BEFORE twelve o’clock there had been some heavy storms of rain, and the water lay in deep gutters1 on the sides of the gravel2 walks in the garden of Broxton Parsonage; the great Provence roses had been cruelly tossed by the wind and beaten by the rain, and all the delicate-stemmed border flowers had been dashed down and stained with the wet soil. A melancholy3 morning — because it was nearly time hay-harvest should begin, and instead of that the meadows were likely to be flooded.
But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments5 that they would never think of but for the rain. If it had not been a wet morning, Mr. Irwine would not have been in the dining-room playing at chess with his mother, and he loves both his mother and chess quite well enough to pass some cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me take you into that dining-room and show you the Rev6. Adolphus Irwine, Rector of Broxton, Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of Blythe, a pluralist at whom the severest Church reformer would have found it difficult to look sour. We will enter very softly and stand still in the open doorway7, without awaking the glossy- brown setter who is stretched across the hearth8, with her two puppies beside her; or the pug, who is dozing9, with his black muzzle10 aloft, like a sleepy president.
The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned oriel window at one end; the walls, you see, are new, and not yet painted; but the furniture, though originally of an expensive sort, is old and scanty11, and there is no drapery about the window. The crimson12 cloth over the large dining-table is very threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantly enough with the dead hue13 of the plaster on the walls; but on this cloth there is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of the same pattern as two larger ones that are propped14 up on the sideboard with a coat of arms conspicuous15 in their centre. You suspect at once that the inhabitants of this room have inherited more blood than wealth, and would not be surprised to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely cut nostril16 and upper lip; but at present we can only see that he has a broad flat back and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backward and tied behind with a black ribbon — a bit of conservatism in costume which tells you that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn round by and by, and in the meantime we can look at that stately old lady, his mother, a beautiful aged17 brunette, whose rich-toned complexion18 is well set off by the complex wrappings of pure white cambric and lace about her head and neck. She is as erect19 in her comely20 embonpoint as a statue of Ceres; and her dark face, with its delicate aquiline21 nose, firm proud mouth, and small, intense, black eye, is so keen and sarcastic22 in its expression that you instinctively23 substitute a pack of cards for the chess-men and imagine her telling your fortune. The small brown hand with which she is lifting her queen is laden24 with pearls, diamonds, and turquoises25; and a large black veil is very carefully adjusted over the crown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the white folds about her neck. It must take a long time to dress that old lady in the morning! But it seems a law of nature that she should be dressed so: she is clearly one of those children of royalty26 who have never doubted their right divine and never met with any one so absurd as to question it.
“There, Dauphin, tell me what that is!” says this magnificent old lady, as she deposits her queen very quietly and folds her arms. “I should be sorry to utter a word disagreeable to your feelings.”
“Ah, you witch-mother, you sorceress! How is a Christian27 man to win a game off you? I should have sprinkled the board with holy water before we began. You’ve not won that game by fair means, now, so don’t pretend it.”
“Yes, yes, that’s what the beaten have always said of great conquerors28. But see, there’s the sunshine falling on the board, to show you more clearly what a foolish move you made with that pawn29. Come, shall I give you another chance?”
“No, Mother, I shall leave you to your own conscience, now it’s clearing up. We must go and plash up the mud a little, mus’n’t we, Juno?” This was addressed to the brown setter, who had jumped up at the sound of the voices and laid her nose in an insinuating30 way on her master’s leg. “But I must go upstairs first and see Anne. I was called away to Tholer’s funeral just when I was going before.”
“It’s of no use, child; she can’t speak to you. Kate says she has one of her worst headaches this morning.”
“Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same; she’s never too ill to care about that.”
If you know how much of human speech is mere31 purposeless impulse or habit, you will not wonder when I tell you that this identical objection had been made, and had received the same kind of answer, many hundred times in the course of the fifteen years that Mr. Irwine’s sister Anne had been an invalid32. Splendid old ladies, who take a long time to dress in the morning, have often slight sympathy with sickly daughters.
But while Mr. Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his chair and stroking Juno’s head, the servant came to the door and said, “If you please, sir, Joshua Rann wishes to speak with you, if you are at liberty.”
“Let him be shown in here,” said Mrs. Irwine, taking up her knitting. “I always like to hear what Mr. Rann has got to say. His shoes will be dirty, but see that he wipes them Carroll.”
In two minutes Mr. Rann appeared at the door with very deferential33 bows, which, however, were far from conciliating Pug, who gave a sharp bark and ran across the room to reconnoitre the stranger’s legs; while the two puppies, regarding Mr. Rann’s prominent calf34 and ribbed worsted stockings from a more sensuous35 point of view, plunged36 and growled37 over them in great enjoyment4. Meantime, Mr. Irwine turned round his chair and said, “Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hayslope, that you’ve come over this damp morning? Sit down, sit down. Never mind the dogs; give them a friendly kick. Here, Pug, you rascal38!”
It is very pleasant to see some men turn round; pleasant as a sudden rush of warm air in winter, or the flash of firelight in the chill dusk. Mr. Irwine was one of those men. He bore the same sort of resemblance to his mother that our loving memory of a friend’s face often bears to the face itself: the lines were all more generous, the smile brighter, the expression heartier39. If the outline had been less finely cut, his face might have been called jolly; but that was not the right word for its mixture of bonhomie and distinction.
“Thank Your Reverence40,” answered Mr. Rann, endeavouring to look unconcerned about his legs, but shaking them alternately to keep off the puppies; “I’ll stand, if you please, as more becoming. I hope I see you an’ Mrs. Irwine well, an’ Miss Irwine — an’ Miss Anne, I hope’s as well as usual.”
“Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my mother looks. She beats us younger people hollow. But what’s the matter?”
“Why, sir, I had to come to Brox’on to deliver some work, and I thought it but right to call and let you know the goins-on as there’s been i’ the village, such as I hanna seen i’ my time, and I’ve lived in it man and boy sixty year come St. Thomas, and collected th’ Easter dues for Mr. Blick before Your Reverence come into the parish, and been at the ringin’ o’ every bell, and the diggin’ o’ every grave, and sung i’ the choir41 long afore Bartle Massey come from nobody knows where, wi’ his counter-singin’ and fine anthems42, as puts everybody out but himself — one takin’ it up after another like sheep a-bleatin’ i’ th’ fold. I know what belongs to bein’ a parish clerk, and I know as I should be wantin’ i’ respect to Your Reverence, an’ church, an’ king, if I was t’ allow such goins-on wi’out speakin’. I was took by surprise, an’ knowed nothin’ on it beforehand, an’ I was so flustered43, I was clean as if I’d lost my tools. I hanna slep’ more nor four hour this night as is past an’ gone; an’ then it was nothin’ but nightmare, as tired me worse nor wakin’.”
“Why, what in the world is the matter, Joshua? Have the thieves been at the church lead again?”
“Thieves! No, sir — an’ yet, as I may say, it is thieves, an’ a- thievin’ the church, too. It’s the Methodisses as is like to get th’ upper hand i’ th’ parish, if Your Reverence an’ His Honour, Squire45 Donnithorne, doesna think well to say the word an’ forbid it. Not as I’m a-dictatin’ to you, sir; I’m not forgettin’ myself so far as to be wise above my betters. Howiver, whether I’m wise or no, that’s neither here nor there, but what I’ve got to say I say — as the young Methodis woman as is at Mester Poyser’s was a- preachin’ an’ a-prayin’ on the Green last night, as sure as I’m a- stannin’ afore Your Reverence now.”
“Preaching on the Green!” said Mr. Irwine, looking surprised but quite serene46. “What, that pale pretty young woman I’ve seen at Poyser’s? I saw she was a Methodist, or Quaker, or something of that sort, by her dress, but I didn’t know she was a preacher.”
“It’s a true word as I say, sir,” rejoined Mr. Rann, compressing his mouth into a semicircular form and pausing long enough to indicate three notes of exclamation47. “She preached on the Green last night; an’ she’s laid hold of Chad’s Bess, as the girl’s been i’ fits welly iver sin’.”
“Well, Bessy Cranage is a hearty-looking lass; I daresay she’ll come round again, Joshua. Did anybody else go into fits?”
“No, sir, I canna say as they did. But there’s no knowin’ what’ll come, if we’re t’ have such preachin’s as that a-goin’ on ivery week — there’ll be no livin’ i’ th’ village. For them Methodisses make folks believe as if they take a mug o’ drink extry, an’ make theirselves a bit comfortable, they’ll have to go to hell for’t as sure as they’re born. I’m not a tipplin’ man nor a drunkard — nobody can say it on me — but I like a extry quart at Easter or Christmas time, as is nat’ral when we’re goin’ the rounds a- singin’, an’ folks offer’t you for nothin’; or when I’m a- collectin’ the dues; an’ I like a pint48 wi’ my pipe, an’ a neighbourly chat at Mester Casson’s now an’ then, for I was brought up i’ the Church, thank God, an’ ha’ been a parish clerk this two-an’-thirty year: I should know what the church religion is.”
“Well, what’s your advice, Joshua? What do you think should be done?”
“Well, Your Reverence, I’m not for takin’ any measures again’ the young woman. She’s well enough if she’d let alone preachin’; an’ I hear as she’s a-goin’ away back to her own country soon. She’s Mr. Poyser’s own niece, an’ I donna wish to say what’s anyways disrespectful o’ th’ family at th’ Hall Farm, as I’ve measured for shoes, little an’ big, welly iver sin’ I’ve been a shoemaker. But there’s that Will Maskery, sir as is the rampageousest Methodis as can be, an’ I make no doubt it was him as stirred up th’ young woman to preach last night, an’ he’ll be a-bringin’ other folks to preach from Treddles’on, if his comb isn’t cut a bit; an’ I think as he should be let know as he isna t’ have the makin’ an’ mendin’ o’ church carts an’ implemen’s, let alone stayin’ i’ that house an’ yard as is Squire Donnithorne’s.”
“Well, but you say yourself, Joshua, that you never knew any one come to preach on the Green before; why should you think they’ll come again? The Methodists don’t come to preach in little villages like Hayslope, where there’s only a handful of labourers, too tired to listen to them. They might almost as well go and preach on the Binton Hills. Will Maskery is no preacher himself, I think.”
“Nay, sir, he’s no gift at stringin’ the words together wi’out book; he’d be stuck fast like a cow i’ wet clay. But he’s got tongue enough to speak disrespectful about’s neebors, for he said as I was a blind Pharisee — a-usin’ the Bible i’ that way to find nick-names for folks as are his elders an’ betters!— and what’s worse, he’s been heard to say very unbecomin’ words about Your Reverence; for I could bring them as ’ud swear as he called you a ‘dumb dog,’ an’ a ‘idle shepherd.’ You’ll forgi’e me for sayin’ such things over again.”
“Better not, better not, Joshua. Let evil words die as soon as they’re spoken. Will Maskery might be a great deal worse fellow than he is. He used to be a wild drunken rascal, neglecting his work and beating his wife, they told me; now he’s thrifty50 and decent, and he and his wife look comfortable together. If you can bring me any proof that he interferes52 with his neighbours and creates any disturbance53, I shall think it my duty as a clergyman and a magistrate55 to interfere51. But it wouldn’t become wise people like you and me to be making a fuss about trifles, as if we thought the Church was in danger because Will Maskery lets his tongue wag rather foolishly, or a young woman talks in a serious way to a handful of people on the Green. We must ‘live and let live,’ Joshua, in religion as well as in other things. You go on doing your duty, as parish clerk and sexton, as well as you’ve always done it, and making those capital thick boots for your neighbours, and things won’t go far wrong in Hayslope, depend upon it.”
“Your Reverence is very good to say so; an’ I’m sensable as, you not livin’ i’ the parish, there’s more upo’ my shoulders.”
“To be sure; and you must mind and not lower the Church in people’s eyes by seeming to be frightened about it for a little thing, Joshua. I shall trust to your good sense, now to take no notice at all of what Will Maskery says, either about you or me. You and your neighbours can go on taking your pot of beer soberly, when you’ve done your day’s work, like good churchmen; and if Will Maskery doesn’t like to join you, but to go to a prayermeeting at Treddleston instead, let him; that’s no business of yours, so long as he doesn’t hinder you from doing what you like. And as to people saying a few idle words about us, we must not mind that, any more than the old church-steeple minds the rooks cawing about it. Will Maskery comes to church every Sunday afternoon, and does his wheelwright’s business steadily56 in the weekdays, and as long as he does that he must be let alone.”
“Ah, sir, but when he comes to church, he sits an’ shakes his head, an’ looks as sour an’ as coxy when we’re a-singin’ as I should like to fetch him a rap across the jowl — God forgi’e me — an’ Mrs. Irwine, an’ Your Reverence too, for speakin’ so afore you. An’ he said as our Christmas singin’ was no better nor the cracklin’ o’ thorns under a pot.”
“Well, he’s got a bad ear for music, Joshua. When people have wooden heads, you know, it can’t be helped. He won’t bring the other people in Hayslope round to his opinion, while you go on singing as well as you do.”
“Yes, sir, but it turns a man’s stomach t’ hear the Scripture57 misused58 i’ that way. I know as much o’ the words o’ the Bible as he does, an’ could say the Psalms59 right through i’ my sleep if you was to pinch me; but I know better nor to take ’em to say my own say wi’. I might as well take the Sacriment-cup home and use it at meals.”
“That’s a very sensible remark of yours, Joshua; but, as I said before ——”
While Mr. Irwine was speaking, the sound of a booted step and the clink of a spur were heard on the stone floor of the entrance- hall, and Joshua Rann moved hastily aside from the doorway to make room for some one who paused there, and said, in a ringing tenor60 voice,
“Godson Arthur — may he come in?”
“Come in, come in, godson!” Mrs. Irwine answered, in the deep half-masculine tone which belongs to the vigorous old woman, and there entered a young gentleman in a riding-dress, with his right arm in a sling61; whereupon followed that pleasant confusion of laughing interjections, and hand-shakings, and “How are you’s?” mingled62 with joyous63 short barks and wagging of tails on the part of the canine64 members of the family, which tells that the visitor is on the best terms with the visited. The young gentleman was Arthur Donnithorne, known in Hayslope, variously, as “the young squire,” “the heir,” and “the captain.” He was only a captain in the Loamshire Militia65, but to the Hayslope tenants66 he was more intensely a captain than all the young gentlemen of the same rank in his Majesty’s regulars — he outshone them as the planet Jupiter outshines the Milky67 Way. If you want to know more particularly how he looked, call to your remembrance some tawny-whiskered, brown-locked, clear-complexioned young Englishman whom you have met with in a foreign town, and been proud of as a fellow- countryman — well-washed, high-bred, white-handed, yet looking as if he could deliver well from ‘the left shoulder and floor his man: I will not be so much of a tailor as to trouble your imagination with the difference of costume, and insist on the striped waistcoat, long-tailed coat, and low top-boots.
Turning round to take a chair, Captain Donnithorne said, “But don’t let me interrupt Joshua’s business — he has something to say.”
“Humbly begging Your Honour’s pardon,” said Joshua, bowing low, “there was one thing I had to say to His Reverence as other things had drove out o’ my head.”
“Out with it, Joshua, quickly!” said Mr. Irwine.
“Belike, sir, you havena heared as Thias Bede’s dead — drownded this morning, or more like overnight, i’ the Willow68 Brook69, again’ the bridge right i’ front o’ the house.”
“Ah!” exclaimed both the gentlemen at once, as if they were a good deal interested in the information.
“An’ Seth Bede’s been to me this morning to say he wished me to tell Your Reverence as his brother Adam begged of you particular t’ allow his father’s grave to be dug by the White Thorn, because his mother’s set her heart on it, on account of a dream as she had; an’ they’d ha’ come theirselves to ask you, but they’ve so much to see after with the crowner, an’ that; an’ their mother’s took on so, an’ wants ’em to make sure o’ the spot for fear somebody else should take it. An’ if Your Reverence sees well and good, I’ll send my boy to tell ’em as soon as I get home; an’ that’s why I make bold to trouble you wi’ it, His Honour being present.”
“To be sure, Joshua, to be sure, they shall have it. I’ll ride round to Adam myself, and see him. Send your boy, however, to say they shall have the grave, lest anything should happen to detain me. And now, good morning, Joshua; go into the kitchen and have some ale.”
“Poor old Thias!” said Mr. Irwine, when Joshua was gone. “I’m afraid the drink helped the brook to drown him. I should have been glad for the load to have been taken off my friend Adam’s shoulders in a less painful way. That fine fellow has been propping70 up his father from ruin for the last five or six years.”
“He’s a regular trump71, is Adam,” said Captain Donnithorne. “When I was a little fellow, and Adam was a strapping72 lad of fifteen, and taught me carpentering, I used to think if ever I was a rich sultan, I would make Adam my grand-vizier. And I believe now he would bear the exaltation as well as any poor wise man in an Eastern story. If ever I live to be a large-acred man instead of a poor devil with a mortgaged allowance of pocket-money, I’ll have Adam for my right hand. He shall manage my woods for me, for he seems to have a better notion of those things than any man I ever met with; and I know he would make twice the money of them that my grandfather does, with that miserable73 old Satchell to manage, who understands no more about timber than an old carp. I’ve mentioned the subject to my grandfather once or twice, but for some reason or other he has a dislike to Adam, and I can do nothing. But come, Your Reverence, are you for a ride with me? It’s splendid out of doors now. We can go to Adam’s together, if you like; but I want to call at the Hall Farm on my way, to look at the whelps Poyser is keeping for me.”
“You must stay and have lunch first, Arthur,” said Mrs. Irwine. “It’s nearly two. Carroll will bring it in directly.”
“I want to go to the Hall Farm too,” said Mr. Irwine, “to have another look at the little Methodist who is staying there. Joshua tells me she was preaching on the Green last night.”
“Oh, by Jove!” said Captain Donnithorne, laughing. “Why, she looks as quiet as a mouse. There’s something rather striking about her, though. I positively74 felt quite bashful the first time I saw her — she was sitting stooping over her sewing in the sunshine outside the house, when I rode up and called out, without noticing that she was a stranger, ‘Is Martin Poyser at home?’ I declare, when she got up and looked at me and just said, ‘He’s in the house, I believe: I’ll go and call him,’ I felt quite ashamed of having spoken so abruptly75 to her. She looked like St. Catherine in a Quaker dress. It’s a type of face one rarely sees among our common people.”
“I should like to see the young woman, Dauphin,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Make her come here on some pretext76 or other.”
“I don’t know how I can manage that, Mother; it will hardly do for me to patronize a Methodist preacher, even if she would consent to be patronized by an idle shepherd, as Will Maskery calls me. You should have come in a little sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua’s denunciation of his neighbour Will Maskery. The old fellow wants me to excommunicate the wheelwright, and then deliver him over to the civil arm — that is to say, to your grandfather — to be turned out of house and yard. If I chose to interfere in this business, now, I might get up as pretty a story of hatred77 and persecution78 as the Methodists need desire to publish in the next number of their magazine. It wouldn’t take me much trouble to persuade Chad Cranage and half a dozen other bull-headed fellows that they would be doing an acceptable service to the Church by hunting Will Maskery out of the village with rope-ends and pitchforks; and then, when I had furnished them with half a sovereign to get gloriously drunk after their exertions79, I should have put the climax80 to as pretty a farce81 as any of my brother clergy54 have set going in their parishes for the last thirty years.”
“It is really insolent82 of the man, though, to call you an ‘idle shepherd’ and a ‘dumb dog,’” said Mrs. Irwine. “I should be inclined to check him a little there. You are too easy-tempered, Dauphin.”
“Why, Mother, you don’t think it would be a good way of sustaining my dignity to set about vindicating83 myself from the aspersions of Will Maskery? Besides, I’m not so sure that they ARE aspersions. I AM a lazy fellow, and get terribly heavy in my saddle; not to mention that I’m always spending more than I can afford in bricks and mortar84, so that I get savage85 at a lame86 beggar when he asks me for sixpence. Those poor lean cobblers, who think they can help to regenerate87 mankind by setting out to preach in the morning twilight88 before they begin their day’s work, may well have a poor opinion of me. But come, let us have our luncheon89. Isn’t Kate coming to lunch?”
“Miss Irwine told Bridget to take her lunch upstairs,” said Carroll; “she can’t leave Miss Anne.”
“Oh, very well. Tell Bridget to say I’ll go up and see Miss Anne presently. You can use your right arm quite well now, Arthur,” Mr. Irwine continued, observing that Captain Donnithorne had taken his arm out of the sling.
“Yes, pretty well; but Godwin insists on my keeping it up constantly for some time to come. I hope I shall be able to get away to the regiment90, though, in the beginning of August. It’s a desperately91 dull business being shut up at the Chase in the summer months, when one can neither hunt nor shoot, so as to make one’s self pleasantly sleepy in the evening. However, we are to astonish the echoes on the 30th of July. My grandfather has given me carte blanche for once, and I promise you the entertainment shall be worthy92 of the occasion. The world will not see the grand epoch93 of my majority twice. I think I shall have a lofty throne for you, Godmamma, or rather two, one on the lawn and another in the ballroom94, that you may sit and look down upon us like an Olympian goddess.”
“I mean to bring out my best brocade, that I wore at your christening twenty years ago,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Ah, I think I shall see your poor mother flitting about in her white dress, which looked to me almost like a shroud95 that very day; and it WAS her shroud only three months after; and your little cap and christening dress were buried with her too. She had set her heart on that, sweet soul! Thank God you take after your mother’s family, Arthur. If you had been a puny96, wiry, yellow baby, I wouldn’t have stood godmother to you. I should have been sure you would turn out a Donnithorne. But you were such a broad-faced, broad-chested, loud-screaming rascal, I knew you were every inch of you a Tradgett.”
“But you might have been a little too hasty there, Mother,” said Mr. Irwine, smiling. “Don’t you remember how it was with Juno’s last pups? One of them was the very image of its mother, but it had two or three of its father’s tricks notwithstanding. Nature is clever enough to cheat even you, Mother.”
“Nonsense, child! Nature never makes a ferret in the shape of a mastiff. You’ll never persuade me that I can’t tell what men are by their outsides. If I don’t like a man’s looks, depend upon it I shall never like HIM. I don’t want to know people that look ugly and disagreeable, any more than I want to taste dishes that look disagreeable. If they make me shudder98 at the first glance, I say, take them away. An ugly, piggish, or fishy99 eye, now, makes me feel quite ill; it’s like a bad smell.”
“Talking of eyes,” said Captain Donnithorne, “that reminds me that I’ve got a book I meant to bring you, Godmamma. It came down in a parcel from London the other day. I know you are fond of queer, wizardlike stories. It’s a volume of poems, ‘Lyrical Ballads100.’ Most of them seem to be twaddling stuff, but the first is in a different style —’The Ancient Mariner’ is the title. I can hardly make head or tail of it as a story, but it’s a strange, striking thing. I’ll send it over to you; and there are some other books that you may like to see, Irwine — pamphlets about Antinomianism and Evangelicalism, whatever they may be. I can’t think what the fellow means by sending such things to me. I’ve written to him to desire that from henceforth he will send me no book or pamphlet on anything that ends in ISM.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’m very fond of isms myself; but I may as well look at the pamphlets; they let one see what is going on. I’ve a little matter to attend to, Arthur,” continued Mr. Irwine, rising to leave the room, “and then I shall be ready to set out with you.”
The little matter that Mr. Irwine had to attend to took him up the old stone staircase (part of the house was very old) and made him pause before a door at which he knocked gently. “Come in,” said a woman’s voice, and he entered a room so darkened by blinds and curtains that Miss Kate, the thin middle-aged102 lady standing97 by the bedside, would not have had light enough for any other sort of work than the knitting which lay on the little table near her. But at present she was doing what required only the dimmest light — sponging the aching head that lay on the pillow with fresh vinegar. It was a small face, that of the poor sufferer; perhaps it had once been pretty, but now it was worn and sallow. Miss Kate came towards her brother and whispered, “Don’t speak to her; she can’t bear to be spoken to today.” Anne’s eyes were closed, and her brow contracted as if from intense pain. Mr. Irwine went to the bedside and took up one of the delicate hands and kissed it, a slight pressure from the small fingers told him that it was worth-while to have come upstairs for the sake of doing that. He lingered a moment, looking at her, and then turned away and left the room, treading very gently — he had taken off his boots and put on slippers103 before he came upstairs. Whoever remembers how many things he has declined to do even for himself, rather than have the trouble of putting on or taking off his boots, will not think this last detail insignificant104.
And Mr. Irwine’s sisters, as any person of family within ten miles of Broxton could have testified, were such stupid, uninteresting women! It was quite a pity handsome, clever Mrs. Irwine should have had such commonplace daughters. That fine old lady herself was worth driving ten miles to see, any day; her beauty, her well- preserved faculties105, and her old-fashioned dignity made her a graceful106 subject for conversation in turn with the King’s health, the sweet new patterns in cotton dresses, the news from Egypt, and Lord Dacey’s lawsuit107, which was fretting108 poor Lady Dacey to death. But no one ever thought of mentioning the Miss Irwines, except the poor people in Broxton village, who regarded them as deep in the science of medicine, and spoke49 of them vaguely109 as “the gentlefolks.” If any one had asked old Job Dummilow who gave him his flannel110 jacket, he would have answered, “the gentlefolks, last winter”; and widow Steene dwelt much on the virtues111 of the “stuff” the gentlefolks gave her for her cough. Under this name too, they were used with great effect as a means of taming refractory113 children, so that at the sight of poor Miss Anne’s sallow face, several small urchins114 had a terrified sense that she was cognizant of all their worst misdemeanours, and knew the precise number of stones with which they had intended to hit Farmer Britton’s ducks. But for all who saw them through a less mythical115 medium, the Miss Irwines were quite superfluous116 existences — inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life without adequate effect. Miss Anne, indeed, if her chronic117 headaches could have been accounted for by a pathetic story of disappointed love, might have had some romantic interest attached to her: but no such story had either been known or invented concerning her, and the general impression was quite in accordance with the fact, that both the sisters were old maids for the prosaic118 reason that they had never received an eligible119 offer.
Nevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the existence of insignificant people has very important consequences in the world. It can be shown to affect the price of bread and the rate of wages, to call forth101 many evil tempers from the selfish and many heroisms from the sympathetic, and, in other ways, to play no small part in the tragedy of life. And if that handsome, generous-blooded clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, had not had these two hopelessly maiden120 sisters, his lot would have been shaped quite differently: he would very likely have taken a comely wife in his youth, and now, when his hair was getting grey under the powder, would have had tall sons and blooming daughters — such possessions, in short, as men commonly think will repay them for all the labour they take under the sun. As it was — having with all his three livings no more than seven hundred a-year, and seeing no way of keeping his splendid mother and his sickly sister, not to reckon a second sister, who was usually spoken of without any adjective, in such ladylike ease as became their birth and habits, and at the same time providing for a family of his own — he remained, you see, at the age of eight-and-forty, a bachelor, not making any merit of that renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any one alluded121 to it, that he made it an excuse for many indulgences which a wife would never have allowed him. And perhaps he was the only person in the world who did not think his sisters uninteresting and superfluous; for his was one of those large-hearted, sweet-blooded natures that never know a narrow or a grudging122 thought; Epicurean, if you will, with no enthusiasm, no self-scourging sense of duty; but yet, as you have seen, of a sufficiently123 subtle moral fibre to have an unwearying tenderness for obscure and monotonous124 suffering. It was his large-hearted indulgence that made him ignore his mother’s hardness towards her daughters, which was the more striking from its contrast with her doting125 fondness towards himself; he held it no virtue112 to frown at irremediable faults.
See the difference between the impression a man makes on you when you walk by his side in familiar talk, or look at him in his home, and the figure he makes when seen from a lofty historical level, or even in the eyes of a critical neighbour who thinks of him as an embodied126 system or opinion rather than as a man. Mr. Roe127, the “travelling preacher” stationed at Treddleston, had included Mr. Irwine in a general statement concerning the Church clergy in the surrounding district, whom he described as men given up to the lusts128 of the flesh and the pride of life; hunting and shooting, and adorning129 their own houses; asking what shall we eat, and what shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed?— careless of dispensing130 the bread of life to their flocks, preaching at best but a carnal and soul-benumbing morality, and trafficking in the souls of men by receiving money for discharging the pastoral office in parishes where they did not so much as look on the faces of the people more than once a-year. The ecclesiastical historian, too, looking into parliamentary reports of that period, finds honourable131 members zealous132 for the Church, and untainted with any sympathy for the “tribe of canting Methodists,” making statements scarcely less melancholy than that of Mr. Roe. And it is impossible for me to say that Mr. Irwine was altogether belied133 by the generic134 classification assigned him. He really had no very lofty aims, no theological enthusiasm: if I were closely questioned, I should be obliged to confess that he felt no serious alarms about the souls of his parishioners, and would have thought it a mere loss of time to talk in a doctrinal and awakening135 manner to old “Feyther Taft,” or even to Chad Cranage the blacksmith. If he had been in the habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhaps have said that the only healthy form religion could take in such minds was that of certain dim but strong emotions, suffusing136 themselves as a hallowing influence over the family affections and neighbourly duties. He thought the custom of baptism more important than its doctrine137, and that the religious benefits the peasant drew from the church where his fathers worshipped and the sacred piece of turf where they lay buried were but slightly dependent on a clear understanding of the Liturgy138 or the sermon. Clearly the rector was not what is called in these days an “earnest” man: he was fonder of church history than of divinity, and had much more insight into men’s characters than interest in their opinions; he was neither laborious139, nor obviously self-denying, nor very copious140 in alms-giving, and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His mental palate, indeed, was rather pagan, and found a savouriness in a quotation141 from Sophocles or Theocritus that was quite absent from any text in Isaiah or Amos. But if you feed your young setter on raw flesh, how can you wonder at its retaining a relish142 for uncooked partridge in after-life? And Mr. Irwine’s recollections of young enthusiasm and ambition were all associated with poetry and ethics143 that lay aloof144 from the Bible.
On the other hand, I must plead, for I have an affectionate partiality towards the rector’s memory, that he was not vindictive145 — and some philanthropists have been so; that he was not intolerant — and there is a rumour146 that some zealous theologians have not been altogether free from that blemish147; that although he would probably have declined to give his body to be burned in any public cause, and was far from bestowing148 all his goods to feed the poor, he had that charity which has sometimes been lacking to very illustrious virtue — he was tender to other men’s failings, and unwilling149 to impute150 evil. He was one of those men, and they are not the commonest, of whom we can know the best only by following them away from the marketplace, the platform, and the pulpit, entering with them into their own homes, hearing the voice with which they speak to the young and aged about their own hearthstone, and witnessing their thoughtful care for the everyday wants of everyday companions, who take all their kindness as a matter of course, and not as a subject for panegyric151.
Such men, happily, have lived in times when great abuses flourished, and have sometimes even been the living representatives of the abuses. That is a thought which might comfort us a little under the opposite fact — that it is better sometimes NOT to follow great reformers of abuses beyond the threshold of their homes.
But whatever you may think of Mr. Irwine now, if you had met him that June afternoon riding on his grey cob, with his dogs running beside him — portly, upright, manly152, with a good-natured smile on his finely turned lips as he talked to his dashing young companion on the bay mare44, you must have felt that, however ill he harmonized with sound theories of the clerical office, he somehow harmonized extremely well with that peaceful landscape.
See them in the bright sunlight, interrupted every now and then by rolling masses of cloud, ascending153 the slope from the Broxton side, where the tall gables and elms of the rectory predominate over the tiny whitewashed154 church. They will soon be in the parish of Hayslope; the grey church-tower and village roofs lie before them to the left, and farther on, to the right, they can just see the chimneys of the Hall Farm.
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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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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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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turquoises
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| n.绿松石( turquoise的名词复数 )；青绿色 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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anthems
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| n.赞美诗( anthem的名词复数 )；圣歌；赞歌；颂歌 | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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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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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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51
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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57
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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58
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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propping
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| 支撑 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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81
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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vindicating
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的现在分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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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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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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88
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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89
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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93
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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94
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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95
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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96
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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98
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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99
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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100
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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101
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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102
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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103
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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104
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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105
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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106
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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107
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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108
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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109
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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110
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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111
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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112
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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113
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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114
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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115
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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116
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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117
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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118
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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119
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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120
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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121
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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123
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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124
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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125
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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126
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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127
roe
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| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
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128
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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129
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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130
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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131
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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132
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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133
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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134
generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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135
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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136
suffusing
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的现在分词 ) | |
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137
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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138
liturgy
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| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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139
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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140
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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141
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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142
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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143
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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144
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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145
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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146
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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147
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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148
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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149
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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150
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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151
panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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152
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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153
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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154
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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