ichard left us on the very next evening, to begin his newcareer, and committed Ada to my charge with great lovefor her, and great trust in me. It touched me then toreflect, and it touches me now, more nearly, to remember (havingwhat I have to tell) how they both thought of me, even at thatengrossing time. I was a part of all their plans, for the present andthe future. I was to write to Richard once a week, making myfaithful report of Ada who was to write to him every alternate day.
I was to be informed, under his own hand, of all his labours andsuccesses; I was to observe how resolute1 and persevering2 he wouldbe; I was to be Ada’s bridesmaid when they were married; I was tolive with them afterwards; I was to keep all the keys of their house;I was to be made happy for ever and a day.
“And if the suit should make us rich, Esther―which it may, youknow!” said Richard, to crown all.
A shade crossed Ada’s face.
“My dearest Ada,” asked Richard pausing, “why not?”
“It had better declare us poor at once,” said Ada.
“O! I don’t know about that,” returned Richard; “but, at allevents, it won’t declare anything at once. It hasn’t declaredanything in Heaven knows how many years.”
“Too true,” said Ada.
“Yes, but,” urged Richard, answering what her look suggestedrather than her words, “the longer it goes on, dear cousin, thenearer it must be to a settlement one way or other. Now, is notthat reasonable?”
“You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it willmake us unhappy.”
“But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it!” cried Richard.
“We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that if it shouldmake us rich, we have no constitutional objection to being rich.
The Court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim old guardian4,and we are to suppose that what it gives us (when it gives usanything) is our right. It is not necessary to quarrel with ourright.”
“No,” said Ada, “but it may be better to forget all about it.”
“Well, well!” cried Richard, “then we will forget all about it! Weconsign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame5 Durden puts on herapproving face, and it’s done!”
“Dame Durden’s approving face,” said I, looking out of the boxin which I was packing his books, “was not very visible when youcalled it by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks youcan’t do better.”
So, Richard said there was an end of it,―and immediatelybegan, on no other foundation, to build as many castles in the airas would man the great wall of China. He went away in highspirits. Ada and I, prepared to miss him very much, commencedour quieter career.
On our arrival in London, we had called with Mr Jarndyce atMrs Jellyby’s, but had not been so fortunate as to find her at home.
It appeared that she had gone somewhere, to a tea-drinking, andhad taken Miss Jellyby with her. Besides the tea-drinking, therewas to be some considerable speech-making and letter-writing on the general merits of the cultivation7 of coffee, conjointly withnatives, at the Settlement of Borrioboola-Gha. All this involved, nodoubt, sufficient active exercise of pen and ink, to make herdaughter’s part in the proceedings8, anything but a holiday.
It being, now, beyond the time appointed for Mrs Jellyby’sreturn, we called again. She was in town, but not at home, havinggone to Mile End, directly after breakfast, on some Borrioboolanbusiness, arising out of a Society called the East London BranchAid Ramification9. As I had not seen Peepy on the occasion of ourlast call (when he was not to be found anywhere, and when thecook rather thought he must have strolled away with thedustman’s cart), I now inquired for him again. The oyster10 shells hehad been building a house with were still in the passage, but hewas nowhere discoverable, and the cook supposed that he had“gone after the sheep.” When we repeated, with some surprise,“The sheep?” she said, O yes, on market days he sometimesfollowed them quite out of town, and came back in such a state asnever was!
I was sitting at the window with my Guardian, on the followingmorning, and Ada was busy writing―of course to Richard―whenMiss Jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identicalPeepy, whom she had made some endeavours to renderpresentable, by wiping the dirt into corners of his face and hands,and making his hair very wet and then violently frizzling it withher fingers. Everything the dear child wore, was either too largefor him or too small. Among his other contradictory11 decorations hehad the hat of a Bishop12, and the little gloves of a baby. His bootswere, on a small scale, the boots of a ploughman: while his legs, socrossed and recrossed with scratches that they looked like maps,were bare, below a very short pair of plaid drawers finished offwith two frills of perfectly13 different patterns. The deficient14 buttonson his plaid frock had evidently been supplied from one of MrJellyby’s coats, they were so extremely brazen15 and so much toolarge. Most extraordinary specimens16 of needlework appeared onseveral parts of his dress, where it had been hastily mended; and Irecognised the same hand on Miss Jellyby’s. She was, however,unaccountably improved in her appearance, and looked verypretty. She was conscious of poor little Peepy being but a failureafter all her trouble, and she showed it as she came in, by the wayin which she glanced, first at him and then at us.
“O dear me!” said my Guardian, “Due East!”
Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome, and presented her to MrJarndyce; to whom she said, as she sat down:
“Ma’s compliments, and she hopes you’ll excuse her, becauseshe’s correcting proofs of the plan. She’s going to put out fivethousand new circulars, and she knows you’ll be interested to hearthat. I have brought one of them with me. Ma’s compliments.”
With which she presented it sulkily enough.
“Thank you,” said my Guardian. “I am much obliged to MrsJellyby. O dear me! This is a very wind!”
We were busy with Peepy; taking off his clerical hat; asking himif he remembered us; and so on. Peepy retired17 behind his elbow atfirst, but relented at the sight of sponge-cake, and allowed me totake him on my lap, where he sat munching18 quietly. Mr Jarndycethen withdrawing into the temporary Growlery, Miss Jellybyopened a conversation with her usual abruptness19.
“We are going on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn,” said she.
“I have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa! I couldn’t be worse off ifI was a what’s-his-name-man and a brother!”
I tried to say something soothing20.
“O, it’s of no use, Miss Summerson,” exclaimed Miss Jellyby,“though I thank you for the kind intention all the same. I knowhow I am used, and I am not to be talked over. You wouldn’t betalked over, if you were used so. Peepy, go and play at Wild Beastsunder the piano!”
“I shan’t!” said Peepy.
“Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!”
returned Miss Jellyby, with tears in her eyes. “I’ll never take painsto dress you any more.”
“Yes, I will go, Caddy!” cried Peepy, who was really a goodchild, and who was so moved by his sister’s vexation that he wentat once.
“It seems a little thing to cry about,” said poor Miss Jellyby,apologetically; “but I am quite worn out. I was directing the newcirculars till two this morning. I detest21 the whole thing so, that thatalone makes my head ache till I can’t see out of my eyes. And lookat that poor unfortunate child. Was there ever such a fright as heis!”
Peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, saton the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmlyout of his den6 at us, while he ate his cake.
“I have sent him to the other end of the room,” observed MissJellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, “because I don’t want himto hear the conversation. Those little things are so sharp! I wasgoing to say, we really are going on worse than ever. Pa will be abankrupt before long, and then I hope Ma will be satisfied.
There’ll be nobody but Ma to thank for it.”
We said we hoped Mr Jellyby’s affairs were not in so bad a stateas that.
“It’s of no use hoping, though it’s very kind of you!” returnedMiss Jellyby, shaking her head. “Pa told me, only yesterdaymorning, (and dreadfully unhappy he is,) that he couldn’t weatherthe storm. I should be surprised if he could. When all ourtradesmen send into our house any stuff they like, and theservants do what they like with it, and I have no time to improvethings if I knew how, and Ma don’t care about anything, I shouldlike to make out how Pa is to weather the storm. I declare if I wasPa I’d run away!”
“My dear!” said I, smiling. “Your papa, no doubt, considers hisfamily.”
“O yes, his family is all very fine, Miss Summerson,” repliedMiss Jellyby; “but what comfort is his family to him? His family isnothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles downstairs, confusion,and wretchedness. His scrambling25 home, from week’s-end toweek’s-end, is like one great washing-day―only nothing’swashed!”
Miss Jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor, and wiped her eyes.
“I am sure I pity Pa to that degree,” she said, “and am so angrywith Ma, that I can’t find words to express myself! However, I amnot going to bear it, I am determined27. I won’t be a slave all my life,and I won’t submit to be proposed to by Mr Quale. A pretty thing,indeed, to marry a Philanthropist. As if I hadn’t had enough ofthat!” said poor Miss Jellyby.
I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry withMrs Jellyby, myself; seeing and hearing this neglected girl, andknowing how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what shesaid.
“If it wasn’t that we had been intimate when you stopped at ourhouse,” pursued Miss Jellyby, “I should have been ashamed tocome here today, for I know what a figure I must seem to you two.
But, as it is, I made up my mind to call: especially as I am notlikely to see you again, the next time you come to town.”
She said this with such great significance that Ada and Iglanced at one another, foreseeing something more.
“No!” said Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. “Not at all likely! Iknow I may trust you two. I am sure you won’t betray me. I amengaged.”
“Without their knowledge at home?” said I.
“Why, good gracious me, Miss Summerson,” she returned,justifying herself in a fretful but not angry manner, “how can it beotherwise? You know what Ma is―and I needn’t make poor Pamore miserable28 by telling him.”
“But would it not be adding to his unhappiness to marrywithout his knowledge or consent, my dear?” said I.
“No,” said Miss Jellyby, softening29. “I hope not. I should try tomake him happy and comfortable when he came to see me; andPeepy and the others should take it in turns to come and stay withme; and they should have some care taken of them, then.”
There was a good deal of affection in poor Caddy. She softenedmore and more while saying this, and cried so much over theunwonted little home-picture she had raised in her mind, thatPeepy, in his cave under the piano, was touched, and turnedhimself over on his back with loud lamentations. It was not until Ihad brought him to kiss his sister, and had restored him to hisplace in my lap, and had shown him that Caddy was laughing (shelaughed expressly for the purpose), that we could recall his peaceof mind; even then, it was for some time conditional30 on his takingus in turns by the chin, and smoothing our faces all over with hishand. At last, as his spirits were not yet equal to the piano, we puthim on a chair to look out of window; and Miss Jellyby, holdinghim by one leg, resumed her confidence.
“It began in your coming to our house,” she said.
We naturally asked how?
“I felt I was so awkward,” she replied, “that I made up my mindto be improved in that respect, at all events, and to learn to dance.
I told Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught to dance.
Ma looked at me in that provoking way of hers as if I wasn’t insight; but, I was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so Iwent to Mr Turveydrop’s Academy in Newman Street.”
“And was it there, my dear―” I began.
“Yes, it was there,” said Caddy, “and I am engaged to MrTurveydrop. There are two Mr Turveydrops, father and son. MyMr Turveydrop is the son, of course. I only wish I had been betterbrought up, and was likely to make him a better wife; for I am veryfond of him.”
“I am sorry to hear this,” said I, “I must confess.”
“I don’t know why you should be sorry,” she retorted a littleanxiously, “but I am engaged to Mr Turveydrop, whether or no,and he is very fond of me. It’s a secret as yet, even on his side,because old Mr Turveydrop has a share in the connection, and itmight break his heart, or give him some other shock, if he was toldof it abruptly31. Old Mr Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly manindeed―very gentlemanly.”
“Does his wife know of it?” asked Ada.
“Old Mr Turveydrop’s wife, Miss Clare?” returned Miss Jellyby,opening her eyes. “There’s no such person. He is a widower32.”
We were here interrupted by Peepy, whose leg had undergoneso much on account of his sister’s unconsciously jerking it like abell-rope whenever she was emphatic33, that the afflicted34 child nowbemoaned his sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. As heappealed to me for compassion35, and as I was only a listener, Iundertook to hold him. Miss Jellyby proceeded, after beggingPeepy’s pardon with a kiss, and assuring him that she hadn’tmeant to do it.
“That’s the state of the case,” said Caddy. “If I ever blamemyself, I shall think it’s Ma’s fault. We are to be married wheneverwe can, and then I shall go to Pa at the office and write to Ma. Itwon’t much agitate36 Ma: I am only pen and ink to her. One greatcomfort is,” said Caddy, with a sob37, “that I shall never hear ofAfrica after I am married. Young Mr Turveydrop hates it for mysake; and if old Mr Turveydrop knows there is such a place, it’s asmuch as he does.”
“It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think?” said I.
“Very gentlemanly, indeed,” said Caddy. “He is celebratedalmost everywhere, for his Deportment.”
“Does he teach?” asked Ada.
“No, he don’t teach anything in particular,” replied Caddy. “Buthis Deportment is beautiful.”
Caddy went on to say, with considerable hesitation40 andreluctance, that there was one thing more she wished us to know,and felt we ought to know, and which she hoped would not offendus. It was, that she had improved her acquaintance with MissFlite, the little crazy old lady; and that she frequently went thereearly in the morning, and met her lover for a few minutes beforebreakfast―only for a few minutes. “I go there, at other times,” saidCaddy, “but Prince does not come then. Young Mr Turveydrop’sname is Prince; I wish it wasn’t, because it sounds like a dog, butof course he didn’t christen himself. Old Mr Turveydrop had himchristened Prince, in remembrance of the Prince Regent. Old MrTurveydrop adored the Prince Regent on account of hisDeportment. I hope you won’t think the worse of me for havingmade these little appointments at Miss Flite’s, where I first wentwith you; because I like the poor thing for her own sake and Ibelieve she likes me. If you could see young Mr Turveydrop, I amsure you would think well of him―at least, I am sure you couldn’tpossibly think any ill of him. I am going there now, for my lesson. Icouldn’t ask you to go with me, Miss Summerson; but if youwould,” said Caddy, who had said all this, earnestly andtremblingly, “I should be very glad―very glad.”
It happened that we had arranged with my Guardian to go toMiss Flite’s that day. We had told him of our former visit, and ouraccount had interested him; but something had always happenedto prevent our going there again. As I trusted that I might havesufficient influence with Miss Jellyby to prevent her taking anyvery rash step, if I fully24 accepted the confidence she was so willingto place in me, poor girl, I proposed that she and I and Peepyshould go to the Academy, and afterwards meet my Guardian andAda at Miss Flite’s―whose name I now learnt for the first time.
This was on condition that Miss Jellyby and Peepy should comeback with us to dinner. The last article of the agreement beingjoyfully acceded41 to by both, we smartened Peepy up a little, withthe assistance of a few pins, some soap and water, and ahairbrush; and went out: bending our steps towards NewmanStreet, which was very near.
I found the Academy established in a sufficiently42 dingy43 house atthe corner of an archway, with busts44 in all the staircase windows.
In the same house there were also established, as I gathered fromthe plates on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (therewas, certainly, no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. Onthe plate which, in size and situation, took precedence of all therest, I read, Mr TURVEYDROP. The door was open, and the hallwas blocked up by a grand piano, a harp22, and several othermusical instruments in cases, all in progress of removal, and alllooking rakish in the daylight. Miss Jellyby informed me that theAcademy had been lent, last night, for a concert.
We went upstairs―it had been quite a fine house once, when itwas anybody’s business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody’sbusiness to smoke in it all day―and into Mr Turveydrop’s greatroom, which was built out into a mews at the back, and waslighted by a skylight. It was a bare, resounding45 room, smelling ofstables; with cane46 forms along the walls; and the walls ornamentedat regular intervals47 with painted lyres, and little cut-glassbranches for candles, which seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as other branches might shed autumn leaves.
Several young lady pupils, ranging from thirteen or fourteen yearsof age to two or three and twenty, were assembled; and I waslooking among them for their instructor48, when Caddy, pinchingmy arm, repeated the ceremony of introduction. “MissSummerson, Mr Prince Turveydrop!”
I curtseyed to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthfulappearance, with flaxen hair parted in the middle, and curling atthe ends all round his head. He had a little fiddle49, which we usedto call at school a kit50, under his left arm, and its little bow in thesame band. His little dancing shoes were particularly diminutive,and he had a little innocent, feminine manner, which not onlyappe aled to me in an amiable51 way, but made this singular effectupon me: that I received the impression that he was like hismother, and that his mother had not been much considered orwell used.”
“I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby’s friend,” he said, bowinglow to me. “I began to fear,” with timid tenderness, “as it was pastthe usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not coming.”
“I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, whohave detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir,” said I.
“O dear!” said he.
“And pray,” I entreated52, “do not allow me to be the cause of anymore delay.”
With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy (who,being well used to it, had already climbed into a corner place) andan old lady of a censorious countenance53, whose two nieces were inthe class, and who was very indignant with Peepy’s boots. PrinceTurveydrop then tinkled54 the strings55 of his kit with his fingers, andthe young ladies stood up to dance. Just then, there appeared froma side-door, old Mr Turveydrop, in the full lustre56 of hisDeportment.
He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion57, false teeth,false whiskers, and a wig58. He had a fur collar, and he had a paddedbreast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbonto be complete. He was pinched in, and swelled59 out, and got up,and strapped60 down, as much as he could possibly bear. He hadsuch a neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their naturalshape), and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that itseemed as though he must inevitably61 double up, if it were castloose. He had, under his arm, a hat of great size and weight,shelving downward from the crown to the brim; and in his hand apair of white gloves, with which he flapped it, as he stood poisedon one leg, in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegancenot to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eyeglass, he had asnuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything butany touch of nature; he was not like youth, he was not like age, hewas like nothing in the world but a model of Deportment.
“Father! A visitor. Miss Jellyby’s friend, Miss Summerson.”
“Distinguished62,” said Mr Turveydrop, “by Miss Summerson’spresence.” As he bowed to me in that tight state, I almost believe Isaw creases63 come into the whites of his eyes.
“My father,” said the son, aside to me, with quite an affectingbelief in him, “is a celebrated38 character. My father is greatlyadmired.”
“Go on, Prince! Go on!” said Mr Turveydrop, standing64 with hisback to the fire, and waving his gloves condescendingly. “Go on,my son!”
At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lessonwent on. Prince Turveydrop, sometimes, played the kit, dancing;sometimes played the piano, standing: sometimes hummed thetune with what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupilright; always conscientiously66 moved with the least proficientthrough every step and every part of the figure; and never restedfor an instant. His distinguished father did nothing whatever, butstand before the fire, a model of Deportment.
“And he never does anything else,” said the old lady of thecensorious countenance. “Yet would you believe that it’s his nameon the door-plate?”
“His son’s name is the same, you know,” said I.
“He wouldn’t let his son have any name, if he could take it fromhim,” returned the old lady. “Look at the son’s dress!” It certainlywas plain―threadbare―almost shabby. “Yet the father must begarnished and tricked out,” said the old lady, “because of hisDeportment. I’d deport39 him! Transport him would be better!”
I felt curious to know more, concerning this person. I asked,“Does he give lessons in Deportment, now?”
“Now!” returned the old lady, shortly. “Never did.”
After a moment’s consideration, I suggested that perhapsfencing had been his accomplishment67?
“I don’t believe he can fence at all, ma’am,” said the old lady.
I looked surprised and inquisitive68. The old lady, becoming moreand more incensed69 against the Master of Deportment as she dweltupon the subject, gave me some particulars of his career, withstrong assurances that they were mildly stated.
He had married a meek70 little dancing-mistress, with a tolerableconnection (having never in his life before done anything butdeport himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best,suffered her to work herself to death, to maintain him in thoseexpenses which were indispensable to his position. At once toexhibit his Deportment to the best models, and to keep the bestmodels constantly before himself, he had found it necessary tofrequent all public places of fashionable and lounging resort; to beseen at Brighton and elsewhere at fashionable times; and to leadan idle life in the very best clothes. To enable him to do this, theaffectionate little dancing-mistress had toiled71 and laboured, andwould have toiled and laboured to that hour, if her strength hadlasted so long. For, the mainspring of the story was, that, in spiteof the man’s absorbing selfishness, his wife (overpowered by hisDeportment) had, to the last, believed in him, and had, on herdeath-bed, in the most moving terms, confided72 him to their son asone who had an inextinguishable claim upon him, and whom hecould never regard with too much pride and deference73. The son,inheriting his mother’s belief, and having the Deportment alwaysbefore him, had lived and grown in the same faith, and now, atthirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a-day, andlooked up to him with veneration74 on the old imaginary pinnacle75.
“The airs the fellow gives himself!” said my informant, shakingher head at old Mr Turveydrop with speechless indignation, as hedrew on his tight gloves: of course unconscious of the homage76 shewas rendering77. “He fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! Andhe is so condescending65 to the son he so egregiously78 deludes79 thatyou might suppose him the most virtuous80 of parents. O!” said theold lady, apostrophising him with infinite vehemence81, “I could biteyou!”
I could not help being amused, though I heard the old lady outwith feelings of real concern. It was difficult to doubt her, with thefather and son before me. What I might have thought of themwithout the old lady’s account, or what I might have thought of theold lady’s account without them, I cannot say. There was a fitnessof things in the whole that carried conviction with it.
My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr Turveydropworking so hard to old Mr Turveydrop deporting82 himself sobeautifully, when the latter came ambling26 up to me, and enteredinto conversation.
He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and adistinction on London by residing in it? I did not think itnecessary to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that,in any case, but merely told him where I did reside.
“A lady so graceful83 and accomplished,” he said, kissing his rightglove, and afterwards extending it towards the pupils, “will lookleniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to polish―polish―polish!”
He sat down beside me; taking some pains to sit on the form, Ithought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on thesofa. And really he did look very like it.
“To polish―polish―polish!” he repeated, taking a pinch ofsnuff and gently fluttering his fingers. “But we are not―if I maysay so, to one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art;” withthe high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him tomake without lifting up his eyebrows84 and shutting his eyes―“weare not what we used to be in point of Deportment.”
“Are we not, sir?” said I.
“We have degenerated85,” he returned, shaking his head, whichhe could do, to a very limited extent, in his cravat86. “A levelling ageis not favourable87 to Deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps Ispeak with some little partiality. It may not be for me to say that Ihave been called, for some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop; orthat His Royal Highness the Prince Regent did me the honour toinquire, on my removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion atBrighton (that fine building) ‘Who is he? Who the Devil is he? Whydon’t I know him? Why hasn’t he thirty thousand a year?’ Butthese are little matters of anecdote―the general property,ma’am,―still repeated occasionally, among the upper classes.”
“Indeed?” said I.
He replied with the high-shouldered bow. “Where what is leftamong us of Deportment,” he added, “still lingers. England―alas,my country!―has degenerated very much, and is degeneratingevery day. She has not many gentlemen left. We are few. I seenothing to succeed us, but a race of weavers88.”
“One might hope that the race of gentlemen would beperpetuated here,” said I.
“You are very good,” he smiled, with the high-shouldered bowagain. “You flatter me. But, no―no! I have never been able toimbue my poor boy with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that Ishould dispar age my dear child, but he has―no Deportment.”
“He appears to be an excellent master,” I observed.
“Understand me, my dear madam, he is an excellent master. Allthat can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, hecan impart. But there are things”―he took another pinch of snuffand made the bow again, as if to add, “this kind of thing, forinstance.”
I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss Jellyby’slover, now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greaterdrudgery than ever.
“My amiable child,” murmured Mr Turveydrop, adjusting hiscravat.
“Your son is indefatigable,” said I.
“It is my reward,” said Mr Turveydrop, “to hear you say so. Insome respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother.
She was a devoted89 creature. But Wooman, lovely Wooman,” saidMr Turveydrop, with very disagreeable gallantry, “what a sex youare!”
I rose and joined Miss Jellyby, who was, by this time, putting onher bonnet90. The time allotted91 to a lesson having fully elapsed,there was a general putting on of bonnets92. When Miss Jellyby andthe unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to become betrothedI don’t know, but they certainly found none, on this occasion, toexchange a dozen words.
“My dear,” said Mr Turveydrop benignly93 to his son, “do youknow the hour?”
“No, father.” The son had no watch. The father had ahandsome gold one, which he pulled out, with an air that was anexample to mankind.
“My son,” said he “it’s two o’clock. Recollect94 your school atKensington at three.”
“That’s time enough for me, father,” said Prince. “I can take amorsel of dinner, standing, and be off.”
“My dear boy,” returned his father, “you must be very quick.
You will find the cold mutton on the table.”
“Thank you, father. Are you off now, father?”
“Yes, my dear. I suppose,” said Mr Turveydrop, shutting hiseyes and lifting up his shoulders, with modest consciousness, “thatI must show myself, as usual, about town.”
“You had better dine out comfortably, somewhere,” said hisson.
“My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think, atthe French house, in the Opera Colonnade95.”
“That’s right. Good-bye, father!” said Prince, shaking hands.
“Good-bye, my son. Bless you!”
Mr Turveydrop said this in quite a pious96 manner, and it seemedto do his son good; who, in parting from him, was so pleased withhim, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him, that I almost felt as if itwere an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believeimplicitly in the elder. The few moments that were occupied byPrince in taking leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I saw,being in the secret), enhanced by favourable impression of hisalmost childish character. I felt a liking97 for him, and a compassionfor him, as he put his little kit in his pocket―and with it his desireto stay a little while with Caddy―and went away good-humouredly to his cold mutton and his school at Kensington, thatmade me scarcely less irate98 with his father than the censorious oldlady.
The father opened the room door for us, and bowed us out in amanner, I must acknowledge, worthy99 of his shining original. In thesame style he presently passed us on the other side of the street,on his way to the aristocratic part of the town, where he was goingto show himself among the few other gentlemen left. For somemoments, I was so lost in reconsidering what I had heard and seenin Newman Street, that I was quite unable to talk to Caddy, oreven to fix my attention on what she said to me: especially when Ibegan to inquire in my mind whether there were, or ever hadbeen, any other gentlemen, not in the dancing profession, wholived and founded a reputation entirely100 on their Deportment. Thisbecame so bewildering, and suggested the possibility of so manyMr Turveydrops, that I said, “Esther, you must make up yourmind to abandon this subject altogether, and attend to Caddy.” Iaccordingly did so, and we chatted all the rest of the way toLincoln’s Inn.
Caddy told me that her lover’s education had been so neglected,that it was not always easy to read his notes. She said, if he werenot so anxious about his spelling, and took less pains to make itclear, he would do better; but he put so many unnecessary lettersinto short words, that they sometimes quite lost their Englishappearance. “He does it with the best intention,” observed Caddy,“but it hasn’t the effect he means, poor fellow!” Caddy then wenton to reason, how could he be expected to be a scholar, when hehad passed his whole life in the dancing-school, and had donenothing but teach and fag, fag and teach, morning, noon, andnight! And what did it matter? She could write letters enough forboth, as she knew to her cost, and it was far better for him to beamiable than learned. “Besides, it’s not as if I was anaccomplished girl who had any right to give herself airs,” saidCaddy. “I know little enough, I am sure; thanks to Ma!”
“There’s another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone,”
continued Caddy; “which I should not have liked to mentionunless you had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You know what ahouse ours is. It’s of no use my trying to learn anything that wouldbe useful for Prince’s wife to know, in our house. We live in such astate of muddle101 that it’s impossible, and I have only been moredisheartened whenever I have tried. So I get a little practicewith―who do you think? Poor Miss Flite! Early in the morning, Ihelp her to tidy her room, and clean her birds; and I make her cupof coffee for her (of course she taught me), and I have learnt tomake it so well that Prince says it’s the very best coffee he evertasted, and would quite delight old Mr Turveydrop, who is veryparticular indeed about his coffee. I can make little puddings too;and I know how to buy neck of mutton, and tea, and sugar, andbutter, and a good many housekeeping things. I am not clever atmy needle, yet,” said Caddy, glancing at the repairs on Peepy’sfrock, “but perhaps I shall improve. And since I have beenengaged to Prince, and have been doing all this, I have felt better-tempered, I hope, and more forgiving to Ma. It rather put me out,at first this morning, to see you and Miss Clare looking so neat andpretty, and to feel ashamed of Peepy and myself too; but, on thewhole, I hope I am better-tempered than I was, and more forgivingto Ma.”
The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, andtouched mine. “Caddy, my love,” I replied, “I begin to have a greataffection for you, and I hope we shall become friends.” “Oh, doyou?” cried Caddy; “how happy that would make me!” “My dearCaddy,” said I, “let us be friends from this time, and let us oftenhave a chat about these matters, and try to find the right waythrough them.” Caddy was overjoyed. I said everything I could, inmy old-fashioned way, to comfort and encourage her; and I wouldnot have objected to old Mr Turveydrop, that day, for any smallerconsideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law.
By this time we were come to Mr Krook’s, whose private doorstood open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcinga room to let on the second floor. It reminded Caddy to tell me aswe proceeded upstairs, that there had been a sudden death there,and an inquest; and that our little friend had been ill of the fright.
The door and window of the vacant room being open, we lookedin. It was the room with the dark door, to which Miss Flite hadsecretly directed my attention when I was last in the house. A sadand desolate102 place it was; a gloomy, sorrowful place, that gave mea strange sensation of mournfulness and even dread23. “You lookpale,” said Caddy, when we came out, “and cold!” I felt as if theroom had chilled me.
We had walked slowly, while we were talking; and my Guardianand Ada were here before us. We found them in Miss Flite’sgarret. They were looking at the birds, while a medical gentlemanwho was so good as to attend Miss Flite with much solicitude103 andcompassion, spoke104 with her cheerfully by the fire.
“I have finished my professional visit,” he said coming forward.
“Miss Flite is much better, and may appear in Court (as her mindis set upon it) tomorrow. She has been greatly missed there, Iunderstand.”
Miss Flite received the compliment with complacency, anddropped a general curtsey to us.
“Honoured, indeed,” said she, “by another visit from the Wardsin Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak105 Housebeneath my humble106 roof!” with a special curtsey. “Fitz-Jarndyce,my dear;” she had bestowed107 that name on Caddy, it appeared, andalways called her by it; “a double welcome!”
“Has she been very ill?” asked Mr Jarndyce of the gentlemanwhom we had found in attendance on her. She answered forherself directly, though he had put the question in a whisper.
“O decidedly unwell! O very unwell indeed,” she said,confidentially. “Not pain, you know―trouble. Not bodily so muchas nervous, nervous! The truth is,” in a subdued108 voice andtrembling, “we have had death here. There was poison in thehouse. I am very susceptible109 to such horrid110 things. It frightenedme. Only Mr Woodcourt knows how much. My physician, MrWoodcourt!” with great stateliness. “The Wards3 in Jarndyce―Jarndyce of Bleak House―Fitz-Jarndyce!”
“Miss Flite―” said Mr Woodcourt, in a grave kind of voice, as ifhe were appealing to her while speaking to us; and laying his handgently on her arm; “Miss Flite describes her illness with her usualaccuracy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in the house whichmight have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by thedistress and agitation111. She brought me here, in the first hurry ofthe discovery, though too late for me to be of any use to theunfortunate man. I have compensated112 myself for thatdisappointment by coming here since, and being of some small useto her.
“The kindest physician in the college,” whispered Miss Flite tome. “I expect a judgement. On the day of Judgement. And shallthen confer estates.”
“She will be as well, in a day or two,” said Mr Woodcourt,looking at her with an observant smile, “as she ever will be. Inother words, quite well of course. Have you heard of her goodfortune?”
“Most extraordinary!” said Miss Flite, smiling brightly. “Younever heard of such a thing, my dear! Every Saturday,Conversation Kenge, or Guppy (Clerk to Conversation K.), placesin my hand a paper of shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Always thesame number in the paper. Always one for every day in the week.
Now you know, really! So well-timed, is it not? Ye-es! Fromwhence do these papers come, you say? That is the great question.
Naturally. Shall I tell you what I think? I think,” said Miss Flite,drawing herself back with a very shrewd look, and shaking herright forefinger113 in a most significant manner, “that the LordChancellor, aware of the length of time during which the GreatSeal has been open, (for it has been open a long time!) forwardsthem. Until the Judgement I expect, is given. Now that’s verycreditable, you know. To confess in that way that he is a little slowfor human life. So delicate! Attending Court the other day―Iattend it regularly―with my documents―I taxed him with it, andhe almost confessed. That is, I smiled at him from my bench, andhe smiled at me from his bench. But it’s great good fortune, is itnot? And Fitz-Jarndyce lays the money out for me to greatadvantage. O, I assure you to the greatest advantage!”
I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon thisfortunate addition to her income, and wished her a longcontinuance of it. I did not speculate upon the source from whichit came, or wonder whose humanity was so considerate. MyGuardian stood before me contemplating115 the birds, and I had noneed to look beyond him.
“And what do you call these little fellows, ma’am?” said he inhis pleasant voice. “Have they any names?”
“I can answer for Miss Flite that they have,” said I, “for shepromised to tell us what they were. Ada remembers?”
Ada remembered very well.
“Did I?” said Miss Flite―“who’s that at my door? What are youlistening at my door for, Krook?”
The old man of the house, pushing it open before him,appeared there with his fur-cap in his hand, and his cat at hisheels.
“I warn’t listening, Miss Flite,” he said. “I was going to give arap with my knuckles116, only you’re so quick!”
“Make your cat go down. Drive her away!” the old lady angrilyexclaimed.
“Bah, bah!―There ain’t no danger, gentlefolks,” said Mr Krook,looking slowly and sharply from one to another, until he hadlooked at all of us; “she’d never offer at the birds when I was here,unless I told her to it.”
“You will excuse my landlord,” said the old lady with adignified air. “M, quite M! What do you want, Krook, when I havecompany?”
“Hi!” said the old man. “You know I am the Chancellor114.”
“Well?” returned Miss Flite. “What of that?”
“For the Chancellor,” said the old man with a chuckle117, “not tobe acquainted with a Jarndyce is queer, ain’t it, Miss Flite?
Mightn’t I take the liberty?―Your servant, sir. I know Jarndyceand Jarndyce a’most as well as you do, sir. I knowed old SquireTom, sir. I never to my knowledge see you afore though, not evenin Court. Yet, I go there a mortal sight of times in the course of theyear, taking one day with another.”
“I never go there,” said Mr Jarndyce (which he never did onany consideration). “I would sooner go―somewhere else.”
“Would you, though?” returned Krook, grinning. “You’rebearing hard upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning,sir; though perhaps it is but nat’ral in a Jarndyce. The burnt child,sir! What, you’re looking at my lodger’s birds, Mr Jarndyce?” Theold man had come by little and little into the room, until he nowtouched my Guardian with his elbow, and looked close up into hisface with his spectacled eyes. “It’s one of her strange ways, thatshe’ll never tell the names of these birds if she can help it, thoughshe named ’em all.” This was in a whisper. “Shall I run ’em over,Flite?” he asked aloud, winking118 at us and pointing at her as sheturned away, affecting to sweep the grate.
“If you like,” she answered hurriedly.
The old man, looking up at the cages, after another look at us,went through the list.
“Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want,Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly119, Words, Wigs,Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder120, Precedent121, Jargon122, Gammon, andSpinach. That’s the whole collection,” said the old man, “allcooped up together, by my noble and learned brother.”
“This is a bitter wind!” muttered my Guardian.
“When my noble and learned brother gives his Judgement,they’re to be let go free,” said Krook, winking at us again. “Andthen,” he added, whispering and grinning, “if that ever was tohappen―which it won’t―the birds that have never been cagedwould kill ’em.”
“If ever the wind was in the east,” said my Guardian,pretending to look out of the window for a weathercock, “I thinkit’s there today!”
We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It was notMiss Flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creaturein consulting the convenience of others, as there possibly could be.
It was Mr Krook. He seemed unable to detach himself from MrJarndyce. If he had been linked to him, he could hardly haveattended him more closely. He proposed to show us his Court ofChancery, and all the strange medley123 it contained; during thewhole of our inspection124 (prolonged by himself) he kept close to MrJarndyce, and sometimes detained him, under one pretence125 orother, until we had passed on, as if he were tormented126 by aninclination to enter upon some secret subject, which he could notmake up his mind to approach. I cannot imagine a countenanceand manner more singularly expressive127 of caution and indecision,and a perpetual impulse to do something he could not resolve toventure on, than Mr Krook was, that day. His watchfulness128 of myGuardian was incessant129. He rarely removed his eyes from his face.
If he went on beside him, he observed him with the slyness of anold white fox. If he went before he looked back. When we stoodstill, he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand across andacross his open mouth with a curious expression of a sense ofpower, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his grey eyebrowsuntil they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every lineament ofhis face.
At last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over thehouse, and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber,which was certainly curious, we came into the back part of theshop. Here, on the head of an empty barrel stood on end, were anink-bottle, some old stumps130 of pens, and some dirty playbills; and,against the wall, were pasted several large printed alphabets inseveral plain hands.
“What are you doing here?” asked my Guardian.
“Trying to learn myself to read and write,” said Krook.
“And how do you get on?”
“Slow. Bad,” returned the old man, impatiently. “It’s hard atmy time of life.”
“It would be easier to be taught by some one,” said myGuardian.
“Ay, but they might teach me wrong!” returned the old man,with a wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. “I don’t know what Imay have lost, by not being learnd afore. I wouldn’t like to loseanything by being learnd wrong now.”
“Wrong?” said my Guardian, with his good-humoured smile.
“Who do you suppose would teach you wrong?”
“I don’t know, Mr Jarndyce of Bleak House!” replied the oldman, turning up his spectacles on his forehead, and rubbing hishands. “I don’t suppose as anybody would―but I’d rather trust myown self than another!”
These answers, and his manner, were strange enough to causemy Guardian to inquire of Mr Woodcourt, as we all walked acrossLincoln’s Inn together, whether Mr Krook were really, as hislodger represented him, deranged131? The young surgeon replied,no, he had seen no reason to think so. He was exceedinglydistrustful, as ignorance usually was, and he was always more orless under the influence of raw gin; of which he drank greatquantities, and of which he and his back-shop, as we might haveobserved, smelt132 strongly; but he did not think him mad, as yet.
On our way home, I so conciliated Peepy’s affections by buyinghim a windmill and two flour-sacks, that he would suffer nobodyelse to take off his hat and gloves, and would sit nowhere but at myside. Caddy sat upon the other side of me, next to Ada, to whomwe imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as wegot back. We made much of Caddy, and Peepy too; and Caddybrightened exceedingly; and my Guardian was as merry as wewere; and we were all very happy indeed; until Caddy went homeat night in a hackney-coach, with Peepy fast asleep, but holdingtight to the windmill.
I have forgotten to mention―at least I have not mentioned―that Mr Woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon whom wehad met at Mr Badger’s. Or, that Mr Jarndyce invited him todinner that day. Or, that he came. Or, that when they were allgone, and I said to Ada, “Now, my darling, let us have a little talkabout Richard!” Ada laughed and said― But, I don’t think it matters what my darling said. She was always merry.
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1
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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ramification
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| n.分枝，分派，衍生物 | |
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oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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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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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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deport
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| vt.驱逐出境 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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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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strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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61
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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62
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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63
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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64
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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65
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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66
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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67
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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68
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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69
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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70
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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71
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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72
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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73
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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74
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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75
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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76
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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77
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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78
egregiously
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| adv.过份地，卓越地 | |
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79
deludes
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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81
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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82
deporting
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| v.将…驱逐出境( deport的现在分词 )；举止 | |
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83
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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84
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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87
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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weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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89
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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90
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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93
benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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95
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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96
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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98
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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99
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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100
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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101
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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102
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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103
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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104
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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105
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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106
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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107
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
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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109
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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110
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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111
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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112
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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113
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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114
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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115
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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116
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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117
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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118
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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119
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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120
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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121
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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122
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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123
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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124
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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125
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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126
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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127
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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128
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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129
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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130
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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131
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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132
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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