"Why, Caroline, we thought you were never coming down again," said Miss Baker.
"It was Mr. Bertram's fault, aunt; he is immoveable when he gets to a certain rock up there. He has an idea of turning hermit4, and constructing a cell for himself in that spot."
"If I did turn hermit, it should certainly be for the sake of living there," said he. "But I fear I want the proper spirit for so holy a life."
"I hope you have not kept us all this time for nothing: you have had some success, I trust?" said Miss Todd to Bertram, in a laughing whisper. Miss Todd's face was quite joyous5 as she whispered; but then her face was always joyous.
"I certainly have not done that which I intended to do," said Bertram, with mock sententiousness. "And so far I have been unsuccessful."
"Then she has rejected him," said Miss Todd to herself. "What a fool the girl must be!" but it was a great comfort to Miss Todd that she knew all about it.
That evening their plans were decided6 on as to leaving Jerusalem—the plans, that is, of those whose fortunes we must follow;—Miss Baker, namely, and her niece; Sir Lionel and his son. Of Miss Todd we may here take our leave for awhile. She did not on this occasion marry Sir Lionel, nor did she even have the satisfaction of knowing that her friends accused her of wishing to do so. Miss Todd had her weak points, but taking her as a whole, and striking the balance between good and bad, I do not care how soon we may meet her again. To her friends also we may bid adieu. Mr. M'Gabbery did not die of love. Mr. Pott did propose to and was accepted by Miss Jones; but the match was broken off by the parental7 Potts who on the occasion nearly frightened poor Mrs. Jones out of her life. The Hunters sojourned for awhile on the sides of Lebanon, but did at last return to the discomforts8 of European life. Mrs. Hunter tried the effect of her favourite costume at Tenby, but it was not found to answer. Of Mr. Cruse, I can only say that he was dreadfully scolded by Mrs. Pott, in that he had allowed her son to fall in love; and that Mr. Pott threatened to stop his salary. An attorney's letter, however, settled that.
It must be confessed that Miss Baker had allowed her plans to be altered by the arrival of the Bertrams at Jerusalem; and confessed also that Miss Baker's complaisance10 in this respect had been brought about by her niece's persuasion11. Their original intention had been to go on to Damascus. Then Miss Baker had begged off this further journey, alleging12 that her clothes as well as her strength were worn out; and Caroline had consented to return home by the shortest route. Then came the temptation of going as far as Beyrout with the Bertrams, and Miss Baker had been enjoined13 to have herself patched up externally and internally. She was accordingly being patched up; but now things were altered again. Caroline knew that she could not travel with George Bertram without engaging herself to be his wife; or that if she did, their journey would not be a happy one. And she did not wish so to engage herself without further thought. She determined14, therefore, that they would fall back upon her aunt's plan, and return home by the easier route, by Jaffa, that is, and Alexandria.
Her altered mind had to be explained, not only to her aunt, but to the Bertrams; and she came to the somewhat singular resolve to explain it in both cases by the simple truth. She would tell her aunt what had happened; and she would make George Bertram understand in a few and as kind words as might be, that under the present circumstances it would be better that they should not be thrown into the very close intercourse15 necessary for fellow-travellers in the East. She was very prudent16, was Miss Waddington; and having freed herself of one lover because she did not like him, she prepared to rid herself of another because she did.
The Bertrams were to leave Jerusalem together in a couple of days' time. George was to go with his father as far as Constantinople, and, having seen something of real Turks in real Turkey, was to return at once to England. After his last visit to the Mount of Olives, he said nothing further about the church as a profession.
That evening Caroline settled it all with her aunt. "Aunt," said she, as they sat together brushing their hair before they went to bed, "you will think me very fanciful; but after all, I believe we had better go back by Alexandria."
"Oh dear, I shall be so glad, my dear. Jane says that I could not possibly get a travelling dress made here that I could wear."
"You could get a dress in Damascus, I don't doubt, aunt. But—"
"And I really am not fit for much more riding. I don't like to disappoint you; but if you really wouldn't mind it—"
"Well, I should mind it,—and I should not. But let me tell you. You must not think that I am so very changeable, first pressing you to go one way, and then begging you to go another, without a reason."
"No; I know you do it for my sake."
"Not that either, aunt—quite; but do listen. Mr. Bertram to-day made—"
"He has not offered to you, has he?"
"Yes, aunt; that is just what he has done. And, therefore, perhaps it will not be quite so well that we should travel together."
"But, Caroline, tell me—pray do tell me; what did he say, and what have you said? Oh dear me, this is very sudden." And Miss Baker sat back in her chair, with her now grayish hair hanging over her shoulders, with her hair-brush still held in one hand, and with the other resting on the toilet-table.
"As for what he said, I may skip that, aunt. It was the old story, I suppose, merely signifying that he wanted me to marry him."
"Well, well."
"As you truly say, aunt; it was too sudden. Mr. Bertram has a great deal to recommend him; a very great deal; one cannot but like him. He is very clever too."
"Yes, Caroline; and will be his uncle's heir—doubtless."
"I know nothing of that; to tell the truth, indeed, I never thought of that. But it would have made no difference."
"And you refused him."
"Well, I hardly know. I do know this—that I did more towards refusing him than accepting him; that I must have much more love for any man I do marry than I have for him at present; and that after what has passed, I think we had better not go to Damascus together."
To this latter proposition aunt Mary fully9 agreed; and thus it was decided that the extra patching for the longer journey need not be accomplished18. Miss Baker would explain the matter to Sir Lionel in her way; and Caroline would do the same to George Bertram in hers. On one other point, also, Miss Baker made up her mind fully; though on this matter she did not think it prudent to make her mind known to her niece. She was very confident that the marriage would take place, and resolved to do all in her power to bring it about. Personally, she was fond of George Bertram; she admired his talents, she liked his father, and felt very favourably19 inclined towards his uncle's wealth. She finished her toilet therefore in calm happiness. She had an excellent match in view for her niece—and, after all, she would escape that dreadful horseback journey to Damascus.
During the next day Caroline and George Bertram were not together for a moment—that is, they were not together alone; for they breakfasted and dined at the same table, and he sat between the aunt and her niece as he had done continually since he had been at Jerusalem. Sir Lionel told him in the forenoon that they were not to have the pleasure of the ladies' company on their journey, and rallied him as to the heart-breaking tendency of these tidings. But George showed, in his countenance20 at least, no symptoms of heart-breaking.
That evening, as they all parted for the night, George did press Miss Waddington's hand more warmly than was usual with him; and, as he did so, he did look into her face for one moment to see what encouragement he might find there. I cannot say that there was no encouragement. The pressure was perhaps not met by any similar warmth on her part, but it was submitted to without any touch of resentment21: the love which shot from his eye was not returned to him from hers, but hers were soft beneath his glance, softer than was usual with Caroline Waddington.
But on the next morning they did come together. It was the day before the departure of the Bertrams, and whatever was to be said must be said then. Caroline watched her opportunity, and as soon as breakfast was over—they all breakfasted in the public salon—asked him to come into her aunt's sitting-room22. She was quite collected, had fully made up her mind what to say, and was able also to say it without hesitation23, and with perfect self-possession. This was more than could be boasted of on the gentleman's behalf.
"You know, Mr. Bertram, that we are not going to travel together?"
"Yes; my father told me so yesterday."
"And you will understand the reason of it, I am sure?"
"Not exactly, Miss Waddington. I cannot say I do understand it. I may have been presumptuous24 in what I said to you the other day; but I do not see why on that account your aunt should be put to the inconvenience of altering her plans. You fear, I suppose, that I should annoy you; but you might trust me—and still may if you will do so."
"Now, Mr. Bertram, you are hardly so sincere as you asserted yourself to be, and required me to be on the mount. You are yourself quite aware that nobody has thought you presumptuous. I have nothing to complain of, and much to thank you for—independently of the honour you have now done me;—for from you it is an honour. But I cannot say that I love you. It would not be natural that I should do so."
"Good heavens! not natural. I love you with the whole strength of my heart. Is that unnatural25?"
"It is the province of men to take the initiative in such matters," said Caroline, smiling.
"I know nothing as to man's province, or of woman's province either. By province, you mean custom and conventional rule; and conventional rule means falsehood. I have known you but a week or two, and I love you dearly. You, of course, have known me as long, and are at any rate as capable of loving as I am. There would be nothing unnatural in you loving me—though, indeed, it may be very unlikely that you should do so."
"Well; I will not contradict you in anything if I can help it, except perhaps as to that last little would-be-proud, petulant26 protest. But putting out of sight all question of likelihood, what ought I to do if I do not love you? What in such a case would you recommend a sister to do? Is it not better that we should not be immediately thrown together, as must so certainly be the case in travelling?"
"Then I am to understand that you positively27 can never love me?"
"I have not said so: but you press me unfairly, Mr. Bertram."
"Unfairly. No, by heavens! no pressure in such case can be unfair. I would press the truth out from you—the real truth; the truth that so vitally concerns myself. You will not say that you have an aversion to me?"
"Aversion! No, certainly not."
"Or that you cannot love me? Then why not let us remain together? You argue that you do not yet know me well enough; will not that be the way to know me better?"
"If I were to travel with you now, Mr. Bertram, it would be tantamount to accepting you. Your own sense will certainly tell you that. Were I to do so, I should give you the privilege of coming with me as my lover. Forgive me for saying that I cannot give you that privilege. I grieve to hurt your feelings for a day even; but I am sure you will ultimately approve of what I am doing."
"And are we to meet no more, then?"
"Of course we shall meet again; at least, in all human probability. My guardian28 is your uncle."
"I never even knew that till I met you the other day."
"Because you have always been at school or at college; but you know it now. I, at least, shall look forward to meeting you—and so will my aunt."
"Yes; as acquaintances. It would be impossible for me to meet you in that way. I hardly think you know or realize what my feelings to you are. I can only meet you to tell you again and again that I love you. You are so cold yourself that you cannot understand my—my—my impetuosity, if you choose to call it so."
"In three or four months, Mr. Bertram, you will be laughing at your own impetuosity—when I perhaps shall be grieving over my own coldness." These last words she said with a smile in which there was much archness, and perhaps also a little encouragement.
"You will tell me at any rate that I may hope?"
"No; certainly not. You will hope enough for anything you really desire without my telling you. But I will not joke, as I believe that you are serious."
"Oh, you believe so, do you?"
"Yes; I suppose I must believe so. Your declaration the other day took me very much by surprise. I had no conception that you had any feelings towards me of that sort. I certainly had entertained none such towards you. Love with me cannot be the birth of a moment. I cannot say that I will love merely because I am asked. You would not wish me to be false even in your own favour. We will part now, Mr. Bertram; and being apart we shall better learn to know, each of us, how we value the other. On my part I can truly say that I hope we shall meet again—at any rate, as friends." And then she held out her hand to him.
"Is this to be our farewell?" said he, without at once taking it.
"It shall be if you so please. We shall meet again only at the public table."
"And you will not tell me that I may hope?"
"I will tell you nothing further, Mr. Bertram. You will shake hands with me as with a friend, will you not?"
He then took her hand, and, holding it in his own, gazed for a moment into her face. She bore the weight of his eyes with unabashed front. She showed neither anger nor pleasure; neither disdain29 nor pride; the same sweet smile was still upon her face, somewhat playful, somewhat hopeful, but capable of no definite construction either for making or marring a man's comfort.
"Caroline!" he said at last.
"Good-bye, Mr. Bertram. I thoroughly30 hope you may enjoy your journey."
"Caroline!"
She essayed to withdraw her hand from his. Feeling this, he raised it to his lips and kissed it, and then left the room. As he closed the door the same smile was on her face.
I hope it will be admitted that Miss Waddington had played her part with skill, and judgment31, and good breeding; and not altogether heartlessly either. She had thought much on the subject since George had first thrown himself at her feet, and had concluded, putting the good against the bad, and balancing the affair as accurately32 as facts would enable her, that the match would be one which she ought to regard as desirable. There were two valid33 reasons, however, why she should not at once accept his offer. Firstly, he might not know his own mind, and it might be serviceable to him to have the option of renewing his proposal or retreating from it after a few months' trial of his own feelings. And secondly35, she hardly knew her own mind. She could not in truth say yet whether she did love him, or whether she did not. She was rather inclined to think she did; but it would be well that she should try the matter before she committed herself.
The statement made by her aunt that George would doubtless be his uncle's heir certainly had its weight with her. It would be wrong in her to engage herself to a man who was without the means of maintaining her in that rank of life in which she had resolved to live; wrong both on his account and on her own. She felt that she could not be a good poor man's wife. It was not the walk of life for which she had destined36 herself. She had made up her mind on that point too, and having made it up was not weak enough to be driven from her resolve by any little gust37 of feeling. She did like Bertram—much, very much, better then she had ever liked any other man. He came up in many points to her idea of what a man should be. He was not sufficiently38 collected, not sufficiently thoughtful, and perhaps almost too enthusiastic: success in life would be easier to a man who put less heart into everything he said and did. But years would teach him much in this respect, and she also might perhaps teach him something. She did like Bertram; and what objection could there be to the match if, as appeared so probable, he was to inherit his uncle's money?
Prudent as she was, she was ready to run some risk in this respect. She did not wish to be a poor man's wife; but neither did she wish to be an idle man's wife. What she did desire was, that her husband should be an earnest, rising, successful man;—one whose name, as she had herself said to Bertram, might be frequent in men's mouths, and daily to be read in the columns of newspapers. She would not marry a fool, even though he were also a Cr?sus; she would not marry a fool, even though he were also an earl. In choosing a master, her first necessity was that she should respect him, then that the world should do so also. She could respect talent—talent if needs be alone—but nothing without talent. The world's respect could not be had without wealth. As for love, that was necessary too; but it was only a third necessity.
Such being our heroine's mind about marriage, I make bold to say that she had behaved with skill and judgment, and not altogether heartlessly either.
On the following morning, Sir Lionel and George left Jerusalem together. The colonel had his own servant, as he always had; George was followed by the dragoman, who had now been with him for some time; and each had also an Arab groom39. On quitting Jerusalem, Sir Lionel had made no objection to having the entire bill settled by his son.
"Well, George," he had said with a smile, "I know you are in ample funds, and I never am. You, moreover, have a milch cow that will not run dry. The government is my cow, and she is apt to be very chary40 in her supply; she does run dry with uncommon41 quickness."
George smiled also, and paid the bill readily, protesting that of course he ought to do so, as Sir Lionel had come there only to see him. The colonel plumed42 himself at once upon having managed well; but he was greatly mistaken. His calculation in this respect had been made on a false basis. "George," he said to himself, "is a young man; he will think nothing of this: a fellow at his age cares nothing for money." George did care but little for the money, but he did care about his father; and he understood the ways of the world well enough to know that his father ought to have paid his own bill. He began for the first time to experience something of that feeling which his uncle so often expressed.
They started, too, with somewhat different ideas as to the purport43 of their route. Sir Lionel wished to get to Constantinople, and was content, for George's sake, to go by Damascus and Beyrout; but George had to visit Ramah, and Gibeon, and Luz; to see the well of the woman of Samaria at Sichem; to climb Mount Carmel, and to sleep at least for a night within its monastery44. Mount Tabor also, and Bethsaida, and Capernaum, he must visit; he must bathe in the Sea of Galilee, as he had already bathed in Jordan and the Dead Sea; Gadara he must see, and Gergesa, and Chorazin; and, above all, he must stand with naked feet in Nazareth, and feel within his heart that he was resting on holy ground.
Sir Lionel did not care a straw for Bethsaida or Chorazin—not a straw even for Nazareth. For many reasons he wished to be well with his son. In the first place, a man whose bill is paid for him always makes some concession45 to the man who pays it. He should do so, at any rate; and on this point Sir Lionel was willing to be just. And then he had ulterior views, which made it very necessary that George should like him. In this respect he had hitherto played his cards well—well, with the exception of that Jerusalem bill. He had made his society very pleasant to his son, had done much towards gaining the young man's heart, and was well inclined to do more—anything, indeed, short of putting himself to real personal inconvenience. We may perhaps add, without doing too much violence to Sir Lionel's established character, that he himself really liked his son.
All this for some days carried him hither and thither46, if not with patience, at any rate with perseverance47. He went to spots which he was told had a world-wide celebrity48, of the names of which he had but a bare distant remembrance, and which he found to be arid49, comfortless, and uninteresting. Gibeon he did endure, and Shiloh, and Sichem; Gilgal, also, and Carmel. But there he broke down: he could not, he said, justify50 it to himself to be absent longer from his official duties. He found that he was near Beyrout: he could ride thither in two days, avoiding Damascus altogether. The cookery at Mount Carmel did not add to his love of the Holy Land. He found himself to be not very well. He laughingly reminded George that there was a difference between twenty-three and sixty; and ended by declining altogether to go backwards51 towards the Sea of Galilee. If George could only be induced to think that he had seen enough of these regions, his father would be so delighted to have his company direct from Beyrout to Constantinople!
George, however, was inexorable about Nazareth: and so they parted, agreeing that they would meet again at Constantinople. We need not closely follow either on his journey. Sir Lionel, having had everything paid for him up to the moment of their separation, arrived—let us hope with a full purse—at the Bosphorus. George, when left to himself, travelled more slowly, and thought much of these holy places—much also of his love. He could have found it in his heart to rush back, and catch Miss Baker and Caroline at Jaffa. He would have done so as soon as he quitted Nazareth, only that he was ashamed.
About a fortnight after his father's departure, he found himself at Damascus, and in another week, he was stepping on board the packet at Beyrout. When leaving Palestine, that land of such wondrous52 associations, his feelings were not altogether consolatory53. He had at one moment acknowledged what he believed to be a spiritual influence within him, and yielding himself to it, had spoken of devoting his life to a high and holy purpose. He had, indeed, spoken only to himself, and the wound to his pride was therefore the less. But his high and holy purpose had been blown to the winds by a few words from a pair of ruby55 lips, by one glance of scorn from a pair of bright eyes. And he had so yielded, even though those lips would acknowledge no love for him; though those eyes would not look on him kindly56. He could not be proud of his visit to the Holy Land; and yet he felt a longing57 to linger there. It might be, that if he would return once more to that mount, look once again on Sion and the temple, the spirit might yet get the better of the flesh. But, alas58! he had to own to himself that he had now hardly a wish that the spirit should predominate. The things of the world were too bright to be given up. The charms of the flesh were too strong for him. With a sigh, he looked back for the last time from Mount Hermon, stretched out his arms once more towards Jerusalem, said one farewell in his heart as his eye rested for a moment on the distant glassy waters of Galilee, and then set his horse's head towards Damascus.
When a traveller in these railroad days takes leave of Florence, or Vienna, or Munich, or Lucerne, he does so without much of the bitterness of a farewell. The places are now comparatively so near that he expects to see them again, or, at any rate, hopes that he may do so. But Jerusalem is still distant from us no Sabbath-day's journey. A man who, having seen it once, takes his leave, then sees it probably for the last time. And a man's heart must be very cold who can think of Palestine exactly as of any other land. It is not therefore surprising that Bertram was rather sad as he rode down the further side of Mount Hermon.
At Constantinople, Sir Lionel and George again met, and our hero spent a pleasant month there with his father. It was still spring, the summer heats had hardly commenced, and George was charmed, if not with the city of the Sultan, at any rate with the scenery around it. Here his father appeared in a new light: they were more intimate with each other than they had been at Jerusalem; they were not now living in ladies' society, and Sir Lionel by degrees threw off what little restraint of governorship, what small amount of parental authority he had hitherto assumed. He seemed anxious to live with his son on terms of perfect equality; began to talk to him rather as young men talk to each other than men of ages so very different, and appeared to court a lack of reverence59.
In his ordinary habits of life, and, indeed, in his physical vivacity60, Sir Lionel was very young for his time of life. He never pleaded his years in bar of any pleasure, and never pleaded them at all except when desirous of an excuse for escaping something that was disagreeable. There are subjects on which young men talk freely with each other, but on which they hesitate to speak to their elders without restraint. Sir Lionel did his best to banish61 any such feeling on the part of his son. Of wine and women, of cards and horses, of money comforts and money discomforts, he spoke54 in a manner which Bertram at first did not like, but which after awhile was not distasteful to him. There is always some compliment implied when an old man unbends before a young one, and it is this which makes the viciousness of old men so dangerous. I do not say that Sir Lionel purposely tempted62 his son to vice34; but he plainly showed that he regarded morality in a man to be as thoroughly the peculiar63 attribute of a clergyman as a black coat; and that there could be no reason for other men even to pretend to it when there were no women by to be respected and deceived.
Bertram certainly liked his father, and was at ease in his company; but, in spite of this, he was ashamed of him, and was sometimes very sorrowful. He was young, full of vivacity, and without that strength of character which should have withstood the charm of Sir Lionel's manner; but he knew well that he would fain have had in his father feelings of a very different nature, and he could not but acknowledge that the severity of his uncle's tone was deserved.
It had been George's intention to stay a week only at Constantinople, but his father had persuaded him to remain four. He had boasted that when he returned to England he would be in a position to give back to his uncle the three hundred pounds which Pritchett had placed to his account. But he would not now be able to do this: his father lived expensively; and even here, where Sir Lionel was now at home, George paid more than his own share of the expense.
One of their chief subjects of conversation, that, indeed, which Sir Lionel seemed to prefer to any other, was the ultimate disposal of his brother's money. He perceived that George's thoughts on this subject were by far too transcendental, that he was childishly indifferent to his own interests, and that if not brought to a keener sense of his own rights, a stronger feeling as to his position as the only nephew of a very wealthy man, he might let slip through his fingers a magnificent fortune which was absolutely within his reach. So thinking, he detained his son near him for awhile, that he might, if possible, imbue64 him with some spark of worldly wisdom.
He knew how useless it would be to lecture a young man like George as to the best way in which he could play tuft-hunter to his uncle. From such lectures George would have started away in disgust; but something, Sir Lionel thought, might be done by tact65, by finesse66, and a daily half-scornful badinage67, skilfully68 directed towards the proper subject. By degrees, too, he thought that George did listen to him, that he was learning, that he might be taught to set his eyes greedily on those mountains of wealth. And so Sir Lionel persevered69 with diligence to the end.
"Say everything that is civil from me to my brother," said the colonel, the day before George left him.
"Uncle George does not care much for civil speeches," said the other, laughing.
"No, I know he does not; he'd think more of it if I could send home a remittance70 by you to pay the bill; eh, George? But as I can't do that, I may as well send a few civil words." Uncle George's bill had gradually become a source of joke between the father and son. Sir Lionel, at least, was accustomed to mention it in such a way that the junior George could not help laughing; and though at first this had gone against the grain of his feelings, by degrees he had become used to it.
"He expects, I fancy, neither money nor civil words," said George the younger.
"He will not, on that account, be the less pleased at getting either the one or the other. Don't you believe everything that everybody tells you in his own praise: when a man says that he does not like flattery, and that he puts no value on soft words, do not on that account be deterred71 from making any civil speeches you may have ready. He will not be a bit stronger than another because he boasts of his strength."
"I really think you would find it difficult to flatter your brother."
"Perhaps so; and therefore I should set about it with the more care. But, were I in your shoes, I should not attempt flattery; I should be very submissive rather. He always loved to play the tyrant72."
"And I do not love to play the slave."
"An only nephew's slavery would probably be of a very mild description."
"Yes; no harder than sitting on a clerk's stool in a merchant's counting-house for seven or eight hours a day."
"That would be an unendurable bore as a continuance; but take my word for it, George, if you could bring yourself to do it for six months, by the end of that time you would have the game in your own hands."
"At any rate, I shall not try it, sir."
"Well, you are your own master: I can only say that the temptation would be too strong for most men. I have not the slightest doubt that if you would give way to him for six months, two years would see you in Parliament." Sir Lionel had already ascertained73 that to sit in the House of Commons was the dearest object of his son's ambition.
On the evening of that day, as they were drinking their coffee and smoking together, Sir Lionel for the first time spoke to his son on another matter. "George," said he, "I don't know whether there was anything in it, but when we were at Jerusalem, I thought you were very sweet on Caroline Waddington."
George blushed deeply, and affected74 to laugh.
"She was certainly a very fine girl," continued his father; "I think as handsome a girl as I have seen these ten years. What a shoulder and neck she had! When you used to be dragging her up the Mount of Olives, I could not but think there was more in it than mere17 scripture75 geography—eh, George?"
George merely laughed, and looked rather like a simpleton.
"If you were not in love with her, I can only say that you ought to have been. I was, I know."
"Well, sir, I believe she is free as yet; you can try your chance if you have a mind."
"Ah! I would I could. If I knew Medea's secret, I would have myself chopped and boiled that I might come out young on her behalf; but, George, I can tell you something about her."
"Well, sir!"
"I would have told you then, when we were at Jerusalem, but we were not so well acquainted then as we are now, and I did not like to interfere76."
"It could not be interference from you."
"Well, but the matter is this: if my brother ever loved any human being—and I am not quite sure he ever did—but if he did, it was that girl's father. Had Waddington lived, he would now have been my age. Your uncle took him early by the hand, and would have made his fortune for him, but the poor fellow died. In my opinion, it would assist your views if your uncle knew that you were going to marry Caroline Waddington."
George said nothing, but sat sucking the mouth-piece of his pipe-stick and blowing out great clouds of smoke. Sir Lionel said nothing further, but easily changed the conversation. Early on the following morning, Bertram left Constantinople, having received a promise that Sir Lionel would visit him in England as soon as the exigencies77 of the public service would permit of his doing so.
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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antidote
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brook
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hermit
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joyous
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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parental
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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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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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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imbue
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| v.灌输(某种强烈的情感或意见)，感染 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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75
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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