He had inherited from his mother some acquaintance with
medicinal herbs and their preparation- a little store of wisdom
which she had imparted to him as a solemn bequest- but of late years
he had had doubts about the lawfulness of applying this knowledge,
believing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, and that
prayer might suffice without herbs; so that the inherited delight he
had in wandering in the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and
coltsfoot, began to wear to him the character of a temptation.
Among the members of his church there was one young man, a little
older than himself, with whom he had long lived in such close
friendship that it was the custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to
call them David and Jonathan. The real name of the friend was
William Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a shining instance of
youthful piety, though somewhat given to over-severity towards
weaker brethren, and to be so dazzled by his own light as to hold
himself wiser than his teachers. But whatever blemishes others might
discern in William, to his friend's mind he was faultless; for
Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting natures, which, at
an inexperienced age, admire imperativeness and lean on contradiction.
The expression of trusting simplicity in Marner's face, heightened
by that absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer-like
gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was strongly contrasted by
the self-complacent suppression of inward triumph that lurked in the
narrow slanting eyes and compressed lips of William Dane.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25