Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr. Pickwick and his friends upon their entrance; and during the performance of the ceremony of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to observe the appearance, and speculate upon the characters and pursuits, of the persons by whom he was surrounded — a habit in which he, in common with many other great men, delighted to indulge.
A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown — no less a personage than Mr. Wardle’s mother — occupied the post of honour on the right-hand corner of the chimney-piece; and various certificates of her having been brought up in the way she should go when young, and of her not having departed from it when old, ornamented1 the walls, in the form of samplers of ancient date, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity2, and crimson3 silk tea-kettle holders4 of a more modern period. The aunt, the two young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying5 with the other in paying zealous6 and unremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded round her easy-chair, one holding her ear-trumpet, another an orange, and a third a smelling-bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and punching the pillows which were arranged for her support. On the opposite side sat a bald-headed old gentleman, with a good-humoured, benevolent7 face — the clergyman of Dingley Dell; and next him sat his wife, a stout8, blooming old lady, who looked as if she were well skilled, not only in the art and mystery of manufacturing home-made cordials greatly to other people’s satisfaction, but of tasting them occasionally very much to her own. A little hard-headed, Ripstone pippin-faced man, was conversing9 with a fat old gentleman in one corner; and two or three more old gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies, sat bolt upright and motionless on their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick and his fellow-voyagers.
‘Mr. Pickwick, mother,’ said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice.
‘Ah!’ said the old lady, shaking her head; ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Mr. Pickwick, grandma!’ screamed both the young ladies together.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the old lady. ‘Well, it don’t much matter. He don’t care for an old ‘ooman like me, I dare say.’
‘I assure you, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady’s hand, and speaking so loud that the exertion10 imparted a crimson hue11 to his benevolent countenance12 —‘I assure you, ma’am, that nothing delights me more than to see a lady of your time of life heading so fine a family, and looking so young and well.’
‘Ah!’ said the old lady, after a short pause: ‘it’s all very fine, I dare say; but I can’t hear him.’
‘Grandma’s rather put out now,’ said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low tone; ‘but she’ll talk to you presently.’
Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age, and entered into a general conversation with the other members of the circle.
‘Delightful situation this,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Delightful!’ echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.
‘Well, I think it is,’ said Mr. Wardle.
‘There ain’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent, sir,’ said the hard-headed man with the pippin — face; ‘there ain’t indeed, sir — I’m sure there ain’t, Sir.’ The hard-headed man looked triumphantly13 round, as if he had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last.
‘There ain’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent,’ said the hard-headed man again, after a pause.
‘‘Cept Mullins’s Meadows,’ observed the fat man solemnly. ‘Mullins’s Meadows!’ ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.
‘Ah, Mullins’s Meadows,’ repeated the fat man.
‘Reg’lar good land that,’ interposed another fat man.
‘And so it is, sure-ly,’ said a third fat man.
‘Everybody knows that,’ said the corpulent host.
The hard-headed man looked dubiously14 round, but finding himself in a minority, assumed a compassionate16 air and said no more. ‘What are they talking about?’ inquired the old lady of one of her granddaughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf people, she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said herself.
‘About the land, grandma.’
‘What about the land? — Nothing the matter, is there?’
‘No, no. Mr. Miller17 was saying our land was better than Mullins’s Meadows.’
‘How should he know anything about it?‘inquired the old lady indignantly. ‘Miller’s a conceited18 coxcomb19, and you may tell him I said so.’ Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard-headed delinquent20.
‘Come, come,’ said the bustling21 host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation, ‘what say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?’
‘I should like it of all things,’ replied that gentleman; ‘but pray don’t make up one on my account.’
‘Oh, I assure you, mother’s very fond of a rubber,’ said Mr. Wardle; ‘ain’t you, mother?’
The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other, replied in the affirmative.
‘Joe, Joe!’ said the gentleman; ‘Joe — damn that — oh, here he is; put out the card — tables.’
The lethargic22 youth contrived23 without any additional rousing to set out two card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other for whist. The whist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady, Mr. Miller and the fat gentleman. The round game comprised the rest of the company.
The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and sedateness24 of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled ‘whist’— a solemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, the title of ‘game’ has been very irreverently and ignominiously25 applied26. The round-game table, on the other hand, was so boisterously27 merry as materially to interrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, not being quite so much absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to commit various high crimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath29 of the fat gentleman to a very great extent, and called forth30 the good-humour of the old lady in a proportionate degree.
‘There!’ said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd trick at the conclusion of a hand; ‘that could not have been played better, I flatter myself; impossible to have made another trick!’
‘Miller ought to have trumped31 the diamond, oughtn’t he, Sir?’ said the old lady.
Mr. Pickwick nodded assent32.
‘Ought I, though?’ said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his partner.
‘You ought, Sir,’ said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.
‘Very sorry,’ said the crestfallen33 Miller.
‘Much use that,’ growled34 the fat gentleman.
‘Two by honours — makes us eight,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Another hand. ‘Can you one?’ inquired the old lady.
‘I can,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Double, single, and the rub.’
‘Never was such luck,’ said Mr. Miller.
‘Never was such cards,’ said the fat gentleman.
A solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat gentleman captious35, and Mr. Miller timorous36.
‘Another double,’ said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum37 of the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered38 halfpenny under the candlestick.
‘A double, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Quite aware of the fact, Sir,’ replied the fat gentleman sharply.
Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke39 from the unlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high personal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when he retired40 into a corner, and remained perfectly41 mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes; at the end of which time he emerged from his retirement42, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind to a Christian43 forgiveness of injuries sustained. The old lady’s hearing decidedly improved and the unlucky Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.
Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and Mr. Trundle ‘went partners,’ and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a joint-stock company of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very height of his jollity; and he was so funny in his management of the board, and the old ladies were so sharp after their winnings, that the whole table was in a perpetual roar of merriment and laughter. There was one old lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at which everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the old lady looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever; on which the old lady’s face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed louder than any of them, Then, when the spinster aunt got ‘matrimony,’ the young ladies laughed afresh, and the Spinster aunt seemed disposed to be pettish44; till, feeling Mr. Tupman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up too, and looked rather knowing, as if matrimony in reality were not quite so far off as some people thought for; whereupon everybody laughed again, and especially old Mr. Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he did nothing but whisper poetical46 sentiments into his partner’s ear, which made one old gentleman facetiously47 sly, about partnerships48 at cards and partnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to make some remarks thereupon, accompanied with divers49 winks50 and chuckles51, which made the company very merry and the old gentleman’s wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes which are very well known in town, but are not all known in the country; and as everybody laughed at them very heartily52, and said they were very capital, Mr. Winkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And the benevolent clergyman looked pleasantly on; for the happy faces which surrounded the table made the good old man feel happy too; and though the merriment was rather boisterous28, still it came from the heart and not from the lips; and this is the right sort of merriment, after all.
The evening glided53 swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations; and when the substantial though homely54 supper had been despatched, and the little party formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never felt so happy in his life, and at no time so much disposed to enjoy, and make the most of, the passing moment.
‘Now this,’ said the hospitable55 host, who was sitting in great state next the old lady’s arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in his —‘this is just what I like — the happiest moments of my life have been passed at this old fireside; and I am so attached to it, that I keep up a blazing fire here every evening, until it actually grows too hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before this fireplace upon that little stool when she was a girl; didn’t you, mother?’
The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old times and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole down the old lady’s face as she shook her head with a melancholy56 smile.
‘You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,’ resumed the host, after a short pause, ‘for I love it dearly, and know no other — the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me; and so does our little church with the ivy57, about which, by the bye, our excellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass?’
‘Plenty, thank you,’ replied that gentleman, whose poetic45 curiosity had been greatly excited by the last observation of his entertainer. ‘I beg your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.’
‘You must ask our friend opposite about that,’ said the host knowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.
‘May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Why, really,’ replied the clergyman, ‘it’s a very slight affair; and the only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was a young man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it, if you wish.’
A murmur58 of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentleman proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry59 promptings from his wife, the lines in question. ‘I call them,’ said he,
THE IVY GREEN
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone60 and cold.
The wall must be crumbled61, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim62;
And the mouldering63 dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously64 hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered66 been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty67 green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten68 upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy’s food at last.
Creeping on where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable Mr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused69 the lineaments of his face with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman having concluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-book to his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said —
‘Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance; but a gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observed many scenes and incidents worth recording70, in the course of your experience as a minister of the Gospel.’
‘I have witnessed some certainly,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘but the incidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, my sphere of action being so very limited.’
‘You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out, for the edification of his new visitors.
The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was proceeding71 to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick said —
‘I beg your pardon, sir, but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who was John Edmunds?’
‘The very thing I was about to ask,’ said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly.
‘You are fairly in for it,’ said the jolly host. ‘You must satisfy the curiosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had better take advantage of this favourable72 opportunity, and do so at once.’
The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chair forward — the remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especially Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of hearing; and the old lady’s ear-trumpet having been duly adjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen asleep during the recital73 of the verses) roused from his slumbers74 by an admonitory pinch, administered beneath the table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the old gentleman, without further preface, commenced the following tale, to which we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of
THE CONVICT’S RETURN
‘When I first settled in this village,’ said the old gentleman, ‘which is now just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious person among my parishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small farm near this spot. He was a morose75, savage-hearted, bad man; idle and dissolute in his habits; cruel and ferocious76 in his disposition77. Beyond the few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time in the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend or acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom many feared, and every one detested78 — and Edmunds was shunned79 by all.
‘This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman’s sufferings, of the gentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of solicitude80 with which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the man systematically81 tried for many years to break her heart; but she bore it all for her child’s sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father’s too; for brute82 as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved him once; and the recollection of what he had been to her, awakened83 feelings of forbearance and meekness85 under suffering in her bosom86, to which all God’s creatures, but women, are strangers.
‘They were poor — they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such courses; but the woman’s unceasing and unwearied exertions87, early and late, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. These exertions were but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the evening — sometimes at a late hour of the night — reported that they had heard the moans and sobs88 of a woman in distress89, and the sound of blows; and more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour’s house, whither he had been sent, to escape the drunken fury of his unnatural90 father.
‘During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore about her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not wholly conceal91, she was a constant attendant at our little church. Regularly every Sunday, morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the boy at her side; and though they were both poorly dressed — much more so than many of their neighbours who were in a lower station — they were always neat and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for “poor Mrs. Edmunds”; and sometimes, when she stopped to exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the little row of elm-trees which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind to gaze with a mother’s pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported before her with some little companions, her careworn92 face would lighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude93; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil94 and contented95.
‘Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust96 and well-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child’s slight frame and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother’s form, and enfeebled her steps; but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in hers; the face that should have cheered her, no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as ever, the places were found and folded down as they used to be: but there was no one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon the book, and blotted97 the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as they were wont98 to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with averted99 head. There was no lingering among the old elm-trees now-no cheering anticipations100 of happiness yet in store. The desolate101 woman drew her bonnet102 closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away.
‘Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest of his childhood’s days to which memory and consciousness extended, and carrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing which was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all endured for him — shall I tell you, that he, with a reckless disregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen103, wilful104 forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him, had linked himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a headlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame to her? Alas105 for human nature! You have anticipated it long since.
‘The measure of the unhappy woman’s misery106 and misfortune was about to be completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood; the perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a daring and aggravated107 nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and a strictness of search, they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected, with three companions. He was apprehended108 — committed — tried — condemned109 — to die. ‘The wild and piercing shriek110 from a woman’s voice, which resounded111 through the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit’s heart, which trial, condemnation112 — the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken84. The lips which had been compressed in dogged sullenness113 throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as the cold perspiration114 broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs of the felon115 trembled, and he staggered in the dock.
‘In the first transports of her mental anguish116, the suffering mother threw herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently118 sought the Almighty119 Being who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles to release her from a world of woe120 and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as I hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking from that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape her lips. ‘It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard from day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and entreaty121, to soften122 the hard heart of her obdurate123 son. It was in vain. He remained moody124, obstinate125, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for commutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years, softened126 for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour.
‘But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her, was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She dragged her tottering127 limbs from the bed to visit her son once more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the ground.
‘And now the boasted coldness and indifference128 of the young man were tested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly drove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; another flew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her — and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her, perhaps for ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of former days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the narrow yard — as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his hurrying — and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent he had ever known, lay ill — it might be, dying — within one mile of the ground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would place him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron rails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage through the stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he beat his hands together and wept like a child.
‘I bore the mother’s forgiveness and blessing129 to her son in prison; and I carried the solemn assurance of repentance130, and his fervent117 supplication131 for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with pity and compassion15, the repentant132 man devise a thousand little plans for her comfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many months before he could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer of this world. ‘He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman’s soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe, to a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service over her remains133. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave’s head. Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues134 to God. ‘it had been arranged previously135 to the convict’s departure, that he should write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and that the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively136 refused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension137; and it was a matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half his term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.
‘Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country on his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched, none of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen years. At the expiration138 of the term, steadily139 adhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his way back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and returned, on foot, to his native place.
‘On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years before. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man’s heart swelled140 as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light upon the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother’s hand, and walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she gazed upon his features — tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with some childish playfellow, looking back, ever and again, to catch his mother’s smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged141 upon his recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer. ‘He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the congregation had dispersed142, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. The place seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were the old monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe143 a thousand times; the little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table before which he had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced144 as a child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly she had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not think of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled violently as he turned away. ‘An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time he had watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to the returned convict?
‘The old man raised his eyes to the stranger’s face, bade him “good-evening,” and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.
‘He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm, and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little gardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity145 of the evening, and their rest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew and shunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house; in some he recognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow — a boy when he last saw him — surrounded by a troop of merry children; in others he saw, seated in an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man, whom he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but they had all forgotten him, and he passed on unknown.
‘The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening146 the shadows of the orchard147 trees, as he stood before the old house — the home of his infancy148 — to which his heart had yearned149 with an intensity150 of affection not to be described, through long and weary years of captivity151 and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered the time that it had seemed a high wall to him; and he looked over into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but there were the old trees still — the very tree under which he had lain a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild sleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within the house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew them not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mother could not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting and romping152. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to join their joyous65 sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from his father’s sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had buried his trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh word, and the hard stripe, and his mother’s wailing153; and though the man sobbed154 aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched155, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.
‘And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much suffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help him — and this too in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where man was never seen, to this!
‘He felt that in the distant land of his bondage156 and infamy157, he had thought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not as it would be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries158, or to present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning159 the roadside like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered; and covering his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass.
‘He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his garments rustled160 as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer; and Edmunds raised his head.
‘The man had moved into a sitting posture161. His body was much bent162, and his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate163 of the workhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more the effect of dissipation or disease, than the length of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless164 and heavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had been fixed165 upon him for a short time, until they seemed to be starting from their sockets166. Edmunds gradually raised himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old man’s face. They gazed upon each other in silence.
‘The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered167 and tottered168 to his feet. Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.
‘“Let me hear you speak,” said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.
‘“Stand off!” cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew closer to him.
‘“Stand off!” shrieked169 the old man. Furious with terror, he raised his stick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.
‘“Father — devil!” murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat — but he was his father; and his arm fell powerless by his side.
‘The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black, the gore170 rushed from his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, dark red, as he staggered and fell. He had ruptured171 a blood-vessel, and he was a dead man before his son could raise him. ‘In that corner of the churchyard,’ said the old gentleman, after a silence of a few moments, ‘in that corner of the churchyard of which I have before spoken, there lies buried a man who was in my employment for three years after this event, and who was truly contrite172, penitent173, and humbled174, if ever man was. No one save myself knew in that man’s lifetime who he was, or whence he came — it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.’
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1
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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3
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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4
holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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5
vying
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| adj.竞争的；比赛的 | |
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6
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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7
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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9
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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10
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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11
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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12
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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13
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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14
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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15
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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16
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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17
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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18
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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19
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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20
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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21
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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22
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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23
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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24
sedateness
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| n.安详，镇静 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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26
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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27
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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28
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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29
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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30
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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31
trumped
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| v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去分词 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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32
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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33
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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34
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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35
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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36
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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37
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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38
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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39
revoke
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| v.废除，取消，撤回 | |
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40
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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41
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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42
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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43
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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44
pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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45
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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46
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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47
facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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48
partnerships
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| n.伙伴关系( partnership的名词复数 )；合伙人身份；合作关系 | |
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49
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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50
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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51
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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52
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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53
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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54
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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55
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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56
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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57
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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58
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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59
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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60
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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61
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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62
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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63
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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64
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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65
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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66
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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67
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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68
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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69
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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70
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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71
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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72
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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73
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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74
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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75
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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76
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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77
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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78
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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81
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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82
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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83
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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84
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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85
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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86
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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87
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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88
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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89
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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90
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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91
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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92
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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93
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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94
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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95
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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96
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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97
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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98
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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99
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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100
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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101
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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102
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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103
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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104
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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105
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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106
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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107
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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108
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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109
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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111
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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112
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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113
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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114
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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115
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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116
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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117
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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118
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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119
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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120
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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121
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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122
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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123
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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124
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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125
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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126
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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127
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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128
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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129
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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130
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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131
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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132
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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133
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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134
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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135
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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136
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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138
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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139
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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140
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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141
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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143
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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145
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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146
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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147
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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148
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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149
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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151
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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152
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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153
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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154
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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157
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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158
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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159
shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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160
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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163
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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166
sockets
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| 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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167
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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168
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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169
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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171
ruptured
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| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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172
contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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173
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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174
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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