My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled
With gloating on the ills I cannot cure.
ELLIOTT.
Then guard and shield her innocence1,
Let her not fall like me;
'Twere better, oh! a thousand times,
She in her grave should be.
The Outcast.
Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds, foretelling2 the end of these dark prognostics. In times of sorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed3 by the mere4 repetition of old proverbs which tell the experience of our forefathers5; but now, "it's a long lane that has no turning," "the weariest day draws to an end, etc., seemed false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was the pressure of the terrible times. Deeper and deeper still sank the poor; it showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men, that so few (in comparison) died during those times. But, remember! we only miss those who do men's work in their humble6 sphere; the aged7, the feeble, the children, when they die, are hardly noted8 by the world; and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank which long years will never fill up. Remember, too, that though it may take much suffering to kill the able-bodied and effective members of society, it does not take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody9 hearts and pain-stricken bodies.
The people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to bear, and had found its yoke10 heavy; but this year added sorely to its weight. Former times had chastised11 them with whips, but this chastised them with scorpions12.
Of course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. Before he had gone up to London on his vain errand, he had been working short time. But in the hopes of speedy redress13 by means of the interference of Parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now, when he asked leave to resume his work he was told they were diminishing their number of hands every week, and he was made aware, by the remarks of fellow-workmen, that a Chartist delegate, and a leading member of a trades' union, was not likely to be favoured in his search after employment. Still he tried to keep up a brave heart concerning himself. He knew he could bear hunger; for that power of endurance had been called forth14 when he was a little child, and had seen his mother hide her daily morsel15 to share it among her children, and when he, being the eldest16, had told the noble lie, that "he was not hungry, could not eat a bit more, in order to imitate his mother's bravery, and still the sharp wail17 of the younger infants. Mary, too, was secure of two meals a day at Miss Simmonds'; though, by the way, the dressmaker too, feeling the effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her apprentices18, setting them the example of long abstinence by putting off her own meal till work was done for the night, however late that might be.
But the rent! It was half-a-crown a week--nearly all Mary's earnings--and much less room might do for them, only two.--(Now came the time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evil to come).--The agricultural labourer generally has strong local attachments19; but they are far less common, almost obliterated20, among the inhabitants of a town. Still there are exceptions, and Barton formed one. He had removed to his resent house just after the last bad times, when little Tom had sickened and died. He had then thought the bustle21 of a removal would give his poor stunned22 wife something to do, and he had taken more interest in the details of the proceeding23 than he otherwise would have done, in the hope of calling her forth to action again. So he seemed to know every brass-headed nail driven up for her convenience. Only one had been displaced. It was Esther's bonnet24 nail, which in his deep revengeful anger against her, after his wife's death, he had torn out of the wall, and cast into the street. It would be hard work to leave the house, which yet seemed hallowed by his wife's presence in the happy days of old. But he was a law unto himself, though sometimes a bad, fierce law; and he resolved to give the rent-collector notice, and look out for a cheaper abode25, and tell Mary they must flit. Poor Mary! she loved the house, too. It was wrenching26 up her natural feelings of home, for it would be long before the fibres of her heart would gather themselves about another place.
This trial was spared. The collector (of himself), on the very Monday, when Barton planned to give him notice of his intention to leave, lowered the rent three-pence a week, just enough to make Barton compromise and agree to stay on a little longer.
But by degrees the house was stripped of all its little ornaments27. Some were broken; and the odd twopences and threepences, wanted to pay for their repairs, were required for the far sterner necessity of food. And by-and-by Mary began to part with other superfluities at the pawn-shop. The smart tea-tray, and tea-caddy, long and carefully kept, went for bread for her father. He did not ask for it, or complain, but she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animal look. Then the blankets went, for it was summer time, and they could spare them; and their sale made a fund, which Mary fancied would last till better times came. But it was soon all gone; and then she looked around the room to crib it of its few remaining ornaments. To all these proceedings29 her father said never a word. If he fasted, or feasted (after the sale of some article) on an unusual 'meal of bread and cheese, he took all with a sullen30 indifference31, which depressed32 Mary's heart. She often wished be would apply for relief from the Guardians33' relieving office; often wondered the trades' union did nothing for him. Once, when she asked him as he sat, grimed, unshaven, and gaunt, after a day's fasting, over the fire, why he did not get relief from the town, he turned round, with grim wrath34, and said, "I don't want money, child! D--n their charity and their money! I want work and it is my right. I want work."
He would bear it all, he said to himself. And he did bear it, but not meekly35; that was too much to expect. Real meekness36 of character is called out by experience of kindness. And few had been kind to him. Yet through it all, with stern determination he refused the assistance his trades' union would have given him. It had not much to give, but, with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiate37 an active, useful member, than to help those who were unenergetic, though they had large families to provide for. Not so thought John Barton. With him, need was right.
"Give it to Tom Darbyshire," he said. "He's more claim on it than me, for he's more need of it, with his seven children."
Now Tom Darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling38 way, a backbiting39 enemy of John Barton's. And he knew it; but he was not to be influenced by that in a matter like this.
Mary went early to her work; but her cheery laugh over it was now missed by the other girls. Her mind wandered over the present distress40, and then settled, as she stitched, on the visions of the future, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances of ease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting her, than on the lover with whom she was to share them. Still she was not insensible to the pride of having attracted one so far above herself in station; not insensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom so many admired, had often said he would give any thing for one of her sweet smiles. Her love for him was a bubble, blown out of vanity; but it looked very real and very bright. Sally Leadbitter, meanwhile, keenly observed the signs of the times; she found out that Mary had begun to affix41 a stern value to money as the "Purchaser of Life," and many girls had been dazzled and lured42 by gold, even without the betraying love which she believed to exist in Mary's heart. So she urged young Mr Carson, by representations of the want she was sure surrounded Mary, to bring matters more to a point. But he had a kind of instinctive43 dread44 of hurting Mary's pride of spirit, and durst not hint his knowledge in any way of the distress that many must be enduring. He felt that for the present he must still be content with stolen meetings and summer evening strolls, and the delight of pouring sweet honeyed words into her ear, while she listened with a blush and a smile that made her look radiant with beauty. No; he would be cautious in order to be certain; for Mary, one way or another, he must make his. He had no doubt of the effect of his own personal charms in the long run; for he knew he was handsome, and believed himself fascinating.
If he had known what Mary's home was, he would not have been so much convinced of his increasing influence over her, by her being more and more ready to linger with him in the sweet summer air. For when she returned for the night her father was often out, and the house wanted the cheerful look it bad had in the days when money was, never wanted to purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. It was dingy45 and comfortless; for, of course, there was not even the dumb familiar home-friend, a fire. And Margaret, too, was now very often from home, singing at some of those grand places. And Alice; oh, Mary wished she had never left her cellar to go and live at Ancoats with her sister-in-law. For in that matter Mary felt very guilty; she had put off and put off going to see the widow, after George Wilson's reason to think she wished to be as intimate with him as formerly46; and now she was so much ashamed of her delay that she was likely never to go at all.
If her father was at home it was no better; indeed, it was worse. He seldom spoke47, less than ever; and often when he did speak, they were sharp angry words, such as he had never given her formerly. Her temper was high, too, and her answers not overmild; and once in his passion he had even beaten her. If Sally Leadbitter or Mr Carson had been at hand at that moment, Mary would have been ready to leave home for ever. She sat alone, after her father had flung out of the house, bitterly thinking on the days that were gone; angry with her own hastiness, and believing that her father did not love her; striving to heap up one painful thought on another. Who eared for her? Mr Carson might, but in this grief that seemed no comfort. Mother dead! Father so often angry, so lately cruel (for it was a hard blow, and blistered48 and reddened Mary's soft white skin with pain): and then her heart turned round, and she remembered with selfreproach how provokingly she had looked and spoken, and how much her father had to bear; and oh, what a kind and loving parent he had been, till these days of trial. The remembrance of one little instance of his fatherly love thronged49 after another into her mind, and she began to wonder how she could have behaved to him as she had done.
Then he came home; and but for very shame she would have confessed her penitence50 in words. But she looked sullen, from her effort to keep down emotion; and for some time her father did not know how to begin to speak. At length he gulped51 down pride, and said:
"Mary, I'm not above saying I'm very sorry I beat thee. Thou wert a bit aggravating52, and I'm not the man I was. But it were wrong, and I'll try never to lay hands on thee again."
So he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him her repentance53 for her fault. He never struck her again.
Still, he often was angry. But that was almost better than being silent. Then he sat near the fire-place (from habit), smoking, or chewing opium54. Oh, how Mary loathed55 that smell! And in the dusk, lust56 before it merged57 into the short summer night, she had learned to look with dread towards the window, which now her father would have kept uncurtained; for there were not seldom seen sights which haunted her in her dreams. Strange faces of pale men, with dark glaring eyes, peered into the inner darkness, and seemed desirous to ascertain58 if her father was at home. Or a hand and arm (the body hidden) was put within the door, and beckoned59 him away. He always went. And once or twice, when Mary was in bed, she heard men's voices below, in earnest, whispered talk.
They were all desperate members of trades' unions, read for any thing; made ready by want.
While all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and heavy on Mary's heart, her father startled her out of a reverie one evening, by asking her when she had been to see Jane Wilson. From his manner of speaking, she was made aware that he had been; but at the time of his visit he had never mentioned any thing about it. Now, however, he gruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added some abuse of her for not having been before. The little outward impulse of her father's speech gave Mary the push which she in this instance required; and accordingly, timing60 her visit so as to avoid Jem's hours at home, she went the following afternoon to Ancoats.
The outside of the well-known house struck her as different; for the door was closed, instead of open, as it once had always stood. The window-plants, George Wilson's pride and especial care, looked withering61 and drooping62. They had been without water for a long time, and now, when the widow had reproached herself severely63 for neglect, in her ignorant anxiety she gave them too much. On opening the door, Alice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual64 way, but knitting by the fire-side. The room felt hot, although the fire burnt grey and dim, under the bright rays of the afternoon sun. Mrs Wilson was "siding" the dinner things, and talking all the time, in a kind of whining65, shouting voice, which Mary did not at first understand. She understood at once, however, that her absence had been noted, and talked over; she saw a constrained66 look on Mrs Wilson's sorrowstricken face, which told her a scolding was to come.
"Dear Mary, is that you?" she began. "Why, who would ha' dreamt of seeing you! We thought you'd clean forgotten us; and Jem has often wondered if he should know you, if he met you in the street."
Now, poor Jane Wilson had been sorely tried; and at present her trials had had no outward effect, but that of increased acerbity67 of temper. She wished to show Mary how much she was offended, and meant to strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharp speeches into Jem's mouth.
Mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an apology; so for a minute she stood silent, looking very much ashamed, and then turned to speak to Aunt Alice, who, in her surprised, hearty68 greeting to Mary, had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy trying to set the thread to rights, before the kitten had en-tangled it past redemption, once round every chair, and twice round the table.
"You mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to hear; she's become as deaf as a post this last few weeks. I'd ha' told you, if I'd remembered how long it were sin' you'd seen her."
"Yes, my dear, I'm getting very hard o' hearing of late," said Alice, catching69 the state of the case, with her quickglancing eyes. "I suppose it's the beginning of th' end."
"Don't talk o' that way," screamed her sister-in-law. "We've had enow of ends and deaths without forecasting more." She covered her face with her apron70, and sat down to cry.
"He was such a good husband," said she, in a less excited tone, to Mary, as she looked up with tear-streaming eyes from behind her apron. "No one can tell what I've lost in him, for no one knew his worth like me."
Mary's listening sympathy softened71 her, and she went on to unburden her heavy-laden heart.
"Eh, dear, dear! No one knows what I've lost. When my poor boys went, I thought th' Almighty72 had crushed me to th' ground, but I never thought o' losing George I did na think I could ha' borne to ha' lived without him. And yet I'm here, and he's----" A fresh burst of crying interrupted her speech.
"Mary,"--beginning to speak again,--"did yon ever hear what a poor creature I were when he married me? And he such a handsome fellow I Jem's nothing to what his father were at his age.
Yes! Mary had heard, and so she said. But the poor woman's thoughts had gone back to those days, and her little recollections came out, with many interruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head.
"There were nought73 about me for him to choose me. I were just well enough afore that accident, but at after I were downright plain. And there was Bessy Witter as would ha' given her eyes for him; she as is Mrs Carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although I never could see her beauty then; and Carson warn't so much above her, as they're both above us all now.
Mary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, and wished also that Mrs Wilson would tell her more about the father and mother of her lover; but she durst not ask, and Mrs Wilson's thoughts Soon returned to her husband, and their early married days.
"If you'll believe me, Mary, there never was such a born goose at house-keeping as I were; and yet he married me! I had been in a factory sin' five years old a'most, and I knew nought about cleaning, or cooking, let alone washing and such-like work. The day after we were married, he goes to his work at after breakfast, and says he, 'Jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes, and that's a dinner for a prince.' I were anxious to make him comfortable, God knows how anxious. And yet I'd no notion how to cook a potato. I know'd they were boiled, and I know'd their skins were taken off, and that were all. So I tidied my house in a rough kind o' way, then I looked at that very clock up yonder," pointing at one that hung against the wall, "and I seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks I, th' potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and I gets 'em on th' fire in a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as I could peel 'em, which were a tough job at first), and then I fell to unpacking74 my boxes! and at twenty minutes past twelve, he comes home, and I had th' beef ready on th' table, and I went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot; but oh! Mary, th' water had boiled away, and they were all a nasty brown mess, as smelt75 through all the house. He said nought, and were very gentle; but, oh, Mary, I cried so that after-noon. I shall ne'er forget it; no, never. I made many a blunder at after, but none that fretted76 me like that."
"Father does not like girls to work in factories," said Mary.
"No, I know he does not; and reason good. They oughtn't to go at after they're married, that I'm very clear about. I could reckon up" (counting with her finger), "aye, nine men I know, as has been driven to th' public-house by having wives as worked in factories; good folk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting their little ones out at nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and their fires all out; and that was a place as was tempting77 for a husband to stay in, was it? He soon finds out gin-shops, where all is clean and bright, and where th' fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man a welcome as it were."
Alice, who was standing78 near for the convenience of hearing, had caught much of this speech, and it was evident the subject had previously79 been discussed by the women, for she chimed in.
"I wish our Jem could speak a word to th' Queen, about factory work for married women. Eh! but he comes it strong when once yo get him to speak about it. Wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home."
"I say it's Prince Albert as ought to be asked how he'd like his missis to be from home when he comes ill, tired and worn, and wanting some one to cheer him, and maybe, her to come in by and by, just as tired and down in th' mouth; and how he'd like for her never to be at home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep a bright fire in his grate. Let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger, and comfortless. I'd be bound, prince as he is, if his missis served him so, he'd be off to a gin-palace, or summut o' that kind. So why can't he make a law again poor folks' wives working in factories?"
Mary ventured to say that she thought the Queen and Prince Albert could not make laws, but the answer was,
"Pooh! don't tell me it's not the Queen as makes laws; and isn't she bound to obey Prince Albert? And if he said they mustn't, why she'd say they mustn't, and then all folk would say, oh, no, we never shall do any such thing no more.
"Jem's getten on rarely," said Alice, who had not heard her sister's last bursts of eloquence80, and whose thoughts were still running on her nephew, and his various talents. "He's found out summut about a crank or tank, I forgot rightly which it is, but th' master's made him foreman, and he all the while turning off hands; but he said he could na part wi' Jem, nohow. He's good wage now; I tell him he'll be thinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down good wife, that he does."
Mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there was a secret spring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing Jem so spoken of. But his mother only saw the annoyed look, and was piqued81 accordingly. She was not over and above desirous that her son should marry. His presence in the house seemed a relic82 of happier times, and she had some little jealousy83 of his future wife, whoever she might be. Still she could not bear any one not to feel gratified and flattered by Jem's preference, and full well she knew how above others he preferred Mary. Now she had never thought Mary good enough for Jem, and her late neglect in coming to see her still rankled84 a little in her breast. So she determined85 to invent a little, in order to do away with any idea Mary might have that Jem would choose her for "his right down good wife," as aunt Alice called it.
"Aye, he'll be for taking a wife soon," and then, in a lower voice, as if confidentially86, but really to prevent any contradiction or explanation from her simple sister-in-law, she added,
"It'll not be long afore Molly Gibson (that's her at th' provision shop round the corner) will hear a secret as will not displease87 her, I'm thinking. She's been casting sheep's eyes at our Jem this many a day, but he thought her father would not give her to a common working man; but now he's good as her, every bit. I thought once he'd a fancy for thee, Mary, but I donnot think yo'd ever ha' suited, so it's best as it is."
By an effort Mary managed to keep down her vexation, and to say, "She hoped he would be happy with Molly Gibson. She was very handsome, for certain."
"Aye, and a notable body, too. I'll just step up-stairs and show you the patchwork88 quilt she gave me but last Saturday."
Mary was glad she was going out of the room. Her words irritated her; perhaps not the less because she did not fully28 believe them. Besides, she wanted to speak to Alice, and Mrs Wilson seemed to think that she, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention.
"Dear Alice," began Mary, "I'm so grieved to find you so deaf; it must have come on very rapid."
"Yes, dear, it's a trial; I'll not deny it. Pray God give me strength to find out its teaching. I felt it sore one fine day when I thought I'd go gather some meadow-sweet to make tea for Jane's cough; and the fields seemed so dree and still; and at first I could na' make out what was wanting; and then it struck me it were th' song o' the birds, and that I never should hear their sweet music no more, and I could na' help crying a bit. But I've much to be thankful for. I think I'm a comfort to Jane, if I'm only some one to scold now and then; poor body! It takes off her thoughts from her sore losses when she can scold a bit. If my eyes are left I can do well enough; I can guess at what folk are saying."
The splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its appearance, and Jane Wilson would not be satisfied unless Mary praised it all over, border, centre, and ground-work, right side and wrong; and Mary did her duty, saying all the more, because she could not work herself up to any very hearty admiration89 of her rival's present. She made haste, however, with her commendations, in order to avoid encountering Jem. As soon as she was fairly away from the house and street, she slackened her pace, and began to think. Did Jem really care for Molly Gibson? Well, if he did, let him. People seemed all to think he was much too good for her (Mary's own self). Perhaps some one else, far more handsome, and far more grand, would show him one day that she was good enough to be Mrs Henry Carson. So temper, or what Mary called "spirit," led her to encourage Mr Carson more than ever she had done before.
Some weeks after this there was a meeting of the trades' union to which John Barton belonged. The morning of the day on which it was to take place he had lain late in bed, for what was the use of getting up? He had hesitated between the purchase of meal or opium, and had chosen the latter, for its use had become a necessity with him. He wanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression its absence occasioned. A large lump seemed only to bring him into a natural state, or what had been his natural state formerly. Eight o'clock was the hour fixed90 for the meeting; and at it were read letters, filled with details of woe91, from all parts of the country. Fierce, heavy gloom brooded over the assembly; and fiercely and heavily did the men separate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritated by the opposition92 of others to their desperate plans.
It was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the glare of the gas-lighted room, and came out into the street. Unceasing, soaking rain was falling; the very lamps seemed obscured by the damp upon the glass, and their light reached but to a little distance from the posts. The streets were cleared of passers-by; not a creature seemed stirring, except here and there a drenched93 policeman in his oil-skin cape94. Barton wished the others good night, and set off home. He had gone through a street or two, when he heard a step behind him; but he did not care to look and see who it was. A little further, and the person quickened step, and touched his arm very lightly. He turned, and saw, even by the darkness visible of that badly-lighted street, that the woman who stood by him was of no doubtful profession. It was told by her faded finery, all unfit to meet the pelting95 of that pitiless storm; the gauze bonnet, once pink, now dirty white, the muslin gown, all draggled, and soaking wet up to the very knees; the gay-coloured barege shawl, closely wrapped round the form, which yet shivered and shook, as the woman whispered: "I want to speak to you."
He swore an oath, and bade her begone.
"I really do. Don't send me away. I'm so out of breath, I cannot say what I would all at once." She put her hand to her side, and caught her breath with evident pain.
"I tell thee I'm not the man for thee," adding an opprobrious96 name. "Stay," said he, as a thought suggested by her voice flashed across him. He gripped her arm--the arm he had just before shaken off, and dragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post. He pushed the bonnet back, and roughly held the face she would fain have averted97, to the light, and in her large, unnaturally98 bright grey eyes, her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring99 the forbearance she could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost Esther; she who had caused his wife's death. Much was like the gay creature of former years; but the glaring paint, the sharp features, the changed expression of the whole! But most of all, he loathed the dress; and yet the poor thing, out of her little choice of attire100, had put on the plainest she had, to come on that night's errand.
"So it's thee, is it? It's thee!" exclaimed John, as he ground his teeth, and shook her with passion. "I've looked for thee long at corners o' streets, and such like places. I knew I should find thee at last. Thee'll maybe bethink thee o' some words I spoke, which put thee up at th' time; summut about street-walkers; but oh no! thou art none o' them naughts; no one thinks thou art, who sees thy fine draggle tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks!" stopping for very want of breath.
"Oh, mercy! John, mercy! listen to me for Mary's sake!"
She meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his ear as belonging to his wife; and it was adding fuel to the fire. In vain did her face grow deadly pale around the vivid circle of paint, in vain did she gasp101 for mercy,--he burst forth again.
"And thou names that name to me! and thou thinks the thought of her will bring thee mercy! Dost thou know it was thee who killed her, as sure as Cain killed Abel. She'd loved thee as her own, and she trusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone she never held up head again, but died in less than a three week; and at the judgement-day she'll rise, and point to thee as her murderer; or if she don't, I will."
He flung her, trembling, sinking, fainting, from him, and strode away. She fell with a feeble scream against the lamp-post, and lay there in her weakness, unable to rise. A policeman came up in time to see the close of these occurrences, and concluding from Esther's unsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he took her in her half-unconscious state to the lock-ups for the night. The superintendent102 of that abode of vice103 and misery104 was roused from his dozing105 watch through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails106 and moanings, which he reported as arising from intoxication107. If he had listened, he would have heard these words, repeated in various forms, but always in the same anxious, muttering way:
"He would not listen to me; what can I do? He would not listen to me, and I wanted to warn him! Oh, what shall I do to save Mary's child! What shall I do? How can I keep her from being such a one as I am; such a wretched loathsome108 creature! She was listening just as I listened, and loving just as I loved, and the end will be just like my end. How shall I save her? She won't hearken to warning, or heed109 it more than I did; and who loves her well enough to watch over her as she should be watched? God keep her from harm! And yet I won't pray for her; sinner that I am! Can my prayers be heard? No! they'll only do harm. How shall I save her? He would not listen to me."
So the night wore away. The next morning she was taken up to the New Bailey. It was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy110, and she was committed to prison for a month. How much might happen in that time!
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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foretelling
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的现在分词 ) | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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11
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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12
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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13
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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15
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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16
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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17
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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18
apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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19
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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21
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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22
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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23
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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24
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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25
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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26
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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27
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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28
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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29
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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30
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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31
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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32
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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33
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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34
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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35
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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36
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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37
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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38
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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39
backbiting
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| 背后诽谤 | |
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40
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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41
affix
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| n.附件，附录 vt.附贴，盖(章)，签署 | |
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42
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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44
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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45
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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46
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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47
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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48
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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49
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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51
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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52
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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53
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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54
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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55
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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56
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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57
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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58
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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59
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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61
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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62
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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63
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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64
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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65
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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66
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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67
acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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68
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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69
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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70
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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71
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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72
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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73
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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74
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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75
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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76
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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77
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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78
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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79
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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80
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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81
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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82
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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83
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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84
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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86
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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87
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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88
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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89
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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90
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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91
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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92
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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93
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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94
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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95
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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96
opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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97
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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98
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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99
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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100
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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101
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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102
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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103
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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104
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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105
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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106
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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107
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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108
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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109
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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110
vagrancy
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| （说话的，思想的）游移不定； 漂泊； 流浪； 离题 | |
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