17The highroad was now to be quitted, as the remaining distance to Hollow's Mill might be considerably20 reduced by a short cut across fields. These fields were level and monotonous21. Malone took a direct course through them, jumping hedge and wall. He passed but one building here, and that seemed large and hall-like, though irregular. You could see a high gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then a thick, lofty stack of chimneys. There were some trees behind it. It was dark; not a candle shone from any window. It was absolutely still; the rain running from the eaves, and the rather wild but very low whistle of the wind round the chimneys and through the boughs22 were the sole sounds in its neighbourhood.
This building passed, the fields, hitherto flat, declined in a rapid descent. Evidently a vale lay below, through which you could hear the water run. One light glimmered23 in the depth. For that beacon25 Malone steered26.
He came to a little white house—you could see it was white even through this dense12 darkness—and knocked at the door. A fresh-faced servant opened it. By the candle she held was revealed a narrow passage, terminating in a narrow stair. Two doors covered with crimson27 baize, a strip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-coloured walls and white floor, made the little interior look clean and fresh.
"Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, but he is not in."
"Not in! Where is he then?"
"At the mill—in the counting-house."
Here one of the crimson doors opened.
"Are the wagons30 come, Sarah?" asked a female voice, and a female head at the same time was apparent. It might not be the head of a goddess—indeed a screw of curl-paper on each side the temples quite forbade that supposition—but neither was it the head of a Gorgon31; yet Malone seemed to take it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bashfully back into the rain at the view thereof, and saying, "I'll go to him," hurried in seeming trepidation32 down a short lane, across an obscure yard, towards a huge black mill.
The work-hours were over; the "hands" were gone. The machinery33 was at rest, the mill shut up. Malone walked round it. Somewhere in its great sooty flank he found another chink of light; he knocked at another door,18 using for the purpose the thick end of his shillelah, with which he beat a rousing tattoo34. A key turned; the door unclosed.
"Is it Joe Scott? What news of the wagons, Joe?"
"No; it's myself. Mr. Helstone would send me."
"Oh! Mr. Malone." The voice in uttering this name had the slightest possible cadence35 of disappointment. After a moment's pause it continued, politely but a little formally,—
"I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret extremely Mr. Helstone should have thought it necessary to trouble you so far. There was no necessity—I told him so—and on such a night; but walk forwards."
Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable, Malone followed the speaker into a light and bright room within—very light and bright indeed it seemed to eyes which, for the last hour, had been striving to penetrate36 the double darkness of night and fog; but except for its excellent fire, and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid lustre37 burning on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was carpetless; the three or four stiff-backed, green-painted chairs seemed once to have furnished the kitchen of some farm-house; a desk of strong, solid formation, the table aforesaid, and some framed sheets on the stone-coloured walls, bearing plans for building, for gardening, designs of machinery, etc., completed the furniture of the place.
Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone, who, when he had removed and hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth38, and set his knees almost within the bars of the red grate.
"Yes, but my sister would be glad to see you, if you would prefer stepping into the house."
"Oh no! The ladies are best alone, I never was a lady's man. You don't mistake me for my friend Sweeting, do you, Mr. Moore?"
"Sweeting! Which of them is that? The gentleman in the chocolate overcoat, or the little gentleman?"
"The little one—he of Nunnely; the cavalier of the Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love, ha! ha!"
19"But he is specially in love with one besides, for when I and Donne urged him to make a choice amongst the fair bevy41, he named—which do you think?"
With a queer, quiet smile Mr. Moore replied, "Dora, of course, or Harriet."
"Ha! ha! you've an excellent guess. But what made you hit on those two?"
"Because they are the tallest, the handsomest, and Dora, at least, is the stoutest42; and as your friend Mr. Sweeting is but a little slight figure, I concluded that, according to a frequent rule in such cases, he preferred his contrast."
"You are right; Dora it is. But he has no chance, has he, Moore?"
"What has Mr. Sweeting besides his curacy?"
This question seemed to tickle43 Malone amazingly. He laughed for full three minutes before he answered it.
"What has Sweeting? Why, David has his harp44, or flute45, which comes to the same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck watch; ditto, ring; ditto, eyeglass. That's what he has."
"How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns only?"
"Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him that next time I see him. I'll roast him for his presumption46. But no doubt he expects old Christopher Sykes would do something handsome. He is rich, is he not? They live in a large house."
"Sykes carries on an extensive concern."
"Therefore he must be wealthy, eh?"
"Therefore he must have plenty to do with his wealth, and in these times would be about as likely to think of drawing money from the business to give dowries to his daughters as I should be to dream of pulling down the cottage there, and constructing on its ruins a house as large as Fieldhead."
"Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other day?"
"No. Perhaps that I was about to effect some such change. Your Briarfield gossips are capable of saying that or sillier things."
"That you were going to take Fieldhead on a lease (I thought it looked a dismal47 place, by-the-bye, to-night, as I passed it), and that it was your intention to settle a Miss Sykes there as mistress—to be married, in short, ha! ha!20 Now, which is it? Dora, I am sure. You said she was the handsomest."
"I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be married since I came to Briarfield. They have assigned me every marriageable single woman by turns in the district. Now it was the two Misses Wynns—first the dark, then the light one; now the red-haired Miss Armitage; then the mature Ann Pearson. At present you throw on my shoulders all the tribe of the Misses Sykes. On what grounds this gossip rests God knows. I visit nowhere; I seek female society about as assiduously as you do, Mr. Malone. If ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to give Sykes or Pearson a call in their counting-house, where our discussions run on other topics than matrimony, and our thoughts are occupied with other things than courtships, establishments, dowries. The cloth we can't sell, the hands we can't employ, the mills we can't run, the perverse48 course of events generally, which we cannot alter, fill our hearts, I take it, pretty well at present, to the tolerably complete exclusion49 of such figments as love-making, etc."
"I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one notion I hate more than another, it is that of marriage—I mean marriage in the vulgar weak sense, as a mere24 matter of sentiment—two beggarly fools agreeing to unite their indigence50 by some fantastic tie of feeling. Humbug51! But an advantageous52 connection, such as can be formed in consonance with dignity of views and permanency of solid interests, is not so bad—eh?"
"No," responded Moore, in an absent manner. The subject seemed to have no interest for him; he did not pursue it. After sitting for some time gazing at the fire with a preoccupied53 air, he suddenly turned his head.
"Hark!" said he. "Did you hear wheels?"
Rising, he went to the window, opened it, and listened. He soon closed it. "It is only the sound of the wind rising," he remarked, "and the rivulet54 a little swollen55, rushing down the hollow. I expected those wagons at six; it is near nine now."
"Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up of this new machinery will bring you into danger?" inquired Malone. "Helstone seems to think it will."
"I only wish the machines—the frames—were safe here, and lodged56 within the walls of this mill. Once put up, I defy the frame-breakers. Let them only pay me a visit and take the consequences. My mill is my castle."
21"One despises such low scoundrels," observed Malone, in a profound vein57 of reflection. "I almost wish a party would call upon you to-night; but the road seemed extremely quiet as I came along. I saw nothing astir."
"You came by the Redhouse?"
"Yes."
"There would be nothing on that road. It is in the direction of Stilbro' the risk lies."
"And you think there is risk?"
"What these fellows have done to others they may do to me. There is only this difference: most of the manufacturers seem paralyzed when they are attacked. Sykes, for instance, when his dressing-shop was set on fire and burned to the ground, when the cloth was torn from his tenters and left in shreds58 in the field, took no steps to discover or punish the miscreants59: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under the jaws60 of a ferret. Now I, if I know myself, should stand by my trade, my mill, and my machinery."
"Helstone says these three are your gods; that the 'Orders in Council' are with you another name for the seven deadly sins; that Castlereagh is your Antichrist, and the war-party his legions."
"Yes; I abhor61 all these things because they ruin me. They stand in my way. I cannot get on. I cannot execute my plans because of them. I see myself baffled at every turn by their untoward62 effects."
"But you are rich and thriving, Moore?"
"I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell. You should step into my warehouse63 yonder, and observe how it is piled to the roof with pieces. Roakes and Pearson are in the same condition. America used to be their market, but the Orders in Council have cut that off."
Malone did not seem prepared to carry on briskly a conversation of this sort. He began to knock the heels of his boots together, and to yawn.
"And then to think," continued Mr. Moore who seemed too much taken up with the current of his own thoughts to note the symptoms of his guest's ennui—"to think that these ridiculous gossips of Whinbury and Briarfield will keep pestering64 one about being married! As if there was nothing to be done in life but to 'pay attention,' as they say, to some young lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to start on a bridal tour, and then to run through a round of visits, and then, I suppose, to be 'having a22 family.' Oh, que le diable emporte!" He broke off the aspiration65 into which he was launching with a certain energy, and added, more calmly, "I believe women talk and think only of these things, and they naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied."
"Of course—of course," assented66 Malone; "but never mind them." And he whistled, looked impatiently round, and seemed to feel a great want of something. This time Moore caught and, it appeared, comprehended his demonstrations67.
"Mr. Malone," said he, "you must require refreshment68 after your wet walk. I forget hospitality."
"Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore rose and opened a cupboard.
"It is my fancy," said he, "to have every convenience within myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity in the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often spend the evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman. I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket69 about the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton chop?"
"Try me. I've done it hundreds of times at college."
"There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn them quickly. You know the secret of keeping the juices in?"
"Never fear me; you shall see. Hand a knife and fork, please."
The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied70 himself to the cookery with vigour71. The manufacturer placed on the table plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then produced a small copper72 kettle—still from the same well-stored recess73, his cupboard—filled it with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissing74 gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl; but while he was brewing75 the punch a tap at the door called him away.
"Is it you, Sarah?"
"Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?"
"No; I shall not be in to-night; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."
He returned.
23"You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent76, he assiduously turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat government, like poor Sweeting, a man—whew! how the fat spits! it has burnt my hand—destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I, Moore—there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy—you and I will have no gray mares in our stables when we marry."
"There is a glassful. Taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions80 return they shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the frames intact."
Malone waxed very exultant81 over the supper. He laughed aloud at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before. It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the appearance of this same host. I must endeavour to sketch82 him as he sits at table.
He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather a strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, sallow, very foreign of aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking83 his forehead. It appears that he spends but little time at his toilet, or he would arrange it with more taste. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, that they have a southern symmetry, clearness, regularity84 in their chiselling85; nor does a spectator become aware of this advantage till he has examined him well, for an anxious countenance86 and a hollow, somewhat haggard, outline of face disturb the idea of beauty with one of care. His eyes are large, and grave, and gray; their expression is intent and meditative87, rather searching than soft, rather thoughtful than genial88. When he parts his lips in a smile, his physiognomy is agreeable—not that it is frank or cheerful even then, but you feel the influence of a certain sedate89 charm, suggestive, whether truly or delusively90, of a considerate, perhaps a kind nature, of feelings that may wear well at home—patient, forbearing, possibly faithful feelings. He is still young—not more than thirty; his stature91 is tall, his figure slender. His manner of speaking displeases92. He has an outlandish accent, which, notwithstanding24 a studied carelessness of pronunciation and diction, grates on a British, and especially on a Yorkshire, ear.
Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and scarcely that. He came of a foreign ancestry93 by the mother's side, and was himself born and partly reared on a foreign soil. A hybrid94 in nature, it is probable he had a hybrid's feeling on many points—patriotism for one; it is likely that he was unapt to attach himself to parties, to sects95, even to climes and customs; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to isolate96 his individual person from any community amidst which his lot might temporarily happen to be thrown, and that he felt it to be his best wisdom to push the interests of Robert Gérard Moore, to the exclusion of philanthropic consideration for general interests, with which he regarded the said Gérard Moore as in a great measure disconnected. Trade was Mr. Moore's hereditary97 calling: the Gérards of Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries back. Once they had been wealthy merchants; but the uncertainties98, the involvements, of business had come upon them; disastrous99 speculations100 had loosened by degrees the foundations of their credit. The house had stood on a tottering101 base for a dozen years; and at last, in the shock of the French Revolution, it had rushed down a total ruin. In its fall was involved the English and Yorkshire firm of Moore, closely connected with the Antwerp house, and of which one of the partners, resident in Antwerp, Robert Moore, had married Hortense Gérard, with the prospect102 of his bride inheriting her father Constantine Gérard's share in the business. She inherited, as we have seen, but his share in the liabilities of the firm; and these liabilities, though duly set aside by a composition with creditors103, some said her son Robert accepted, in his turn, as a legacy104, and that he aspired105 one day to discharge them, and to rebuild the fallen house of Gérard and Moore on a scale at least equal to its former greatness. It was even supposed that he took by-past circumstances much to heart; and if a childhood passed at the side of a saturnine106 mother, under foreboding of coming evil, and a manhood drenched107 and blighted108 by the pitiless descent of the storm, could painfully impress the mind, his probably was impressed in no golden characters.
If, however, he had a great end of restoration in view, it was not in his power to employ great means for its attainment109. He was obliged to be content with the day of25 small things. When he came to Yorkshire, he—whose ancestors had owned warehouses110 in this seaport111, and factories in that inland town, had possessed112 their town-house and their country-seat—saw no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill in an out-of-the-way nook of an out-of-the-way district; to take a cottage adjoining it for his residence, and to add to his possessions, as pasture for his horse, and space for his cloth-tenters, a few acres of the steep, rugged113 land that lined the hollow through which his mill-stream brawled114. All this he held at a somewhat high rent (for these war times were hard, and everything was dear) of the trustees of the Fieldhead estate, then the property of a minor115.
At the time this history commences, Robert Moore had lived but two years in the district, during which period he had at least proved himself possessed of the quality of activity. The dingy116 cottage was converted into a neat, tasteful residence. Of part of the rough land he had made garden-ground, which he cultivated with singular, even with Flemish, exactness and care. As to the mill, which was an old structure, and fitted up with old machinery, now become inefficient117 and out of date, he had from the first evinced the strongest contempt for all its arrangements and appointments. His aim had been to effect a radical118 reform, which he had executed as fast as his very limited capital would allow; and the narrowness of that capital, and consequent check on his progress, was a restraint which galled119 his spirit sorely. Moore ever wanted to push on. "Forward" was the device stamped upon his soul; but poverty curbed120 him. Sometimes (figuratively) he foamed121 at the mouth when the reins122 were drawn very tight.
In this state of feeling, it is not to be expected that he would deliberate much as to whether his advance was or was not prejudicial to others. Not being a native, nor for any length of time a resident of the neighbourhood, he did not sufficiently123 care when the new inventions threw the old workpeople out of employ. He never asked himself where those to whom he no longer paid weekly wages found daily bread; and in this negligence124 he only resembled thousands besides, on whom the starving poor of Yorkshire seemed to have a closer claim.
The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in British history, and especially in the history of the northern26 provinces. War was then at its height. Europe was all involved therein. England, if not weary, was worn with long resistance—yes, and half her people were weary too, and cried out for peace on any terms. National honour was become a mere empty name, of no value in the eyes of many, because their sight was dim with famine; and for a morsel125 of meat they would have sold their birthright.
The "Orders in Council," provoked by Napoleon's Milan and Berlin decrees, and forbidding neutral powers to trade with France, had, by offending America, cut off the principal market of the Yorkshire woollen trade, and brought it consequently to the verge126 of ruin. Minor foreign markets were glutted127, and would receive no more. The Brazils, Portugal, Sicily, were all overstocked by nearly two years' consumption. At this crisis certain inventions in machinery were introduced into the staple128 manufactures of the north, which, greatly reducing the number of hands necessary to be employed, threw thousands out of work, and left them without legitimate129 means of sustaining life. A bad harvest supervened. Distress130 reached its climax131. Endurance, overgoaded, stretched the hand of fraternity to sedition132. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving under the hills of the northern counties. But, as is usual in such cases, nobody took much notice. When a food-riot broke out in a manufacturing town, when a gig-mill was burnt to the ground, or a manufacturer's house was attacked, the furniture thrown into the streets, and the family forced to flee for their lives, some local measures were or were not taken by the local magistracy. A ringleader was detected, or more frequently suffered to elude133 detection; newspaper paragraphs were written on the subject, and there the thing stopped. As to the sufferers, whose sole inheritance was labour, and who had lost that inheritance—who could not get work, and consequently could not get wages, and consequently could not get bread—they were left to suffer on, perhaps inevitably134 left. It would not do to stop the progress of invention, to damage science by discouraging its improvements; the war could not be terminated; efficient relief could not be raised. There was no help then; so the unemployed135 underwent their destiny—ate the bread and drank the waters of affliction.
Misery136 generates hate. These sufferers hated the machines which they believed took their bread from them; they hated27 the buildings which contained those machines; they hated the manufacturers who owned those buildings. In the parish of Briarfield, with which we have at present to do, Hollow's Mill was the place held most abominable137; Gérard Moore, in his double character of semi-foreigner and thorough-going progressist, the man most abominated138. And it perhaps rather agreed with Moore's temperament139 than otherwise to be generally hated, especially when he believed the thing for which he was hated a right and an expedient140 thing; and it was with a sense of warlike excitement he, on this night, sat in his counting-house waiting the arrival of his frame-laden wagons. Malone's coming and company were, it may be, most unwelcome to him. He would have preferred sitting alone; for he liked a silent, sombre, unsafe solitude141. His watchman's musket would have been company enough for him; the full-flowing beck in the den13 would have delivered continuously the discourse142 most genial to his ear.
With the queerest look in the world had the manufacturer for some ten minutes been watching the Irish curate, as the latter made free with the punch, when suddenly that steady gray eye changed, as if another vision came between it and Malone. Moore raised his hand.
"Chut!" he said in his French fashion, as Malone made a noise with his glass. He listened a moment, then rose, put his hat on, and went out at the counting-house door.
The night was still, dark, and stagnant143: the water yet rushed on full and fast; its flow almost seemed a flood in the utter silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another sound, very distant but yet dissimilar, broken and rugged—in short, a sound of heavy wheels crunching144 a stony145 road. He returned to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with which he walked down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open the gates. The big wagons were coming on; the dray-horses' huge hoofs146 were heard splashing in the mud and water. Moore hailed them.
"Hey, Joe Scott! Is all right?"
"Is all right, I say?" again asked Moore, when the elephant-like leader's nose almost touched his.
Some one jumped out from the foremost wagon29 into the road; a voice cried aloud, "Ay, ay, divil; all's raight! We've smashed 'em."
"Joe Scott!" No Joe Scott answered. "Murgatroyd! Pighills! Sykes!" No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern and looked into the vehicles. There was neither man nor machinery; they were empty and abandoned.
Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the last of his capital on the purchase of these frames and shears149 which to-night had been expected. Speculations most important to his interests depended on the results to be wrought150 by them. Where were they?
The words "we've smashed 'em" rang in his ears. How did the catastrophe151 affect him? By the light of the lantern he held were his features visible, relaxing to a singular smile—the smile the man of determined152 spirit wears when he reaches a juncture153 in his life where this determined spirit is to feel a demand on its strength, when the strain is to be made, and the faculty154 must bear or break. Yet he remained silent, and even motionless; for at the instant he neither knew what to say nor what to do. He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with his arms folded, gazing down and reflecting.
An impatient trampling155 of one of the horses made him presently look up. His eye in the moment caught the gleam of something white attached to a part of the harness. Examined by the light of the lantern this proved to be a folded paper—a billet. It bore no address without; within was the superscription:—
"To the Divil of Hollow's Miln."
We will not copy the rest of the orthography156, which was very peculiar157, but translate it into legible English. It ran thus:—
"Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro' Moor28, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take this as a warning from men that are starving, and have starving wives and children to go home to when they have done this deed. If you get new machines, or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you shall hear from us again. Beware!"
"Hear from you again? Yes, I'll hear from you again, and you shall hear from me. I'll speak to you directly. On Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment."
Having led the wagons within the gates, he hastened towards the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke158 a few29 words quickly but quietly to two females who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the seeming alarm of one by a brief palliative account of what had taken place; to the other he said, "Go into the mill, Sarah—there is the key—and ring the mill-bell as loud as you can. Afterwards you will get another lantern and help me to light up the front."
Returning to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled them with equal speed and care, pausing occasionally, while so occupied, as if to listen for the mill-bell. It clanged out presently, with irregular but loud and alarming din4. The hurried, agitated159 peal160 seemed more urgent than if the summons had been steadily161 given by a practised hand. On that still night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way round. The guests in the kitchen of the Redhouse were startled by the clamour, and declaring that "there must be summat more nor common to do at Hollow's Miln," they called for lanterns, and hurried to the spot in a body. And scarcely had they thronged162 into the yard with their gleaming lights, when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel163 hat, sitting erect164 on the back of a shaggy pony165, "rode lightly in," followed by an aide-de-camp mounted on a larger steed.
Mr. Moore, meantime, after stabling his dray-horses, had saddled his hackney, and with the aid of Sarah, the servant, lit up his mill, whose wide and long front now glared one great illumination, throwing a sufficient light on the yard to obviate166 all fear of confusion arising from obscurity. Already a deep hum of voices became audible. Mr. Malone had at length issued from the counting-house, previously167 taking the precaution to dip his head and face in the stone water-jug; and this precaution, together with the sudden alarm, had nearly restored to him the possession of those senses which the punch had partially168 scattered169. He stood with his hat on the back of his head, and his shillelah grasped in his dexter fist, answering much at random170 the questions of the newly-arrived party from the Redhouse. Mr. Moore now appeared, and was immediately confronted by the shovel hat and the shaggy pony.
"Well, Moore, what is your business with us? I thought you would want us to-night—me and the hetman here (patting his pony's neck), and Tom and his charger. When I heard your mill-bell I could sit still no longer, so I left30 Boultby to finish his supper alone. But where is the enemy? I do not see a mask or a smutted face present; and there is not a pane171 of glass broken in your windows. Have you had an attack, or do you expect one?"
"Oh, not at all! I have neither had one nor expect one," answered Moore coolly. "I only ordered the bell to be rung because I want two or three neighbours to stay here in the Hollow while I and a couple or so more go over to Stilbro' Moor."
"To Stilbro' Moor! What to do? To meet the wagons?"
"The wagons are come home an hour ago."
"Then all's right. What more would you have?"
"They came home empty; and Joe Scott and company are left on the moor, and so are the frames. Read that scrawl172."
"Hum! They've only served you as they serve others. But, however, the poor fellows in the ditch will be expecting help with some impatience174. This is a wet night for such a berth175. I and Tom will go with you. Malone may stay behind and take care of the mill. What is the matter with him? His eyes seem starting out of his head."
"He has been eating a mutton chop."
"Indeed!—Peter Augustus, be on your guard. Eat no more mutton chops to-night. You are left here in command of these premises—an honourable176 post!"
"Is anybody to stay with me?"
"As many of the present assemblage as choose.—My lads, how many of you will remain here, and how many will go a little way with me and Mr. Moore on the Stilbro' road, to meet some men who have been waylaid177 and assaulted by frame-breakers?"
The small number of three volunteered to go; the rest preferred staying behind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse, the rector asked him in a low voice whether he had locked up the mutton chops, so that Peter Augustus could not get at them? The manufacturer nodded an affirmative, and the rescue-party set out.
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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7
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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8
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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9
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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10
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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11
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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12
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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13
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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14
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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15
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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16
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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17
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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18
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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19
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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20
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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21
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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22
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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23
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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25
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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26
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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27
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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28
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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29
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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30
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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31
gorgon
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| n.丑陋女人，蛇发女怪 | |
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32
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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33
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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34
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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35
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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36
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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37
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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38
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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39
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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40
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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41
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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42
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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43
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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44
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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45
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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46
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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47
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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48
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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49
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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50
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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51
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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52
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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53
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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54
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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55
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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56
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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57
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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58
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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59
miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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60
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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61
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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62
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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63
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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64
pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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65
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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66
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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68
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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69
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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70
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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71
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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72
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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73
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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74
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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75
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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76
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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77
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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78
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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79
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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80
minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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81
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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82
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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83
streaking
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| n.裸奔（指在公共场所裸体飞跑）v.快速移动( streak的现在分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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84
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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85
chiselling
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| n.錾v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的现在分词 ) | |
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86
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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87
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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88
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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89
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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90
delusively
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| adv.困惑地，欺瞒地 | |
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91
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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92
displeases
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| 冒犯，使生气，使不愉快( displease的第三人称单数 ) | |
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93
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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94
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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95
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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96
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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97
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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98
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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99
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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100
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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101
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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102
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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103
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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104
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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105
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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107
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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108
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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109
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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110
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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111
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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112
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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113
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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114
brawled
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| 打架，争吵( brawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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116
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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117
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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118
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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119
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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120
curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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122
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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123
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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124
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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125
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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126
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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127
glutted
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| v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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128
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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129
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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130
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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131
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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132
sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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133
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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134
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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135
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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136
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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137
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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138
abominated
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| v.憎恶，厌恶，不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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140
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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141
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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142
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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143
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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144
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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145
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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147
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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148
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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149
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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150
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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151
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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152
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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153
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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154
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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156
orthography
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| n.拼字法，拼字式 | |
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157
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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158
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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159
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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160
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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161
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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165
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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166
obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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167
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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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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170
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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171
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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172
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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173
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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174
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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175
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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176
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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177
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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