 'em. All heads would turn, and they'd say, 'Ah, I thought 'twas he!' One Sunday I can well mind--a bass viol day that time, and Yeobright had brought his own. 'Twas the Hundred-and-thirty-third to 'Lydia'; and when they'd come to 'Ran down his beard and o'er his robes its costly48 moisture shed,' neighbour Yeobright, who had just warmed to his work, drove his bow into them strings49 that glorious grand that he e'en a'most sawed the bass viol into two pieces. Every winder in church rattled50 as if 'twere a thunderstorm. Old Pa'son Williams lifted his hands in his great holy surplice as natural as if he'd been in common clothes, and seemed to say hisself, 'O for such a man in our parish!' But not a soul in Kingsbere could hold a candle to Yeobright."
"Was it quite safe when the winder shook?" Christian inquired.
He received no answer, all for the moment sitting rapt in admiration51 of the performance described. As with Farinelli's singing before the princesses, Sheridan's renowned52 Begum Speech, and other such examples, the fortunate condition of its being for ever lost to the world invested the deceased Mr. Yeobright's tour de force on that memorable53 afternoon with a cumulative54 glory which comparative criticism, had that been possible, might considerably55 have shorn down.
"He was the last you'd have expected to drop off in the prime of life," said Humphrey.
"Ah, well; he was looking for the earth some months afore he went. At that time women used to run for smocks and gown-pieces at Greenhill Fair, and my wife that is now, being a long-legged slittering maid, hardly husband-high, went with the rest of the maidens56, for 'a was a good, runner afore she got so heavy. When she came home I said--we were then just beginning to walk together--'What have ye got, my honey?' 'I've won--well, I've won--a gown-piece,' says she, her colours coming up in a moment. 'Tis a smock for a crown, I thought; and so it turned out. Ay, when I think what she'll say to me now without a mossel of red in her face, it do seem strange that 'a wouldn't say such a little thing then....However, then she went on, and that's what made me bring up the story. Well, whatever clothes I've won, white or figured, for eyes to see or for eyes not to see' ('a could do a pretty stroke of modesty57 in those days), 'I'd sooner have lost it than have seen what I have. Poor Mr. Yeobright was took bad directly he reached the fair ground, and was forced to go home again.' That was the last time he ever went out of the parish."
"'A faltered58 on from one day to another, and then we heard he was gone."
"D'ye think he had great pain when 'a died?" said Christian.
"O no--quite different. Nor any pain of mind. He was lucky enough to be God A'mighty's own man."
"And other folk--d'ye think 'twill be much pain to 'em, Mister Fairway?"
"That depends on whether they be afeard."
"I bain't afeard at all, I thank God!" said Christian strenuously59. "I'm glad I bain't, for then 'twon't pain me....I don't think I be afeard--or if I be I can't help it, and I don't deserve to suffer. I wish I was not afeard at all!"
There was a solemn silence, and looking from the window, which was unshuttered and unblinded, Timothy said, "Well, what a fess little bonfire that one is, out by Cap'n Vye's! 'Tis burning just the same now as ever, upon my life."
All glances went through the window, and nobody noticed that Wildeve disguised a brief, telltale look. Far away up the sombre valley of heath, and to the right of Rainbarrow, could indeed be seen the light, small, but steady and persistent60 as before.
"It was lighted before ours was," Fairway continued; "and yet every one in the country round is out afore 'n."
"Perhaps there's meaning in it!" murmured Christian.
"How meaning?" said Wildeve sharply.
Christian was too scattered61 to reply, and Timothy helped him.
"He means, sir, that the lonesome dark-eyed creature up there that some say is a witch--ever I should call a fine young woman such a name--is always up to some odd conceit62 or other; and so perhaps 'tis she."
"I'd be very glad to ask her in wedlock63, if she'd hae me and take the risk of her wild dark eyes ill-wishing me," said Grandfer Cantle staunchly.
"Don't ye say it, Father!" implored64 Christian.
"Well, be dazed if he who do marry the maid won't hae an uncommon65 picture for his best parlour," said Fairway in a liquid tone, placing down the cup of mead at the end of a good pull.
"And a partner as deep as the North Star," said Sam, taking up the cup and finishing the little that remained. "Well, really, now I think we must be moving," said Humphrey, observing the emptiness of the vessel66.
"But we'll gie 'em another song?" said Grandfer Cantle. "I'm as full of notes as a bird!"
"Thank you, Grandfer," said Wildeve. "But we will not trouble you now. Some other day must do for that--when I have a party."
"Be jown'd if I don't learn ten new songs for't, or I won't learn a line!" said Grandfer Cantle. "And you may be sure I won't disappoint ye by biding67 away, Mr. Wildeve."
"I quite believe you," said that gentleman.
All then took their leave, wishing their entertainer long life and happiness as a married man, with recapitulations which occupied some time. Wildeve attended them to the door, beyond which the deep-dyed upward stretch of heath stood awaiting them, an amplitude68 of darkness reigning69 from their feet almost to the zenith, where a definite form first became visible in the lowering forehead of Rainbarrow. Diving into the dense70 obscurity in a line headed by Sam the turf-cutter, they pursued their trackless way home.
When the scratching of the furze against their leggings had fainted upon the ear, Wildeve returned to the room where he had left Thomasin and her aunt. The women were gone.
They could only have left the house in one way, by the back window; and this was open.
Wildeve laughed to himself, remained a moment thinking, and idly returned to the front room. Here his glance fell upon a bottle of wine which stood on the mantelpiece. "Ah--old Dowden!" he murmured; and going to the kitchen door shouted, "Is anybody here who can take something to old Dowden?"
There was no reply. The room was empty, the lad who acted as his factotum71 having gone to bed. Wildeve came back put on his hat, took the bottle, and left the house, turning the key in the door, for there was no guest at the inn tonight. As soon as he was on the road the little bonfire on Mistover Knap again met his eye.
"Still waiting, are you, my lady?" he murmured.
However, he did not proceed that way just then; but leaving the hill to the left of him, he stumbled over a rutted road that brought him to a cottage which, like all other habitations on the heath at this hour, was only saved from being visible by a faint shine from its bedroom window. This house was the home of Olly Dowden, the besom-maker, and he entered.
The lower room was in darkness; but by feeling his way he found a table, whereon he placed the bottle, and a minute later emerged again upon the heath. He stood and looked northeast at the undying little fire--high up above him, though not so high as Rainbarrow.
We have been told what happens when a woman deliberates; and the epigram is not always terminable with woman, provided that one be in the case, and that a fair one. Wildeve stood, and stood longer, and breathed perplexedly, and then said to himself with resignation, "Yes--by Heaven, I must go to her, I suppose!"
Instead of turning in the direction of home he pressed on rapidly by a path under Rainbarrow towards what was evidently a signal light.
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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contiguity
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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embodied
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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wayfarer
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brass
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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stockade
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| n.栅栏，围栏；v.用栅栏防护 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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blotted
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killing
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profuse
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impending
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cylinder
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haughtily
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decided
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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mortification
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unreasonable
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momentary
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demons
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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emission
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| n.发出物，散发物；发出，散发 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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dribbles
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| n.涓滴( dribble的名词复数 )；细滴；少量（液体）v.流口水( dribble的第三人称单数 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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screechy
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| adj.声音尖锐的，喜欢尖声喊叫的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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