Mention has been already made more than once, of a certain Dragon who swung and creaked complainingly before the village alehouse door. A faded, and an ancient dragon he was; and many a wintry storm of rain, snow, sleet1, and hail, had changed his colour from a gaudy2 blue to a faint lack-lustre shade of grey. But there he hung; rearing, in a state of monstrous3 imbecility, on his hind4 legs; waxing, with every month that passed, so much more dim and shapeless, that as you gazed at him on one side of the sign-board it seemed as if he must be gradually melting through it, and coming out upon the other.
He was a courteous5 and considerate dragon, too; or had been in his distincter days; for in the midst of his rampant6 feebleness, he kept one of his forepaws near his nose, as though he would say, ‘Don’t mind me—it’s only my fun;’ while he held out the other in polite and hospitable7 entreaty8. Indeed it must be conceded to the whole brood of dragons of modern times, that they have made a great advance in civilisation9 and refinement10. They no longer demand a beautiful virgin11 for breakfast every morning, with as much regularity12 as any tame single gentleman expects his hot roll, but rest content with the society of idle bachelors and roving married men; and they are now remarkable13 rather for holding aloof14 from the softer sex and discouraging their visits (especially on Saturday nights), than for rudely insisting on their company without any reference to their inclinations15, as they are known to have done in days of yore.
Nor is this tribute to the reclaimed17 animals in question so wide a digression into the realms of Natural History as it may, at first sight, appear to be; for the present business of these pages in with the dragon who had his retreat in Mr Pecksniff’s neighbourhood, and that courteous animal being already on the carpet, there is nothing in the way of its immediate18 transaction.
For many years, then, he had swung and creaked, and flapped himself about, before the two windows of the best bedroom of that house of entertainment to which he lent his name; but never in all his swinging, creaking, and flapping, had there been such a stir within its dingy19 precincts, as on the evening next after that upon which the incidents, detailed20 in the last chapter occurred; when there was such a hurrying up and down stairs of feet, such a glancing of lights, such a whispering of voices, such a smoking and sputtering21 of wood newly lighted in a damp chimney, such an airing of linen22, such a scorching23 smell of hot warming-pans, such a domestic bustle24 and to-do, in short, as never dragon, griffin, unicorn25, or other animal of that species presided over, since they first began to interest themselves in household affairs.
An old gentleman and a young lady, travelling, unattended, in a rusty27 old chariot with post-horses; coming nobody knew whence and going nobody knew whither; had turned out of the high road, and driven unexpectedly to the Blue Dragon; and here was the old gentleman, who had taken this step by reason of his sudden illness in the carriage, suffering the most horrible cramps28 and spasms29, yet protesting and vowing30 in the very midst of his pain, that he wouldn’t have a doctor sent for, and wouldn’t take any remedies but those which the young lady administered from a small medicine-chest, and wouldn’t, in a word, do anything but terrify the landlady31 out of her five wits, and obstinately32 refuse compliance33 with every suggestion that was made to him.
Of all the five hundred proposals for his relief which the good woman poured out in less than half an hour, he would entertain but one. That was that he should go to bed. And it was in the preparation of his bed and the arrangement of his chamber34, that all the stir was made in the room behind the Dragon.
He was, beyond all question, very ill, and suffered exceedingly; not the less, perhaps, because he was a strong and vigorous old man, with a will of iron, and a voice of brass35. But neither the apprehensions36 which he plainly entertained, at times, for his life, nor the great pain he underwent, influenced his resolution in the least degree. He would have no person sent for. The worse he grew, the more rigid37 and inflexible38 he became in his determination. If they sent for any person to attend him, man, woman, or child, he would leave the house directly (so he told them), though he quitted it on foot, and died upon the threshold of the door.
Now, there being no medical practitioner39 actually resident in the village, but a poor apothecary40 who was also a grocer and general dealer41, the landlady had, upon her own responsibility, sent for him, in the very first burst and outset of the disaster. Of course it followed, as a necessary result of his being wanted, that he was not at home. He had gone some miles away, and was not expected home until late at night; so the landlady, being by this time pretty well beside herself, dispatched the same messenger in all haste for Mr Pecksniff, as a learned man who could bear a deal of responsibility, and a moral man who could administer a world of comfort to a troubled mind. That her guest had need of some efficient services under the latter head was obvious enough from the restless expressions, importing, however, rather a worldly than a spiritual anxiety, to which he gave frequent utterance43.
From this last-mentioned secret errand, the messenger returned with no better news than from the first; Mr Pecksniff was not at home. However, they got the patient into bed without him; and in the course of two hours, he gradually became so far better that there were much longer intervals44 than at first between his terms of suffering. By degrees, he ceased to suffer at all; though his exhaustion45 was occasionally so great that it suggested hardly less alarm than his actual endurance had done.
It was in one of his intervals of repose46, when, looking round with great caution, and reaching uneasily out of his nest of pillows, he endeavoured, with a strange air of secrecy47 and distrust, to make use of the writing materials which he had ordered to be placed on a table beside him, that the young lady and the mistress of the Blue Dragon found themselves sitting side by side before the fire in the sick chamber.
The mistress of the Blue Dragon was in outward appearance just what a landlady should be: broad, buxom48, comfortable, and good looking, with a face of clear red and white, which, by its jovial49 aspect, at once bore testimony50 to her hearty51 participation52 in the good things of the larder53 and cellar, and to their thriving and healthful influences. She was a widow, but years ago had passed through her state of weeds, and burst into flower again; and in full bloom she had continued ever since; and in full bloom she was now; with roses on her ample skirts, and roses on her bodice, roses in her cap, roses in her cheeks,—aye, and roses, worth the gathering54 too, on her lips, for that matter. She had still a bright black eye, and jet black hair; was comely55, dimpled, plump, and tight as a gooseberry; and though she was not exactly what the world calls young, you may make an affidavit56, on trust, before any mayor or magistrate57 in Christendom, that there are a great many young ladies in the world (blessings on them one and all!) whom you wouldn’t like half as well, or admire half as much, as the beaming hostess of the Blue Dragon.
As this fair matron sat beside the fire, she glanced occasionally with all the pride of ownership, about the room; which was a large apartment, such as one may see in country places, with a low roof and a sunken flooring, all downhill from the door, and a descent of two steps on the inside so exquisitely58 unexpected, that strangers, despite the most elaborate cautioning, usually dived in head first, as into a plunging-bath. It was none of your frivolous59 and preposterously60 bright bedrooms, where nobody can close an eye with any kind of propriety61 or decent regard to the association of ideas; but it was a good, dull, leaden, drowsy62 place, where every article of furniture reminded you that you came there to sleep, and that you were expected to go to sleep. There was no wakeful reflection of the fire there, as in your modern chambers63, which upon the darkest nights have a watchful64 consciousness of French polish; the old Spanish mahogany winked65 at it now and then, as a dozing66 cat or dog might, nothing more. The very size and shape, and hopeless immovability of the bedstead, and wardrobe, and in a minor67 degree of even the chairs and tables, provoked sleep; they were plainly apoplectic68 and disposed to snore. There were no staring portraits to remonstrate69 with you for being lazy; no round-eyed birds upon the curtains, disgustingly wide awake, and insufferably prying70. The thick neutral hangings, and the dark blinds, and the heavy heap of bed-clothes, were all designed to hold in sleep, and act as nonconductors to the day and getting up. Even the old stuffed fox upon the top of the wardrobe was devoid71 of any spark of vigilance, for his glass eye had fallen out, and he slumbered72 as he stood.
The wandering attention of the mistress of the Blue Dragon roved to these things but twice or thrice, and then for but an instant at a time. It soon deserted73 them, and even the distant bed with its strange burden, for the young creature immediately before her, who, with her downcast eyes intently fixed74 upon the fire, sat wrapped in silent meditation75.
She was very young; apparently76 no more than seventeen; timid and shrinking in her manner, and yet with a greater share of self possession and control over her emotions than usually belongs to a far more advanced period of female life. This she had abundantly shown, but now, in her tending of the sick gentleman. She was short in stature78; and her figure was slight, as became her years; but all the charms of youth and maidenhood79 set it off, and clustered on her gentle brow. Her face was very pale, in part no doubt from recent agitation80. Her dark brown hair, disordered from the same cause, had fallen negligently82 from its bonds, and hung upon her neck; for which instance of its waywardness no male observer would have had the heart to blame it.
Her attire83 was that of a lady, but extremely plain; and in her manner, even when she sat as still as she did then, there was an indefinable something which appeared to be in kindred with her scrupulously84 unpretending dress. She had sat, at first looking anxiously towards the bed; but seeing that the patient remained quiet, and was busy with his writing, she had softly moved her chair into its present place; partly, as it seemed, from an instinctive85 consciousness that he desired to avoid observation; and partly that she might, unseen by him, give some vent77 to the natural feelings she had hitherto suppressed.
Of all this, and much more, the rosy86 landlady of the Blue Dragon took as accurate note and observation as only woman can take of woman. And at length she said, in a voice too low, she knew, to reach the bed:
‘You have seen the gentleman in this way before, miss? Is he used to these attacks?’
‘I have seen him very ill before, but not so ill as he has been tonight.’
‘What a Providence87!’ said the landlady of the Dragon, ‘that you had the prescriptions88 and the medicines with you, miss!’
‘They are intended for such an emergency. We never travel without them.’
‘Oh!’ thought the hostess, ‘then we are in the habit of travelling, and of travelling together.’
She was so conscious of expressing this in her face, that meeting the young lady’s eyes immediately afterwards, and being a very honest hostess, she was rather confused.
‘The gentleman—your grandpapa’—she resumed, after a short pause, ‘being so bent89 on having no assistance, must terrify you very much, miss?’
‘I have been very much alarmed to-night. He—he is not my grandfather.’
‘Father, I should have said,’ returned the hostess, sensible of having made an awkward mistake.
‘Nor my father’ said the young lady. ‘Nor,’ she added, slightly smiling with a quick perception of what the landlady was going to add, ‘Nor my uncle. We are not related.’
‘Oh dear me!’ returned the landlady, still more embarrassed than before; ‘how could I be so very much mistaken; knowing, as anybody in their proper senses might that when a gentleman is ill, he looks so much older than he really is? That I should have called you “Miss,” too, ma’am!’ But when she had proceeded thus far, she glanced involuntarily at the third finger of the young lady’s left hand, and faltered90 again; for there was no ring upon it.
‘When I told you we were not related,’ said the other mildly, but not without confusion on her own part, ‘I meant not in any way. Not even by marriage. Did you call me, Martin?’
‘Call you?’ cried the old man, looking quickly up, and hurriedly drawing beneath the coverlet the paper on which he had been writing. ‘No.’
She had moved a pace or two towards the bed, but stopped immediately, and went no farther.
‘No,’ he repeated, with a petulant91 emphasis. ‘Why do you ask me? If I had called you, what need for such a question?’
‘It was the creaking of the sign outside, sir, I dare say,’ observed the landlady; a suggestion by the way (as she felt a moment after she had made it), not at all complimentary92 to the voice of the old gentleman.
‘No matter what, ma’am,’ he rejoined: ‘it wasn’t I. Why how you stand there, Mary, as if I had the plague! But they’re all afraid of me,’ he added, leaning helplessly backward on his pillow; ‘even she! There is a curse upon me. What else have I to look for?’
‘Oh dear, no. Oh no, I’m sure,’ said the good-tempered landlady, rising, and going towards him. ‘Be of better cheer, sir. These are only sick fancies.’
‘What are only sick fancies?’ he retorted. ‘What do you know about fancies? Who told you about fancies? The old story! Fancies!’
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‘Only see again there, how you take one up!’ said the mistress of the Blue Dragon, with unimpaired good humour. ‘Dear heart alive, there is no harm in the word, sir, if it is an old one. Folks in good health have their fancies, too, and strange ones, every day.’
Harmless as this speech appeared to be, it acted on the traveller’s distrust, like oil on fire. He raised his head up in the bed, and, fixing on her two dark eyes whose brightness was exaggerated by the paleness of his hollow cheeks, as they in turn, together with his straggling locks of long grey hair, were rendered whiter by the tight black velvet93 skullcap which he wore, he searched her face intently.
‘Ah! you begin too soon,’ he said, in so low a voice that he seemed to be thinking it, rather than addressing her. ‘But you lose no time. You do your errand, and you earn your fee. Now, who may be your client?’
The landlady looked in great astonishment94 at her whom he called Mary, and finding no rejoinder in the drooping95 face, looked back again at him. At first she had recoiled96 involuntarily, supposing him disordered in his mind; but the slow composure of his manner, and the settled purpose announced in his strong features, and gathering, most of all, about his puckered97 mouth, forbade the supposition.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘tell me who is it? Being here, it is not very hard for me to guess, you may suppose.’
‘Martin,’ interposed the young lady, laying her hand upon his arm; ‘reflect how short a time we have been in this house, and that even your name is unknown here.’
‘Unless,’ he said, ‘you—’ He was evidently tempted98 to express a suspicion of her having broken his confidence in favour of the landlady, but either remembering her tender nursing, or being moved in some sort by her face, he checked himself, and changing his uneasy posture100 in the bed, was silent.
‘There!’ said Mrs Lupin; for in that name the Blue Dragon was licensed101 to furnish entertainment, both to man and beast. ‘Now, you will be well again, sir. You forgot, for the moment, that there were none but friends here.’
‘Oh!’ cried the old man, moaning impatiently, as he tossed one restless arm upon the coverlet; ‘why do you talk to me of friends! Can you or anybody teach me to know who are my friends, and who my enemies?’
‘At least,’ urged Mrs Lupin, gently, ‘this young lady is your friend, I am sure.’
‘She has no temptation to be otherwise,’ cried the old man, like one whose hope and confidence were utterly102 exhausted103. ‘I suppose she is. Heaven knows. There, let me try to sleep. Leave the candle where it is.’
As they retired104 from the bed, he drew forth105 the writing which had occupied him so long, and holding it in the flame of the taper106 burnt it to ashes. That done, he extinguished the light, and turning his face away with a heavy sigh, drew the coverlet about his head, and lay quite still.
This destruction of the paper, both as being strangely inconsistent with the labour he had devoted107 to it, and as involving considerable danger of fire to the Dragon, occasioned Mrs Lupin not a little consternation108. But the young lady evincing no surprise, curiosity, or alarm, whispered her, with many thanks for her solicitude109 and company, that she would remain there some time longer; and that she begged her not to share her watch, as she was well used to being alone, and would pass the time in reading.
Mrs Lupin had her full share and dividend110 of that large capital of curiosity which is inherited by her sex, and at another time it might have been difficult so to impress this hint upon her as to induce her to take it. But now, in sheer wonder and amazement111 at these mysteries, she withdrew at once, and repairing straightway to her own little parlour below stairs, sat down in her easy-chair with unnatural112 composure. At this very crisis, a step was heard in the entry, and Mr Pecksniff, looking sweetly over the half-door of the bar, and into the vista113 of snug114 privacy beyond, murmured:
‘Good evening, Mrs Lupin!’
‘Oh dear me, sir!’ she cried, advancing to receive him, ‘I am so very glad you have come.’
‘And I am very glad I have come,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘if I can be of service. I am very glad I have come. What is the matter, Mrs Lupin?’
‘A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs, sir,’ said the tearful hostess.
‘A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs, has he?’ repeated Mr Pecksniff. ‘Well, well!’
Now there was nothing that one may call decidedly original in this remark, nor can it be exactly said to have contained any wise precept115 theretofore unknown to mankind, or to have opened any hidden source of consolation116; but Mr Pecksniff’s manner was so bland117, and he nodded his head so soothingly118, and showed in everything such an affable sense of his own excellence119, that anybody would have been, as Mrs Lupin was, comforted by the mere120 voice and presence of such a man; and, though he had merely said ‘a verb must agree with its nominative case in number and person, my good friend,’ or ‘eight times eight are sixty-four, my worthy121 soul,’ must have felt deeply grateful to him for his humanity and wisdom.
‘And how,’ asked Mr Pecksniff, drawing off his gloves and warming his hands before the fire, as benevolently122 as if they were somebody else’s, not his; ‘and how is he now?’
‘He is better, and quite tranquil,’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Very well! Ve-ry well!’
Here again, though the statement was Mrs Lupin’s and not Mr Pecksniff’s, Mr Pecksniff made it his own and consoled her with it. It was not much when Mrs Lupin said it, but it was a whole book when Mr Pecksniff said it. ‘I observe,’ he seemed to say, ‘and through me, morality in general remarks, that he is better and quite tranquil.’
‘There must be weighty matters on his mind, though,’ said the hostess, shaking her head, ‘for he talks, sir, in the strangest way you ever heard. He is far from easy in his thoughts, and wants some proper advice from those whose goodness makes it worth his having.’
‘Then,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘he is the sort of customer for me.’ But though he said this in the plainest language, he didn’t speak a word. He only shook his head; disparagingly124 of himself too.
‘I am afraid, sir,’ continued the landlady, first looking round to assure herself that there was nobody within hearing, and then looking down upon the floor. ‘I am very much afraid, sir, that his conscience is troubled by his not being related to—or—or even married to—a very young lady—’
‘Mrs Lupin!’ said Mr Pecksniff, holding up his hand with something in his manner as nearly approaching to severity as any expression of his, mild being that he was, could ever do. ‘Person! young person?’
‘A very young person,’ said Mrs Lupin, curtseying and blushing; ‘—I beg your pardon, sir, but I have been so hurried to-night, that I don’t know what I say—who is with him now.’
‘Who is with him now,’ ruminated126 Mr Pecksniff, warming his back (as he had warmed his hands) as if it were a widow’s back, or an orphan127’s back, or an enemy’s back, or a back that any less excellent man would have suffered to be cold. ‘Oh dear me, dear me!’
‘At the same time I am bound to say, and I do say with all my heart,’ observed the hostess, earnestly, ‘that her looks and manner almost disarm128 suspicion.’
‘Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,’ said Mr Pecksniff gravely, ‘is very natural.’
Touching129 which remark, let it be written down to their confusion, that the enemies of this worthy man unblushingly maintained that he always said of what was very bad, that it was very natural; and that he unconsciously betrayed his own nature in doing so.
‘Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,’ he repeated, ‘is very natural, and I have no doubt correct. I will wait upon these travellers.’
With that he took off his great-coat, and having run his fingers through his hair, thrust one hand gently in the bosom130 of his waist-coat and meekly131 signed to her to lead the way.
‘Shall I knock?’ asked Mrs Lupin, when they reached the chamber door.
‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘enter if you please.’
They went in on tiptoe; or rather the hostess took that precaution for Mr Pecksniff always walked softly. The old gentleman was still asleep, and his young companion still sat reading by the fire.
‘I am afraid,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pausing at the door, and giving his head a melancholy132 roll, ‘I am afraid that this looks artful. I am afraid, Mrs Lupin, do you know, that this looks very artful!’
As he finished this whisper, he advanced before the hostess; and at the same time the young lady, hearing footsteps, rose. Mr Pecksniff glanced at the volume she held, and whispered Mrs Lupin again; if possible, with increased despondency.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, ‘it is a good book. I was fearful of that beforehand. I am apprehensive133 that this is a very deep thing indeed!’
‘Hush! don’t trouble yourself, ma’am,’ said Mr Pecksniff, as the landlady was about to answer. ‘This young’—in spite of himself he hesitated when “person” rose to his lips, and substituted another word: ‘this young stranger, Mrs Lupin, will excuse me for replying briefly135, that I reside in this village; it may be in an influential136 manner, however, undeserved; and that I have been summoned here by you. I am here, as I am everywhere, I hope, in sympathy for the sick and sorry.’
With these impressive words, Mr Pecksniff passed over to the bedside, where, after patting the counterpane once or twice in a very solemn manner, as if by that means he gained a clear insight into the patient’s disorder81, he took his seat in a large arm-chair, and in an attitude of some thoughtfulness and much comfort, waited for his waking. Whatever objection the young lady urged to Mrs Lupin went no further, for nothing more was said to Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff said nothing more to anybody else.
Full half an hour elapsed before the old man stirred, but at length he turned himself in bed, and, though not yet awake, gave tokens that his sleep was drawing to an end. By little and little he removed the bed-clothes from about his head, and turned still more towards the side where Mr Pecksniff sat. In course of time his eyes opened; and he lay for a few moments as people newly roused sometimes will, gazing indolently at his visitor, without any distinct consciousness of his presence.
There was nothing remarkable in these proceedings137, except the influence they worked on Mr Pecksniff, which could hardly have been surpassed by the most marvellous of natural phenomena138. Gradually his hands became tightly clasped upon the elbows of the chair, his eyes dilated139 with surprise, his mouth opened, his hair stood more erect140 upon his forehead than its custom was, until, at length, when the old man rose in bed, and stared at him with scarcely less emotion than he showed himself, the Pecksniff doubts were all resolved, and he exclaimed aloud:
‘You are Martin Chuzzlewit!’
His consternation of surprise was so genuine, that the old man, with all the disposition141 that he clearly entertained to believe it assumed, was convinced of its reality.
‘I am Martin Chuzzlewit,’ he said, bitterly: ‘and Martin Chuzzlewit wishes you had been hanged, before you had come here to disturb him in his sleep. Why, I dreamed of this fellow!’ he said, lying down again, and turning away his face, ‘before I knew that he was near me!’
‘My good cousin—’ said Mr Pecksniff.
‘There! His very first words!’ cried the old man, shaking his grey head to and fro upon the pillow, and throwing up his hands. ‘In his very first words he asserts his relationship! I knew he would; they all do it! Near or distant, blood or water, it’s all one. Ugh! What a calendar of deceit, and lying, and false-witnessing, the sound of any word of kindred opens before me!’
‘Pray do not be hasty, Mr Chuzzlewit,’ said Pecksniff, in a tone that was at once in the sublimest142 degree compassionate143 and dispassionate; for he had by this time recovered from his surprise, and was in full possession of his virtuous self. ‘You will regret being hasty, I know you will.’
‘You know!’ said Martin, contemptuously.
‘Yes,’ retorted Mr Pecksniff. ‘Aye, aye, Mr Chuzzlewit; and don’t imagine that I mean to court or flatter you; for nothing is further from my intention. Neither, sir, need you entertain the least misgiving144 that I shall repeat that obnoxious145 word which has given you so much offence already. Why should I? What do I expect or want from you? There is nothing in your possession that I know of, Mr Chuzzlewit, which is much to be coveted146 for the happiness it brings you.’
‘That’s true enough,’ muttered the old man.
‘Apart from that consideration,’ said Mr Pecksniff, watchful of the effect he made, ‘it must be plain to you (I am sure) by this time, that if I had wished to insinuate147 myself into your good opinion, I should have been, of all things, careful not to address you as a relative; knowing your humour, and being quite certain beforehand that I could not have a worse letter of recommendation.’
Martin made not any verbal answer; but he as clearly implied though only by a motion of his legs beneath the bed-clothes, that there was reason in this, and that he could not dispute it, as if he had said as much in good set terms.
‘No,’ said Mr Pecksniff, keeping his hand in his waistcoat as though he were ready, on the shortest notice, to produce his heart for Martin Chuzzlewit’s inspection148, ‘I came here to offer my services to a stranger. I make no offer of them to you, because I know you would distrust me if I did. But lying on that bed, sir, I regard you as a stranger, and I have just that amount of interest in you which I hope I should feel in any stranger, circumstanced as you are. Beyond that, I am quite as indifferent to you, Mr Chuzzlewit, as you are to me.’
Having said which, Mr Pecksniff threw himself back in the easy-chair; so radiant with ingenuous149 honesty, that Mrs Lupin almost wondered not to see a stained-glass Glory, such as the Saint wore in the church, shining about his head.
A long pause succeeded. The old man, with increased restlessness, changed his posture several times. Mrs Lupin and the young lady gazed in silence at the counterpane. Mr Pecksniff toyed abstractedly with his eye-glass, and kept his eyes shut, that he might ruminate125 the better.
‘Eh?’ he said at last, opening them suddenly, and looking towards the bed. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you spoke150. Mrs Lupin,’ he continued, slowly rising ‘I am not aware that I can be of any service to you here. The gentleman is better, and you are as good a nurse as he can have. Eh?’
This last note of interrogation bore reference to another change of posture on the old man’s part, which brought his face towards Mr Pecksniff for the first time since he had turned away from him.
‘If you desire to speak to me before I go, sir,’ continued that gentleman, after another pause, ‘you may command my leisure; but I must stipulate151, in justice to myself, that you do so as to a stranger, strictly152 as to a stranger.’
Now if Mr Pecksniff knew, from anything Martin Chuzzlewit had expressed in gestures, that he wanted to speak to him, he could only have found it out on some such principle as prevails in melodramas153, and in virtue154 of which the elderly farmer with the comic son always knows what the dumb girl means when she takes refuge in his garden, and relates her personal memoirs155 in incomprehensible pantomime. But without stopping to make any inquiry156 on this point, Martin Chuzzlewit signed to his young companion to withdraw, which she immediately did, along with the landlady leaving him and Mr Pecksniff alone together. For some time they looked at each other in silence; or rather the old man looked at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff again closing his eyes on all outward objects, took an inward survey of his own breast. That it amply repaid him for his trouble, and afforded a delicious and enchanting157 prospect158, was clear from the expression of his face.
‘You wish me to speak to you as to a total stranger,’ said the old man, ‘do you?’
Mr Pecksniff replied, by a shrug159 of his shoulders and an apparent turning round of his eyes in their sockets160 before he opened them, that he was still reduced to the necessity of entertaining that desire.
‘You shall be gratified,’ said Martin. ‘Sir, I am a rich man. Not so rich as some suppose, perhaps, but yet wealthy. I am not a miser161 sir, though even that charge is made against me, as I hear, and currently believed. I have no pleasure in hoarding162. I have no pleasure in the possession of money, The devil that we call by that name can give me nothing but unhappiness.’
It would be no description of Mr Pecksniff’s gentleness of manner to adopt the common parlance163, and say that he looked at this moment as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He rather looked as if any quantity of butter might have been made out of him, by churning the milk of human kindness, as it spouted164 upwards165 from his heart.
‘For the same reason that I am not a hoarder166 of money,’ said the old man, ‘I am not lavish167 of it. Some people find their gratification in storing it up; and others theirs in parting with it; but I have no gratification connected with the thing. Pain and bitterness are the only goods it ever could procure168 for me. I hate it. It is a spectre walking before me through the world, and making every social pleasure hideous169.’
A thought arose in Pecksniff’s mind, which must have instantly mounted to his face, or Martin Chuzzlewit would not have resumed as quickly and as sternly as he did:
‘You would advise me for my peace of mind, to get rid of this source of misery170, and transfer it to some one who could bear it better. Even you, perhaps, would rid me of a burden under which I suffer so grievously. But, kind stranger,’ said the old man, whose every feature darkened as he spoke, ‘good Christian171 stranger, that is a main part of my trouble. In other hands, I have known money do good; in other hands I have known it triumphed in, and boasted of with reason, as the master-key to all the brazen172 gates that close upon the paths to worldly honour, fortune, and enjoyment173. To what man or woman; to what worthy, honest, incorruptible creature; shall I confide99 such a talisman174, either now or when I die? Do you know any such person? your virtues175 are of course inestimable, but can you tell me of any other living creature who will bear the test of contact with myself?’
‘Of contact with yourself, sir?’ echoed Mr Pecksniff.
‘Aye,’ returned the old man, ‘the test of contact with me—with me. You have heard of him whose misery (the gratification of his own foolish wish) was, that he turned every thing he touched into gold. The curse of my existence, and the realisation of my own mad desire is that by the golden standard which I bear about me, I am doomed176 to try the metal of all other men, and find it false and hollow.’
Mr Pecksniff shook his head, and said, ‘You think so.’
‘Oh yes,’ cried the old man, ‘I think so! and in your telling me “I think so,” I recognize the true unworldly ring of your metal. I tell you, man,’ he added, with increasing bitterness, ‘that I have gone, a rich man, among people of all grades and kinds; relatives, friends, and strangers; among people in whom, when I was poor, I had confidence, and justly, for they never once deceived me then, or, to me, wronged each other. But I have never found one nature, no, not one, in which, being wealthy and alone, I was not forced to detect the latent corruption177 that lay hid within it waiting for such as I to bring it forth. Treachery, deceit, and low design; hatred178 of competitors, real or fancied, for my favour; meanness, falsehood, baseness, and servility; or,’ and here he looked closely in his cousin’s eyes, ‘or an assumption of honest independence, almost worse than all; these are the beauties which my wealth has brought to light. Brother against brother, child against parent, friends treading on the faces of friends, this is the social company by whom my way has been attended. There are stories told—they may be true or false—of rich men who, in the garb179 of poverty, have found out virtue and rewarded it. They were dolts180 and idiots for their pains. They should have made the search in their own characters. They should have shown themselves fit objects to be robbed and preyed181 upon and plotted against and adulated182 by any knaves183, who, but for joy, would have spat42 upon their coffins184 when they died their dupes; and then their search would have ended as mine has done, and they would be what I am.’
Mr Pecksniff, not at all knowing what it might be best to say in the momentary185 pause which ensued upon these remarks, made an elaborate demonstration186 of intending to deliver something very oracular indeed; trusting to the certainty of the old man interrupting him, before he should utter a word. Nor was he mistaken, for Martin Chuzzlewit having taken breath, went on to say:
‘Hear me to an end; judge what profit you are like to gain from any repetition of this visit; and leave me. I have so corrupted187 and changed the nature of all those who have ever attended on me, by breeding avaricious188 plots and hopes within them; I have engendered189 such domestic strife190 and discord191, by tarrying even with members of my own family; I have been such a lighted torch in peaceful homes, kindling192 up all the inflammable gases and vapours in their moral atmosphere, which, but for me, might have proved harmless to the end, that I have, I may say, fled from all who knew me, and taking refuge in secret places have lived, of late, the life of one who is hunted. The young girl whom you just now saw—what! your eye lightens when I talk of her! You hate her already, do you?’
‘Upon my word, sir!’ said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand upon his breast, and dropping his eyelids193.
‘I forgot,’ cried the old man, looking at him with a keenness which the other seemed to feel, although he did not raise his eyes so as to see it. ‘I ask your pardon. I forgot you were a stranger. For the moment you reminded me of one Pecksniff, a cousin of mine. As I was saying—the young girl whom you just now saw, is an orphan child, whom, with one steady purpose, I have bred and educated, or, if you prefer the word, adopted. For a year or more she has been my constant companion, and she is my only one. I have taken, as she knows, a solemn oath never to leave her sixpence when I die, but while I live I make her an annual allowance; not extravagant194 in its amount and yet not stinted195. There is a compact between us that no term of affectionate cajolery shall ever be addressed by either to the other, but that she shall call me always by my Christian name; I her, by hers. She is bound to me in life by ties of interest, and losing by my death, and having no expectation disappointed, will mourn it, perhaps; though for that I care little. This is the only kind of friend I have or will have. Judge from such premises196 what a profitable hour you have spent in coming here, and leave me, to return no more.’
With these words, the old man fell slowly back upon his pillow. Mr Pecksniff as slowly rose, and, with a prefatory hem26, began as follows:
‘Mr Chuzzlewit.’
‘There. Go!’ interposed the other. ‘Enough of this. I am weary of you.’
‘I am sorry for that, sir,’ rejoined Mr Pecksniff, ‘because I have a duty to discharge, from which, depend upon it, I shall not shrink. No, sir, I shall not shrink.’
It is a lamentable197 fact, that as Mr Pecksniff stood erect beside the bed, in all the dignity of Goodness, and addressed him thus, the old man cast an angry glance towards the candlestick, as if he were possessed198 by a strong inclination16 to launch it at his cousin’s head. But he constrained199 himself, and pointing with his finger to the door, informed him that his road lay there.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Pecksniff; ‘I am aware of that. I am going. But before I go, I crave200 your leave to speak, and more than that, Mr Chuzzlewit, I must and will—yes indeed, I repeat it, must and will—be heard. I am not surprised, sir, at anything you have told me tonight. It is natural, very natural, and the greater part of it was known to me before. I will not say,’ continued Mr Pecksniff, drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, and winking201 with both eyes at once, as it were, against his will, ‘I will not say that you are mistaken in me. While you are in your present mood I would not say so for the world. I almost wish, indeed, that I had a different nature, that I might repress even this slight confession202 of weakness; which I cannot disguise from you; which I feel is humiliating; but which you will have the goodness to excuse. We will say, if you please,’ added Mr Pecksniff, with great tenderness of manner, ‘that it arises from a cold in the head, or is attributable to snuff, or smelling-salts, or onions, or anything but the real cause.’
Here he paused for an instant, and concealed203 his face behind his pocket-handkerchief. Then, smiling faintly, and holding the bed furniture with one hand, he resumed:
‘But, Mr Chuzzlewit, while I am forgetful of myself, I owe it to myself, and to my character—aye, sir, and I have a character which is very dear to me, and will be the best inheritance of my two daughters—to tell you, on behalf of another, that your conduct is wrong, unnatural, indefensible, monstrous. And I tell you, sir,’ said Mr Pecksniff, towering on tiptoe among the curtains, as if he were literally204 rising above all worldly considerations, and were fain to hold on tight, to keep himself from darting205 skyward like a rocket, ‘I tell you without fear or favour, that it will not do for you to be unmindful of your grandson, young Martin, who has the strongest natural claim upon you. It will not do, sir,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head. ‘You may think it will do, but it won’t. You must provide for that young man; you shall provide for him; you will provide for him. I believe,’ said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the pen-and-ink, ‘that in secret you have already done so. Bless you for doing so. Bless you for doing right, sir. Bless you for hating me. And good night!’
So saying, Mr Pecksniff waved his right hand with much solemnity, and once more inserting it in his waistcoat, departed. There was emotion in his manner, but his step was firm. Subject to human weaknesses, he was upheld by conscience.
Martin lay for some time, with an expression on his face of silent wonder, not unmixed with rage; at length he muttered in a whisper:
‘What does this mean? Can the false-hearted boy have chosen such a tool as yonder fellow who has just gone out? Why not! He has conspired206 against me, like the rest, and they are but birds of one feather. A new plot; a new plot! Oh self, self, self! At every turn nothing but self!’
He fell to trifling207, as he ceased to speak, with the ashes of the burnt paper in the candlestick. He did so, at first, in pure abstraction, but they presently became the subject of his thoughts.
‘Another will made and destroyed,’ he said, ‘nothing determined208 on, nothing done, and I might have died to-night! I plainly see to what foul209 uses all this money will be put at last,’ he cried, almost writhing210 in the bed; ‘after filling me with cares and miseries211 all my life, it will perpetuate212 discord and bad passions when I am dead. So it always is. What lawsuits213 grow out of the graves of rich men, every day; sowing perjury214, hatred, and lies among near kindred, where there should be nothing but love! Heaven help us, we have much to answer for! Oh self, self, self! Every man for himself, and no creature for me!’
Universal self! Was there nothing of its shadow in these reflections, and in the history of Martin Chuzzlewit, on his own showing?
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1 sleet | |
n.雨雪;v.下雨雪,下冰雹 | |
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2 gaudy | |
adj.华而不实的;俗丽的 | |
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3 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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4 hind | |
adj.后面的,后部的 | |
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5 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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6 rampant | |
adj.(植物)蔓生的;狂暴的,无约束的 | |
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7 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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8 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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9 civilisation | |
n.文明,文化,开化,教化 | |
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10 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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11 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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12 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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13 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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14 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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15 inclinations | |
倾向( inclination的名词复数 ); 倾斜; 爱好; 斜坡 | |
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16 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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17 reclaimed | |
adj.再生的;翻造的;收复的;回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 );要求收回;从废料中回收(有用的材料);挽救 | |
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18 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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19 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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20 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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21 sputtering | |
n.反应溅射法;飞溅;阴极真空喷镀;喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 );发劈啪声;喷出;飞溅出 | |
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22 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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23 scorching | |
adj. 灼热的 | |
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24 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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25 unicorn | |
n.(传说中的)独角兽 | |
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26 hem | |
n.贴边,镶边;vt.缝贴边;(in)包围,限制 | |
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27 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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28 cramps | |
n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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29 spasms | |
n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 );抽搐;(能量、行为等的)突发;发作 | |
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30 vowing | |
起誓,发誓(vow的现在分词形式) | |
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31 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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32 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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33 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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34 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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35 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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36 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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37 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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38 inflexible | |
adj.不可改变的,不受影响的,不屈服的 | |
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39 practitioner | |
n.实践者,从事者;(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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40 apothecary | |
n.药剂师 | |
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41 dealer | |
n.商人,贩子 | |
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42 spat | |
n.口角,掌击;v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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43 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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44 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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45 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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46 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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47 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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48 buxom | |
adj.(妇女)丰满的,有健康美的 | |
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49 jovial | |
adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
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50 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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51 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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52 participation | |
n.参与,参加,分享 | |
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53 larder | |
n.食物贮藏室,食品橱 | |
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54 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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55 comely | |
adj.漂亮的,合宜的 | |
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56 affidavit | |
n.宣誓书 | |
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57 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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58 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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59 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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60 preposterously | |
adv.反常地;荒谬地;荒谬可笑地;不合理地 | |
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61 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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62 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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63 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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64 watchful | |
adj.注意的,警惕的 | |
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65 winked | |
v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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66 dozing | |
v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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67 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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68 apoplectic | |
adj.中风的;愤怒的;n.中风患者 | |
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69 remonstrate | |
v.抗议,规劝 | |
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70 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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71 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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72 slumbered | |
微睡,睡眠(slumber的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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73 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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74 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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75 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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76 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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77 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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78 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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79 maidenhood | |
n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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80 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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81 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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82 negligently | |
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83 attire | |
v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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84 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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85 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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86 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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87 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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88 prescriptions | |
药( prescription的名词复数 ); 处方; 开处方; 计划 | |
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89 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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90 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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91 petulant | |
adj.性急的,暴躁的 | |
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92 complimentary | |
adj.赠送的,免费的,赞美的,恭维的 | |
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93 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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94 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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95 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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96 recoiled | |
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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97 puckered | |
v.(使某物)起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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99 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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100 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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101 licensed | |
adj.得到许可的v.许可,颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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102 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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103 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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104 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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105 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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106 taper | |
n.小蜡烛,尖细,渐弱;adj.尖细的;v.逐渐变小 | |
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107 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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108 consternation | |
n.大为吃惊,惊骇 | |
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109 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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110 dividend | |
n.红利,股息;回报,效益 | |
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111 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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112 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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113 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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114 snug | |
adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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115 precept | |
n.戒律;格言 | |
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116 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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117 bland | |
adj.淡而无味的,温和的,无刺激性的 | |
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118 soothingly | |
adv.抚慰地,安慰地;镇痛地 | |
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119 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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120 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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121 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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122 benevolently | |
adv.仁慈地,行善地 | |
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123 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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124 disparagingly | |
adv.以贬抑的口吻,以轻视的态度 | |
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125 ruminate | |
v.反刍;沉思 | |
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126 ruminated | |
v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 );反复考虑;反刍;倒嚼 | |
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127 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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128 disarm | |
v.解除武装,回复平常的编制,缓和 | |
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129 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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130 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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131 meekly | |
adv.温顺地,逆来顺受地 | |
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132 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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133 apprehensive | |
adj.担心的,恐惧的,善于领会的 | |
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134 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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135 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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136 influential | |
adj.有影响的,有权势的 | |
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137 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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138 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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139 dilated | |
adj.加宽的,扩大的v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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141 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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142 sublimest | |
伟大的( sublime的最高级 ); 令人赞叹的; 极端的; 不顾后果的 | |
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143 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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144 misgiving | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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145 obnoxious | |
adj.极恼人的,讨人厌的,可憎的 | |
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146 coveted | |
adj.令人垂涎的;垂涎的,梦寐以求的v.贪求,觊觎(covet的过去分词);垂涎;贪图 | |
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147 insinuate | |
vt.含沙射影地说,暗示 | |
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148 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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149 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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150 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 | |
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151 stipulate | |
vt.规定,(作为条件)讲定,保证 | |
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152 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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153 melodramas | |
情节剧( melodrama的名词复数 ) | |
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154 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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155 memoirs | |
n.回忆录;回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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156 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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157 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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158 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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159 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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160 sockets | |
n.套接字,使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 );孔( socket的名词复数 );(电器上的)插口;托座;凹穴 | |
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161 miser | |
n.守财奴,吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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162 hoarding | |
n.贮藏;积蓄;临时围墙;囤积v.积蓄并储藏(某物)( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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163 parlance | |
n.说法;语调 | |
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164 spouted | |
adj.装有嘴的v.(指液体)喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 );滔滔不绝地讲;喋喋不休地说;喷水 | |
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165 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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166 hoarder | |
n.囤积者,贮藏者 | |
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167 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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168 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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169 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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170 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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171 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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172 brazen | |
adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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173 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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174 talisman | |
n.避邪物,护身符 | |
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175 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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176 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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177 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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178 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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179 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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180 dolts | |
n.笨蛋,傻瓜( dolt的名词复数 ) | |
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181 preyed | |
v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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182 adulated | |
v.谄媚,奉承( adulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183 knaves | |
n.恶棍,无赖( knave的名词复数 );(纸牌中的)杰克 | |
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184 coffins | |
n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 );使某人早亡[死,完蛋,垮台等]之物 | |
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185 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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186 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
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187 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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188 avaricious | |
adj.贪婪的,贪心的 | |
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189 engendered | |
v.产生(某形势或状况),造成,引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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191 discord | |
n.不和,意见不合,争论,(音乐)不和谐 | |
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192 kindling | |
n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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193 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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194 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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195 stinted | |
v.限制,节省(stint的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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196 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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197 lamentable | |
adj.令人惋惜的,悔恨的 | |
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198 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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199 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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200 crave | |
vt.渴望得到,迫切需要,恳求,请求 | |
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201 winking | |
n.瞬眼,目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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202 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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203 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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204 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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205 darting | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的现在分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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206 conspired | |
密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 ); 搞阴谋; (事件等)巧合; 共同导致 | |
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207 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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208 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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209 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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210 writhing | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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211 miseries | |
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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212 perpetuate | |
v.使永存,使永记不忘 | |
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213 lawsuits | |
n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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214 perjury | |
n.伪证;伪证罪 | |
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