"Ye're not custen dahn, then, maister?" cried Joe.
"Not a stiver, mon garçon—which means, my lad. Get up, and we'll take a turn through the mill before the hands come in, and I'll explain my future plans. We'll have the machinery4 yet, Joseph. You never heard of Bruce, perhaps?"
"And th' arrand (spider)? Yes, but I hev. I've read th' history o' Scotland, and happen knaw as mich on't as ye; and I understand ye to mean to say ye'll persevere5."
"I do."
"Is there mony o' your mak' i' your country?" inquired Joe, as he folded up his temporary bed, and put it away.
"In my country! Which is my country?"
"Why, France—isn't it?"
"Not it, indeed! The circumstance of the French having seized Antwerp, where I was born, does not make me a Frenchman."
"Holland, then?"
"I am not a Dutchman. Now you are confounding Antwerp with Amsterdam."
"Flanders?"
"I scorn the insinuation, Joe! I a Flamand! Have I a Flemish face—the clumsy nose standing6 out, the mean forehead falling back, the pale blue eyes 'à fleur de tête'? Am I all body and no legs, like a Flamand? But you don't know what they are like, those Netherlanders. Joe, I'm an Anversois. My mother was an Anversoise, though she came of French lineage, which is the reason I speak French."
"But your father war Yorkshire, which maks ye a bit Yorkshire too; and onybody may see ye're akin7 to us, ye're so keen o' making brass8, and getting forrards."
"Joe, you're an impudent9 dog; but I've always been accustomed to a boorish11 sort of insolence12 from my youth up. The 'classe ouvrière'—that is, the working people in Belgium—bear themselves brutally13 towards their employers; and by brutally, Joe, I mean brutalement—which, perhaps, when properly translated, should be roughly."
"We allus speak our minds i' this country; and them young parsons and grand folk fro' London is shocked at wer 'incivility;' and we like weel enough to gi'e 'em summat to be shocked at, 'cause it's sport to us to watch 'em turn up the whites o' their een, and spreed out their bits o' hands, like as they're flayed16 wi' bogards, and then to hear 'em say, nipping off their words short like, 'Dear! dear! Whet17 seveges! How very corse!'"
"Middling, middling, maister. I reckon 'at us manufacturing lads i' th' north is a deal more intelligent, and knaws a deal more nor th' farming folk i' th' south. Trade sharpens wer wits; and them that's mechanics like me is forced to think. Ye know, what wi' looking after machinery and sich like, I've getten into that way that when I see an effect, I look straight out for a cause, and I oft lig hold on't to purpose; and then I like reading, and I'm curious to knaw what them that reckons to govern us aims to do for us and wi' us. And there's many 'cuter nor me; there's many a one amang them greasy21 chaps 'at smells o' oil, and amang them dyers wi' blue and black skins, that has a long head, and that can tell what a fooil of a law is, as well as ye or old Yorke, and a deal better nor soft uns like Christopher Sykes o' Whinbury, and greet hectoring nowts like yond' Irish Peter, Helstone's curate."
"You think yourself a clever fellow, I know, Scott."
"Ay! I'm fairish. I can tell cheese fro' chalk, and I'm varry weel aware that I've improved sich opportunities as I have had, a deal better nor some 'at reckons to be aboon me; but there's thousands i' Yorkshire that's as good as me, and a two-three that's better."
"You're a great man—you're a sublime22 fellow; but you're a prig, a conceited23 noodle with it all, Joe! You need not to think that because you've picked up a little53 knowledge of practical mathematics, and because you have found some scantling of the elements of chemistry at the bottom of a dyeing vat24, that therefore you're a neglected man of science; and you need not to suppose that because the course of trade does not always run smooth, and you, and such as you, are sometimes short of work and of bread, that therefore your class are martyrs25, and that the whole form of government under which you live is wrong. And, moreover, you need not for a moment to insinuate26 that the virtues28 have taken refuge in cottages and wholly abandoned slated14 houses. Let me tell you, I particularly abominate29 that sort of trash, because I know so well that human nature is human nature everywhere, whether under tile or thatch30, and that in every specimen31 of human nature that breathes, vice32 and virtue27 are ever found blended, in smaller or greater proportions, and that the proportion is not determined33 by station. I have seen villains34 who were rich, and I have seen villains who were poor, and I have seen villains who were neither rich nor poor, but who had realized Agar's wish, and lived in fair and modest competency. The clock is going to strike six. Away with you, Joe, and ring the mill bell."
It was now the middle of the month of February; by six o'clock therefore dawn was just beginning to steal on night, to penetrate35 with a pale ray its brown obscurity, and give a demi-translucence to its opaque36 shadows. Pale enough that ray was on this particular morning: no colour tinged37 the east, no flush warmed it. To see what a heavy lid day slowly lifted, what a wan38 glance she flung along the hills, you would have thought the sun's fire quenched39 in last night's floods. The breath of this morning was chill as its aspect; a raw wind stirred the mass of night-cloud, and showed, as it slowly rose, leaving a colourless, silver-gleaming ring all round the horizon, not blue sky, but a stratum40 of paler vapour beyond. It had ceased to rain, but the earth was sodden41, and the pools and rivulets42 were full.
The mill-windows were alight, the bell still rung loud, and now the little children came running in, in too great a hurry, let us hope, to feel very much nipped by the inclement43 air; and indeed, by contrast, perhaps the morning appeared rather favourable44 to them than otherwise, for they had often come to their work that winter through snow-storms, through heavy rain, through hard frost.
Mr. Moore stood at the entrance to watch them pass.54 He counted them as they went by. To those who came rather late he said a word of reprimand, which was a little more sharply repeated by Joe Scott when the lingerers reached the work-rooms. Neither master nor overlooker spoke45 savagely46. They were not savage18 men either of them, though it appeared both were rigid47, for they fined a delinquent48 who came considerably49 too late. Mr. Moore made him pay his penny down ere he entered, and informed him that the next repetition of the fault would cost him twopence.
Rules, no doubt, are necessary in such cases, and coarse and cruel masters will make coarse and cruel rules, which, at the time we treat of at least, they used sometimes to enforce tyrannically; but though I describe imperfect characters (every character in this book will be found to be more or less imperfect, my pen refusing to draw anything in the model line), I have not undertaken to handle degraded or utterly50 infamous51 ones. Child-torturers, slave masters and drivers, I consign52 to the hands of jailers. The novelist may be excused from sullying his page with the record of their deeds.
Instead, then, of harrowing up my reader's soul and delighting his organ of wonder with effective descriptions of stripes and scourgings, I am happy to be able to inform him that neither Mr. Moore nor his overlooker ever struck a child in their mill. Joe had, indeed, once very severely53 flogged a son of his own for telling a lie and persisting in it; but, like his employer, he was too phlegmatic54, too calm, as well as too reasonable a man, to make corporal chastisement55 other than the exception to his treatment of the young.
Mr. Moore haunted his mill, his mill-yard, his dye-house, and his warehouse56 till the sickly dawn strengthened into day. The sun even rose—at least a white disc, clear, tintless, and almost chill-looking as ice, peeped over the dark crest57 of a hill, changed to silver the livid edge of the cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the whole length of the den10, or narrow dale, to whose strait bounds we are at present limited. It was eight o'clock; the mill lights were all extinguished; the signal was given for breakfast; the children, released for half an hour from toil3, betook themselves to the little tin cans which held their coffee, and to the small baskets which contained their allowance of bread. Let us hope they have enough to eat; it would be a pity were it otherwise.
And now at last Mr. Moore quitted the mill-yard, and55 bent58 his steps to his dwelling-house. It was only a short distance from the factory, but the hedge and high bank on each side of the lane which conducted to it seemed to give it something of the appearance and feeling of seclusion59. It was a small, whitewashed60 place, with a green porch over the door; scanty61 brown stalks showed in the garden soil near this porch, and likewise beneath the windows—stalks budless and flowerless now, but giving dim prediction of trained and blooming creepers for summer days. A grass plat and borders fronted the cottage. The borders presented only black mould yet, except where, in sheltered nooks, the first shoots of snowdrop or crocus peeped, green as emerald, from the earth. The spring was late; it had been a severe and prolonged winter; the last deep snow had but just disappeared before yesterday's rains; on the hills, indeed, white remnants of it yet gleamed, flecking the hollows and crowning the peaks; the lawn was not verdant62, but bleached63, as was the grass on the bank, and under the hedge in the lane. Three trees, gracefully64 grouped, rose beside the cottage. They were not lofty, but having no rivals near, they looked well and imposing65 where they grew. Such was Mr. Moore's home—a snug66 nest for content and contemplation, but one within which the wings of action and ambition could not long lie folded.
Its air of modest comfort seemed to possess no particular attraction for its owner. Instead of entering the house at once he fetched a spade from a little shed and began to work in the garden. For about a quarter of an hour he dug on uninterrupted. At length, however, a window opened, and a female voice called to him,—
"Eh, bien! Tu ne déjeûnes pas ce matin?"
The answer, and the rest of the conversation, was in French; but as this is an English book, I shall translate it into English.
"Is breakfast ready, Hortense?"
"Certainly; it has been ready half an hour."
He threw down his spade, and entered the house. The narrow passage conducted him to a small parlour, where a breakfast of coffee and bread and butter, with the somewhat un-English accompaniment of stewed68 pears, was spread on the table. Over these viands69 presided the lady who had spoken from the window. I must describe her before I go any farther.
She seemed a little older than Mr. Moore—perhaps she was thirty-five, tall, and proportionately stout70; she had very black hair, for the present twisted up in curl-papers, a high colour in her cheeks, a small nose, a pair of little black eyes. The lower part of her face was large in proportion to the upper; her forehead was small and rather corrugated72; she had a fretful though not an ill-natured expression of countenance73; there was something in her whole appearance one felt inclined to be half provoked with and half amused at. The strangest point was her dress—a stuff petticoat and a striped cotton camisole. The petticoat was short, displaying well a pair of feet and ankles which left much to be desired in the article of symmetry.
You will think I have depicted74 a remarkable75 slattern, reader. Not at all. Hortense Moore (she was Mr. Moore's sister) was a very orderly, economical person. The petticoat, camisole, and curl-papers were her morning costume, in which, of forenoons, she had always been accustomed to "go her household ways" in her own country. She did not choose to adopt English fashions because she was obliged to live in England; she adhered to her old Belgian modes, quite satisfied that there was a merit in so doing.
Mademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself—an opinion not wholly undeserved, for she possessed76 some good and sterling77 qualities; but she rather over-estimated the kind and degree of these qualities, and quite left out of the account sundry78 little defects which accompanied them. You could never have persuaded her that she was a prejudiced and narrow-minded person, that she was too susceptible79 on the subject of her own dignity and importance, and too apt to take offence about trifles; yet all this was true. However, where her claims to distinction were not opposed, and where her prejudices were not offended, she could be kind and friendly enough. To her two brothers (for there was another Gérard Moore besides Robert) she was very much attached. As the sole remaining representatives of their decayed family, the persons of both were almost sacred in her eyes. Of Louis, however, she knew less than of Robert. He had been sent to England when a mere80 boy, and had received his education at an English school. His education not being such as to adapt him for trade, perhaps, too, his natural bent not inclining him to mercantile pursuits, he had, when the blight81 of hereditary82 prospects83 rendered it necessary for him to push57 his own fortune, adopted the very arduous85 and very modest career of a teacher. He had been usher86 in a school, and was said now to be tutor in a private family. Hortense, when she mentioned Louis, described him as having what she called "des moyens," but as being too backward and quiet. Her praise of Robert was in a different strain, less qualified87: she was very proud of him; she regarded him as the greatest man in Europe; all he said and did was remarkable in her eyes, and she expected others to behold88 him from the same point of view; nothing could be more irrational89, monstrous90, and infamous than opposition91 from any quarter to Robert, unless it were opposition to herself.
Accordingly, as soon as the said Robert was seated at the breakfast-table, and she had helped him to a portion of stewed pears, and cut him a good-sized Belgian tartine, she began to pour out a flood of amazement92 and horror at the transaction of last night, the destruction of the frames.
"Quelle idée! to destroy them. Quelle action honteuse! On voyait bien que les ouvriers de ce pays étaient à la fois betes et méchants. C'était absolument comme les domestiques anglais, les servantes surtout: rien d'insupportable comme cette Sara, par15 exemple!"
"She looks clean and industrious," Mr. Moore remarked.
"Looks! I don't know how she looks, and I do not say that she is altogether dirty or idle, mais elle est d'une insolence! She disputed with me a quarter of an hour yesterday about the cooking of the beef; she said I boiled it to rags, that English people would never be able to eat such a dish as our bouilli, that the bouillon was no better than greasy warm water, and as to the choucroute, she affirms she cannot touch it! That barrel we have in the cellar—delightfully prepared by my own hands—she termed a tub of hog-wash, which means food for pigs. I am harassed94 with the girl, and yet I cannot part with her lest I should get a worse. You are in the same position with your workmen, pauvre cher frère!"
"I am afraid you are not very happy in England, Hortense."
"It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but otherwise there are certainly a thousand things which make me regret our native town. All the world here appears to me ill-bred (mal-élevé). I find my habits considered ridiculous. If a girl out of your mill chances to come into the kitchen and find me in my jupon and camisole preparing58 dinner (for you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a single dish), she sneers95. If I accept an invitation out to tea, which I have done once or twice, I perceive I am put quite into the background; I have not that attention paid me which decidedly is my due. Of what an excellent family are the Gérards, as we know, and the Moores also! They have a right to claim a certain respect, and to feel wounded when it is withheld96 from them. In Antwerp I was always treated with distinction; here, one would think that when I open my lips in company I speak English with a ridiculous accent, whereas I am quite assured that I pronounce it perfectly97."
"Hortense, in Antwerp we were known rich; in England we were never known but poor."
"Precisely98, and thus mercenary are mankind. Again, dear brother, last Sunday, if you recollect99, was very wet; accordingly I went to church in my neat black sabots, objects one would not indeed wear in a fashionable city, but which in the country I have ever been accustomed to use for walking in dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up the aisle100, composed and tranquil101, as I am always, four ladies, and as many gentlemen, laughed and hid their faces behind their prayer-books."
"Well, well! don't put on the sabots again. I told you before I thought they were not quite the thing for this country."
"But, brother, they are not common sabots, such as the peasantry wear. I tell you, they are sabots noirs, très propres, très convenables. At Mons and Leuze—cities not very far removed from the elegant capital of Brussels—it is very seldom that the respectable people wear anything else for walking in winter. Let any one try to wade102 the mud of the Flemish chaussées in a pair of Paris brodequins, on m'en dirait des nouvelles!"
"Never mind Mons and Leuze and the Flemish chaussées; do at Rome as the Romans do. And as to the camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure about them either. I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. Ask Caroline Helstone."
"Caroline! I ask Caroline? I consult her about my dress? It is she who on all points should consult me. She is a child."
"She is eighteen, or at least seventeen—old enough to know all about gowns, petticoats, and chaussures."
"Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat103 you, brother. Do not make her of more consequence than she ought to be. At present she is modest and unassuming: let us keep her so."
"With all my heart. Is she coming this morning?"
"She will come at ten, as usual, to take her French lesson."
"You don't find that she sneers at you, do you?"
"She does not. She appreciates me better than any one else here; but then she has more intimate opportunities of knowing me. She sees that I have education, intelligence, manner, principles—all, in short, which belongs to a person well born and well bred."
"Are you at all fond of her?"
"For fond I cannot say. I am not one who is prone104 to take violent fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is the more to be depended on. I have a regard for her as my relative; her position also inspires interest, and her conduct as my pupil has hitherto been such as rather to enhance than diminish the attachment105 that springs from other causes."
"She behaves pretty well at lessons?"
"To me she behaves very well; but you are conscious, brother, that I have a manner calculated to repel106 over-familiarity, to win esteem107, and to command respect. Yet, possessed of penetration108, I perceive clearly that Caroline is not perfect, that there is much to be desired in her."
"Give me a last cup of coffee, and while I am drinking it amuse me with an account of her faults."
"Dear brother, I am happy to see you eat your breakfast with relish109, after the fatiguing110 night you have passed. Caroline, then, is defective111; but with my forming hand and almost motherly care she may improve. There is about her an occasional something—a reserve, I think—which I do not quite like, because it is not sufficiently112 girlish and submissive; and there are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her nature, which put me out. Yet she is usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtful indeed sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall make her uniformly sedate113 and decorous, without being unaccountably pensive114. I ever disapprove115 what is not intelligible116."
"I don't understand your account in the least. What do you mean by 'unsettled hurries,' for instance?"
"An example will, perhaps, be the most satisfactory explanation. I sometimes, you are aware, make her read60 French poetry by way of practice in pronunciation. She has in the course of her lessons gone through much of Corneille and Racine, in a very steady, sober spirit, such as I approve. Occasionally she showed, indeed, a degree of languor117 in the perusal118 of those esteemed119 authors, partaking rather of apathy120 than sobriety; and apathy is what I cannot tolerate in those who have the benefit of my instructions—besides, one should not be apathetic121 in studying standard works. The other day I put into her hands a volume of short fugitive122 pieces. I sent her to the window to learn one by heart, and when I looked up I saw her turning the leaves over impatiently, and curling her lip, absolutely with scorn, as she surveyed the little poems cursorily123. I chid124 her. 'Ma cousine,' said she, 'tout71 cela m'ennuie à la mort.' I told her this was improper125 language. 'Dieu!' she exclaimed, 'il n'y a donc pas deux lignes de poësie dans toute la littérature française?' I inquired what she meant. She begged my pardon with proper submission126. Ere long she was still. I saw her smiling to herself over the book. She began to learn assiduously. In half an hour she came and stood before me, presented the volume, folded her hands, as I always require her to do, and commenced the repetition of that short thing by Chénier, 'La Jeune Captive.' If you had heard the manner in which she went through this, and in which she uttered a few incoherent comments when she had done, you would have known what I meant by the phrase 'unsettled hurry.' One would have thought Chénier was more moving than all Racine and all Corneille. You, brother, who have so much sagacity, will discern that this disproportionate preference argues an ill-regulated mind; but she is fortunate in her preceptress. I will give her a system, a method of thought, a set of opinions; I will give her the perfect control and guidance of her feelings."
"Be sure you do, Hortense. Here she comes. That was her shadow passed the window, I believe."
"Ah! truly. She is too early—half an hour before her time.—My child, what brings you here before I have breakfasted?"
This question was addressed to an individual who now entered the room, a young girl, wrapped in a winter mantle127, the folds of which were gathered with some grace round an apparently128 slender figure.
"I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and61 how Robert was too. I was sure you would be both grieved by what happened last night. I did not hear till this morning. My uncle told me at breakfast."
"Ah! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with us? Your uncle sympathizes with us?"
"My uncle is very angry—but he was with Robert, I believe, was he not?—Did he not go with you to Stilbro' Moor1?"
"Yes, we set out in very martial129 style, Caroline; but the prisoners we went to rescue met us half-way."
"Of course nobody was hurt?"
"Why, no; only Joe Scott's wrists were a little galled130 with being pinioned131 too tightly behind his back."
"No. One seldom has the fortune to be present at occurrences at which one would particularly wish to assist."
"Where are you going this morning? I saw Murgatroyd saddling your horse in the yard."
"To Whinbury. It is market day."
"Mr. Yorke is going too. I met him in his gig. Come home with him."
"Why?"
"Two are better than one, and nobody dislikes Mr. Yorke—at least, poor people do not dislike him."
"Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am hated?"
"Who are misunderstood. That, probably, is the word. Shall you be late?—Will he be late, Cousin Hortense?"
"It is too probable. He has often much business to transact93 at Whinbury. Have you brought your exercise-book, child?"
"Yes.—What time will you return, Robert?"
"I generally return at seven. Do you wish me to be at home earlier?"
"Try rather to be back by six. It is not absolutely dark at six now, but by seven daylight is quite gone."
"And what danger is to be apprehended133, Caroline, when daylight is gone? What peril134 do you conceive comes as the companion of darkness for me?"
"I am not sure that I can define my fears, but we all have a certain anxiety at present about our friends. My uncle calls these times dangerous. He says, too, that mill-owners are unpopular."
"And I am one of the most unpopular? Is not that the fact? You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but at heart you think me liable to Pearson's fate, who was shot at—not, indeed, from behind a hedge, but in his own house, through his staircase window, as he was going to bed."
"Anne Pearson showed me the bullet in the chamber-door," remarked Caroline gravely, as she folded her mantle and arranged it and her muff on a side-table. "You know," she continued, "there is a hedge all the way along the road from here to Whinbury, and there are the Fieldhead plantations135 to pass; but you will be back by six—or before?"
"Certainly he will," affirmed Hortense. "And now, my child, prepare your lessons for repetition, while I put the peas to soak for the purée at dinner."
With this direction she left the room.
"You suspect I have many enemies, then, Caroline," said Mr. Moore, "and doubtless you know me to be destitute136 of friends?"
"Not destitute, Robert. There is your sister, your brother Louis, whom I have never seen; there is Mr. Yorke, and there is my uncle—besides, of course, many more."
Robert smiled. "You would be puzzled to name your 'many more,'" said he. "But show me your exercise-book. What extreme pains you take with the writing! My sister, I suppose, exacts this care. She wants to form you in all things after the model of a Flemish school-girl. What life are you destined137 for, Caroline? What will you do with your French, drawing, and other accomplishments138, when they are acquired?"
"You may well say, when they are acquired; for, as you are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious little. As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell. I suppose to keep my uncle's house till——" She hesitated.
"Till what? Till he dies?"
"No. How harsh to say that! I never think of his dying. He is only fifty-five. But till—in short, till events offer other occupations for me."
"I used to be, formerly140. Children, you know, have little reflection, or rather their reflections run on ideal themes. There are moments now when I am not quite satisfied."
"Why?"
"I am making no money—earning nothing."
"You come to the point, Lina. You too, then, wish to make money?"
"I do. I should like an occupation; and if I were a boy, it would not be so difficult to find one. I see such an easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and making my way in life."
"Go on. Let us hear what way."
"I could be apprenticed141 to your trade—the cloth-trade. I could learn it of you, as we are distant relations. I would do the counting-house work, keep the books, and write the letters, while you went to market. I know you greatly desire to be rich, in order to pay your father's debts; perhaps I could help you to get rich."
"Help me? You should think of yourself."
"I do think of myself; but must one for ever think only of oneself?"
"Of whom else do I think? Of whom else dare I think? The poor ought to have no large sympathies; it is their duty to be narrow."
"No, Robert——"
"Yes, Caroline. Poverty is necessarily selfish, contracted, grovelling142, anxious. Now and then a poor man's heart, when certain beams and dews visit it, may smell like the budding vegetation in yonder garden on this spring day, may feel ripe to evolve in foliage143, perhaps blossom; but he must not encourage the pleasant impulse; he must invoke144 Prudence145 to check it, with that frosty breath of hers, which is as nipping as any north wind."
"No cottage would be happy then."
"When I speak of poverty, I do not so much mean the natural, habitual146 poverty of the working-man, as the embarrassed penury147 of the man in debt. My grub-worm is always a straitened, struggling, care-worn tradesman."
"Cherish hope, not anxiety. Certain ideas have become too fixed148 in your mind. It may be presumptuous149 to say it, but I have the impression that there is something wrong in your notions of the best means of attaining150 happiness, as there is in——" Second hesitation151.
"I am all ear, Caroline."
"In (courage! let me speak the truth)—in your manner—mind, I say only manner—to these Yorkshire workpeople."
"You have often wanted to tell me that, have you not?"
"Yes; often—very often."
"The faults of my manner are, I think, only negative. I am not proud. What has a man in my position to be proud of? I am only taciturn, phlegmatic, and joyless."
"As if your living cloth-dressers were all machines like your frames and shears152. In your own house you seem different."
"To those of my own house I am no alien, which I am to these English clowns. I might act the benevolent153 with them, but acting154 is not my forte155. I find them irrational, perverse156; they hinder me when I long to hurry forward. In treating them justly I fulfil my whole duty towards them."
"You don't expect them to love you, of course?"
"Nor wish it."
"Ah!" said the monitress, shaking her head and heaving a deep sigh. With this ejaculation, indicative that she perceived a screw to be loose somewhere, but that it was out of her reach to set it right, she bent over her grammar, and sought the rule and exercise for the day.
"I suppose I am not an affectionate man, Caroline. The attachment of a very few suffices me."
"If you please, Robert, will you mend me a pen or two before you go?"
"First let me rule your book, for you always contrive157 to draw the lines aslant158. There now. And now for the pens. You like a fine one, I think?"
"Such as you generally make for me and Hortense; not your own broad points."
"If I were of Louis's calling I might stay at home and dedicate this morning to you and your studies, whereas I must spend it in Skyes's wool-warehouse."
"You will be making money."
"More likely losing it."
As he finished mending the pens, a horse, saddled and bridled159, was brought up to the garden-gate.
"There, Fred is ready for me; I must go. I'll take one look to see what the spring has done in the south border, too, first."
He quitted the room, and went out into the garden ground behind the mill. A sweet fringe of young verdure and opening flowers—snowdrop, crocus, even primrose—bloomed in the sunshine under the hot wall of the factory.65 Moore plucked here and there a blossom and leaf, till he had collected a little bouquet160. He returned to the parlour, pilfered161 a thread of silk from his sister's work-basket, tied the flowers, and laid them on Caroline's desk.
"Now, good-morning."
"Thank you, Robert. It is pretty; it looks, as it lies there, like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky. Good-morning."
He went to the door, stopped, opened his lips as if to speak, said nothing, and moved on. He passed through the wicket, and mounted his horse. In a second he had flung himself from his saddle again, transferred the reins162 to Murgatroyd, and re-entered the cottage.
"I forgot my gloves," he said, appearing to take something from the side-table; then, as an impromptu163 thought, he remarked, "You have no binding164 engagement at home perhaps, Caroline?"
"I never have. Some children's socks, which Mrs. Ramsden has ordered, to knit for the Jew's basket; but they will keep."
"Jew's basket be—sold! Never was utensil165 better named. Anything more Jewish than it—its contents and their prices—cannot be conceived. But I see something, a very tiny curl, at the corners of your lip, which tells me that you know its merits as well as I do. Forget the Jew's basket, then, and spend the day here as a change. Your uncle won't break his heart at your absence?"
She smiled. "No."
"The old Cossack! I dare say not," muttered Moore.
"Then stay and dine with Hortense; she will be glad of your company. I shall return in good time. We will have a little reading in the evening. The moon rises at half-past eight, and I will walk up to the rectory with you at nine. Do you agree?"
She nodded her head, and her eyes lit up.
Moore lingered yet two minutes. He bent over Caroline's desk and glanced at her grammar, he fingered her pen, he lifted her bouquet and played with it; his horse stamped impatient; Fred Murgatroyd hemmed166 and coughed at the gate, as if he wondered what in the world his master was doing. "Good-morning," again said Moore, and finally vanished.
Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her surprise, that Caroline had not yet commenced her exercise.
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1
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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2
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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3
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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4
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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5
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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6
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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7
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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8
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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9
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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10
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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11
boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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12
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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13
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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14
slated
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| 用石板瓦盖( slate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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16
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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17
whet
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| v.磨快，刺激 | |
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18
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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19
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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20
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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21
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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22
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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23
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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24
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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25
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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26
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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27
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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28
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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29
abominate
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| v.憎恨，厌恶 | |
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30
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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31
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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32
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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33
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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34
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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35
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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36
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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37
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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39
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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40
stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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41
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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42
rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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43
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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44
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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45
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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46
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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47
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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48
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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49
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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50
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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51
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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52
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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53
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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54
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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55
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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56
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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57
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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58
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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59
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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60
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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62
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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63
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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64
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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65
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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66
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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67
canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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68
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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69
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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71
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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72
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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73
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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74
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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75
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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76
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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77
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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78
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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79
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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80
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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81
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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82
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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83
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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84
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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85
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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86
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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87
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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88
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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89
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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90
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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91
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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92
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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93
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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94
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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95
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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96
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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97
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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98
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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99
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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100
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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101
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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102
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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103
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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104
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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105
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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106
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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107
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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108
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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109
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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110
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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111
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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112
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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113
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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114
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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115
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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116
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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117
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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118
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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119
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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120
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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121
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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122
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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123
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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124
chid
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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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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pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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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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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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159
bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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pilfered
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的过去式和过去分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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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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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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utensil
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| n.器皿，用具 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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