So if Mrs. Glegg’s front to-day was more fuzzy and lax than usual, she had a design under it: she intended the most pointed9 and cutting allusion10 to Mrs. Tulliver’s bunches of blond curls, separated from each other by a due wave of smoothness on each side of the parting. Mrs. Tulliver had shed tears several times at sister Glegg’s unkindness on the subject of these unmatronly curls, but the consciousness of looking the handsomer for them naturally administered support. Mrs. Glegg chose to wear her bonnet12 in the house to-day — united and tilted13 slightly, of course — a frequent practice of hers when she was on a visit, and happened to be in a severe humor: she didn’t know what draughts14 there might be in strange houses. For the same reason she wore a small sable15 tippet, which reached just to her shoulders, and was very far from meeting across her well-formed chest, while her long neck was protected by a chevaux-de-frise of miscellaneous frilling. One would need to be learned in the fashions of those times to know how far in the rear of them Mrs. Glegg’s slate-colored silk gown must have been; but from certain constellations16 of small yellow spots upon it, and a mouldy odor about it suggestive of a damp clothes-chest, it was probable that it belonged to a stratum17 of garments just old enough to have come recently into wear.
Mrs. Glegg held her large gold watch in her hand with the many-doubled chain round her fingers, and observed to Mrs. Tulliver, who had just returned from a visit to the kitchen, that whatever it might be by other people’s clocks and watches, it was gone half-past twelve by hers.
“I don’t know what ails18 sister Pullet,” she continued. “It used to be the way in our family for one to be as early as another — I’m sure it was so in my poor father’s time — and not for one sister to sit half an hour before the others came. But if the ways o’ the family are altered, it sha’n’t be my fault; I’ll never be the one to come into a house when all the rest are going away. I wonder at sister Deane — she used to be more like me. But if you’ll take my advice, Bessy, you’ll put the dinner forrard a bit, sooner than put it back, because folks are late as ought to ha’ known better.”
“Oh dear, there’s no fear but what they’ll be all here in time, sister,” said Mrs. Tulliver, in her mild-peevish tone. “The dinner won’t be ready till half-past one. But if it’s long for you to wait, let me fetch you a cheesecake and a glass o’ wine.”
“Well, Bessy!” said Mrs. Glegg, with a bitter smile and a scarcely perceptible toss of her head, “I should ha’ thought you’d known your own sister better. I never did eat between meals, and I’m not going to begin. Not but what I hate that nonsense of having your dinner at half-past one, when you might have it at one. You was never brought up in that way, Bessy.”
“Why, Jane, what can I do? Mr. Tulliver doesn’t like his dinner before two o’clock, but I put it half an hour earlier because o’ you.”
“Yes, yes, I know how it is with husbands — they’re for putting everything off; they’ll put the dinner off till after tea, if they’ve got wives as are weak enough to give in to such work; but it’s a pity for you, Bessy, as you haven’t got more strength o’ mind. It’ll be well if your children don’t suffer for it. And I hope you’ve not gone and got a great dinner for us — going to expense for your sisters, as ‘ud sooner eat a crust o’ dry bread nor help to ruin you with extravagance. I wonder you don’t take pattern by your sister Deane; she’s far more sensible. And here you’ve got two children to provide for, and your husband’s spent your fortin i’ going to law, and’s likely to spend his own too. A boiled joint19, as you could make broth20 of for the kitchen,” Mrs. Glegg added, in a tone of emphatic21 protest, “and a plain pudding, with a spoonful o’ sugar, and no spice, ‘ud be far more becoming.”
With sister Glegg in this humor, there was a cheerful prospect22 for the day. Mrs. Tulliver never went the length of quarrelling with her, any more than a water-fowl that puts out its leg in a deprecating manner can be said to quarrel with a boy who throws stones. But this point of the dinner was a tender one, and not at all new, so that Mrs. Tulliver could make the same answer she had often made before.
“Mr. Tulliver says he always will have a good dinner for his friends while he can pay for it,” she said; “and he’s a right to do as he likes in his own house, sister.”
“Well, Bessy, I can’t leave your children enough out o’ my savings23 to keep ’em from ruin. And you mustn’t look to having any o’ Mr. Glegg’s money, for it’s well if I don’t go first — he comes of a long-lived family; and if he was to die and leave me well for my life, he’d tie all the money up to go back to his own kin11.”
The sound of wheels while Mrs. Glegg was speaking was an interruption highly welcome to Mrs. Tulliver, who hastened out to receive sister Pullet; it must be sister Pullet, because the sound was that of a four-wheel.
Mrs. Glegg tossed her head and looked rather sour about the mouth at the thought of the “four-wheel.” She had a strong opinion on that subject.
Sister Pullet was in tears when the one-horse chaise stopped before Mrs. Tulliver’s door, and it was apparently24 requisite25 that she should shed a few more before getting out; for though her husband and Mrs. Tulliver stood ready to support her, she sat still and shook her head sadly, as she looked through her tears at the vague distance.
“Why, whativer is the matter, sister?” said Mrs. Tulliver. She was not an imaginative woman, but it occurred to her that the large toilet-glass in sister Pullet’s best bedroom was possibly broken for the second time.
There was no reply but a further shake of the head, as Mrs. Pullet slowly rose and got down from the chaise, not without casting a glance at Mr. Pullet to see that he was guarding her handsome silk dress from injury. Mr. Pullet was a small man, with a high nose, small twinkling eyes, and thin lips, in a fresh-looking suit of black and a white cravat26, that seemed to have been tied very tight on some higher principle than that of mere27 personal ease. He bore about the same relation to his tall, good-looking wife, with her balloon sleeves, abundant mantle28, and a large befeathered and beribboned bonnet, as a small fishing-smack bears to a brig with all its sails spread.
It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complexity29 introduced into the emotions by a high state of civilization, the sight of a fashionably dressed female in grief. From the sorrow of a Hottentot to that of a woman in large buckram sleeves, with several bracelets30 on each arm, an architectural bonnet, and delicate ribbon strings31, what a long series of gradations! In the enlightened child of civilization the abandonment characteristic of grief is checked and varied32 in the subtlest manner, so as to present an interesting problem to the analytic33 mind. If, with a crushed heart and eyes half blinded by the mist of tears, she were to walk with a too-devious step through a door-place, she might crush her buckram sleeves too, and the deep consciousness of this possibility produces a composition of forces by which she takes a line that just clears the door-post. Perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she unpins her strings and throws them languidly backward, a touching34 gesture, indicative, even in the deepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when cap-strings will once more have a charm. As the tears subside35 a little, and with her head leaning backward at the angle that will not injure her bonnet, she endures that terrible moment when grief, which has made all things else a weariness, has itself become weary; she looks down pensively36 at her bracelets, and adjusts their clasps with that pretty studied fortuity which would be gratifying to her mind if it were once more in a calm and healthy state.
Mrs. Pullet brushed each door-post with great nicety, about the latitude37 of her shoulders (at that period a woman was truly ridiculous to an instructed eye if she did not measure a yard and a half across the shoulders), and having done that sent the muscles of her face in quest of fresh tears as she advanced into the parlor38 where Mrs. Glegg was seated.
“Well, sister, you’re late; what’s the matter?” said Mrs. Glegg, rather sharply, as they shook hands.
Mrs. Pullet sat down, lifting up her mantle carefully behind, before she answered —
“She’s gone,” unconsciously using an impressive figure of rhetoric40.
“It isn’t the glass this time, then,” thought Mrs. Tulliver.
“Died the day before yesterday,” continued Mrs. Pullet; “an’ her legs was as thick as my body,”’ she added, with deep sadness, after a pause. “They’d tapped her no end o’ times, and the water — they say you might ha’ swum in it, if you’d liked.”
“Well, Sophy, it’s a mercy she’s gone, then, whoever she may be,” said Mrs. Glegg, with the promptitude and emphasis of a mind naturally clear and decided41; “but I can’t think who you’re talking of, for my part.”
“But I know,” said Mrs. Pullet, sighing and shaking her head; “and there isn’t another such a dropsy in the parish. I know as it’s old Mrs. Sutton o’ the Twentylands.”
“Well, she’s no kin o’ yours, nor much acquaintance as I’ve ever heared of,” said Mrs. Glegg, who always cried just as much as was proper when anything happened to her own “kin,” but not on other occasions.
“She’s so much acquaintance as I’ve seen her legs when they was like bladders. And an old lady as had doubled her money over and over again, and kept it all in her own management to the last, and had her pocket with her keys in under her pillow constant. There isn’t many old par_ish’ners like her, I doubt.”
“And they say she’d took as much physic as ‘ud fill a wagon,” observed Mr. Pullet.
“Ah!” sighed Mrs. Pullet, “she’d another complaint ever so many years before she had the dropsy, and the doctors couldn’t make out what it was. And she said to me, when I went to see her last Christmas, she said, ‘Mrs. Pullet, if ever you have the dropsy, you’ll think o’ me.’ She did say so,” added Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again; “those were her very words. And she’s to be buried o’ Saturday, and Pullet’s bid to the funeral.”
“Sophy,” said Mrs. Glegg, unable any longer to contain her spirit of rational remonstrance42 — “Sophy, I wonder at you, fretting44 and injuring your health about people as don’t belong to you. Your poor father never did so, nor your aunt Frances neither, nor any o’ the family as I ever heard of. You couldn’t fret43 no more than this, if we’d heared as our cousin Abbott had died sudden without making his will.”
Mrs. Pullet was silent, having to finish her crying, and rather flattered than indignant at being upbraided45 for crying too much. It was not everybody who could afford to cry so much about their neighbors who had left them nothing; but Mrs. Pullet had married a gentleman farmer, and had leisure and money to carry her crying and everything else to the highest pitch of respectability.
“Mrs. Sutton didn’t die without making her will, though,” said Mr. Pullet, with a confused sense that he was saying something to sanction his wife’s tears; “ours is a rich parish, but they say there’s nobody else to leave as many thousands behind ’em as Mrs. Sutton. And she’s left no leggicies to speak on — left it all in a lump to her husband’s nevvy.”
“There wasn’t much good i’ being so rich, then,” said Mrs. Glegg, “if she’d got none but husband’s kin to leave it to. It’s poor work when that’s all you’ve got to pinch yourself for. Not as I’m one o’ those as ‘ud like to die without leaving more money out at interest than other folks had reckoned; but it’s a poor tale when it must go out o’ your own family.”
“I’m sure, sister,” said Mrs. Pullet, who had recovered sufficiently46 to take off her veil and fold it carefully, “it’s a nice sort o’ man as Mrs. Sutton has left her money to, for he’s troubled with the asthmy, and goes to bed every night at eight o’clock. He told me about it himself — as free as could be — one Sunday when he came to our church. He wears a hareskin on his chest, and has a trembling in his talk — quite a gentleman sort o’ man. I told him there wasn’t many months in the year as I wasn’t under the doctor’s hands. And he said, ‘Mrs. Pullet, I can feel for you.’ That was what he said — the very words. Ah!” sighed Mrs. Pullet, shaking her head at the idea that there were but few who could enter fully39 into her experiences in pink mixture and white mixture, strong stuff in small bottles, and weak stuff in large bottles, damp boluses at a shilling, and draughts at eighteenpence. “Sister, I may as well go and take my bonnet off now. Did you see as the cap-box was put out?” she added, turning to her husband.
Mr. Pullet, by an unaccountable lapse47 of memory, had forgotten it, and hastened out, with a stricken conscience, to remedy the omission48.
“They’ll bring it upstairs, sister,” said Mrs. Tulliver, wishing to go at once, lest Mrs. Glegg should begin to explain her feelings about Sophy’s being the first Dodson who ever ruined her constitution with doctor’s stuff.
Mrs. Tulliver was fond of going upstairs with her sister Pullet, and looking thoroughly49 at her cap before she put it on her head, and discussing millinery in general. This was part of Bessy’s weakness that stirred Mrs. Glegg’s sisterly compassion50: Bessy went far too well dressed, considering; and she was too proud to dress her child in the good clothing her sister Glegg gave her from the primeval strata51 of her wardrobe; it was a sin and a shame to buy anything to dress that child, if it wasn’t a pair of shoes. In this particular, however, Mrs. Glegg did her sister Bessy some injustice52, for Mrs. Tulliver had really made great efforts to induce Maggie to wear a leghorn bonnet and a dyed silk frock made out of her aunt Glegg’s, but the results had been such that Mrs. Tulliver was obliged to bury them in her maternal53 bosom54; for Maggie, declaring that the frock smelt55 of nasty dye, had taken an opportunity of basting56 it together with the roast beef the first Sunday she wore it, and finding this scheme answer, she had subsequently pumped on the bonnet with its green ribbons, so as to give it a general resemblance to a sage57 cheese garnished58 with withered59 lettuces60. I must urge in excuse for Maggie, that Tom had laughed at her in the bonnet, and said she looked like an old Judy. Aunt Pullet, too, made presents of clothes, but these were always pretty enough to please Maggie as well as her mother. Of all her sisters, Mrs. Tulliver certainly preferred her sister Pullet, not without a return of preference; but Mrs. Pullet was sorry Bessy had those naughty, awkward children; she would do the best she could by them, but it was a pity they weren’t as good and as pretty as sister Deane’s child. Maggie and Tom, on their part, thought their aunt Pullet tolerable, chiefly because she was not their aunt Glegg. Tom always declined to go more than once during his holidays to see either of them. Both his uncles tipped him that once, of course; but at his aunt Pullet’s there were a great many toads61 to pelt62 in the cellar-area, so that he preferred the visit to her. Maggie shuddered63 at the toads, and dreamed of them horribly, but she liked her uncle Pullet’s musical snuff-box. Still, it was agreed by the sisters, in Mrs. Tulliver’s absence, that the Tulliver blood did not mix well with the Dodson blood; that, in fact, poor Bessy’s children were Tullivers, and that Tom, notwithstanding he had the Dodson complexion65, was likely to be as “contrairy” as his father. As for Maggie, she was the picture of her aunt Moss66, Mr. Tulliver’s sister — a large-boned woman, who had married as poorly as could be; had no china, and had a husband who had much ado to pay his rent. But when Mrs. Pullet was alone with Mrs. Tulliver upstairs, the remarks were naturally to the disadvantage of Mrs. Glegg, and they agreed, in confidence, that there was no knowing what sort of fright sister Jane would come out next. But their tete-a-tete was curtailed67 by the appearance of Mrs. Deane with little Lucy; and Mrs. Tulliver had to look on with a silent pang68 while Lucy’s blond curls were adjusted. It was quite unaccountable that Mrs. Deane, the thinnest and sallowest of all the Miss Dodsons, should have had this child, who might have been taken for Mrs. Tulliver’s any day. And Maggie always looked twice as dark as usual when she was by the side of Lucy.
She did to-day, when she and Tom came in from the garden with their father and their uncle Glegg. Maggie had thrown her bonnet off very carelessly, and coming in with her hair rough as well as out of curl, rushed at once to Lucy, who was standing64 by her mother’s knee. Certainly the contrast between the cousins was conspicuous69, and to superficial eyes was very much to the disadvantage of Maggie though a connoisseur70 might have seen “points” in her which had a higher promise for maturity71 than Lucy’s natty72 completeness. It was like the contrast between a rough, dark, overgrown puppy and a white kitten. Lucy put up the neatest little rosebud73 mouth to be kissed; everything about her was neat — her little round neck, with the row of coral beads74; her little straight nose, not at all snubby; her little clear eyebrows75, rather darker than her curls, to match hazel eyes, which looked up with shy pleasure at Maggie, taller by the head, though scarcely a year older. Maggie always looked at Lucy with delight.
She was fond of fancying a world where the people never got any larger than children of their own age, and she made the queen of it just like Lucy, with a little crown on her head, and a little sceptre in her hand — only the queen was Maggie herself in Lucy’s form.
“Oh, Lucy,” she burst out, after kissing her, “you’ll stay with Tom and me, won’t you? Oh, kiss her, Tom.”
Tom, too, had come up to Lucy, but he was not going to kiss her — no; he came up to her with Maggie, because it seemed easier, on the whole, than saying, “How do you do?” to all those aunts and uncles. He stood looking at nothing in particular, with the blushing, awkward air and semi-smile which are common to shy boys when in company — very much as if they had come into the world by mistake, and found it in a degree of undress that was quite embarrassing.
“Heyday!” said aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. “Do little boys and gells come into a room without taking notice of their uncles and aunts? That wasn’t the way when I was a little gell.”
“Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears,” said Mrs. Tulliver, looking anxious and melancholy76. She wanted to whisper to Maggie a command to go and have her hair brushed.
“Well, and how do you do? And I hope you’re good children, are you?” said Aunt Glegg, in the same loud, emphatic way, as she took their hands, hurting them with her large rings, and kissing their cheeks much against their desire. “Look up, Tom, look up. Boys as go to boarding-schools should hold their heads up. Look at me now.” Tom declined that pleasure apparently, for he tried to draw his hand away. “Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep your frock on your shoulder.”
Aunt Glegg always spoke77 to them in this loud, emphatic way, as if she considered them deaf, or perhaps rather idiotic78; it was a means, she thought, of making them feel that they were accountable creatures, and might be a salutary check on naughty tendencies. Bessy’s children were so spoiled — they’d need have somebody to make them feel their duty.
“Well, my dears,” said aunt Pullet, in a compassionate79 voice, “you grow wonderful fast. I doubt they’ll outgrow81 their strength,” she added, looking over their heads, with a melancholy expression, at their mother. “I think the gell has too much hair. I’d have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I was you; it isn’t good for her health. It’s that as makes her skin so brown, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t you think so, sister Deane?”
“I can’t say, I’m sure, sister,” said Mrs. Deane, shutting her lips close again, and looking at Maggie with a critical eye.
“No, no,” said Mr. Tulliver, “the child’s healthy enough; there’s nothing ails her. There’s red wheat as well as white, for that matter, and some like the dark grain best. But it ‘ud be as well if Bessy ‘ud have the child’s hair cut, so as it ‘ud lie smooth.”
A dreadful resolve was gathering82 in Maggie’s breast, but it was arrested by the desire to know from her aunt Deane whether she would leave Lucy behind. Aunt Deane would hardly ever let Lucy come to see them. After various reasons for refusal, Mrs. Deane appealed to Lucy herself.
“You wouldn’t like to stay behind without mother, should you, Lucy?”
“Yes, please, mother,” said Lucy, timidly, blushing very pink all over her little neck.
“Well done, Lucy! Let her stay, Mrs. Deane, let her stay,” said Mr. Deane, a large but alert-looking man, with a type of physique to be seen in all ranks of English society — bald crown, red whiskers, full forehead, and general solidity without heaviness. You may see noblemen like Mr. Deane, and you may see grocers or day-laborers like him; but the keenness of his brown eyes was less common than his contour.
He held a silver snuff-box very tightly in his hand, and now and then exchanged a pinch with Mr. Tulliver, whose box was only silver-mounted, so that it was naturally a joke between them that Mr. Tulliver wanted to exchange snuff-boxes also. Mr. Deane’s box had been given him by the superior partners in the firm to which he belonged, at the same time that they gave him a share in the business, in acknowledgment of his valuable services as manager. No man was thought more highly of in St. Ogg’s than Mr. Deane; and some persons were even of opinion that Miss Susan Dodson, who was once held to have made the worst match of all the Dodson sisters, might one day ride in a better carriage, and live in a better house, even than her sister Pullet. There was no knowing where a man would stop, who had got his foot into a great mill-owning, shipowning business like that of Guest & Co., with a banking83 concern attached. And Mrs. Deane, as her intimate female friends observed, was proud and “having” enough; she wouldn’t let her husband stand still in the world for want of spurring.
“Maggie,” said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning84 Maggie to her, and whispering in her ear, as soon as this point of Lucy’s staying was settled, “go and get your hair brushed, do, for shame. I told you not to come in without going to Martha first, you know I did.”
“Tom come out with me,” whispered Maggie, pulling his sleeve as she passed him; and Tom followed willingly enough.
“Come upstairs with me, Tom,” she whispered, when they were outside the door. “There’s something I want to do before dinner.”
“There’s no time to play at anything before dinner,” said Tom, whose imagination was impatient of any intermediate prospect.
“Oh yes, there is time for this; do come, Tom.”
Tom followed Maggie upstairs into her mother’s room, and saw her go at once to a drawer, from which she took out a large pair of scissors.
“What are they for, Maggie?” said Tom, feeling his curiosity awakened85.
Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them straight across the middle of her forehead.
“Oh, my buttons! Maggie, you’ll catch it!” exclaimed Tom; “you’d better not cut any more off.”
Snip86! went the great scissors again while Tom was speaking, and he couldn’t help feeling it was rather good fun; Maggie would look so queer.
“Here, Tom, cut it behind for me,” said Maggie, excited by her own daring, and anxious to finish the deed.
“You’ll catch it, you know,” said Tom, nodding his head in an admonitory manner, and hesitating a little as he took the scissors.
“Never mind, make haste!” said Maggie, giving a little stamp with her foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed.
The black locks were so thick, nothing could be more tempting87 to a lad who had already tasted the forbidden pleasure of cutting the pony’s mane. I speak to those who know the satisfaction of making a pair of scissors meet through a duly resisting mass of hair. One delicious grinding snip, and then another and another, and the hinder-locks fell heavily on the floor, and Maggie stood cropped in a jagged, uneven88 manner, but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as if she had emerged from a wood into the open plain.
“Oh, Maggie,” said Tom, jumping round her, and slapping his knees as he laughed, “Oh, my buttons! what a queer thing you look! Look at yourself in the glass; you look like the idiot we throw out nutshells to at school.”
Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought beforehand chiefly at her own deliverance from her teasing hair and teasing remarks about it, and something also of the triumph she should have over her mother and her aunts by this very decided course of action; she didn’t want her hair to look pretty — that was out of the question — she only wanted people to think her a clever little girl, and not to find fault with her. But now, when Tom began to laugh at her, and say she was like an idiot, the affair had quite a new aspect. She looked in the glass, and still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and Maggie’s cheeks began to pale, and her lips to tremble a little.
“Oh, Maggie, you’ll have to go down to dinner directly,” said Tom. “Oh, my!”
“Don’t laugh at me, Tom,” said Maggie, in a passionate80 tone, with an outburst of angry tears, stamping, and giving him a push.
“Now, then, spitfire!” said Tom. “What did you cut it off for, then? I shall go down: I can smell the dinner going in.”
He hurried downstairs and left poor Maggie to that bitter sense of the irrevocable which was almost an every-day experience of her small soul. She could see clearly enough, now the thing was done, that it was very foolish, and that she should have to hear and think more about her hair than ever; for Maggie rushed to her deeds with passionate impulse, and then saw not only their consequences, but what would have happened if they had not been done, with all the detail and exaggerated circumstance of an active imagination. Tom never did the same sort of foolish things as Maggie, having a wonderful instinctive89 discernment of what would turn to his advantage or disadvantage; and so it happened, that though he was much more wilful90 and inflexible91 than Maggie, his mother hardly ever called him naughty. But if Tom did make a mistake of that sort, he espoused92 it, and stood by it: he “didn’t mind.” If he broke the lash93 of his father’s gigwhip by lashing94 the gate, he couldn’t help it — the whip shouldn’t have got caught in the hinge. If Tom Tulliver whipped a gate, he was convinced, not that the whipping of gates by all boys was a justifiable95 act, but that he, Tom Tulliver, was justifiable in whipping that particular gate, and he wasn’t going to be sorry. But Maggie, as she stood crying before the glass, felt it impossible that she should go down to dinner and endure the severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, while Tom and Lucy, and Martha, who waited at table, and perhaps her father and her uncles, would laugh at her; for if Tom had laughed at her, of course every one else would; and if she had only let her hair alone, she could have sat with Tom and Lucy, and had the apricot pudding and the custard! What could she do but sob96? She sat as helpless and despairing among her black locks as Ajax among the slaughtered97 sheep. Very trivial, perhaps, this anguish98 seems to weather-worn mortals who have to think of Christmas bills, dead loves, and broken friendships; but it was not less bitter to Maggie — perhaps it was even more bitter — than what we are fond of calling antithetically the real troubles of mature life. “Ah, my child, you will have real troubles to fret about by and by,” is the consolation99 we have almost all of us had administered to us in our childhood, and have repeated to other children since we have been grown up. We have all of us sobbed100 so piteously, standing with tiny bare legs above our little socks, when we lost sight of our mother or nurse in some strange place; but we can no longer recall the poignancy101 of that moment and weep over it, as we do over the remembered sufferings of five or ten years ago. Every one of those keen moments has left its trace, and lives in us still, but such traces have blent themselves irrecoverably with the firmer texture102 of our youth and manhood; and so it comes that we can look on at the troubles of our children with a smiling disbelief in the reality of their pain. Is there any one who can recover the experience of his childhood, not merely with a memory of what he did and what happened to him, of what he liked and disliked when he was in frock and trousers, but with an intimate penetration103, a revived consciousness of what he felt then, when it was so long from one Midsummer to another; what he felt when his school fellows shut him out of their game because he would pitch the ball wrong out of mere wilfulness104; or on a rainy day in the holidays, when he didn’t know how to amuse himself, and fell from idleness into mischief105, from mischief into defiance106, and from defiance into sulkiness; or when his mother absolutely refused to let him have a tailed coat that “half,” although every other boy of his age had gone into tails already? Surely if we could recall that early bitterness, and the dim guesses, the strangely perspectiveless conception of life, that gave the bitterness its intensity107, we should not pooh-pooh the griefs of our children.
“Miss Maggie, you’re to come down this minute,” said Kezia, entering the room hurriedly. “Lawks! what have you been a-doing? I never see such a fright!”
“Don’t, Kezia,” said Maggie, angrily. “Go away!”
“But I tell you you’re to come down, Miss, this minute; your mother says so,” said Kezia, going up to Maggie and taking her by the hand to raise her from the floor.
“Get away, Kezia; I don’t want any dinner,” said Maggie, resisting Kezia’s arm. “I sha’n’t come.”
“Oh, well, I can’t stay. I’ve got to wait at dinner,” said Kezia, going out again.
“Maggie, you little silly,” said Tom, peeping into the room ten minutes after, “why don’t you come and have your dinner? There’s lots o’ goodies, and mother says you’re to come. What are you crying for, you little spooney?”
Oh, it was dreadful! Tom was so hard and unconcerned; if he had been crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried too. And there was the dinner, so nice; and she was so hungry. It was very bitter.
But Tom was not altogether hard. He was not inclined to cry, and did not feel that Maggie’s grief spoiled his prospect of the sweets; but he went and put his head near her, and said in a lower, comforting tone —
“Won’t you come, then, Magsie? Shall I bring you a bit o’ pudding when I’ve had mine, and a custard and things?”
“Ye-e-es,” said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little more tolerable.
“Very well,” said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door and said, “But you’d better come, you know. There’s the dessert — nuts, you know, and cowslip wine.”
Maggie’s tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom left her. His good nature had taken off the keenest edge of her suffering, and nuts with cowslip wine began to assert their legitimate108 influence.
Slowly she rose from amongst her scattered109 locks, and slowly she made her way downstairs. Then she stood leaning with one shoulder against the frame of the dining-parlour door, peeping in when it was ajar. She saw Tom and Lucy with an empty chair between them, and there were the custards on a side-table; it was too much. She slipped in and went toward the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she repented110 and wished herself back again.
Mrs. Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, and felt such a “turn” that she dropped the large gravy-spoon into the dish, with the most serious results to the table-cloth. For Kezia had not betrayed the reason of Maggie’s refusal to come down, not liking112 to give her mistress a shock in the moment of carving113, and Mrs. Tulliver thought there was nothing worse in question than a fit of perverseness114, which was inflicting115 its own punishment by depriving Maggie of half her dinner.
Mrs. Tulliver’s scream made all eyes turn towards the same point as her own, and Maggie’s cheeks and ears began to burn, while uncle Glegg, a kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, said —
“Heyday! what little gell’s this? Why, I don’t know her. Is it some little gell you’ve picked up in the road, Kezia?”
“Why, she’s gone and cut her hair herself,” said Mr. Tulliver in an undertone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much enjoyment116. Did you ever know such a little hussy as it is?”
“Why, little miss, you’ve made yourself look very funny,” said Uncle Pullet, and perhaps he never in his life made an observation which was felt to be so lacerating.
“Fie, for shame!” said aunt Glegg, in her loudest, severest tone of reproof117. “Little gells as cut their own hair should be whipped and fed on bread and water — not come and sit down with their aunts and uncles.”
“Ay, ay,” said uncle Glegg, meaning to give a playful turn to this denunciation, “she must be sent to jail, I think, and they’ll cut the rest of her hair off there, and make it all even.”
“She’s more like a gypsy nor ever,” said aunt Pullet, in a pitying tone; “it’s very bad luck, sister, as the gell should be so brown; the boy’s fair enough. I doubt it’ll stand in her way i’ life to be so brown.”
“She’s a naughty child, as’ll break her mother’s heart,” said Mrs. Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes.
Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and derision. Her first flush came from anger, which gave her a transient power of defiance, and Tom thought she was braving it out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding and custard. Under this impression, he whispered, “Oh, my! Maggie, I told you you’d catch it.” He meant to be friendly, but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her ignominy. Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, her heart swelled118, and getting up from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her face on his shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing119.
“Come, come, my wench,” said her father, soothingly120, putting his arm round her, “never mind; you was i’ the right to cut it off if it plagued you; give over crying; father’ll take your part.”
Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of these moments when her father “took her part”; she kept them in her heart, and thought of them long years after, when every one else said that her father had done very ill by his children.
“How your husband does spoil that child, Bessy!” said Mrs. Glegg, in a loud “aside,” to Mrs. Tulliver. “It’ll be the ruin of her, if you don’t take care. My father never brought his children up so, else we should ha’ been a different sort o’ family to what we are.”
Mrs. Tulliver’s domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to have reached the point at which insensibility begins. She took no notice of her sister’s remark, but threw back her capstrings and dispensed121 the pudding, in mute resignation.
With the dessert there came entire deliverance for Maggie, for the children were told they might have their nuts and wine in the summer-house, since the day was so mild; and they scampered122 out among the budding bushes of the garden with the alacrity123 of small animals getting from under a burning glass.
Mrs. Tulliver had her special reason for this permission: now the dinner was despatched, and every one’s mind disengaged, it was the right moment to communicate Mr. Tulliver’s intention concerning Tom, and it would be as well for Tom himself to be absent. The children were used to hear themselves talked of as freely as if they were birds, and could understand nothing, however they might stretch their necks and listen; but on this occasion Mrs. Tulliver manifested an unusual discretion124, because she had recently had evidence that the going to school to a clergyman was a sore point with Tom, who looked at it as very much on a par2 with going to school to a constable125. Mrs. Tulliver had a sighing sense that her husband would do as he liked, whatever sister Glegg said, or sister Pullet either; but at least they would not be able to say, if the thing turned out ill, that Bessy had fallen in with her husband’s folly126 without letting her own friends know a word about it.
“Mr. Tulliver,” she said, interrupting her husband in his talk with Mr. Deane, “it’s time now to tell the children’s aunts and uncles what you’re thinking of doing with Tom, isn’t it?”
“Very well,” said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, “I’ve no objections to tell anybody what I mean to do with him. I’ve settled,” he added, looking toward Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane — “I’ve settled to send him to a Mr. Stelling, a parson, down at King’s Lorton, there — an uncommon127 clever fellow, I understand, as’ll put him up to most things.”
There was a rustling128 demonstration129 of surprise in the company, such as you may have observed in a country congregation when they hear an allusion to their week-day affairs from the pulpit. It was equally astonishing to the aunts and uncles to find a parson introduced into Mr. Tulliver’s family arrangements. As for uncle Pullet, he could hardly have been more thoroughly obfuscated130 if Mr. Tulliver had said that he was going to send Tom to the Lord Chancellor131; for uncle Pullet belonged to that extinct class of British yeoman who, dressed in good broadcloth, paid high rates and taxes, went to church, and ate a particularly good dinner on Sunday, without dreaming that the British constitution in Church and State had a traceable origin any more than the solar system and the fixed132 stars.
It is melancholy, but true, that Mr. Pullet had the most confused idea of a bishop133 as a sort of a baronet, who might or might not be a clergyman; and as the rector of his own parish was a man of high family and fortune, the idea that a clergyman could be a schoolmaster was too remote from Mr. Pullet’s experience to be readily conceivable. I know it is difficult for people in these instructed times to believe in uncle Pullet’s ignorance; but let them reflect on the remarkable134 results of a great natural faculty135 under favoring circumstances. And uncle Pullet had a great natural faculty for ignorance. He was the first to give utterance136 to his astonishment137.
“Why, what can you be going to send him to a parson for?” he said, with an amazed twinkling in his eyes, looking at Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane, to see if they showed any signs of comprehension.
“Why, because the parsons are the best schoolmasters, by what I can make out,” said poor Mr. Tulliver, who, in the maze138 of this puzzling world, laid hold of any clue with great readiness and tenacity139. “Jacobs at th’ academy’s no parson, and he’s done very bad by the boy; and I made up my mind, if I send him to school again, it should be to somebody different to Jacobs. And this Mr. Stelling, by what I can make out, is the sort o’ man I want. And I mean my boy to go to him at Midsummer,” he concluded, in a tone of decision, tapping his snuff-box and taking a pinch.
“You’ll have to pay a swinging half-yearly bill, then, eh, Tulliver? The clergymen have highish notions, in general,” said Mr. Deane, taking snuff vigorously, as he always did when wishing to maintain a neutral position.
“What! do you think the parson’ll teach him to know a good sample o’ wheat when he sees it, neighbor Tulliver?” said Mr. Glegg, who was fond of his jest, and having retired140 from business, felt that it was not only allowable but becoming in him to take a playful view of things.
“Why, you see, I’ve got a plan i’ my head about Tom,” said Mr. Tulliver, pausing after that statement and lifting up his glass.
“Well, if I may be allowed to speak, and it’s seldom as I am,” said Mrs. Glegg, with a tone of bitter meaning, “I should like to know what good is to come to the boy by bringin’ him up above his fortin.”
“Why,” said Mr. Tulliver, not looking at Mrs. Glegg, but at the male part of his audience, “you see, I’ve made up my mind not to bring Tom up to my own business. I’ve had my thoughts about it all along, and I made up my mind by what I saw with Garnett and his son. I mean to put him to some business as he can go into without capital, and I want to give him an eddication as he’ll be even wi’ the lawyers and folks, and put me up to a notion now an’ then.”
Mrs. Glegg emitted a long sort of guttural sound with closed lips, that smiled in mingled141 pity and scorn.
“It ‘ud be a fine deal better for some people,” she said, after that introductory note, “if they’d let the lawyers alone.”
“Is he at the head of a grammar school, then, this clergyman, such as that at Market Bewley?” said Mr. Deane.
“No, nothing of that,” said Mr. Tulliver. “He won’t take more than two or three pupils, and so he’ll have the more time to attend to ’em, you know.”
“Ah, and get his eddication done the sooner; they can’t learn much at a time when there’s so many of ’em,” said uncle Pullet, feeling that he was getting quite an insight into this difficult matter.
“But he’ll want the more pay, I doubt,” said Mr. Glegg.
“Ay, ay, a cool hundred a year, that’s all,” said Mr. Tulliver, with some pride at his own spirited course. “But then, you know, it’s an investment; Tom’s eddication ‘ull be so much capital to him.”
“Ay, there’s something in that,” said Mr. Glegg. “Well well, neighbor Tulliver, you may be right, you may be right:
‘When land is gone and money’s spent,
Then learning is most excellent.’
“I remember seeing those two lines wrote on a window at Buxton. But us that have got no learning had better keep our money, eh, neighbor Pullet?” Mr. Glegg rubbed his knees, and looked very pleasant.
“Mr. Glegg, I wonder at you,” said his wife. “It’s very unbecoming in a man o’ your age and belongings142.”
“What’s unbecoming, Mrs. G.?” said Mr. Glegg, winking143 pleasantly at the company. “My new blue coat as I’ve got on?”
“I pity your weakness, Mr. Glegg. I say it’s unbecoming to be making a joke when you see your own kin going headlongs to ruin.”
“If you mean me by that,” said Mr. Tulliver, considerably144 nettled145, “you needn’t trouble yourself to fret about me. I can manage my own affairs without troubling other folks.”
“Bless me!” said Mr. Deane, judiciously146 introducing a new idea, “why, now I come to think of it, somebody said Wakem was going to send his son — the deformed147 lad — to a clergyman, didn’t they, Susan?” (appealing to his wife).
“I can give no account of it, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Deane, closing her lips very tightly again. Mrs. Deane was not a woman to take part in a scene where missiles were flying.
“Well,” said Mr. Tulliver, speaking all the more cheerfully, that Mrs. Glegg might see he didn’t mind her, “if Wakem thinks o’ sending his son to a clergyman, depend on it I shall make no mistake i’ sending Tom to one. Wakem’s as big a scoundrel as Old Harry148 ever made, but he knows the length of every man’s foot he’s got to deal with. Ay, ay, tell me who’s Wakem’s butcher, and I’ll tell you where to get your meat.”
“But lawyer Wakem’s son’s got a hump-back,” said Mrs. Pullet, who felt as if the whole business had a funereal149 aspect; “it’s more nat’ral to send him to a clergyman.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Glegg, interpreting Mrs. Pullet’s observation with erroneous plausibility150, “you must consider that, neighbor Tulliver; Wakem’s son isn’t likely to follow any business. Wakem ‘ull make a gentleman of him, poor fellow.”
“Mr. Glegg,” said Mrs. G., in a tone which implied that her indignation would fizz and ooze151 a little, though she was determined152 to keep it corked153 up, “you’d far better hold your tongue. Mr. Tulliver doesn’t want to know your opinion nor mine either. There’s folks in the world as know better than everybody else.”
“Why, I should think that’s you, if we’re to trust your own tale,” said Mr. Tulliver, beginning to boil up again.
“Oh, I say nothing,” said Mrs. Glegg, sarcastically154. “My advice has never been asked, and I don’t give it.”
“It’ll be the first time, then,” said Mr. Tulliver. “It’s the only thing you’re over-ready at giving.”
“I’ve been over-ready at lending, then, if I haven’t been over-ready at giving,” said Mrs. Glegg. “There’s folks I’ve lent money to, as perhaps I shall repent111 o’ lending money to kin.”
“Come, come, come,” said Mr. Glegg, soothingly. But Mr. Tulliver was not to be hindered of his retort.
“You’ve got a bond for it, I reckon,” he said; “and you’ve had your five per cent, kin or no kin.”
“Sister,” said Mrs. Tulliver, pleadingly, “drink your wine, and let me give you some almonds and raisins155.”
“Bessy, I’m sorry for you,” said Mrs. Glegg, very much with the feeling of a cur that seizes the opportunity of diverting his bark toward the man who carries no stick. “It’s poor work talking o’ almonds and raisins.”
“Lors, sister Glegg, don’t be so quarrelsome,” said Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry a little. “You may be struck with a fit, getting so red in the face after dinner, and we are but just out o’ mourning, all of us — and all wi’ gowns craped alike and just put by; it’s very bad among sisters.”
“I should think it is bad,” said Mrs. Glegg. “Things are come to a fine pass when one sister invites the other to her house o’ purpose to quarrel with her and abuse her.”
“Softly, softly, Jane; be reasonable, be reasonable,” said Mr. Glegg.
But while he was speaking, Mr. Tulliver, who had by no means said enough to satisfy his anger, burst out again.
“Who wants to quarrel with you?” he said. “It’s you as can’t let people alone, but must be gnawing156 at ’em forever. I should never want to quarrel with any woman if she kept her place.”
“My place, indeed!” said Mrs. Glegg, getting rather more shrill157. “There’s your betters, Mr. Tulliver, as are dead and in their grave, treated me with a different sort o’ respect to what you do; though I’ve got a husband as’ll sit by and see me abused by them as ‘ud never ha’ had the chance if there hadn’t been them in our family as married worse than they might ha’ done.”
“If you talk o’ that,” said Mr. Tulliver, “my family’s as good as yours, and better, for it hasn’t got a damned ill-tempered woman in it!”
“Well,” said Mrs. Glegg, rising from her chair, “I don’t know whether you think it’s a fine thing to sit by and hear me swore at, Mr. Glegg; but I’m not going to stay a minute longer in this house. You can stay behind, and come home with the gig, and I’ll walk home.”
“Dear heart, dear heart!” said Mr. Glegg in a melancholy tone, as he followed his wife out of the room.
“Mr. Tulliver, how could you talk so?” said Mrs. Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes.
“Let her go,” said Mr. Tulliver, too hot to be damped by any amount of tears. “Let her go, and the sooner the better; she won’t be trying to domineer over me again in a hurry.”
“Sister Pullet,” said Mrs. Tulliver, helplessly, “do you think it ‘ud be any use for you to go after her and try to pacify158 her?”
“Better not, better not,” said Mr. Deane. “You’ll make it up another day.”
“Then, sisters, shall we go and look at the children?” said Mrs. Tulliver, drying her eyes.
No proposition could have been more seasonable. Mr. Tulliver felt very much as if the air had been cleared of obtrusive159 flies now the women were out of the room. There were few things he liked better than a chat with Mr. Deane, whose close application to business allowed the pleasure very rarely. Mr. Deane, he considered, was the “knowingest” man of his acquaintance, and he had besides a ready causticity160 of tongue that made an agreeable supplement to Mr. Tulliver’s own tendency that way, which had remained in rather an inarticulate condition. And now the women were gone, they could carry on their serious talk without frivolous161 interruption. They could exchange their views concerning the Duke of Wellington, whose conduct in the Catholic Question had thrown such an entirely162 new light on his character; and speak slightingly of his conduct at the battle of Waterloo, which he would never have won if there hadn’t been a great many Englishmen at his back, not to speak of Blucher and the Prussians, who, as Mr. Tulliver had heard from a person of particular knowledge in that matter, had come up in the very nick of time; though here there was a slight dissidence, Mr. Deane remarking that he was not disposed to give much credit to the Prussians — the build of their vessels163, together with the unsatisfactory character of transactions in Dantzic beer, inclining him to form rather a low view of Prussian pluck generally. Rather beaten on this ground, Mr. Tulliver proceeded to express his fears that the country could never again be what it used to be; but Mr. Deane, attached to a firm of which the returns were on the increase, naturally took a more lively view of the present, and had some details to give concerning the state of the imports, especially in hides and spelter, which soothed164 Mr. Tulliver’s imagination by throwing into more distant perspective the period when the country would become utterly165 the prey166 of Papists and Radicals167, and there would be no more chance for honest men.
Uncle Pullet sat by and listened with twinkling eyes to these high matters. He didn’t understand politics himself — thought they were a natural gift — but by what he could make out, this Duke of Wellington was no better than he should be.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
impartial
|
|
| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
par
|
|
| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
comely
|
|
| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
spotted
|
|
| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
glossiest
|
|
| 光滑的( glossy的最高级 )； 虚有其表的； 浮华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
7
glossy
|
|
| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
secular
|
|
| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
kin
|
|
| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
tilted
|
|
| v. 倾斜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
draughts
|
|
| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
sable
|
|
| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
constellations
|
|
| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
stratum
|
|
| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
ails
|
|
| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
joint
|
|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
broth
|
|
| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
emphatic
|
|
| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
savings
|
|
| n.存款，储蓄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
requisite
|
|
| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
cravat
|
|
| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
mantle
|
|
| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
complexity
|
|
| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
bracelets
|
|
| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
strings
|
|
| n.弦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
varied
|
|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
analytic
|
|
| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
subside
|
|
| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
pensively
|
|
| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
latitude
|
|
| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
rhetoric
|
|
| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
remonstrance
|
|
| n抗议，抱怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
fret
|
|
| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
fretting
|
|
| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
upbraided
|
|
| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
lapse
|
|
| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
omission
|
|
| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
strata
|
|
| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
maternal
|
|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
smelt
|
|
| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
basting
|
|
| n.疏缝；疏缝的针脚；疏缝用线；涂油v.打( baste的现在分词 )；粗缝；痛斥；（烤肉等时）往上抹[浇]油 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
sage
|
|
| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
garnished
|
|
| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
lettuces
|
|
| n.莴苣，生菜（ lettuce的名词复数 ）；生菜叶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
toads
|
|
| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
pelt
|
|
| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
shuddered
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
moss
|
|
| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
curtailed
|
|
| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
conspicuous
|
|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
connoisseur
|
|
| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
maturity
|
|
| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
natty
|
|
| adj.整洁的，漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
rosebud
|
|
| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
beads
|
|
| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
eyebrows
|
|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
idiotic
|
|
| adj.白痴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
compassionate
|
|
| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
outgrow
|
|
| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
gathering
|
|
| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
banking
|
|
| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
beckoning
|
|
| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
awakened
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
snip
|
|
| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
tempting
|
|
| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
uneven
|
|
| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
instinctive
|
|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
wilful
|
|
| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
inflexible
|
|
| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
espoused
|
|
| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
lash
|
|
| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
lashing
|
|
| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
justifiable
|
|
| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
sob
|
|
| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
slaughtered
|
|
| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
sobbed
|
|
| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
poignancy
|
|
| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
texture
|
|
| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
penetration
|
|
| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
wilfulness
|
|
| 任性；倔强 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
legitimate
|
|
| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
repented
|
|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
repent
|
|
| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
carving
|
|
| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
perverseness
|
|
| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
inflicting
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
reproof
|
|
| n.斥责，责备 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
swelled
|
|
| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
sobbing
|
|
| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
soothingly
|
|
| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
dispensed
|
|
| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
scampered
|
|
| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
alacrity
|
|
| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
discretion
|
|
| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
constable
|
|
| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
uncommon
|
|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
rustling
|
|
| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
demonstration
|
|
| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
obfuscated
|
|
| v.使模糊，使混乱( obfuscate的过去式和过去分词 )；使糊涂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
131
chancellor
|
|
| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
maze
|
|
| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
tenacity
|
|
| n.坚韧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
belongings
|
|
| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
winking
|
|
| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
considerably
|
|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
nettled
|
|
| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
judiciously
|
|
| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
deformed
|
|
| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
funereal
|
|
| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
plausibility
|
|
| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
ooze
|
|
| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
corked
|
|
| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
sarcastically
|
|
| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
raisins
|
|
| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
gnawing
|
|
| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
shrill
|
|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
pacify
|
|
| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
obtrusive
|
|
| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
causticity
|
|
| n.尖刻，苛性度，刻薄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
frivolous
|
|
| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
vessels
|
|
| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
soothed
|
|
| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
prey
|
|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
radicals
|
|
| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |