It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and ChesneyWold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable1 cares,for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. Thefashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the gladtidings to benighted2 England. It has also found out that they willentertain a brilliant and distinguished3 circle of the ELITE4 of theBEAU MONDE (the fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but agiant refreshed in French) at the ancient and hospitable family seatin Lincolnshire.
For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle,and of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridgein the park is mended; and the water, now retired5 within its properlimits and again spanned gracefully7, makes a figure in the prospectfrom the house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittlewoods and approvingly beholds8 the sharp wind scattering9 the leavesand drying the moss10. It glides11 over the park after the movingshadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, allday. It looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraitswith bars and patches of brightness never contemplated13 by thepainters. Athwart the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes downcrookedly into the hearth14 and seems to rend15 it.
Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Lady andSir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady's woman and SirLeicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With aconsiderable amount of jingling16 and whip-cracking, and many plungingdemonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and twocentaurs with glazed19 hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails,they rattle21 out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the PlaceVendome and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade22 ofthe Rue23 de Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of aheadless king and queen, off by the Place of Concord24, and theElysian Fields, and the Gate of the Star, out of Paris.
Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my LadyDedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre,drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Onlylast Sunday, when poor wretches25 were gay--within the walls playingwith children among the clipped trees and the statues in the PalaceGarden; walking, a score abreast26, in the Elysian Fields, made moreElysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whilesfiltering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say aword or two at the base of a pillar within flare27 of a rusty28 littlegridiron-full of gusty29 little tapers30; without the walls encompassingParis with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking,tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring,and much murderous refuse, animate31 and inanimate--only last Sunday,my Lady, in the desolation of Boredom32 and the clutch of GiantDespair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.
She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soullies before her, as it lies behind--her Ariel has put a girdle of itround the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped--but the imperfectremedy is always to fly from the last place where it has beenexperienced. Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchangingit for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, whennext beheld33, let it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Stara white speck34 glittering in the sun, and the city a mere35 mound36 in aplain--two dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadowdescending on it aslant37, like the angels in Jacob's dream!
Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent38 state, and rarely bored.
When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate12 his owngreatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have soinexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans backin his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importanceto society.
"You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?" says myLady after a long time. She is fatigued39 with reading. Has almostread a page in twenty miles.
"Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever.""I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn's long effusions, I think?""You see everything," says Sir Leicester with admiration40.
"Ha!" sighs my Lady. "He is the most tiresome41 of men!""He sends--I really beg your pardon--he sends," says Sir Leicester,selecting the letter and unfolding it, "a message to you. Ourstopping to change horses as I came to his postscript42 drove it outof my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says--" Sir Leicester isso long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Ladylooks a little irritated. "He says 'In the matter of the right ofway--' I beg your pardon, that's not the place. He says--yes!
Here I have it! He says, 'I beg my respectful compliments to myLady, who, I hope, has benefited by the change. Will you do me thefavour to mention (as it may interest her) that I have something totell her on her return in reference to the person who copied theaffidavit in the Chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated43 hercuriosity. I have seen him.'"My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window.
"That's the message," observes Sir Leicester.
"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, still looking out ofher window.
"Walk?" repeats Sir Leicester in a tone of surprise.
"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady with unmistakabledistinctness. "Please to stop the carriage."The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from therumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to animpatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly andwalks away so quickly that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupulouspoliteness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space ofa minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. Shesmiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for aquarter of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in thecarriage.
The rattle and clatter44 continue through the greater part of threedays, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and moreor less plunging17 of centaurs18 and bare-backed horses. Their courtlypoliteness to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the themeof general admiration. Though my Lord IS a little aged45 for my Lady,says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though he might beher amiable46 father, one can see at a glance that they love eachother. One observes my Lord with his white hair, standing47, hat inhand, to help my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes myLady, how recognisant of my Lord's politeness, with an inclinationof her gracious head and the concession49 of her so-genteel fingers!
It is ravishing!
The sea has no appreciation50 of great men, but knocks them about likethe small fry. It is habitually51 hard upon Sir Leicester, whosecountenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and inwhose aristocratic system it effects a dismal52 revolution. It is theRadical of Nature to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets over itafter stopping to refit, and he goes on with my Lady for ChesneyWold, lying only one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire.
Through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day declines, andthrough the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of baretrees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost's Walk, touchedat the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itselfto coming night, they drive into the park. The rooks, swinging intheir lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss thequestion of the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath,some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come down, somearguing with malcontents who won't admit it, now all consenting toconsider the question disposed of, now all breaking out again inviolent debate, incited53 by one obstinate54 and drowsy55 bird who willpersist in putting in a last contradictory56 croak57. Leaving them toswing and caw, the travelling chariot rolls on to the house, wherefires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not throughso many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass offront. But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon dothat.
Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance and receives Sir Leicester'scustomary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy.
"How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you.""I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, SirLeicester?""In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell.""My Lady is looking charmingly well," says Mrs. Rouncewell withanother curtsy.
My Lady signifies, without profuse58 expenditure59 of words, that she isas wearily well as she can hope to be.
But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper60; and my Lady,who has not subdued61 the quickness of her observation, whatever elseshe may have conquered, asks, "Who is that girl?""A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa.""Come here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons62 her, with even anappearance of interest. "Why, do you know how pretty you are,child?" she says, touching63 her shoulder with her two forefingers64.
Rosa, very much abashed65, says, "No, if you please, my Lady!" andglances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, butlooks all the prettier.
"How old are you?""Nineteen, my Lady.""Nineteen," repeats my Lady thoughtfully. "Take care they don'tspoil you by flattery.""Yes, my Lady."My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingersand goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicesterpauses for her as her knightly66 escort. A staring old Dedlock in apanel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know whatto make of it, which was probably his general state of mind in thedays of Queen Elizabeth.
That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do nothing butmurmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affable, so graceful6, sobeautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrillingtouch that Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this,not without personal pride, reserving only the one point ofaffability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. Heavenforbid that she should say a syllable67 in dispraise of any member ofthat excellent family, above all, of my Lady, whom the whole worldadmires; but if my Lady would only be "a little more free," notquite so cold and distant, Mrs. Rounceweil thinks she would be moreaffable.
"'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell adds--only "almost" because itborders on impiety68 to suppose that anything could be better than itis, in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock affairs--"that myLady has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a grown younglady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind ofexcellence she wants.""Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?" saysWatt, who has been home and come back again, he is such a goodgrandson.
"More and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with dignity, "arewords it's not my place to use--nor so much as to hear--applied toany drawback on my Lady.""I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud, is she not?""If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family have alwaysreason to be.""Well," says Watt70, "it's to be hoped they line out of their prayer-books a certain passage for the common people about pride andvainglory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!""Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects forjoking.""Sir Leicester is no joke by any means," says Watt, "and I humblyask his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with the familyand their guests down here, there is no ojection to my prolonging mystay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other travellermight?""Surely, none in the world, child.""I am glad of that," says Watt, "because I have an inexpressibledesire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood."He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down and is very shy indeed.
But according to the old superstition71, it should be Rosa's ears thatburn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my Lady's maid is holdingforth about her at this moment with surpassing energy.
My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirty, from somewhere inthe southern country about Avignon and Marseilles, a large-eyedbrown woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certainfeline mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of face, renderingthe jaws72 too eager and the skull73 too prominent. There is somethingindefinably keen and wan69 about her anatomy74, and she has a watchfulway of looking out of the corners of her eyes without turning herhead which could be pleasantly dispensed75 with, especially when sheis in an ill humour and near knives. Through all the good taste ofher dress and little adornments, these objections so expressthemselves that she seems to go about like a very neat she-wolfimperfectly tamed. Besides being accomplished77 in all the knowledgeappertaining to her post, she is almost an Englishwoman in heracquaintance with the language; consequently, she is in no want ofwords to shower upon Rosa for having attracted my Lady's attention,and she pours them out with such grim ridicule78 as she sits at dinnerthat her companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved whenshe arrives at the spoon stage of that performance.
Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, been in my Lady's service since fiveyears and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet,caressed--absolutely caressed--by my Lady on the moment of herarriving at the house! Ha, ha, ha! "And do you know how pretty youare, child?" "No, my Lady." You are right there! "And how old areyou, child! And take care they do not spoil you by flattery,child!" Oh, how droll79! It is the BEST thing altogether.
In short, it is such an admirable thing that Mademoiselle Hortensecan't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among hercountrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop ofvisitors, relapses into silent enjoyment80 of the joke--an enjoymentexpressed, in her own convivial81 manner, by an additional tightnessof face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look,which intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in myLady's mirrors when my Lady is not among them.
All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now, many ofthem after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simperingfaces, youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will notsubmit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come topass a January week or two at Chesney Wold, and which thefashionable intelligence, a mighty82 hunter before the Lord, huntswith a keen scent83, from their breaking cover at the Court of St.
James's to their being run down to death. The place in Lincolnshireis all alive. By day guns and voices are heard ringing in thewoods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads, servants andhangers-on pervade84 the village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by nightfrom distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in the longdrawing-room, where my Lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday thechill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant85 company, andthe general flavour of the Dedlock dust is quenched86 in delicateperfumes.
The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it nocontracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, andvirtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despiteof its immense advantages. What can it be?
Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now (more the pity) toset the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towelneckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves87, no stays.
There are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites88 so arrayed,swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived byother dainty creatures poking89 long-necked scent-bottles at theirnoses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shakeinto his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who istroubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. Butis there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circlenotwithstanding, dandyism of a more mischievous90 sort, that has gotbelow the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion91, to which norational person need particularly object?
Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There ARE at Chesney Wold thisJanuary week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, whohave set up a dandyism--in religion, for instance. Who in merelackadaisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandytalk about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general, meaning inthe things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a lowfellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling afterfinding it out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque92 andfaithful by putting back the hands upon the clock of time andcancelling a few hundred years of history.
There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new,but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze20 on the worldand to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must belanguid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Whoare to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. Who are not tobe disturbed by ideas. On whom even the fine arts, attending inpowder and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, must arraythemselves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of pastgenerations and be particularly careful not to be in earnest or toreceive any impress from the moving age.
Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with hisparty, who has known what office is and who tells Sir LeicesterDedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not seeto what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debateused to be; the House is not what the House used to be; even aCabinet is not what it formerly93 was. He perceives with astonishmentthat supposing the present government to be overthrown94, the limitedchoice of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry95, would liebetween Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle--supposing it to beimpossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may beassumed to be the case in consequence of the breach96 arising out ofthat affair with Hoodle. Then, giving the Home Department and theleadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer97 toKoodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle,what are you to do with Noodle? You can't offer him the Presidencyof the Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can't put him inthe Woods and Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. Whatfollows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces(as is made manifest to the patriotism99 of Sir Leicester Dedlock)because you can't provide for Noodle!
On the other hand, the Right Honourable100 William Buffy, M.P.,contends across the table with some one else that the shipwreck98 ofthe country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner ofit that is in question--is attributable to Cuffy. If you had donewith Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came intoParliament, and had prevented him from going over to Duffy, youwould have got him into alliance with Fuffy, you would have had withyou the weight attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would havebrought to bear upon the elections the wealth of Huffy, you wouldhave got in for three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and Luffy, and youwould have strengthened your administration by the officialknowledge and the business habits of Muffy. All this, instead ofbeing as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!
As to this point, and as to some minor101 topics, there are differencesof opinion; but it is perfectly76 clear to the brilliant anddistinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question butBoodle and his retinue102, and Buffy and HIS retinue. These are thegreat actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, nodoubt--a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to beoccasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, ason the theatrical103 stage; but Boodle and Buffy, their followers104 andfamilies, their heirs, executors, administrators105, and assigns, arethe born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others canappear upon the scene for ever and ever.
In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold thanthe brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself inthe long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politestcircles, as with the circle the necromancer106 draws around him--verystrange appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With thisdifference, that being realities and not phantoms107, there is thegreater danger of their breaking in.
Chesney Wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a burning sense ofinjury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maids, and is notto he extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret108 chamberof the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished andhaving an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room,and is never bestowed110 on anybody else, for he may come at any time.
He is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the parkfrom the village in fine weather, to drop into this room as if hehad never been out of it since he was last seen there, to request aservant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived in case he shouldbe wanted, and to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow ofthe library-door. He sleeps in his turret with a complaining flag-staff over his head, and has some leads outside on which, any finemorning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen walkingbefore breakfast like a larger species of rook.
Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of thelibrary, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glancesdown the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receivehim if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Everynight my Lady casually111 asks her maid, "Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?"Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not yet."One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses herself indeep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding facein the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously112 observingher.
"Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then, addressing thereflection of Hortense, "to your business. You can contemplate yourbeauty at another time.""Pardon! It was your Ladyship's beauty.""That," says my Lady, "you needn't contemplate at all."At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the brightgroups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened theGhost's Walk are all dispersed113 and only Sir Leicester and my Ladyremain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towardsthem at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, neverslackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask--if it be a mask--and carries family secrets in every limb of his body and everycrease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted114 to the greator whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells ishis personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of hisclients; he is his own client in that matter, and will never betrayhimself.
"How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him hishand.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. MyLady is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with hishands behind him, walks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace.
My Lady walks upon the other side.
"We expected you before," says Sir Leicester. A graciousobservation. As much as to say, "Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember yourexistence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence.
We bestow109 a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!"Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and says he ismuch obliged.
"I should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that I have beenmuch engaged with those matters in the several suits betweenyourself and Boythorn.""A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes Sir Leicester withseverity. "An extremely dangerous person in any community. A manof a very low character of mind.""He is obstinate," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"It is natural to such a man to be so," says Sir Leicester, lookingmost profoundly obstinate himself. "I am not at all surprised tohear it.""The only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will giveup anything.""No, sir," replies Sir Leicester. "Nothing. I give up?""I don't mean anything of importance. That, of course, I know youwould not abandon. I mean any minor point.""Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, "there can be no minorpoint between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observethat I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be a minorpoint, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individualas in reference to the family position I have it in charge tomaintain."Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "I have now myinstructions," he says. "Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal oftrouble--""It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn," Sir Leicesterinterrupts him, "TO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned,levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probablyhave been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding115, andseverely punished--if not," adds Sir Leicester after a moment'spause, "if not hanged, drawn116, and quartered."Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden inpassing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactorything to having the sentence executed.
"But night is coming on," says he, "and my Lady will take cold. Mydear, let us go in."As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr.
Tulkinghorn for the first time.
"You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing Ihappened to inquire about. It was like you to remember thecircumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me ofit again. I can't imagine what association I had with a hand likethat, but I surely had some.""You had some?" Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.
"Oh, yes!" returns my Lady carelessly. "I think I must have hadsome. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer ofthat actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?""Yes.""How very odd!"They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lightedin the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight117. The fire glowsbrightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where,through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscapeshudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the onlytraveller besides the waste of clouds.
My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and SirLeicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer standsbefore the fire with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face.
He looks across his arm at my Lady.
"Yes," he says, "I inquired about the man, and found him. And, whatis very strange, I found him--""Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!" Lady Dedlocklanguidly anticipates.
"I found him dead.""Oh, dear me!" remonstrated118 Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked bythe fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.
"I was directed to his lodging--a miserable119, poverty-stricken place--and I found him dead.""You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes Sir Leicester. "Ithink the less said--""Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out" (it is my Ladyspeaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking!
Dead?"Mr, Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination48 of his head.
"Whether by his own hand--""Upon my honour!" cries Sir Leicester. "Really!""Do let me hear the story!" says my Lady.
"Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say--""No, you mustn't say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn."Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the point, though he still feelsthat to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes isreally--really--"I was about to say," resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness,"that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond mypower to tell you. I should amend120 that phrase, however, by sayingthat he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether byhis own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly beknown. The coroner's jury found that he took the poisonaccidentally.""And what kind of man," my Lady asks, "was this deplorablecreature?""Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his bead121. "Hehad lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colourand his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered himthe commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he hadonce been something better, both in appearance and condition.""What did they call the wretched being?""They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew hisname.""Not even any one who had attended on him?""No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I foundhim.""Without any clue to anything more?""Without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively122, "an oldportmanteau, but-- No, there were no papers."During the utterance123 of every word of this short dialogue, LadyDedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration124 in theircustomary deportment, have looked very steadily125 at one another--aswas natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject.
Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression ofthe Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews hisstately protest, saying that as it is quite clear that noassociation in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poorwretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear nomore about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.
"Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering126 up hermantles and furs, "but they interest one for the moment! Have thekindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me."Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference127 and holds it open while shepasses out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued mannerand insolent128 grace. They meet again at dinner--again, next day--again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the sameexhausted deity129, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable tobe bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine130. Mr.
Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of nobleconfidences, so oddly but of place and yet so perfectly at home.
They appear to take as little note of one another as any two peopleenclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermorewatches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some greatreservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for theother, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to knowhow much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time, in theirown hearts.
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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benighted
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distinguished
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elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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retired
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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9
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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10
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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11
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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12
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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13
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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14
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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15
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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16
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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17
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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18
centaurs
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| n.（希腊神话中）半人半马怪物( centaur的名词复数 ) | |
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19
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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20
glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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21
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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22
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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23
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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24
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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25
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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27
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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28
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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29
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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30
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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31
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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32
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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33
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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34
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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37
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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38
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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39
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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40
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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41
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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42
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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43
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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44
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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45
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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46
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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47
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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48
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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49
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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50
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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51
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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52
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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53
incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
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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55
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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56
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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57
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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58
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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59
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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60
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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61
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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62
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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64
forefingers
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| n.食指( forefinger的名词复数 ) | |
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65
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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67
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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68
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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69
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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70
watt
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| n.瓦，瓦特 | |
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71
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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72
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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73
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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74
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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75
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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76
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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77
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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78
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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79
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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80
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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81
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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82
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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83
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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84
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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85
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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86
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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87
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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88
exquisites
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| n.精致的( exquisite的名词复数 )；敏感的；剧烈的；强烈的 | |
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89
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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90
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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91
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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92
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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93
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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94
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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95
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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96
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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97
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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98
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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99
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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100
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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101
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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102
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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103
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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104
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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105
administrators
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| n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 )；有管理（或行政）才能的人；（由遗嘱检验法庭指定的）遗产管理人；奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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106
necromancer
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| n. 巫师 | |
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107
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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108
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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109
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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110
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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112
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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113
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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114
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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115
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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116
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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117
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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118
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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119
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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120
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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121
bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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122
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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123
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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124
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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125
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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126
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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127
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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128
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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129
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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130
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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