"And where is Sugden?" demanded Moore, looking up.
"Ah, ha!" cried Helstone. "I've not been quite idle while you were busy. I've been helping4 you a little; I flatter myself not injudiciously. I thought it better not to lose time; so, while you were parleying with that down-looking gentleman—Farren I think his name is—I opened this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the stable, to bring Mr. Sykes's gig round; then I smuggled5 Sugden and brother Moses—wooden leg and all—through the aperture6, and saw them mount the gig (always with our good friend Sykes's permission, of course). Sugden took the reins—he drives like Jehu—and in another quarter of an hour Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro' jail."
"Very good; thank you," said Moore; "and good-morning, gentlemen," he added, and so politely conducted them to the door, and saw them clear of his premises7.
He was a taciturn, serious man the rest of the day. He did not even bandy a repartee8 with Joe Scott, who, for his part, said to his master only just what was absolutely126 necessary to the progress of business, but looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, frequently came to poke9 the counting-house fire for him, and once, as he was locking up for the day (the mill was then working short time, owing to the slackness of trade), observed that it was a grand evening, and he "could wish Mr. Moore to take a bit of a walk up th' Hollow. It would do him good."
At this recommendation Mr. Moore burst into a short laugh, and after demanding of Joe what all this solicitude10 meant, and whether he took him for a woman or a child, seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him by the shoulders out of his presence. He called him back, however, ere he had reached the yard-gate.
"Joe, do you know those Farrens? They are not well off, I suppose?"
"They cannot be well off, sir, when they've not had work as a three month. Ye'd see yoursel' 'at William's sorely changed—fair paired. They've selled most o' t' stuff out o' th' house."
"He was not a bad workman?"
"Ye never had a better, sir, sin' ye began trade."
"And decent people—the whole family?"
"Niver dacenter. Th' wife's a raight cant11 body, and as clean—ye mught eat your porridge off th' house floor. They're sorely comed down. I wish William could get a job as gardener or summat i' that way; he understands gardening weel. He once lived wi' a Scotchman that tached him the mysteries o' that craft, as they say."
"Now, then, you can go, Joe. You need not stand there staring at me."
"Ye've no orders to give, sir?"
"None, but for you to take yourself off."
Which Joe did accordingly.
Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and though this had been a fine day, warm even in the morning and meridian13 sunshine, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and ere dusk a hoar frost was insidiously14 stealing over growing grass and unfolding bud. It whitened the pavement in front of Briarmains (Mr. Yorke's residence), and made silent havoc15 among the tender plants in his garden, and on the mossy level of his lawn. As to that great tree, strong-trunked and broad-armed, which guarded the gable nearest the road, it seemed to defy a spring-night frost to harm its127 still bare boughs16; and so did the leafless grove17 of walnut-trees rising tall behind the house.
In the dusk of the moonless if starry18 night, lights from windows shone vividly19. This was no dark or lonely scene, nor even a silent one. Briarmains stood near the highway. It was rather an old place, and had been built ere that highway was cut, and when a lane winding20 up through fields was the only path conducting to it. Briarfield lay scarce a mile off; its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen. Briar Chapel21, a large, new, raw Wesleyan place of worship, rose but a hundred yards distant; and as there was even now a prayer-meeting being held within its walls, the illumination of its windows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn22 of a most extraordinary description, such as a very Quaker might feel himself moved by the Spirit to dance to, roused cheerily all the echoes of the vicinage. The words were distinctly audible by snatches. Here is a quotation23 or two from different strains; for the singers passed jauntily24 from hymn to hymn and from tune25 to tune, with an ease and buoyancy all their own:—
"Oh! who can explain
This struggle for life,
Plague, earthquake, and famine,
The wonderful coming
Of Jesus declare!
"For every fight
Is dreadful and loud:
The warrior's delight
Till all shall expire:
And this is with burning,
And fuel, and fire!"
Here followed an interval31 of clamorous32 prayer, accompanied by fearful groans33. A shout of "I've found liberty!" "Doad o' Bill's has fun' liberty!" rang from the chapel, and out all the assembly broke again.
"What a mercy is this!
How unspeakably happy am I!128
Gathered into the fold,
With Thy people to live and to die!
"Oh, the goodness of God
In employing a clod
His tribute of glory to raise;
His standard to bear,
And with triumph declare
His unspeakable riches of grace!
"Oh, the fathomless36 love
"Who, I ask in amaze,
And inquire from what quarter they came.
My full heart it replies,
They are born from the skies,
And gives glory to God and the Lamb!"
The stanza43 which followed this, after another and longer interregnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic44 cries, agonized46 groans, seemed to cap the climax47 of noise and zeal48.
Mercy to our rescue flew,
Undevoured we still remain,
Hanging on the arm of God.
"Here——"
(Terrible, most distracting to the ear, was the strained shout in which the last stanza was given.)
"Here we raise our voices higher,
Shout in the refiner's fire,
Clap our hands amidst the flame,
Glory give to Jesus' name!"
But if Briar Chapel seemed alive, so also did Briarmains, though certainly the mansion54 appeared to enjoy a quieter phase of existence than the temple. Some of its windows too were aglow55; the lower casements56 opened upon the lawn; curtains concealed57 the interior, and partly obscured the ray of the candles which lit it, but they did not entirely58 muffle59 the sound of voice and laughter. We are privileged to enter that front door, and to penetrate60 to the domestic sanctum.
It is not the presence of company which makes Mr. Yorke's habitation lively, for there is none within it save his own family, and they are assembled in that farthest room to the right, the back parlour.
This is the usual sitting-room61 of an evening. Those windows would be seen by daylight to be of brilliantly-stained glass, purple and amber62 the predominant hues63, glittering round a gravely-tinted medallion in the centre of each, representing the suave64 head of William Shakespeare, and the serene65 one of John Milton. Some Canadian views hung on the walls—green forest and blue water scenery—and in the midst of them blazes a night-eruption66 of Vesuvius; very ardently67 it glows, contrasted with the cool foam68 and azure69 of cataracts70, and the dusky depths of woods.
The fire illuminating71 this room, reader, is such as, if you be a southern, you do not often see burning on the hearth72 of a private apartment. It is a clear, hot coal fire, heaped high in the ample chimney. Mr. Yorke will have such fires even in warm summer weather. He sits beside it with a book in his hand, a little round stand at his elbow supporting a candle; but he is not reading—he is watching his children. Opposite to him sits his lady—a personage whom I might describe minutely, but I feel no vocation73 to the task. I see her, though, very plainly before me—a large woman of the gravest aspect, care on her front and on her shoulders, but not overwhelming, inevitable74 care, rather the sort of voluntary, exemplary cloud and burden people ever carry who deem it their duty to be gloomy. Ah, well-a-day! Mrs. Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn75 she was, morning, noon, and, night; and hard things she thought if any unhappy wight—especially of the female sex—who dared in her presence to show the light of a gay heart on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was to be profane76, to be cheerful was to be frivolous77.130 She drew no distinctions. Yet she was a very good wife, a very careful mother, looked after her children unceasingly, was sincerely attached to her husband; only the worst of it was, if she could have had her will, she would not have permitted him to have any friend in the world beside herself. All his relations were insupportable to her, and she kept them at arm's length.
Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly78 well, yet he was naturally a social, hospitable79 man, an advocate for family unity80; and in his youth, as has been said, he liked none but lively, cheerful women. Why he chose her, how they contrived81 to suit each other, is a problem puzzling enough, but which might soon be solved if one had time to go into the analysis of the case. Suffice it here to say that Yorke had a shadowy side as well as a sunny side to his character, and that his shadowy side found sympathy and affinity82 in the whole of his wife's uniformly overcast83 nature. For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman; never said a weak or a trite84 thing; took stern, democratic views of society, and rather cynical85 ones of human nature; considered herself perfect and safe, and the rest of the world all wrong. Her main fault was a brooding, eternal, immitigable suspicion of all men, things, creeds86, and parties; this suspicion was a mist before her eyes, a false guide in her path, wherever she looked, wherever she turned.
It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were not likely to turn out quite ordinary, commonplace beings; and they were not. You see six of them, reader. The youngest is a baby on the mother's knee. It is all her own yet, and that one she has not yet begun to doubt, suspect, condemn87; it derives88 its sustenance89 from her, it hangs on her, it clings to her, it loves her above everything else in the world. She is sure of that, because, as it lives by her, it cannot be otherwise, therefore she loves it.
The two next are girls, Rose and Jessy; they are both now at their father's knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father—the most like him of the whole group—but it is a granite90 head copied in ivory; all is softened91 in colour and line. Yorke himself has a harsh face—his daughter's is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it is simple, childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom: as to the gray eyes, they are otherwise than childlike; a serious soul lights them—a young soul131 yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it. Partaking of the essence of each, it will one day be better than either—stronger, much purer, more aspiring93. Rose is a still, sometimes a stubborn, girl now. Her mother wants to make of her such a woman as she is herself—a woman of dark and dreary94 duties; and Rose has a mind full-set, thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled95 on and repressed. She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all. Rose loves her father: her father does not rule her with a rod of iron; he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live, so bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance and gleam in her language. This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.
He has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is so gay and chattering96, arch, original even now; passionate97 when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed98; by turns gentle and rattling99; exacting100, yet generous; fearless—of her mother, for instance, whose irrationally101 hard and strict rule she has often defied—yet reliant on any who will help her. Jessy, with her little piquant102 face, engaging prattle103, and winning ways, is made to be a pet, and her father's pet she accordingly is. It is odd that the doll should resemble her mother feature by feature, as Rose resembles her father, and yet the physiognomy—how different!
Mr. Yorke, if a magic mirror were now held before you, and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they will be twenty years from this night, what would you think? The magic mirror is here: you shall learn their destinies—and first that of your little life, Jessy.
Do you know this place? No, you never saw it; but you recognize the nature of these trees, this foliage—the cypress104, the willow105, the yew106. Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar107 to you, nor are these dim garlands of everlasting108 flowers. Here is the place—green sod and a gray marble headstone. Jessy sleeps below. She lived through an April day; much loved was she, much loving. She often, in her brief life, shed tears, she had frequent sorrows; she smiled between, gladdening whatever saw her. Her death was tranquil109 and happy in Rose's guardian110 arms, for Rose had been her stay and defence through many trials. The dying and the watching English girls were at132 that hour alone in a foreign country, and the soil of that country gave Jessy a grave.
Now, behold Rose two years later. The crosses and garlands looked strange, but the hills and woods of this landscape look still stranger. This, indeed, is far from England; remote must be the shores which wear that wild, luxuriant aspect. This is some virgin111 solitude112. Unknown birds flutter round the skirts of that forest; no European river this, on whose banks Rose sits thinking. The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigrant113 in some region of the southern hemisphere. Will she ever come back?
The three eldest114 of the family are all boys—Matthew, Mark, and Martin. They are seated together in that corner, engaged in some game. Observe their three heads: much alike at a first glance; at a second, different; at a third, contrasted. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked are the whole trio; small English features they all possess; all own a blended resemblance to sire and mother; and yet a distinctive115 physiognomy, mark of a separate character, belongs to each.
I shall not say much about Matthew, the first-born of the house, though it is impossible to avoid gazing at him long, and conjecturing116 what qualities that visage hides or indicates. He is no plain-looking boy: that jet-black hair, white brow, high-coloured cheek, those quick, dark eyes, are good points in their way. How is it that, look as long as you will, there is but one object in the room, and that the most sinister117, to which Matthew's face seems to bear an affinity, and of which, ever and anon, it reminds you strangely—the eruption of Vesuvius? Flame and shadow seem the component118 parts of that lad's soul—no daylight in it, and no sunshine, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever shone there. He has an English frame, but, apparently119, not an English mind—you would say, an Italian stiletto in a sheath of British workmanship. He is crossed in the game—look at his scowl120. Mr. Yorke sees it, and what does he say? In a low voice he pleads, "Mark and Martin, don't anger your brother." And this is ever the tone adopted by both parents. Theoretically, they decry121 partiality—no rights of primogeniture are to be allowed in that house; but Matthew is never to be vexed122, never to be opposed; they avert123 provocation124 from him as assiduously as they would avert fire from a barrel of gunpowder125. "Concede, conciliate," is their motto wherever he is concerned. The republicans are fast making a tyrant126 of their own flesh and blood. This the younger scions127 know and feel, and at heart they all rebel against the injustice128. They cannot read their parents' motives129; they only see the difference of treatment. The dragon's teeth are already sown amongst Mr. Yorke's young olive-branches; discord130 will one day be the harvest.
Mark is a bonny-looking boy, the most regular-featured of the family. He is exceedingly calm; his smile is shrewd; he can say the driest, most cutting things in the quietest of tones. Despite his tranquillity131, a somewhat heavy brow speaks temper, and reminds you that the smoothest waters are not always the safest. Besides, he is too still, unmoved, phlegmatic132, to be happy. Life will never have much joy in it for Mark. By the time he is five-and-twenty he will wonder why people ever laugh, and think all fools who seem merry. Poetry will not exist for Mark, either in literature or in life; its best effusions will sound to him mere133 rant45 and jargon134. Enthusiasm will be his aversion and contempt. Mark will have no youth; while he looks juvenile135 and blooming, he will be already middle-aged136 in mind. His body is now fourteen years of age, but his soul is already thirty.
Martin, the youngest of the three, owns another nature. Life may, or may not, be brief for him, but it will certainly be brilliant. He will pass through all its illusions, half believe in them, wholly enjoy them, then outlive them. That boy is not handsome—not so handsome as either of his brothers. He is plain; there is a husk upon him, a dry shell, and he will wear it till he is near twenty, then he will put it off. About that period he will make himself handsome. He will wear uncouth137 manners till that age, perhaps homely138 garments; but the chrysalis will retain the power of transfiguring itself into the butterfly, and such transfiguration will, in due season, take place. For a space he will be vain, probably a downright puppy, eager for pleasure and desirous of admiration139, athirst, too, for knowledge. He will want all that the world can give him, both of enjoyment140 and lore141; he will, perhaps, take deep draughts142 at each fount. That thirst satisfied, what next? I know not. Martin might be a remarkable143 man. Whether he will or not, the seer is powerless to predict: on that subject there has been no open vision.
Take Mr. Yorke's family in the aggregate144: there is as134 much mental power in those six young heads, as much originality145, as much activity and vigour146 of brain, as—divided amongst half a dozen commonplace broods—would give to each rather more than an average amount of sense and capacity. Mr. Yorke knows this, and is proud of his race. Yorkshire has such families here and there amongst her hills and wolds—peculiar147, racy, vigorous; of good blood and strong brain; turbulent somewhat in the pride of their strength, and intractable in the force of their native powers; wanting polish, wanting consideration, wanting docility148, but sound, spirited, and true-bred as the eagle on the cliff or the steed in the steppe.
A low tap is heard at the parlour door; the boys have been making such a noise over their game, and little Jessy, besides, has been singing so sweet a Scotch12 song to her father—who delights in Scotch and Italian songs, and has taught his musical little daughter some of the best—that the ring at the outer door was not observed.
"Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in that conscientiously149 constrained150 and solemnized voice of hers, which ever modulates151 itself to a funereal152 dreariness153 of tone, though the subject it is exercised upon be but to give orders for the making of a pudding in the kitchen, to bid the boys hang up their caps in the hall, or to call the girls to their sewing—"come in!" And in came Robert Moore.
Moore's habitual154 gravity, as well as his abstemiousness155 (for the case of spirit decanters is never ordered up when he pays an evening visit), has so far recommended him to Mrs. Yorke that she has not yet made him the subject of private animadversions with her husband; she has not yet found out that he is hampered156 by a secret intrigue157 which prevents him from marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing—discoveries which she made at an early date after marriage concerning most of her husband's bachelor friends, and excluded them from her board accordingly; which part of her conduct, indeed, might be said to have its just and sensible as well as its harsh side.
"Well, is it you?" she says to Mr. Moore, as he comes up to her and gives his hand. "What are you roving about at this time of night for? You should be at home."
"Can a single man be said to have a home, madam?" he asks.
"Pooh!" says Mrs. Yorke, who despises conventional smoothness quite as much as her husband does, and practises135 it as little, and whose plain speaking on all occasions is carried to a point calculated, sometimes, to awaken158 admiration, but oftener alarm—"pooh! you need not talk nonsense to me; a single man can have a home if he likes. Pray, does not your sister make a home for you?"
"Not she," joined in Mr. Yorke. "Hortense is an honest lass. But when I was Robert's age I had five or six sisters, all as decent and proper as she is; but you see, Hesther, for all that it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife."
"And sorely he has repented159 marrying me," added Mrs. Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against matrimony, even though it should be at her own expense. "He has repented it in sackcloth and ashes, Robert Moore, as you may well believe when you see his punishment" (here she pointed160 to her children). "Who would burden themselves with such a set of great, rough lads as those, if they could help it? It is not only bringing them into the world, though that is bad enough, but they are all to feed, to clothe, to rear, to settle in life. Young sir, when you feel tempted161 to marry, think of our four sons and two daughters, and look twice before you leap."
"I am not tempted now, at any rate. I think these are not times for marrying or giving in marriage."
A lugubrious162 sentiment of this sort was sure to obtain Mrs. Yorke's approbation163. She nodded and groaned164 acquiescence165; but in a minute she said, "I make little account of the wisdom of a Solomon of your age; it will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you. Meantime, sit down, sir. You can talk, I suppose, as well sitting as standing166?"
This was her way of inviting167 her guest to take a chair. He had no sooner obeyed her than little Jessy jumped from her father's knee and ran into Mr. Moore's arms, which were very promptly168 held out to receive her.
"You talk of marrying him," said she to her mother, quite indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, "and he is married now, or as good. He promised that I should be his wife last summer, the first time he saw me in my new white frock and blue sash. Didn't he, father?" (These children were not accustomed to say papa and mamma; their mother would allow no such "namby-pamby.")
"Ay, my little lassie, he promised; I'll bear witness.136 But make him say it over again now, Jessy. Such as he are only false loons."
"He is not false. He is too bonny to be false," said Jessy, looking up to her tall sweetheart with the fullest confidence in his faith.
"Bonny!" cried Mr. Yorke. "That's the reason that he should be, and proof that he is, a scoundrel."
"But he looks too sorrowful to be false," here interposed a quiet voice from behind the father's chair. "If he was always laughing, I should think he forgot promises soon, but Mr. Moore never laughs."
"He's not sentimental," said Rose.
Mr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise, smiling at the same time.
"How do you know I am not sentimental, Rose?"
"Because I heard a lady say you were not."
"Voilà, qui devient intéressant!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke, hitching171 his chair nearer the fire. "A lady! That has quite a romantic twang. We must guess who it is.—Rosy172, whisper the name low to your father. Don't let him hear."
"Rose, don't be too forward to talk," here interrupted Mrs. Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion, "nor Jessy either. It becomes all children, especially girls, to be silent in the presence of their elders."
"Why have we tongues, then?" asked Jessy pertly; while Rose only looked at her mother with an expression that seemed to say she should take that maxim173 in and think it over at her leisure. After two minutes' grave deliberation, she asked, "And why especially girls, mother?"
"Firstly, because I say so; and secondly174, because discretion175 and reserve are a girl's best wisdom."
"My dear madam," observed Moore, "what you say is excellent—it reminds me, indeed, of my dear sister's observations; but really it is not applicable to these little ones. Let Rose and Jessy talk to me freely, or my chief pleasure in coming here is gone. I like their prattle; it does me good."
"Does it not?" asked Jessy. "More good than if the rough lads came round you.—You call them rough, mother, yourself."
"Yes, mignonne, a thousand times more good. I have rough lads enough about me all day long, poulet."
"There are plenty of people," continued she, "who take notice of the boys. All my uncles and aunts seem to think their nephews better than their nieces, and when gentlemen come here to dine, it is always Matthew, and Mark, and Martin that are talked to, and never Rose and me. Mr. Moore is our friend, and we'll keep him.—But mind, Rose, he's not so much your friend as he is mine. He is my particular acquaintance; remember that!" And she held up her small hand with an admonitory gesture.
Rose was quite accustomed to be admonished176 by that small hand. Her will daily bent177 itself to that of the impetuous little Jessy. She was guided, overruled by Jessy in a thousand things. On all occasions of show and pleasure Jessy took the lead, and Rose fell quietly into the background; whereas, when the disagreeables of life—its work and privations—were in question, Rose instinctively178 took upon her, in addition to her own share, what she could of her sister's. Jessy had already settled it in her mind that she, when she was old enough, was to be married; Rose, she decided179, must be an old maid, to live with her, look after her children, keep her house. This state of things is not uncommon180 between two sisters, where one is plain and the other pretty; but in this case, if there was a difference in external appearance, Rose had the advantage: her face was more regular-featured than that of the piquant little Jessy. Jessy, however, was destined181 to possess, along with sprightly182 intelligence and vivacious183 feeling, the gift of fascination184, the power to charm when, where, and whom she would. Rose was to have a fine, generous soul, a noble intellect profoundly cultivated, a heart as true as steel, but the manner to attract was not to be hers.
"Now, Rose, tell me the name of this lady who denied that I was sentimental," urged Mr. Moore.
Rose had no idea of tantalization185, or she would have held him a while in doubt. She answered briefly186, "I can't. I don't know her name."
"Describe her to me. What was she like? Where did you see her?"
"When Jessy and I went to spend the day at Whinbury with Kate and Susan Pearson, who were just come home from school, there was a party at Mrs. Pearson's, and some138 grown-up ladies were sitting in a corner of the drawing-room talking about you."
"Did you know none of them?"
"Hannah, and Harriet, and Dora, and Mary Sykes."
"Good. Were they abusing me, Rosy?"
"Some of them were. They called you a misanthrope187. I remember the word. I looked for it in the dictionary when I came home. It means a man-hater."
"What besides?"
"Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy."
"Better!" cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. "Oh, excellent! Hannah! that's the one with the red hair—a fine girl, but half-witted."
"She has wit enough for me, it appears," said Moore. "A solemn puppy, indeed! Well, Rose, go on."
"Miss Pearson said she believed there was a good deal of affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and pale face you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental noodle."
Again Mr. Yorke laughed. Mrs. Yorke even joined in this time. "You see in what esteem188 you are held behind your back," said she; "yet I believe that Miss Pearson would like to catch you. She set her cap at you when you first came into the country, old as she is."
"And who contradicted her, Rosy?" inquired Moore.
"A lady whom I don't know, because she never visits here, though I see her every Sunday at church. She sits in the pew near the pulpit. I generally look at her, instead of looking at my prayer-book, for she is like a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in her hand—at least she has eyes like it, and a nose too, a straight nose, that makes all her face look, somehow, what I call clear."
"And you don't know her!" exclaimed Jessy, in a tone of exceeding surprise. "That's so like Rose. Mr. Moore, I often wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives. I am sure she does not live all her time in this. One is continually finding out that she is quite ignorant of some little matter which everybody else knows. To think of her going solemnly to church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one particular person, and never so much as asking that person's name. She means Caroline Helstone, the rector's niece. I remember all about it. Miss Helstone was quite angry with Anne Pearson. She said,139 'Robert Moore is neither affected189 nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly190, or rather not one of you here knows anything about it.' Now, shall I tell you what she is like? I can tell what people are like, and how they are dressed, better than Rose can."
"Let us hear."
"She is nice; she is fair; she has a pretty white slender throat; she has long curls, not stiff ones—they hang loose and soft, their colour is brown but not dark; she speaks quietly, with a clear tone; she never makes a bustle191 in moving; she often wears a gray silk dress; she is neat all over—her gowns, and her shoes, and her gloves always fit her. She is what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as she is, I mean to be like her. Shall I suit you if I am? Will you really marry me?"
Moore stroked Jessy's hair. For a minute he seemed as if he would draw her nearer to him, but instead he put her a little farther off.
"Oh! you won't have me? You push me away."
"Why, Jessy, you care nothing about me. You never come to see me now at the Hollow."
"Because you don't ask me."
Hereupon Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invitation to pay him a visit next day, promising192 that, as he was going to Stilbro' in the morning, he would buy them each a present, of what nature he would not then declare, but they must come and see. Jessy was about to reply, when one of the boys unexpectedly broke in,—
"I know that Miss Helstone you have all been palavering about. She's an ugly girl. I hate her. I hate all womenites. I wonder what they were made for."
"Martin!" said his father, for Martin it was. The lad only answered by turning his cynical young face, half-arch, half-truculent, towards the paternal194 chair. "Martin, my lad, thou'rt a swaggering whelp now; thou wilt195 some day be an outrageous196 puppy. But stick to those sentiments of thine. See, I'll write down the words now i' my pocket-book." (The senior took out a morocco-covered book, and deliberately197 wrote therein.) "Ten years hence, Martin, if thou and I be both alive at that day, I'll remind thee of that speech."
"I'll say the same then. I mean always to hate women. They're such dolls; they do nothing but dress themselves140 finely, and go swimming about to be admired. I'll never marry. I'll be a bachelor."
"Stick to it! stick to it!—Hesther" (addressing his wife), "I was like him when I was his age—a regular misogamist; and, behold! by the time I was three-and-twenty—being then a tourist in France and Italy, and the Lord knows where—I curled my hair every night before I went to bed, and wore a ring i' my ear, and would have worn one i' my nose if it had been the fashion, and all that I might make myself pleasing and charming to the ladies. Martin will do the like."
"Will I? Never! I've more sense. What a guy you were, father! As to dressing198, I make this vow199: I'll never dress more finely than as you see me at present.—Mr. Moore, I'm clad in blue cloth from top to toe, and they laugh at me, and call me sailor at the grammar-school. I laugh louder at them, and say they are all magpies200 and parrots, with their coats one colour, and their waistcoats another, and their trousers a third. I'll always wear blue cloth, and nothing but blue cloth. It is beneath a human being's dignity to dress himself in parti-coloured garments."
"Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor's shop will have choice of colours varied201 enough for thy exacting taste; no perfumer's stores essences exquisite202 enough for thy fastidious senses."
Martin looked disdain203, but vouchsafed204 no further reply. Meantime Mark, who for some minutes had been rummaging205 amongst a pile of books on a side-table, took the word. He spoke206 in a peculiarly slow, quiet voice, and with an expression of still irony207 in his face not easy to describe.
"Mr. Moore," said he, "you think perhaps it was a compliment on Miss Caroline Helstone's part to say you were not sentimental. I thought you appeared confused when my sisters told you the words, as if you felt flattered. You turned red, just like a certain vain little lad at our school, who always thinks proper to blush when he gets a rise in the class. For your benefit, Mr. Moore, I've been looking up the word 'sentimental' in the dictionary, and I find it to mean 'tinctured with sentiment.' On examining further, 'sentiment' is explained to be thought, idea, notion. A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts, ideas, notions; an unsentimental man is one destitute208 of thought, idea, or notion."
And Mark stopped. He did not smile, he did not look141 round for admiration. He had said his say, and was silent.
"Ma foi! mon ami," observed Mr. Moore to Yorke, "ce sont vraiment des enfants terribles, que les vôtres!"
Rose, who had been listening attentively209 to Mark's speech, replied to him, "There are different kinds of thoughts, ideas, and notions," said she, "good and bad. Sentimental must refer to the bad, or Miss Helstone must have taken it in that sense, for she was not blaming Mr. Moore; she was defending him."
"That's my kind little advocate!" said Moore, taking Rose's hand.
"She was defending him," repeated Rose, "as I should have done had I been in her place, for the other ladies seemed to speak spitefully."
"Ladies always do speak spitefully," observed Martin. "It is the nature of womenites to be spiteful."
Matthew now, for the first time, opened his lips. "What a fool Martin is, to be always gabbling about what he does not understand!"
"It is my privilege, as a freeman, to gabble on whatever subject I like," responded Martin.
"You use it, or rather abuse it, to such an extent," rejoined the elder brother, "that you prove you ought to have been a slave."
"A slave! a slave! That to a Yorke, and from a Yorke! This fellow," he added, standing up at the table, and pointing across it to Matthew—"this fellow forgets, what every cottier in Briarfield knows, that all born of our house have that arched instep under which water can flow—proof that there has not been a slave of the blood for three hundred years."
"Mountebank210!" said Matthew.
"Lads, be silent!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke.—"Martin, you are a mischief-maker. There would have been no disturbance211 but for you."
"Indeed! Is that correct? Did I begin, or did Matthew? Had I spoken to him when he accused me of gabbling like a fool?"
"A presumptuous212 fool!" repeated Matthew.
Here Mrs. Yorke commenced rocking herself—rather a portentous213 movement with her, as it was occasionally followed, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict, by a fit of hysterics.
"I don't see why I should bear insolence214 from Matthew Yorke, or what right he has to use bad language to me," observed Martin.
"He has no right, my lad; but forgive your brother until seventy-and-seven times," said Mr. Yorke soothingly215.
"Always alike, and theory and practice always adverse216!" murmured Martin as he turned to leave the room.
"Where art thou going, my son?" asked the father.
"Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult, if in this house I can find any such place."
Matthew laughed very insolently218. Martin threw a strange look at him, and trembled through all his slight lad's frame; but he restrained himself.
"I suppose there is no objection to my withdrawing?" he inquired.
Martin went, and Matthew sent another insolent217 laugh after him. Rose, lifting her fair head from Moore's shoulder, against which, for a moment, it had been resting, said, as she directed a steady gaze to Matthew, "Martin is grieved, and you are glad; but I would rather be Martin than you. I dislike your nature."
Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting220, or at least escaping, a scene—which a sob221 from Mrs. Yorke warned him was likely to come on—rose, and putting Jessy off his knee, he kissed her and Rose, reminding them, at the same time, to be sure and come to the Hollow in good time to-morrow afternoon; then, having taken leave of his hostess, he said to Mr. Yorke, "May I speak a word with you?" and was followed by him from the room. Their brief conference took place in the hall.
"Have you employment for a good workman?" asked Moore.
"A nonsense question in these times, when you know that every master has many good workmen to whom he cannot give full employment."
"You must oblige me by taking on this man, if possible."
"My lad, I can take on no more hands to oblige all England."
"It does not signify; I must find him a place somewhere."
"Who is he?"
"William Farren."
"I know William. A right-down honest man is William."
"He has been out of work three months. He has a large family. We are sure they cannot live without wages. He was one of the deputation of cloth-dressers who came to me this morning to complain and threaten. William did not threaten. He only asked me to give them rather more time—to make my changes more slowly. You know I cannot do that: straitened on all sides as I am, I have nothing for it but to push on. I thought it would be idle to palaver193 long with them. I sent them away, after arresting a rascal222 amongst them, whom I hope to transport—a fellow who preaches at the chapel yonder sometimes."
"Not Moses Barraclough?"
"Yes."
"Ah! you've arrested him? Good! Then out of a scoundrel you're going to make a martyr223. You've done a wise thing."
"I've done a right thing. Well, the short and the long of it is, I'm determined224 to get Farren a place, and I reckon on you to give him one."
"This is cool, however!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke. "What right have you to reckon on me to provide for your dismissed workmen? What do I know about your Farrens and your Williams? I've heard he's an honest man, but am I to support all the honest men in Yorkshire? You may say that would be no great charge to undertake; but great or little, I'll none of it."
"Come, Mr. Yorke, what can you find for him to do?"
"I find! You'll make me use language I'm not accustomed to use. I wish you would go home. Here is the door; set off."
Moore sat down on one of the hall chairs.
"You can't give him work in your mill—good; but you have land. Find him some occupation on your land, Mr. Yorke."
"Bob, I thought you cared nothing about our lourdauds de paysans. I don't understand this change."
"I do. The fellow spoke to me nothing but truth and sense. I answered him just as roughly as I did the rest, who jabbered225 mere gibberish. I couldn't make distinctions there and then. His appearance told what he had gone through lately clearer than his words; but where is the use of explaining? Let him have work."
"Let him have it yourself. If you are so very much in earnest, strain a point."
"If there was a point left in my affairs to strain, I would strain it till it cracked again; but I received letters this morning which showed me pretty clearly where I stand, and it is not far off the end of the plank226. My foreign market, at any rate, is gorged227. If there is no change—if there dawns no prospect228 of peace—if the Orders in Council are not, at least, suspended, so as to open our way in the West—I do not know where I am to turn. I see no more light than if I were sealed in a rock, so that for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood229 would be to do a dishonest thing."
"Come, let us take a turn on the front. It is a starlight night," said Mr. Yorke.
They passed out, closing the front door after them, and side by side paced the frost-white pavement to and fro.
"Settle about Farren at once," urged Mr. Moore. "You have large fruit-gardens at Yorke Mills. He is a good gardener. Give him work there."
"Well, so be it. I'll send for him to-morrow, and we'll see. And now, my lad, you're concerned about the condition of your affairs?"
"Yes, a second failure—which I may delay, but which, at this moment, I see no way finally to avert—would blight230 the name of Moore completely; and you are aware I had fine intentions of paying off every debt and re-establishing the old firm on its former basis."
"You want capital—that's all you want."
"Yes; but you might as well say that breath is all a dead man wants to live."
"I know—I know capital is not to be had for the asking; and if you were a married man, and had a family, like me, I should think your case pretty nigh desperate; but the young and unencumbered have chances peculiar to themselves. I hear gossip now and then about your being on the eve of marriage with this miss and that; but I suppose it is none of it true?"
"You may well suppose that. I think I am not in a position to be dreaming of marriage. Marriage! I cannot bear the word; it sounds so silly and utopian. I have settled it decidedly that marriage and love are superfluities, intended only for the rich, who live at ease, and have no145 need to take thought for the morrow; or desperations—the last and reckless joy of the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out of the slough231 of their utter poverty."
"I should not think so if I were circumstanced as you are. I should think I could very likely get a wife with a few thousands, who would suit both me and my affairs."
"I wonder where?"
"Would you try if you had a chance?"
"I don't know. It depends on—in short, it depends on many things."
"Would you take an old woman?"
"I'd rather break stones on the road."
"So would I. Would you take an ugly one?"
"Bah! I hate ugliness and delight in beauty. My eyes and heart, Yorke, take pleasure in a sweet, young, fair face, as they are repelled232 by a grim, rugged233, meagre one. Soft delicate lines and hues please, harsh ones prejudice me. I won't have an ugly wife."
"Not if she were rich?"
"Not if she were dressed in gems234. I could not love—I could not fancy—I could not endure her. My taste must have satisfaction, or disgust would break out in despotism, or worse—freeze to utter iciness."
"What! Bob, if you married an honest, good-natured, and wealthy lass, though a little hard-favoured, couldn't you put up with the high cheek-bones, the rather wide mouth, and reddish hair?"
"I'll never try, I tell you. Grace at least I will have, and youth and symmetry—yes, and what I call beauty."
"And poverty, and a nursery full of bairns you can neither clothe nor feed, and very soon an anxious, faded mother; and then bankruptcy235, discredit—a life-long struggle."
"Let me alone, Yorke."
"If you are romantic, Robert, and especially if you are already in love, it is of no use talking."
"I am not romantic. I am stripped of romance as bare as the white tenters in that field are of cloth."
"Always use such figures of speech, lad; I can understand them. And there is no love affair to disturb your judgment236?"
"I thought I had said enough on that subject before. Love for me? Stuff!"
"Well, then, if you are sound both in heart and head,146 there is no reason why you should not profit by a good chance if it offers; therefore, wait and see."
"You are quite oracular, Yorke."
"I think I am a bit i' that line. I promise ye naught237 and I advise ye naught; but I bid ye keep your heart up, and be guided by circumstances."
"My namesake the physician's almanac could not speak more guardedly."
"In the meantime, I care naught about ye, Robert Moore: ye are nothing akin92 to me or mine, and whether ye lose or find a fortune it maks no difference to me. Go home, now. It has stricken ten. Miss Hortense will be wondering where ye are."
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1
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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2
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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3
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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9
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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10
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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12
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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20
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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21
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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23
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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29
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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30
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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31
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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32
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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33
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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34
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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35
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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36
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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40
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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41
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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42
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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46
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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47
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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48
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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49
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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50
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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51
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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52
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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53
slating
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| 批评 | |
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54
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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55
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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56
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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57
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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58
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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59
muffle
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| v.围裹；抑制；发低沉的声音 | |
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60
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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61
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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62
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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63
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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66
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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67
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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68
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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69
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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70
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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71
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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72
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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73
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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74
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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75
Saturn
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| n.农神，土星 | |
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76
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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77
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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78
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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79
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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80
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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81
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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82
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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83
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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84
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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85
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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86
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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87
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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88
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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89
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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90
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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91
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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92
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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93
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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94
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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95
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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96
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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97
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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98
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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100
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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101
irrationally
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| ad.不理性地 | |
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102
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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103
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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104
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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105
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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106
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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107
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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108
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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109
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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110
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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111
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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112
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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113
emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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114
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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115
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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116
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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117
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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118
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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119
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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120
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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121
decry
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| v.危难，谴责 | |
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122
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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123
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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124
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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125
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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126
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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127
scions
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| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
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128
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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129
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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130
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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131
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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132
phlegmatic
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|
| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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133
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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134
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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135
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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136
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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137
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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138
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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139
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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140
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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141
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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142
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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143
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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144
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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145
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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146
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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147
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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148
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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149
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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150
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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151
modulates
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| 调整( modulate的第三人称单数 )； （对波幅、频率的）调制； 转调； 调整或改变（嗓音）的音调 | |
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152
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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153
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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154
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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155
abstemiousness
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| n.适中，有节制 | |
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156
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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158
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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159
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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161
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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162
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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163
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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164
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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165
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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166
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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167
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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168
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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169
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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170
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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171
hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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172
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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173
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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174
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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175
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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176
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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177
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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178
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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179
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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180
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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181
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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182
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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183
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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184
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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185
tantalization
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| n.逗弄，使干着急 | |
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186
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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187
misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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188
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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189
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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190
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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191
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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192
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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193
palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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194
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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195
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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196
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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197
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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198
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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199
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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200
magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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201
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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202
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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203
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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204
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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205
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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206
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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207
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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208
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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209
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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210
mountebank
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| n.江湖郎中；骗子 | |
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211
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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212
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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213
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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214
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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215
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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216
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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217
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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218
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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219
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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220
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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221
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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222
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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223
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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224
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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225
jabbered
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的过去式和过去分词 )；急促兴奋地说话 | |
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226
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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227
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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228
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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229
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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230
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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231
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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232
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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233
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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234
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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235
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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236
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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237
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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