His rage and terror knew no bounds. Fancying Thurnall a merely mean and self-interested worldling, untouched by those higher aspirations5 which stood to him in place of a religion, he imagined him making every possible use of his power; and longed to escape to the uttermost ends of the earth from his old tormentor6, whom the very sea would not put out of the way, but must needs cast ashore8 at his very feet, to plague him afresh.
What a net he had spread around his own feet, by one act of foolish vanity! He had taken his present name, merely as a nom de guerre, when first he came to London as a penniless and friendless scribbler. It would hide him from the ridicule9 (and, as he fancied, spite) of Thurnall, whom he dreaded10 meeting every time he walked London streets, and who was for years, to his melancholic12 and too intense fancy, his bête noir, his Frankenstein's familiar. Beside, he was ashamed of the name of Briggs. It certainly is not an euphonious14 or aristocratic name; and "The Soul's Agonies, by John Briggs," would not have sounded as well as "The Soul's Agonies, by Elsley Vavasour." Vavasour was a very pretty name, and one of those which is supposed by novelists and young ladies to be aristocratic;—why so is a puzzle; as its plain meaning is a tenant-farmer, and nothing more nor less. So he had played with the name till he became fond of it, and considered that he had a right to it, through seven long years of weary struggles, penury15, disappointment, as he climbed the Parnassian Mount, writing for magazines and newspapers, subediting this periodical and that; till he began to be known as a ready, graceful17, and trustworthy workman, and was befriended by one kind-hearted littérateur after another. For in London, at this moment, any young man of real power will find friends enough, and too many, among his fellow book-wrights, and is more likely to have his head turned by flattery, than his heart crushed by envy. Of course, whatsoever18 flattery he may receive, he is expected to return; and whatsoever clique19 he may be tossed into on his début, he is expected to stand by, and fight for, against the universe; but that is but fair. If a young gentleman, invited to enrol20 himself in the Mutual-puffery Society which meets every Monday and Friday in Hatchgoose the publisher's drawing-room, is willing to pledge himself thereto in the mystic cup of tea, is he not as solemnly bound thenceforth to support those literary Catilines in their efforts for the subversion22 of common sense, good taste, and established things in general, as if he had pledged them, as he would have done in Rome of old, in his own life-blood? Bound he is, alike by honour and by green tea; and it will be better for him to fulfil his bond. For if association is the cardinal23 principle of the age, will it not work as well in book-making as in clothes-making? And shall not the motto of the poet (who will also do a little reviewing on the sly) be henceforth that which shines triumphant24 over all the world, on many a valiant25 Scotchman's shield—
"Caw me, and I'll caw thee"?
But to do John Briggs justice, he kept his hands, and his heart also, cleaner than most men do, during this stage of his career. After the first excitement of novelty, and of mixing with people who could really talk and think, and who freely spoke26 out whatever was in them, right or wrong, in language which at least sounded grand and deep, he began to find in the literary world about the same satisfaction for his inner life which he would have found in the sporting world, or the commercial world, or the religious world, or the fashionable world, or any other world and to suspect strongly that wheresoever a world is, the flesh and the devil are not very far off. Tired of talking when he wanted to think, of asserting when he wanted to discover, and of hearing his neighbours do the same; tired of little meannesses, envyings, intrigues28, jobberies (for the literary world, too, has its jobs), he had been for some time withdrawing himself from the Hatchgoose soirées into his own thoughts, when his "Soul's Agonies" appeared, and he found himself, if not a lion, at least a lion's cub29.
There is a house or two in Town where you may meet on certain evenings, everybody; where duchesses and unfledged poets, bishops30 and red republican refugees, fox-hunting noblemen and briefless barristers who have taken to politics, are jumbled33 together for a couple of hours, to make what they can out of each other, to the exceeding benefit of them all. For each and every one of them finds his neighbour a pleasanter person than he expected; and none need leave those rooms without knowing something more than he did when he came in, and taking an interest in some human being who may need that interest. To one of these houses, no matter which, Elsley was invited on the strength of the "Soul's Agonies;" found himself, for the first time, face to face with high-bred Englishwomen; and fancied—small blame to him—that he was come to the mountains of the Peris, and to Fairy Land itself. He had been flattered already: but never with such grace, such sympathy, or such seeming understanding; for there are few high-bred women who cannot seem to understand, and delude34 a hapless genius into a belief in their own surpassing brilliance35 and penetration36, while they are cunningly retailing37 again to him the thoughts which they have caught up from the man to whom they spoke last; perhaps—for this is the very triumph of their art—from the very man to whom they are speaking. Small blame to bashful, clumsy John Briggs, if he did not know his own children; and could not recognise his own stammered38 and fragmentary fancies, when they were re-echoed to him the next minute, in the prettiest shape, and with the most delicate articulation39, from lips which (like those in the fairy tale) never opened without dropping pearls and diamonds.
Oh, what a contrast, in the eyes of a man whose sense of beauty and grace, whether physical or intellectual, was true and deep, to that ghastly ring of prophetesses in the Hatchgoose drawing-room; strong-minded and emancipated40 women, who prided themselves on having cast off conventionalities, and on being rude, and awkward, and dogmatic, and irreverent, and sometimes slightly improper41; women who had missions to mend everything in heaven and earth, except themselves; who had quarrelled with their husbands, and had therefore felt a mission to assert women's rights, and reform marriage in general; or who had never been able to get married at all, and therefore were especially competent to promulgate42 a model method of educating the children whom they never had had; women who wrote poetry about Lady Blanches43 whom they never had met, and novels about male and female blackguards whom (one hopes) they never had met, or about whom (if they had) decent women would have held their peace; and every one of whom had in obedience44 to Emerson, "followed her impulses," and despised fashion, and was accordingly clothed and bedizened as was right in the sight of her own eyes, and probably in those of no one else.
No wonder that Elsley, ere long, began drawing comparisons, and using his wit upon ancient patronesses, of course behind their backs, likening them to idols45 fresh from the car of Juggernaut, or from the stern of a South Sea canoe; or, most of all, to that famous wooden image of Freya, which once leapt lumbering46 forth21 from her bullock-cart, creaking and rattling47 in every oaken joint48, to belabour the too daring Viking who was flirting49 with her priestess. Even so, whispered Elsley, did those brains and tongues creak and rattle50, lumbering before the blasts of Pythonic inspiration; and so, he verily believed, would the awkward arms and legs have done likewise, if one of the Pythonesses had ever so far degraded herself as to dance.
No wonder, then, that those gifted dames51 had soon to complain of Elsley Vavasour as a traitor52 to the cause of progress and civilisation53; a renegade who had fled to the camp of aristocracy, flunkeydom, obscurantism, frivolity54, and dissipation; though there was not one of them but would have given an eye—perhaps no great loss to the aggregate55 loveliness of the universe—for one of his invitations to 999 Cavendish Street south-east, with the chance of being presented to the Duchess of Lyonesse.
To do Elsley justice, one reason why he liked his new acquaintances so well was, that they liked him. He behaved well himself, and therefore people behaved well to him. He was, as I have said, a very handsome fellow in his way; therefore it was easy to him, as it is to all physically56 beautiful persons, to acquire a graceful manner. Moreover, he had steeped his whole soul in old poetry, and especially in Spenser's Faery Queen. Good for him, had he followed every lesson which he might have learnt out of that most noble of English books: but one lesson at least he learnt from it; and that was, to be chivalrous57, tender, and courteous58 to all women, however old or ugly, simply because they were women. The Hatchgoose Pythonesses did not wish to be women, but very bad imitations of men; and therefore he considered himself absolved59 from all knightly60 duties toward them: but toward these Peris of the west, and to the dowagers who had been Peris in their time, what adoration61 could be too great? So he bowed down and worshipped; and, on the whole, he was quite right in so doing. Moreover, he had the good sense to discover, that though the young Peris were the prettiest to look at, the elder Peris were the better company; and that it is, in general, from married women that a poet or any one else will ever learn what woman's heart is like. And so well did he carry out his creed62, that before his first summer was over he had quite captivated the heart of old Lady Knockdown, aunt to Lucia St. Just, and wife to Lucia's guardian63; a charming old Irishwoman, who affected64 a pretty brogue, perhaps for the same reason that she wore a wig66, and who had been, in her day, a beauty and a blue, a friend of the Miss Berrys, and Tommy Moore, and Grattan, and Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and Dan O'Connell, and all other lions and lionesses which had roared for the last sixty years about the Emerald Isle67. There was no one whom she did not know, and nothing she could not talk about. Married up, when a girl, to a man for whom she did not care, and having no children, she had indemnified herself by many flirtations, and the writing of two or three novels, in which she penned on paper the superfluous68 feeling which had no vent3 in real life. She had deserted69, as she grew old, the novel for unfulfilled prophecy; and was a distinguished70 leader in a distinguished religious coterie71: but she still prided herself upon having a green head upon grey shoulders; and not without reason; for underneath72 all the worldliness and intrigue27, and petty affectation of girlishness, which she contrived73 to jumble32 in with her religiosity, beat a young and kindly74 heart. So she was charmed with Mr. Vavasour's manners, and commended them much to Lucia, who, a shrinking girl of seventeen, was peeping at her first season from under Lady Knockdown's sheltering wing.
"Me dear, let Mr. Vavasour be who he will, he has not only the intellect of a true genius, but what is a great deal better for practical purposes; that is, the manners of one. Give me the man who will let a woman of our rank say what we like to him, without supposing that he may say what he likes in return; and considers one's familiarity as an honour, and not as an excuse for taking liberties. A most agreeable contrast, indeed, to the young men of the present day; who come in their shooting jackets, and talk slang to their partners,—though really the girls are just as bad,—and stand with their backs to the fire, and smell of smoke, and go to sleep after dinner, and pay no respect to old age, nor to youth either, I think. 'Pon me word, Lucia, the answers I've heard young gentlemen make to young ladies, this very season,—they'd have been called out the next morning in my time, me dear. As for the age of chivalry75, nobody expects that to be restored: but really one might have been spared the substitute for it which, we had when I was young, in the grand air of the old school. It was a 'sham13,' I daresay, as they call everything now-a-days: but really, me dear, a pleasant sham is better to live with than an unpleasant reality, especially when it smells of cigars."
So it befell that Elsley Vavasour was asked to Lady Knockdown's, and that there he fell in love with Lucia, and Lucia fell in love with him.
The next winter, old Lord Knockdown, who had been decrepit76 for some years past, died; and his widow, whose income was under five hundred a year,—for the estates were entailed77, and mortgaged, and everything else which can happen to an Irish property,—came to live with her nephew, Lord Scoutbush, in Eaton Square, and take such care as she could of Lucia and Valencia.
So, after a dreary78 autumn and winter of parting and silence, Elsley found himself the next season invited to Eaton Square; there the mischief79, if mischief it was, was done; and Elsley and Lucia started in life upon two hundred a year. He had inherited some fifty of his own; she had about a hundred and fifty, which, indeed, was not yet her own by right; but little Scoutbush (who was her sole surviving guardian) behaved on the whole very well for a young gentleman of twenty-two, in a state of fury and astonishment80. The old Lord had, wisely enough, settled in his will that Lucia was to enjoy the interest of her fortune from the time that she came out, provided she did not marry without her guardian's leave; and Scoutbush, to avoid esclandre and misery81, thought it as well to waive82 the proviso, and paid her her dividends83 as usual.
But how had she contrived to marry at all without his leave? That is an ugly question. I will not say that she had told a falsehood, or that Elsley had forsworn himself when he got the licence: but certainly both of them were guilty of something very like a white lie, when they declared that Lucia had the consent of her sole surviving guardian, on the strength of an half-angry, half-jesting expression of Scoutbush's that she might marry whom she chose, provided she did not plague him. In the first triumph of success and intoxication84 of wedded85 bliss86, Lucia had written him a saucy87 letter, reminding him of his permission, and saying that she had taken him at his word: but her conscience smote88 her; and Elsley's smote him likewise; and smote him all the more, because he had been married under a false name, a fact which might have ugly consequences in law which he did not like to contemplate89. To do him justice, he had been half-a-dozen times during his courtship on the point of telling Lucia his real name and history. Happy for him had he done so, whatever might have been the consequences: but he wanted moral courage; the hideous90 sound of Briggs had become horrible to him; and once his foolish heart was frightened away from honesty, just as honesty was on the point of conquering, by old Lady Knockdown's saying that she could never have married a man with an ugly name, or let Lucia marry one.
"Conceive becoming Mrs. Natty91 Bumppo, me dear, even for twenty thousand a year. If you could summon up courage to do the deed, I couldn't summon up courage to continue my correspondence with ye."
Elsley knew that that was a lie; that the old lady would have let her marry the most triumphant snob92 in England, if he had half that income: but unfortunately Lucia capped her aunt's nonsense with "There is no fear of my ever marrying any one who has not a graceful name," and a look at Vavasour, which said—"And you have one, and therefore I—" For the matter had then been settled between them. This was too much for his vanity, and too much, also, for his fears of losing Lucia by confessing the truth. So Elsley went on, ashamed of his real name, ashamed of having concealed93 it, ashamed of being afraid that it would be discovered,—in a triple complication of shame, which made him gradually, as it makes every man, moody94, suspicious, apt to take offence where none is meant. Besides they were very poor. He, though neither extravagant95 nor profligate96, was, like most literary men who are accustomed to live from hand to mouth, careless, self-indulgent, unmethodical. She knew as much of housekeeping as the Queen of Oude does; and her charming little dreams of shopping for herself were rudely enough broken, ere the first week was out, by the horrified97 looks of Clara, when she returned from her first morning's marketing98 for the weekly consumption, with nothing but a woodcock, some truffles, and a bunch of celery. Then the landlady99 of the lodgings100 robbed her, even under the nose of the faithful Clara, who knew as little about housekeeping as her mistress; and Clara, faithful as she was, repaid herself by grumbling101 and taking liberties for being degraded from the luxurious102 post of lady's maid to that of servant of all work, with a landlady, and "marchioness" to wrestle103 with all day long. Then, what with imprudence and anxiety, Lucia of course lost her first child: and after that came months of illness, during which Elsley tended her, it must be said for him, as lovingly as a mother; and perhaps they were both really happier during that time of sorrow than they had been in all the delirious104 bliss of the honeymoon105.
Valencia meanwhile defied old Lady Knockdown (whose horror and wrath106 knew no bounds), and walked off one morning with her maid to see her prodigal107 sister; a visit which not only brought comfort to the weary heart, but important practical benefits. For going home, she seized upon Scoutbush, and so moved his heart with pathetic pictures of Lucia's unheard-of penury and misery, that his heart was softened108; and though he absolutely refused to call on Vavasour, he made him an offer, through Lucia, of Penalva Court for the time being; and thither109 they went—perhaps the best thing they could have done.
There, of course, they were somewhat more comfortable. A very cheap country, a comfortable house rent free, and a lovely neighbourhood, were a pleasant change after dear London lodgings: but it is a question whether the change made Elsley a better man.
In the first place, he became a more idle man. The rich enervating110 climate began to tell upon his mind, as it did upon Lucia's health. He missed that perpetual spur of nervous excitement, change of society, influx111 of ever-fresh objects, which makes London, after all, the best place in the world for hard working; and which makes even a walk along the streets an intellectual tonic112. In the soft and luxurious West Country Nature invited him to look at her, and dream; and dream he did, more and more, day by day. He was tired, too—as who would not be?—of the drudgery113 of writing for his daily bread; and relieved from the importunities of publishers and printers'-devils, he sent up fewer and fewer contributions to the magazines. He would keep his energies for a great work; poetry was, after all, his forte114: he would not fritter himself away on prose and periodicals, but would win for himself, etc. etc. If he made a mistake, it was at least a pardonable one.
But Elsley became not only a more idle, but a more morose115 man. He began to feel the evils of solitude116. There was no one near with whom he could hold rational converse117, save an antiquarian parson or two; and parsons were not to his taste. So, never measuring his wits against those of his peers, and despising the few men whom he met as inferior to himself, he grew more and more wrapt up in his own thoughts and his own tastes. His own poems, even to the slightest turn of expression, became more and more important to him. He grew more jealous of criticism, more confident in his own little theories, about this and that, more careless of the opinion of his fellowmen, and, as a certain consequence, more unable to bear the little crosses and contradictions of daily life; and as Lucia, having brought one and another child safely into the world, settled down into motherhood, he became less and less attentive118 to her, and more and more attentive to that self which was fast becoming the centre of his universe.
True, there were excuses for him; for whom are there none? He was poor and struggling; and it is much more difficult (as Becky Sharp, I think, pathetically observes) to be good when one is poor than when one is rich. It is (and all rich people should consider the fact) much more easy, if not to go to heaven, at least to think one is going thither, on three thousand a year, than on three hundred. Not only is respectability more easy, as is proved by the broad fact that it is the poor people who fill the gaols119, and not the rich ones: but virtue120, and religion—of the popular sort. It is undeniably more easy to be resigned to the will of Heaven, when that will seems tending just as we would have it; much more easy to have faith in the goodness of Providence121, when that goodness seems safe in one's pocket in the form of bank-notes; and to believe that one's children are under the protection of Omnipotence122, when one can hire for them in half an hour the best medical advice in London. One need only look into one's own heart to understand the disciples123' astonishment at the news, that "How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven."
"Who then can be saved?" asked they, being poor men, accustomed to see the wealthy Pharisees in possession of "the highest religious privileges, and means of grace." Who, indeed, if not the rich? If the noblemen, and the bankers, and the dowagers, and the young ladies who go to church, and read good books, and have been supplied from youth with the very best religious articles which money can procure124, and have time for all manner of good works, and give their hundreds to charities, and head reformatory movements, and build churches, and work altar-cloths, and can taste all the preachers and father-confessors round London, one after another, as you would taste wines, till they find the spiritual panacea125 which exactly suits their complaint—if they are not sure of salvation126, who can be saved?
Without further comment, the fact is left for the consideration of all readers; only let them not be too hard upon Elsley and Lucia, if, finding themselves sometimes literally127 at their wits' end, they went beyond their poor wits into the region where foolish things are said and done.
Moreover, Elsley's ill-temper (as well as Lucia's) had its excuses in physical ill-health. Poor fellow! Long years of sedentary work had begun to tell upon him; and while Tom Thurnall's chest, under the influence of hard work and oxygen, measured round perhaps six inches more than it had done sixteen years ago, Elsley's, thanks to stooping and carbonic acid, measured six inches less. Short breath, lassitude, loss of appetite, heartburn, and all that fair company of miseries128 which Mr. Cockle and his Antibilious Pills profess129 to cure, are no cheering bosom130 friends; but when a man's breast-bone is gradually growing into his stomach, they will make their appearance; and small blame to him whose temper suffers from their gentle hints that he has a mortal body as well as an immortal131 soul.
But most fretting132 of all was the discovery that Lucia knew—if not all about his original name—still enough to keep him in dread11 lest she should learn more.
It was now twelve months and more that this new terror had leapt up and stared in his face. He had left a letter about—a thing which he was apt to do—in which the Whitbury lawyer made some allusions133 to his little property; and he was sure that Lucia had seen it; the hated name of Briggs certainly she had not seen; for Elsley had torn it out the moment he opened the letter: but she had seen enough, as he soon found, to be certain that he had, at some time or other, passed under a different name.
If Lucia had been a more thoughtful or high-minded woman, she would have gone straight to her husband, and quietly and lovingly asked him to tell her all: but, in her left-handed Irish fashion, she kept the secret to herself, and thought it a very good joke to have him in her power, and to be able to torment7 him about that letter when he got out of temper. It never occurred, however, to her that his present name was the feigned134 one. She fancied that he had, in some youthful escapade, assumed the name to which the lawyer alluded135. So the next time he was cross, she tried laughingly the effect of her newly-discovered spell; and was horror-struck at the storm which she evoked136. In a voice of thunder, Elsley commanded her never to mention the subject again; and showed such signs of terror and remorse137, that she obeyed him from that day forth, except when now and then she lost her temper as completely, too, as he. Little she thought, in her heedlessness, what a dark cloud of fear and suspicion, ever deepening and spreading, she had put between his heart and hers.
But if Elsley had dreaded her knowledge of his story, he dreaded ten times more Tom's knowledge of it. What if Thurnall should tell Lucia? What if Lucia should make a confidant of Thurnall? Women told their doctors everything; and Lucia, he knew too well, had cause to complain of him. Perhaps, thought he, maddened into wild suspicion by the sense of his own wrong-doing, she might complain of him; she might combine with Thurnall against him—for what purpose he knew not: but the wildest imaginations flashed across him, as he hurried desperately138 home, intending as soon as he got there to forbid Lucia's ever calling in his dreaded enemy. No, Thurnall should never cross his door again! On that one point he was determined139, but on nothing else.
However, his intention was never fulfilled. For long before he reached home he began to feel himself thoroughly140 ill. His was a temperament141 upon which mental anxiety acts rapidly and severely142; and the burning sun, and his rapid walk, combined with rage and terror to give him such a "turn" that, as he hurried down the lane, he found himself reeling like a drunken man. He had just time to hurry through the garden, and into his study, when pulse and sense failed him, and he rolled over on the sofa in a dead faint.
Lucia had seen him come in, and heard him fall, and rushed in. The poor little thing was at her wits' end, and thought that he had had nothing less than a coup-de-soleil. And when he recovered from his faintness, he began to be so horribly ill, that Clara, who had been called in to help, had some grounds for the degrading hypothesis (for which Lucia all but boxed her ears) that "Master had got away into the woods, and gone eating toadstools, or some such poisonous stuff;" for he lay a full half-hour on the sofa, death-cold, and almost pulseless; moaning, shuddering143, hiding his face in his hands, and refusing cordials, medicines, and, above all, a doctor's visit.
However, this could not be allowed to last. Without Elsley's knowledge, a messenger was despatched for Thurnall, and luckily met him in the lane; for he was returning to the town in the footsteps of his victim.
Elsley's horror was complete, when the door opened, and Lucia brought in none other than his tormentor.
"My dearest Elsley, I have sent for Mr. Thurnall. I knew you would not let me, if I told you; but you see I have done it, and now you must really speak to him."
Elsley's first impulse was to motion them both away angrily; but the thought that he was in Thurnall's power stopped him. He must not show his disgust. What if Lucia were to ask its cause, even to guess it? for to his fears even that seemed possible. A fresh misery! Just because he shrank so intensely from the man, he must endure him!
"There is nothing the matter with me," said he languidly.
"I should be the best judge of that, after what Mrs. Vavasour has just told me," said Tom, in his most professional and civil voice; and slipped, catlike, into a seat beside the unresisting poet.
He asked question on question: but Elsley gave such unsatisfactory answers, that Lucia had to detail everything afresh for him, with—"You know, Mr. Thurnall, he is always overtasking his brain, and will never confess himself ill,"—and all a woman's anxious comments.
Rogue65 Tom knew all the while well enough what was the cause: but he saw, too, that Elsley was very ill. He felt that he must have the matter out at once; and, by a side glance, sent the obedient Lucia out of the room to get a table-spoonful of brandy.
"Now, my dear sir, that we are alone," began he blandly145.
"Now, sir!" answered Vavasour, springing off the sofa, his whole pent-up wrath exploding in hissing146 steam, the moment the safety-valve was lifted. "Now, sir! What—what is the meaning of this insolence147, this intrusion?"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Vavasour," answered Tom, rising, in a tone of bland144 and stolid148 surprise.
"What do you want here, with your mummery and medicine, when you know the cause of my malady149 well enough already? Go, sir! and leave me to myself."
"My dear sir," said Tom firmly, "you seem to have forgotten what passed between us this morning."
"Will you insult me beyond endurance?" cried Elsley.
"I told you that, as long as you chose, you were Elsley Vavasour, and I the country doctor. We have met in that character. Why not sustain it? You are really ill; and if I know the cause, I am all the more likely to know the cure."
"Cure?"
"Why not? Believe me, it is in your power to become a much happier man, simply by becoming a healthier one."
"Impertinence!"
"Pish! What can I gain by being impertinent, sir? I know very well that you have received a severe shock; but I know equally well, that if you were as you ought to be, you would not feel it in this way. When one sees a man in the state of prostration150 in which you are, common sense tells one that the body must have been neglected, for the mind to gain such power over it."
Elsley replied with a grunt151; but Tom went on, bland and imperturbable152.
"Believe me, it may be a very materialist153 view of things: but fact is fact—the corpus sanum is father to the mens sana—tonics and exercise make the ills of life look marvellously smaller. You have the frame of a strong and active man; and all you want to make you light-hearted and cheerful, is to develop what nature has given you."
"It is too late," said Elsley, pleased, as most men are, by being told that they might be strong and active.
"Not in the least. Three months would strengthen your muscles, open your chest again, settle your digestion154, and make you as fresh as a lark155, and able to sing like one. Believe me, the poetry would be the better for it, as well as the stomach. Now, positively156, I shall begin questioning you."
So Elsley was won to detail the symptoms of internal malaise, which he was only too much in the habit of watching himself; but there were some among them which Tom could not quite account for on the ground of mere4 effeminate habits. A thought struck him.
"You sleep ill, I suppose?" said he carelessly.
"Very ill."
"Did you ever try opiates?"
"No—yes—that is, sometimes."
"Ah!" said Tom, more carelessly still, for he wished to hide, by all means, the importance of the confession157. "Well, they give relief for a time: but they are dangerous things—disorder the digestion, and have their revenge on the nerves next morning, as spitefully as brandy itself. Much better try a glass of strong ale or porter just before going to bed. I've known it give sleep, even in consumption—try it, and exercise. You shoot?"
"No."
"Pity; there ought to be noble cocking in these woods. However, the season's past. You fish?"
"No."
"Pity again. I hear Alva is full of trout158. Why not try sailing? Nothing oxygenates the lungs like a sail, and your friends the fishermen would be delighted to have you as super-cargo. They are always full of your stories to them, and your picking their brains for old legends and adventures."
"They are noble fellows, and I want no better company; but, unfortunately, I am always sea-sick."
"Ah! wholesome159, but unpleasant: you are fond of gardening?"
"Very; but stooping makes my head swim."
"True, and I don't want you to stoop. I hope to see you soon as erect160 as a Guardsman. Why not try walks?"
"Abominable161 bores—lonely, aimless—"
"Well, perhaps you're right. I never knew but three men who took long constitutionals on principle, and two of them were cracked. But why not try a companion; and persuade that curate, who needs just the same medicine as you, to accompany you? I don't know a more gentleman-like, agreeable, well-informed man than he is."
"Thank you. I can choose my acquaintances for myself."
"You touchy162 ass16!" said Thurnall to himself. "If we were in the blessed state of nature now, wouldn't I give you ten minutes' double thonging, and then set you to work, as the runaway163 nigger did his master, Bird o' freedom Sawin, till you'd learnt a thing or two." But blandly still he went on.
"Try the dumb-bells then. Nothing like them for opening your chest. And do get a high desk made, and stand to your writing instead of sitting." And Tom actually made Vavasour promise to do both, and bade him farewell with—
"Now, I'll send you up a little tonic; and trouble you with no more visits till you send for me. I shall see by one glance at your face whether you are following my prescriptions164. And, I say, I wouldn't meddle165 with those opiates any more; try good malt and hops31 instead."
"Those who drink beer, think beer," said Elsley, smiling; for he was getting more hopeful of himself, and his terrors were vanishing beneath Tom's skilful166 management.
"And those who drink water, think water. The Elizabethans—Sidney and Shakspeare, Burleigh and Queen Bess, worked on beef and ale,—and you would not class them among the muddle-headed of the earth: Believe me, to write well, you must live well. If you take it out of your brain, you must put it in again. It's a question of fact. Try it for yourself." And off Tom went; while Lucia rushed back to her husband, covered him with caresses167, assured him that he was seven times as ill as he really was, and so nursed and petted him, that he felt himself, for that time at least, a beast and a fool for having suspected her for a moment. Ah, woman, if you only knew how you carry our hearts in your hands, and would but use your power for our benefit, what angels you might make us all!
"So," said Tom, as he went home, "he has found his way to the elevation-bottle, has he, as well as Mrs. Heale? It's no concern of mine: but as a professional man, I must stop that. You will certainly be no credit to me if you kill yourself under my hands."
Tom went straight home, showed the blacksmith how to make a pair of dumb-bells, covered them himself with leather, and sent them up the next morning with directions to be used for half an hour morning and evening.
And something—whether it was the dumb-bells, or the tonic, or wholesome fear of the terrible doctor—kept Elsley for the next month in better spirits and temper than he had been in for a long while.
Moreover, Tom set Lucia to coax168 him into walking with Headley. She succeeded at last; and, on the whole, each of them soon found that he had something to learn from the other. Elsley improved daily in health, and Lucia wrote to Valencia flaming accounts of the wonderful doctor who had been cast on shore in their world's end; and received from her after a while this, amid much more—for fancy is not exuberant169 enough to reproduce the whole of a young lady's letter.
"—I am so ashamed. I ought to have told you of that doctor a fortnight ago; but, rattle-pate as I am, I forgot all about it. Do you know, he is Sabina Mellot's dearest friend; and she begged me to recommend him to you; but I put it off, and then it slipped my memory, like everything else good. She has told me the most wonderful stories of his courage and goodness; and conceive—she and her husband were taken prisoners with him by the savages170 in the South Seas, and going to be eaten, she says: but he helped them to escape in a canoe—such a story—and lived with them for three months on the most beautiful desert island—it is all like a fairy tale. I'll tell it you when I come, darling—which I shall do in a fortnight, and we shall be all so happy. I have such a box ready for you and the chicks, which I shall bring with me; and some pretty things from Scoutbush beside, who is very low, poor fellow, I cannot conceive what about: but wonderfully tender about you. I fancy he must be in love; for he stood up the other day about you to my aunt, quite solemnly, with, 'Let her alone, my lady. She's not the first whom love has made a fool of, and she won't be the last: and I believe that some of the moves which look most foolish, turn out best after all. Live and let live; everybody knows his own business best; anything is better than marriage without real affection.' Conceive my astonishment at hearing the dear little fellow turn sage171 in that way!
"By the way, I have had to quote his own advice against him; for I have refused Lord Chalkclere after all. I told him (C. not S.) that he was much too good for me: far too perfect and complete a person; that I preferred a husband whom I could break in for myself, even though he gave me a little trouble. Scoutbush was cross at first; but he said afterwards that it was just like Baby Blake (the wretch172 always calls me Baby Blake now, after that dreadful girl in Lever's Novel); and I told him frankly173 that it was, if he meant that I had sooner break in a thorough-bred for myself, even though I had a fall or two in the process, than jog along on the most finished little pony174 on earth, who would never go out of an amble175. Lord Chalk may be very finished, and learned, and excellent, and so forth: but, ma chère, I want, not a white rabbit (of which he always reminds me), but a hero, even though he be a naughty one. I always fancy people must be very little if they can be finished off so rapidly; if there was any real verve in them, they would take somewhat longer to grow. Lord Chalk would do very well to bind176 in Russian leather, and put on one's library shelves, to be consulted when one forgot a date; but really even your Ulysses of a doctor—provided, of course, he turned out a prince in disguise, and don't leave out his h's—would be more to the taste of your naughtiest of sisters."
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1
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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melancholic
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| 忧郁症患者 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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14
euphonious
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| adj.好听的，悦耳的，和谐的 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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18
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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enrol
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| v.（使）注册入学，（使）入学，（使）入会 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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subversion
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| n.颠覆，破坏 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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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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27
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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28
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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32
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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38
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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40
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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42
promulgate
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| v.宣布；传播；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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43
blanches
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| v.使变白( blanch的第三人称单数 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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44
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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45
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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46
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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47
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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48
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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49
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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50
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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51
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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52
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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53
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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54
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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55
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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56
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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57
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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58
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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59
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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60
knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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61
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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62
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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64
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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65
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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66
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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67
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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71
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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72
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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75
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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81
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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82
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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83
dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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84
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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85
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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87
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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natty
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| adj.整洁的，漂亮的 | |
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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101
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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102
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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103
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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104
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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105
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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106
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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107
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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108
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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109
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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110
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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111
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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112
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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113
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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114
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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115
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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116
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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117
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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118
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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119
gaols
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| 监狱，拘留所( gaol的名词复数 ) | |
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120
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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121
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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122
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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123
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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124
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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125
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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126
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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127
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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128
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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129
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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130
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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131
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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132
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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133
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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134
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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135
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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137
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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138
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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139
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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140
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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141
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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142
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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143
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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144
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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145
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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146
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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147
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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148
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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149
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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150
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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151
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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152
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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153
materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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154
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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155
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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156
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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157
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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158
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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159
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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160
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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161
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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162
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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163
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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164
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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165
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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166
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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167
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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168
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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169
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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170
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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171
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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172
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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173
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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174
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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175
amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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176
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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