This year was Harcourt's great year. In January and February and March he did great things in Chancery. In April he came into Parliament. In May and June and July, he sat on committees. In August he stuck to his work till London was no longer endurable. In the latter part of autumn there was an extraordinary session, during which he worked like a horse. He studied the corn-law question as well as sundry1 legal reforms all the Christmas week, and in the following spring he came out with his great speech on behalf of Sir Robert Peel. But, nevertheless, he found time to devote to the cares and troubles of Miss Baker2 and Miss Waddington.
In the spring Bertram paid one or two visits to Littlebath; but it may be doubted whether he made himself altogether agreeable there. He stated broadly that he was doing little or nothing at his profession: he was, he said, engaged on other matters; the great excitement to work, under which he had commenced, had been withdrawn4 from him; and under these circumstances he was not inclined to devote himself exclusively to studies which certainly were not to his taste. He did not condescend5 again to ask Caroline to revoke6 her sentence; he pressed now for no marriage; but he made it quite apparent that all the changes in himself for the worse—and there had been changes for the worse—were owing to her obstinacy7.
He was now living a life of dissipation. I do not intend that it should be understood that he utterly8 gave himself up to pleasures disgraceful in themselves, that he altogether abandoned the reins9, and allowed himself to live such a life as is passed by some young men in London. His tastes and appetites were too high for this. He did not sink into a slough10 of despond. He did not become filthy11 and vicious, callous12 and bestial13; but he departed very widely astray from those rules which governed him during his first six months in London.
All this was well known at Littlebath; nor did Bertram at all endeavour to conceal14 the truth. Indeed, it may be said of him, that he never concealed15 anything. In this especial case he took a pride in letting Caroline know the full extent of the evil she had done.
It was a question with them whether he had not now given up the bar as a profession altogether. He did not say that he had done so, and it was certainly his intention to keep his terms, and to be called; but he had now no longer a legal Gamaliel. Some time in the April of this year, Mr. Die had written to him a very kind little note, begging him to call one special morning at the chambers16 in Stone Buildings, if not very inconvenient17 to him. Bertram did call, and Mr. Die, with many professions of regard and regret, honestly returned to him his money paid for that year's tutelage. "It had been," he said, "a pleasure and a pride to him to have Mr. Bertram in his chambers; and would still be so to have him there again. But he could not take a gentleman's money under a false pretence18; as it seemed to be no longer Mr. Bertram's intention to attend there, he must beg to refund19 it." And he did refund it accordingly. This also was made known to the ladies at Littlebath.
He was engaged, he had said, on other matters. This also was true. During the first six months of his anger, he had been content to be idle; but idleness did not suit him, so he sat himself down and wrote a book. He published this book without his name, but he told them at Littlebath of his authorship; and some one also told of it at Oxford20. The book—or bookling, for it consisted but of one small demy-octavo volume—was not such as delighted his friends either at Littlebath or at Oxford, or even at those two Hampshire parsonages. At Littlebath it made Miss Baker's hair stand on end, and at Oxford it gave rise to a suggestion in some orthodox quarters that Mr. Bertram should be requested to resign his fellowship.
It has been told how, sitting on the Mount of Olives, he had been ready to devote himself to the service of the church to which he belonged. Could his mind have been known at that time, how proud might one have been of him! His mind was not then known; but now, after a lapse21 of two years, he made it as it were public, and Oriel was by no means proud of him.
The name of his little book was a very awful name. It was called the "Romance of Scripture22." He began in his first chapter with an earnest remonstrance23 against that condemnation24 which he knew the injustice25 of the world would pronounce against him. There was nothing in his book, he said, to warrant any man in accusing him of unbelief. Let those who were so inclined to accuse him read and judge. He had called things by their true names, and that doubtless by some would be imputed27 to him as a sin. But it would be found that he had gone no further in impugning28 the truth of Scripture than many other writers before him, some of whom had since been rewarded for their writings by high promotion29 in the church. The bishops30' bench was the reward for orthodoxy; but there had been a taste for liberal deans. He had gone no further, he said, than many deans.
It was acknowledged, he went on to say, that all Scripture statements could not now be taken as true to the letter; particularly not as true to the letter as now adopted by Englishmen. It seemed to him that the generality of his countrymen were of opinion that the inspired writers had themselves written in English. It was forgotten that they were Orientals, who wrote in the language natural to them, with the customary grandiloquence31 of orientalism, with the poetic32 exaggeration which, in the East, was the breath of life. It was forgotten also that they wrote in ignorance of those natural truths which men had now acquired by experience and induction33, and not by revelation. Their truth was the truth of heaven, not the truth of earth. No man thought that the sun in those days did rise and set, moving round the earth, because a prolongation of the day had been described by the sun standing34 still upon Gibeon. And then he took the book of Job, and measured that by the light of his own candle—and so on.
The book was undoubtedly35 clever, and men read it. Women also read it, and began to talk, some of them at least, of the blindness of their mothers who had not had wit to see that these old chronicles were very much as other old chronicles. "The Romance of Scripture" was to be seen frequently in booksellers' advertisements, and Mr. Mudie told how he always had two thousand copies of it on his shelves. So our friend did something in the world; but what he did do was unfortunately not applauded by his friends.
Harcourt very plainly told him that a man who scribbled36 never did any good at the bar. The two trades, he said, were not compatible.
"No," said George, "I believe not. An author must be nothing if he do not love truth; a barrister must be nothing if he do." Harcourt was no whit37 annoyed by the repartee38, but having given his warning, went his way to his work.
It was very well known that the "Romance of Scripture" was Bertram's work, and there was a comfortable row about it at Oxford. The row was all private, of course—as was necessary, the book having been published without the author's name. But much was said, and many letters were written. Bertram, in writing to the friend at Oriel who took up the cudgels in his defence, made three statements. First, that no one at Oxford had a right to suppose that he was the author. Second, that he was the author, and that no one at Oxford had a right to find fault with what he had written. Thirdly, that it was quite a matter of indifference39 to him who did find fault. To this, however, he added, that he was ready to resign his fellowship to-morrow if the Common-room at Oriel wished to get rid of him.
So the matter rested—for awhile. Those who at this time knew Bertram best were confident enough that his belief was shaken, in spite of the remonstrance so loudly put forth40 in his first pages. He had intended to be honest in his remonstrance; but it is not every man who exactly knows what he does believe. Every man! Is there, one may almost ask, any man who has such knowledge? We all believe in the resurrection of the body; we say so at least, but what do we believe by it?
Men may be firm believers and yet doubt some Bible statements—doubt the letter of such statements. But men who are firm believers will not be those to put forth their doubts with all their eloquence41. Such men, if they devote their time to Scripture history, will not be arrested by the sun's standing on Gibeon. If they speak out at all, they will speak out rather as to all they do believe than as to the little that they doubt. It was soon known to Bertram's world that those who regarded him as a freethinker did him no great injustice.
This and other things made them very unhappy at Littlebath. The very fact of George having written such a book nearly scared Miss Baker out of her wits. She, according to her own lights, would have placed freethinkers in the same category with murderers, regicides, and horrid42 mysterious sinners who commit crimes too dreadful for women to think of. She would not believe that Bertram was one of these; but it was fearful to think that any one should so call him. Caroline, perhaps, would not so much have minded this flaw in her future husband's faith if it had not been proof of his unsteadiness, of his unfitness for the world's battle. She remembered what he had said to her two years since on the Mount of Olives; and then thought of what he was saying now. Everything with him was impulse and enthusiasm. All judgment43 was wanting. How should such as he get on in the world? And had she indissolubly linked her lot to that of one who was so incapable45 of success? No; indissolubly she had not so linked it; not as yet.
One night she opened her mind to her aunt, and spoke46 very seriously of her position. "I hardly know what I ought to do," she said. "I know how much I owe him; I know how much he has a right to expect from me. And I would pay him all I owe; I would do my duty by him even at the sacrifice of myself if I could plainly see what my duty is."
"But, Caroline, do you wish to give him up?"
"No, not if I could keep him; keep him as he was. My high hopes are done with; my ambition is over; I no longer look for much. But I would fain know that he still loves me before I marry him. I would wish to be sure that he means to live with me. In his present mood, how can I know aught of him? how be sure of anything?"
Her aunt, after remaining for some half-hour in consideration, at last and with reluctance47 gave her advice.
"It all but breaks my heart to say so; but, Caroline, I think I would abandon it: I think I would ask him to release me from my promise."
It may well be imagined that Miss Waddington was not herself when she declared that her high hopes were done with, that her ambition was over. She was not herself. Anxiety, sorrow, and doubt—doubt as to the man whom she had pledged herself to love, whom she did love—had made her ill, and she was not herself. She had become thin and pale, and was looking old and wan44. She sat silent for awhile, leaning with her head on her hand, and made no answer to her aunt's suggestion.
"I really would, Caroline; indeed, I would. I know you are not happy as you are."
"Happy!"
"You are looking wretchedly ill, too. I know all this is wearing you. Take my advice, Caroline, and write to him."
"There are two reasons against it, aunt; two strong reasons."
"What reasons, love?"
"In the first place, I love him." Aunt Mary sighed. She had no other answer but a sigh to give to this. "And in the next place, I have no right to ask anything of him."
"Why not, Caroline?"
"He made his request to me, and I refused it. Had I consented to marry him last year, all this would have been different. I intended to do right, and even now I do not think that I was wrong. But I cannot impute26 fault to him. He does all this in order that I may impute it, and that then he may have his revenge."
Nothing more was said on the matter at that time, and things went on for awhile again in the same unsatisfactory state.
Early in the summer, Miss Waddington and her aunt went up for a few weeks to London. It had been Miss Baker's habit to spend some days at Hadley about this time of the year. She suggested to Caroline, that instead of her doing so, they should both go for a week or so to London. She thought that the change would be good for her niece, and she thought also, though of this she said nothing, that Caroline would see something of her lover. If he were not to be given up, it would be well—so Miss Baker thought—that this marriage should be delayed no longer. Bertram was determined48 to prove that marriage was necessary to tame him; he had proved it—at any rate to Miss Baker's satisfaction. There would now be money enough to live on, as uncle Bertram's two thousand pounds had been promised for this summer. On this little scheme Miss Baker went to work.
Caroline made no opposition49 to the London plan. She said nothing about George in connection with it; but her heart was somewhat softened50, and she wished to see him.
Miss Baker therefore wrote up for rooms. She would naturally, one would say, have written to George, but there were now little jealousies51 and commencements of hot blood even between them. George, though still Caroline's engaged lover, was known to have some bitter feelings, and was believed perhaps by Miss Baker to be more bitter than he really was. So the lodgings52 were taken without any reference to him. When they reached town they found that he was abroad.
Then Miss Waddington was really angry. They had no right, it is true, to be annoyed in that he was not there to meet them. They had not given him the opportunity. But it did appear to them that, circumstanced as they were, considering the acknowledged engagement between them, he was wrong to leave the country without letting them have a word to say whither he was going or for how long. It was nearly a fortnight since he had written to Caroline, and, for anything they knew, it might be months before she again heard from him.
It was then that they sent for Harcourt, and at this period that they became so intimate with him. Bertram had told him of this foreign trip, but only a day or two before he had taken his departure. It was just at this time that there had been the noise about the "Romance of Scripture." Bertram had defended himself in one or two newspapers, had written his defiant53 letter to his friend at Oxford, and then started to meet his father at Paris. He was going no further, and might be back in a week. This however must be uncertain, as his return would depend on that of Sir Lionel. Sir Lionel intended to come to London with him.
Mr. Harcourt was very attentive54 to them—in spite of his being at that time so useful a public man. He was very attentive to both, being almost as civil to the elder lady as he was to the younger, which, for an Englishman, showed very good breeding. By degrees they both began to regard him with confidence—with sufficient confidence to talk to him of Bertram; with sufficient confidence even to tell him of all their fears. By degrees Caroline would talk to him alone, and when once she permitted herself to do so, she concealed nothing.
Harcourt said not a word against his friend. That friend himself might perhaps have thought that his friend, speaking of him behind his back, might have spoken more warmly in his praise. But it was hard at present to say much that should be true in Bertram's praise. He was not living in a wise or prudent55 manner; not preparing himself in any way to live as a man should live by the sweat of his brow. Harcourt could not say much in his favour. That Bertram was clever, honest, true, and high-spirited, that Miss Waddington knew; that Miss Baker knew: what they wanted to learn was, that he was making prudent use of these high qualities. Harcourt could not say that he was doing so.
"That he will fall on his legs at last," said Harcourt once when he was alone with Caroline, "I do not doubt; with his talent, and his high, honest love of virtue56, it is all but impossible that he should throw himself away. But the present moment is of such vital importance! It is so hard to make up for the loss even of twelve months!"
"I am sure it is," said Caroline; "but I would not care for that so much if I thought—"
"Thought what, Miss Waddington?"
"That his disposition57 was not altered. He was so frank, so candid58, so—so—so affectionate."
"It is the manner of men to change in that respect. They become, perhaps, not less affectionate, but less demonstrative."
To this Miss Waddington answered nothing. It might probably be so. It was singular enough that she, with her ideas, should be complaining to a perfect stranger of an uncaressing, unloving manner in her lover; she who had professed59 to herself that she lived so little for love! Had George been even kneeling at her knee, her heart would have been stern enough. It was only by feeling a woman's wrong that she found herself endowed with a woman's privilege.
"I do not think that Bertram's heart is changed," continued Harcourt; "he is doubtless very angry that his requests to you last summer were not complied with."
"But how could we have married then, Mr. Harcourt? Think what our income would have been; and he as yet without any profession!"
"I am not blaming you. I am not taking his part against you. I only say that he is very angry."
"But does he bear malice60, Mr. Harcourt?"
"No, he does not bear malice; men may be angry without bearing malice. He thinks that you have shown a want of confidence in him, and are still showing it."
"And has he not justified61 that want of confidence?"
To this Harcourt answered nothing, but he smiled slightly.
"Well, has he not? What could I have done? What ought I to have done? Tell me, Mr. Harcourt. It distresses62 me beyond measure that you should think I have been to blame."
"I do not think so; far from it, Miss Waddington. Bertram is my dear friend, and I know his fine qualities; but I cannot but own that he justified you in that temporary want of confidence which you now express."
Mr. Harcourt, though a member of Parliament and a learned pundit63, was nevertheless a very young man. He was an unmarried man also, and a man not yet engaged to be married. It may be surmised64 that George Bertram would not have been pleased had he known the sort of conversations that were held between his dear friend and his betrothed65 bride. And yet Caroline at this period loved him better than ever she had done.
A week or ten days after this three letters arrived from Bertram, one for Caroline, one for Miss Baker, and one for Harcourt. Caroline and her aunt had lingered in London, both doubtless in the hope that Bertram would return. There can be little doubt now that had he returned, and had he been anxious for the marriage, Miss Waddington would have consented. She was becoming ill at ease, dissatisfied, what the world calls heart-broken. Now that she was tried, she found herself not to be so strong in her own resolves. She was not sick from love alone; her position was altogether wretched—though she was engaged, and persisted in adhering to her engagement, she felt and often expressed to her aunt a presentiment66 that she and Bertram would never be married.
They waited for awhile in the hope that he might return; but instead of himself, there came three letters. Harcourt, it seemed, had written to him, and hence arose these epistles. That to Miss Baker was very civil and friendly. Had that come alone it would have created no complaint. He explained to her that had he expected her visit to London, he would have endeavoured to meet her; that he could not now return, as he had promised to remain awhile with his father. Sir Lionel had been unwell, and the waters of Vichy had been recommended. He was going to Vichy with Sir Lionel, and would not be in London till August. His plans after that were altogether unsettled, but he would not be long in London before he came to Littlebath. Such was his letter to Miss Baker.
To Harcourt he wrote very shortly. He was obliged to him for the interest he took in the welfare of Miss Waddington, and for his attention to Miss Baker. That was nearly all he said. There was not an angry word in the letter; but, nevertheless, his friend was able to deduce from it, short as it was, that Bertram was angry.
But on the head of his betrothed he poured out the vial of his wrath67. He had never before scolded her, had never written in an angry tone. Now in very truth he did so. An angry letter, especially if the writer be well loved, is so much fiercer than any angry speech, so much more unendurable! There the words remain, scorching69, not to be explained away, not to be atoned70 for by a kiss, not to be softened down by the word of love that may follow so quickly upon spoken anger. Heaven defend me from angry letters! They should never be written, unless to schoolboys and men at college; and not often to them if they be any way tender hearted. This at least should be a rule through the letter-writing world: that no angry letter be posted till four-and-twenty hours shall have elapsed since it was written. We all know how absurd is that other rule, that of saying the alphabet when you are angry. Trash! Sit down and write your letter; write it with all the venom71 in your power; spit out your spleen at the fullest; 'twill do you good; you think you have been injured; say all that you can say with all your poisoned eloquence, and gratify yourself by reading it while your temper is still hot. Then put it in your desk; and, as a matter of course, burn it before breakfast the following morning. Believe me that you will then have a double gratification.
A pleasant letter I hold to be the pleasantest thing that this world has to give. It should be good-humoured; witty72 it may be, but with a gentle diluted73 wit. Concocted74 brilliancy will spoil it altogether. Not long, so that it be tedious in the reading; nor brief, so that the delight suffice not to make itself felt. It should be written specially68 for the reader, and should apply altogether to him, and not altogether to any other. It should never flatter. Flattery is always odious75. But underneath76 the visible stream of pungent77 water there may be the slightest under-current of eulogy78, so that it be not seen, but only understood. Censure79 it may contain freely, but censure which in arraigning80 the conduct implies no doubt as to the intellect. It should be legibly written, so that it may be read with comfort; but no more than that. Caligraphy betokens81 caution, and if it be not light in hand it is nothing. That it be fairly grammatical and not ill spelt the writer owes to his schoolmaster; but this should come of habit, not of care. Then let its page be soiled by no business; one touch of utility will destroy it all.
If you ask for examples, let it be as unlike Walpole as may be. If you can so write it that Lord Byron might have written it, you will not be very far from high excellence83.
But, above all things, see that it be good-humoured.
Bertram's letter to the lady that he loved was by no means one of this sort. In the first place, it was not good-humoured; it was very far from being so. Had it been so, it would utterly have belied84 his feelings. Harcourt had so written to him as to make him quite clearly understand that all his sins and—which was much more to him—all his loves had been fully85 discussed between his friend and Miss Waddington—between his Caroline and another man. To the pride of his heart nothing could be more revolting. It was as though his dearest possession had been ransacked86 in his absence, and rifled and squandered87 by the very guardian88 to whom he had left the key. There had been sore misgivings89, sore differences between him and Caroline; but, nevertheless, she had had all his heart. Now, in his absence, she had selected his worldly friend Harcourt, and discussed that possession and its flaws with him! There was that in all this of which he could not write with good-humour. Nevertheless, had he kept his letter to the second morning, it may probably be said that he would have hesitated to send it.
"My dearest Caroline," it began. Now I put it to all lovers whether, when they wish to please, they ever write in such manner to their sweethearts. Is it not always, "My own love?" "Dearest love?" "My own sweet pet?" But that use of the Christian90 name, which is so delicious in the speaking during the first days of intimacy91, does it not always betoken82 something stern at the beginning of a lover's letter? Ah, it may betoken something very stern! "My dearest Jane, I am sorry to say it, but I could not approve of the way in which you danced with Major Simkins last night." "My dearest Lucy, I was at Kensington-garden gate yesterday at four, and remained absolutely till five. You really ought—." Is not that always the angry lover's tone?
I fear that I must give Bertram's letter entire to make the matter sufficiently92 clear.
My dearest Caroline,
I learn from Mr. Harcourt that you and Miss Baker are in town, and I am of course sorry to miss you. Would it not have been better that I should have heard this from yourself?
Mr. Harcourt tells me that you are dissatisfied; and I understand from his letter that you have explained your dissatisfaction very fully to him. It might have been better, I think, that the explanation should have been made to me; or had you chosen to complain, you might have done so to your aunt, or to your grandfather. I cannot think that you were at liberty to complain of me to Mr. Harcourt. My wish is, that you have no further conversation with him on our joint93 concerns. It is not seemly; and, if feminine, is at any rate not ladylike.
I am driven to defend myself. What is it of which you complain, or have a right to complain? We became engaged more than twelve months since, certainly with no understanding that the matter was to stand over for three years. My understanding was that we were to be married as soon as it might reasonably be arranged. You then took on yourself to order this delay, and kindly94 offered to give me up as an alternative. I could not force you to marry me; but I loved you too well, and trusted too much in your love to be able to think that that giving up was necessary. Perhaps I was wrong.
But the period of this wretched interval95 is at my own disposal. Had you married me, my time would have been yours. It would have been just that you should know how it was spent. Each would then have known so much of the other. But you have chosen that this should not be; and, therefore, I deny your right now to make inquiry96. If I have departed from any hopes you had formed, you have no one to blame but yourself.
You have said that I neglect you. I am ready to marry you to-morrow; I have been ready to do so any day since our engagement. You yourself know how much more than ready I have been. I do not profess3 to be a very painstaking97 lover; nay98, if you will, the life would bore me, even if in our case the mawkishness99 of the delay did not do more than bore. At any rate, I will not go through it. I loved, and do love you truly. I told you of it truly when I first knew it myself, and urged my suit till I had a definite answer. You accepted me, and now there needs be nothing further till we are married.
But I insist on this, that I will not have my affairs discussed by you with persons to whom you are a stranger.
You will see my letter to your aunt. I have told her that I will visit her at Littlebath as soon as I have returned to England.
Yours ever affectionately,
G. B.
This letter was a terrible blow to Caroline. It seemed to her to be almost incredible that she, she, Caroline Waddington, should be forced to receive such a letter as that under any circumstances and from any gentleman. Unseemly, unfeminine, unladylike! These were the epithets100 her lover used in addressing her. She was told that it bored him to play the lover; that his misconduct was her fault; and then she was accused of mawkishness! He was imperative101, too, in laying his orders to her. "I insist on this!" Was it incumbent102 on her to comply with his insistings?
Of course she showed the letter to her aunt, whose advice resulted in this—that it would be better that she should pocket the affront103 silently if she were not prepared to give up the engagement altogether. If she were so prepared, the letter doubtless would give her the opportunity.
And then Mr. Harcourt came to her while her anger was yet at the hottest. His manner was so kind, his temper so sweet, his attention so obliging, that she could not but be glad to see him. If George loved her, if he wished to guide her, wished to persuade her, why was not he at her right hand? Mr. Harcourt was there instead. It did not bore him, multifold as his duties were, to be near her.
Then she committed the first great fault of which in this history she will be shown as being guilty. She showed her lover's letter to Mr. Harcourt. Of course this was not done without some previous converse104; till he had found out that she was wretched, and inquired as to her wretchedness; till she had owned that she was ill with sorrow, beside herself, and perplexed105 in the extreme. Then at last, saying to herself that she cared not now to obey Mr. Bertram, she showed the letter to Mr. Harcourt.
"It is ungenerous," said Harcourt.
"It is ungentlemanlike," said Caroline. "But it was written in passion, and I shall not notice it." And so she and Miss Baker went back again to Littlebath.
It was September before Bertram returned, and then Sir Lionel came with him. We have not space to tell much of what had passed between the father and the son; but they reached London apparently106 on good terms with each other, and Sir Lionel settled himself in a bedroom near to his son's chambers, and near also to his own club. There was, however, this great ground of disagreement between them. Sir Lionel was very anxious that his son should borrow money from Mr. Bertram, and George very resolutely107 declined to do so. It was now clear enough to Sir Lionel that his son could not show his filial disposition by advancing on his own behalf much money to his father, as he was himself by no means in affluent108 circumstances.
He went down to Littlebath, and took his father with him. The meeting between the lovers was again unloverlike; but nothing could be more affectionate than Sir Lionel. He took Caroline in his arms and kissed her, called her his dear daughter, and praised her beauty. I believe he kissed Miss Baker. Indeed, I know that he made an attempt to do so; and I think it not at all improbable that in the overflowing109 of his affectionate heart, he made some overture110 of the same kind to the exceedingly pretty parlour-maid who waited upon them. Whatever might be thought of George, Sir Lionel soon became popular there, and his popularity was not decreased when he declared that he would spend the remainder of the autumn, and perhaps the winter, at Littlebath.
He did stay there for the winter. He had a year's furlough, during which he was to remain in England with full pay, and he made it known to the ladies at Littlebath that the chief object of his getting this leave was to be present at the nuptials111 of dear Caroline and his son. On one occasion he borrowed thirty pounds from Miss Baker; a circumstance which their intimacy, perhaps, made excusable. He happened, however, to mention this little occurrence casually112 to his son, and George at once repaid that debt, poor as he was at the time.
"You could have that and whatever more you chose merely for the asking," said Sir Lionel on that occasion, in a tone almost of reproach.
And so the winter passed away. George, however, was not idle. He fully intended to be called to the bar in the following autumn, and did, to a certain extent, renew his legal studies. He did not return to Mr. Die, prevented possibly by the difficulty he would have in preparing the necessary funds. But his great work through the winter and in the early spring was another small volume, which he published in March, and which he called, "The Fallacies of Early History."
We need not give any minute criticism on this work. It will suffice to say that the orthodox world declared it to be much more heterodox than the last work. Heterodox, indeed! It was so bad, they said, that there was not the least glimmer113 of any doxy whatever left about it. The early history of which he spoke was altogether Bible history, and the fallacies to which he alluded114 were the plainest statements of the book of Genesis. Nay, he had called the whole story of Creation a myth; the whole story as there given: so at least said the rabbis of Oxford, and among them outspoke more loudly than any others the outraged115 and very learned rabbis of Oriel.
Bertram however denied this. He had, he said, not called anything a myth. There was the printed book, and one might have supposed that it would be easy enough to settle this question. But it was far from being so. The words myth and mythical116 were used half a dozen times, and the rabbis declared that they were applied117 to the statements of Scripture. Bertram declared that they were applied to the appearance those statements must have as at present put before the English world. Then he said something not complimentary118 to the translators, and something also very uncivil as to want of intelligence on the part of the Oxford rabbis. The war raged warmly, and was taken up by the metropolitan119 press, till Bertram became a lion—a lion, however, without a hide, for in the middle of the dispute he felt himself called on to resign his fellowship.
He lost that hide; but he got another in lieu which his friends assured him was of a much warmer texture120. His uncle had taken considerable interest in this dispute, alleging121 all through that the Oxford men were long-eared asses122 and bigoted123 monks124. It may be presumed that his own orthodoxy was not of a high class. He had never liked George's fellowship, and had always ridiculed125 the income which he received from it. Directly he heard that it had been resigned, he gave his nephew a thousand pounds. He said nothing about it; he merely told Mr. Pritchett to arrange the matter.
Sir Lionel was delighted. As to the question of orthodoxy he was perfectly126 indifferent. It was nothing to him whether his son called the book of Genesis a myth or a gospel; but he had said much, very much as to the folly127 of risking the fellowship; and more, a great deal more, as to the madness of throwing it away. But now he was quite ready to own himself wrong, and did do so in the most straightforward128 manner. After all, what was a fellowship to a man just about to be married? In his position Bertram had of course been free to speak out. If, indeed, there had been any object in holding to the college, then the expression of such opinions, let alone their publication, would not have been judicious129.
As it was, however, nothing could have been more lucky. His son had shown his independence. The rich uncle had shown the warm interest which he still took in his nephew, and Sir Lionel was able to borrow two hundred and fifty pounds, a sum of money which, at the present moment, was very grateful to him. Bertram's triumph was gilded130 on all sides; for the booksellers had paid him handsomely for his infidel manuscript. Infidelity that can make itself successful will, at any rate, bring an income.
And this brings us to the period at which we may resume our story. One word we must say as to Caroline. During the winter she had seen her lover repeatedly, and had written to him repeatedly. Their engagement, therefore, had by no means been broken. But their meetings were cold, and their letters equally so. She would have married him at once now if he would ask her. But he would not ask her. He was quite willing to marry her if she would herself say that she was willing so far to recede131 from her former resolution. But she could not bring herself to do this. Each was too proud to make the first concession132 to the other, and therefore no concession was made by either.
Sir Lionel once attempted to interfere133; but he failed. George gave him to understand that he could manage his own affairs himself. When a son is frequently called on to lend money to his father, and that father is never called on to repay it, the parental134 authority is apt to grow dull. It had become very dull in this case.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
sundry
|
|
| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
baker
|
|
| n.面包师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
profess
|
|
| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
withdrawn
|
|
| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
condescend
|
|
| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
revoke
|
|
| v.废除，取消，撤回 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
obstinacy
|
|
| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
reins
|
|
| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
slough
|
|
| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
filthy
|
|
| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
callous
|
|
| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
bestial
|
|
| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
chambers
|
|
| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
inconvenient
|
|
| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
pretence
|
|
| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
refund
|
|
| v.退还，偿还；n.归还，偿还额，退款 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
lapse
|
|
| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
scripture
|
|
| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
remonstrance
|
|
| n抗议，抱怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
condemnation
|
|
| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
impute
|
|
| v.归咎于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
imputed
|
|
| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
impugning
|
|
| v.非难，指谪( impugn的现在分词 )；对…有怀疑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
29
promotion
|
|
| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
bishops
|
|
| （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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
grandiloquence
|
|
| n.夸张之言，豪言壮语，豪语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
32
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
induction
|
|
| n.感应，感应现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
undoubtedly
|
|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
scribbled
|
|
| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
whit
|
|
| n.一点，丝毫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
repartee
|
|
| n.机敏的应答 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
eloquence
|
|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
wan
|
|
| (wide area network)广域网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
reluctance
|
|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
softened
|
|
| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
jealousies
|
|
| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
lodgings
|
|
| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
defiant
|
|
| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
attentive
|
|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
prudent
|
|
| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
candid
|
|
| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
distresses
|
|
| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
pundit
|
|
| n.博学之人；权威 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
surmised
|
|
| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
betrothed
|
|
| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
presentiment
|
|
| n.预感，预觉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
scorching
|
|
| adj. 灼热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
atoned
|
|
| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
venom
|
|
| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
witty
|
|
| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
diluted
|
|
| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
concocted
|
|
| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
underneath
|
|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
pungent
|
|
| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
eulogy
|
|
| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
censure
|
|
| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
arraigning
|
|
| v.告发( arraign的现在分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
81
betokens
|
|
| v.预示，表示( betoken的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
betoken
|
|
| v.预示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
excellence
|
|
| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
belied
|
|
| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
ransacked
|
|
| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
squandered
|
|
| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
guardian
|
|
| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
misgivings
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
joint
|
|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
painstaking
|
|
| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
mawkishness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
epithets
|
|
| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
imperative
|
|
| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
incumbent
|
|
| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
affront
|
|
| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
converse
|
|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
perplexed
|
|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
resolutely
|
|
| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
affluent
|
|
| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
overflowing
|
|
| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
overture
|
|
| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
nuptials
|
|
| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
casually
|
|
| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
glimmer
|
|
| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
outraged
|
|
| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
mythical
|
|
| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
complimentary
|
|
| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
metropolitan
|
|
| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
texture
|
|
| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
alleging
|
|
| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
asses
|
|
| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
bigoted
|
|
| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
monks
|
|
| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
ridiculed
|
|
| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
straightforward
|
|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
judicious
|
|
| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
gilded
|
|
| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
recede
|
|
| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
concession
|
|
| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
interfere
|
|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
parental
|
|
| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |