My relative came down to Chatham to enlist1 in a cavalry2 regiment3, if a cavalry regiment would have him; if not, to take King George’s shilling from any corporal or sergeant4 who would put a bunch of ribbons in his hat. His object was to get shot; but he thought he might as well ride to death as be at the trouble of walking.
My relative’s Christian5 name was Richard, but he was better known as Dick. He dropped his own surname on the road down, and took up that of Doubledick. He was passed as Richard Doubledick; age, twenty-two; height, five foot ten; native place, Exmouth, which he had never been near in his life. There was no cavalry in Chatham when he limped over the bridge here with half a shoe to his dusty feet, so he enlisted6 into a regiment of the line, and was glad to get drunk and forget all about it.
You are to know that this relative of mine had gone wrong, and run wild. His heart was in the right place, but it was sealed up. He had been betrothed7 to a good and beautiful girl, whom he had loved better than she—or perhaps even he—believed; but in an evil hour he had given her cause to say to him solemnly, “Richard, I will never marry another man. I will live single for your sake, but Mary Marshall’s lips”—her name was Mary Marshall—“never address another word to you on earth. Go, Richard! Heaven forgive you!” This finished him. This brought him down to Chatham. This made him Private Richard Doubledick, with a determination to be shot.
There was not a more dissipated and reckless soldier in Chatham barracks, in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, than Private Richard Doubledick. He associated with the dregs of every regiment; he was as seldom sober as he could be, and was constantly under punishment. It became clear to the whole barracks that Private Richard Doubledick would very soon be flogged.
Now the Captain of Richard Doubledick’s company was a young gentleman not above five years his senior, whose eyes had an expression in them which affected8 Private Richard Doubledick in a very remarkable9 way. They were bright, handsome, dark eyes,—what are called laughing eyes generally, and, when serious, rather steady than severe,—but they were the only eyes now left in his narrowed world that Private Richard Doubledick could not stand. Unabashed by evil report and punishment, defiant10 of everything else and everybody else, he had but to know that those eyes looked at him for a moment, and he felt ashamed. He could not so much as salute11 Captain Taunton in the street like any other officer. He was reproached and confused,—troubled by the mere12 possibility of the captain’s looking at him. In his worst moments, he would rather turn back, and go any distance out of his way, than encounter those two handsome, dark, bright eyes.
One day, when Private Richard Doubledick came out of the Black hole, where he had been passing the last eight-and-forty hours, and in which retreat he spent a good deal of his time, he was ordered to betake himself to Captain Taunton’s quarters. In the stale and squalid state of a man just out of the Black hole, he had less fancy than ever for being seen by the captain; but he was not so mad yet as to disobey orders, and consequently went up to the terrace overlooking the parade-ground, where the officers’ quarters were; twisting and breaking in his hands, as he went along, a bit of the straw that had formed the decorative13 furniture of the Black hole.
“Come in!” cried the Captain, when he had knocked with his knuckles14 at the door. Private Richard Doubledick pulled off his cap, took a stride forward, and felt very conscious that he stood in the light of the dark, bright eyes.
There was a silent pause. Private Richard Doubledick had put the straw in his mouth, and was gradually doubling it up into his windpipe and choking himself.
“Doubledick,” said the Captain, “do you know where you are going to?”
“Yes,” returned the Captain. “And very fast.”
Private Richard Doubledick turned the straw of the Black hole in his month, and made a miserable16 salute of acquiescence17.
“Doubledick,” said the Captain, “since I entered his Majesty’s service, a boy of seventeen, I have been pained to see many men of promise going that road; but I have never been so pained to see a man make the shameful18 journey as I have been, ever since you joined the regiment, to see you.”
Private Richard Doubledick began to find a film stealing over the floor at which he looked; also to find the legs of the Captain’s breakfast-table turning crooked19, as if he saw them through water.
“I am only a common soldier, sir,” said he. “It signifies very little what such a poor brute20 comes to.”
“You are a man,” returned the Captain, with grave indignation, “of education and superior advantages; and if you say that, meaning what you say, you have sunk lower than I had believed. How low that must be, I leave you to consider, knowing what I know of your disgrace, and seeing what I see.”
“I hope to get shot soon, sir,” said Private Richard Doubledick; “and then the regiment and the world together will be rid of me.”
The legs of the table were becoming very crooked. Doubledick, looking up to steady his vision, met the eyes that had so strong an influence over him. He put his hand before his own eyes, and the breast of his disgrace-jacket swelled21 as if it would fly asunder22.
“I would rather,” said the young Captain, “see this in you, Doubledick, than I would see five thousand guineas counted out upon this table for a gift to my good mother. Have you a mother?”
“I am thankful to say she is dead, sir.”
“If your praises,” returned the Captain, “were sounded from mouth to mouth through the whole regiment, through the whole army, through the whole country, you would wish she had lived to say, with pride and joy, ‘He is my son!’”
“Spare me, sir,” said Doubledick. “She would never have heard any good of me. She would never have had any pride and joy in owning herself my mother. Love and compassion23 she might have had, and would have always had, I know but not—Spare me, sir! I am a broken wretch24, quite at your mercy!” And he turned his face to the wall, and stretched out his imploring25 hand.
“My friend—” began the Captain.
“You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold your course unchanged a little longer, and you know what must happen. I know even better than you can imagine, that, after that has happened, you are lost. No man who could shed those tears could bear those marks.”
“But a man in any station can do his duty,” said the young Captain, “and, in doing it, can earn his own respect, even if his case should be so very unfortunate and so very rare that he can earn no other man’s. A common soldier, poor brute though you called him just now, has this advantage in the stormy times we live in, that he always does his duty before a host of sympathising witnesses. Do you doubt that he may so do it as to be extolled28 through a whole regiment, through a whole army, through a whole country? Turn while you may yet retrieve29 the past, and try.”
“I will! I ask for only one witness, sir,” cried Richard, with a bursting heart.
I have heard from Private Richard Doubledick’s own lips, that he dropped down upon his knee, kissed that officer’s hand, arose, and went out of the light of the dark, bright eyes, an altered man.
In that year, one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, the French were in Egypt, in Italy, in Germany, where not? Napoleon Bonaparte had likewise begun to stir against us in India, and most men could read the signs of the great troubles that were coming on. In the very next year, when we formed an alliance with Austria against him, Captain Taunton’s regiment was on service in India. And there was not a finer non-commissioned officer in it,—no, nor in the whole line—than Corporal Richard Doubledick.
In eighteen hundred and one, the Indian army were on the coast of Egypt. Next year was the year of the proclamation of the short peace, and they were recalled. It had then become well known to thousands of men, that wherever Captain Taunton, with the dark, bright eyes, led, there, close to him, ever at his side, firm as a rock, true as the sun, and brave as Mars, would be certain to be found, while life beat in their hearts, that famous soldier, Sergeant Richard Doubledick.
Eighteen hundred and five, besides being the great year of Trafalgar, was a year of hard fighting in India. That year saw such wonders done by a Sergeant-Major, who cut his way single-handed through a solid mass of men, recovered the colours of his regiment, which had been seized from the hand of a poor boy shot through the heart, and rescued his wounded Captain, who was down, and in a very jungle of horses’ hoofs31 and sabres,—saw such wonders done, I say, by this brave Sergeant-Major, that he was specially32 made the bearer of the colours he had won; and Ensign Richard Doubledick had risen from the ranks.
Sorely cut up in every battle, but always reinforced by the bravest of men,—for the fame of following the old colours, shot through and through, which Ensign Richard Doubledick had saved, inspired all breasts,—this regiment fought its way through the Peninsular war, up to the investment of Badajos in eighteen hundred and twelve. Again and again it had been cheered through the British ranks until the tears had sprung into men’s eyes at the mere hearing of the mighty33 British voice, so exultant34 in their valour; and there was not a drummer-boy but knew the legend, that wherever the two friends, Major Taunton, with the dark, bright eyes, and Ensign Richard Doubledick, who was devoted35 to him, were seen to go, there the boldest spirits in the English army became wild to follow.
One day, at Badajos,—not in the great storming, but in repelling36 a hot sally of the besieged37 upon our men at work in the trenches38, who had given way,—the two officers found themselves hurrying forward, face to face, against a party of French infantry39, who made a stand. There was an officer at their head, encouraging his men,—a courageous40, handsome, gallant41 officer of five-and-thirty, whom Doubledick saw hurriedly, almost momentarily, but saw well. He particularly noticed this officer waving his sword, and rallying his men with an eager and excited cry, when they fired in obedience42 to his gesture, and Major Taunton dropped.
It was over in ten minutes more, and Doubledick returned to the spot where he had laid the best friend man ever had on a coat spread upon the wet clay. Major Taunton’s uniform was opened at the breast, and on his shirt were three little spots of blood.
“Dear Doubledick,” said he, “I am dying.”
“For the love of Heaven, no!” exclaimed the other, kneeling down beside him, and passing his arm round his neck to raise his head. “Taunton! My preserver, my guardian43 angel, my witness! Dearest, truest, kindest of human beings! Taunton! For God’s sake!”
The bright, dark eyes—so very, very dark now, in the pale face—smiled upon him; and the hand he had kissed thirteen years ago laid itself fondly on his breast.
“Write to my mother. You will see Home again. Tell her how we became friends. It will comfort her, as it comforts me.”
He spoke44 no more, but faintly signed for a moment towards his hair as it fluttered in the wind. The Ensign understood him. He smiled again when he saw that, and, gently turning his face over on the supporting arm as if for rest, died, with his hand upon the breast in which he had revived a soul.
No dry eye looked on Ensign Richard Doubledick that melancholy45 day. He buried his friend on the field, and became a lone46, bereaved47 man. Beyond his duty he appeared to have but two remaining cares in life,—one, to preserve the little packet of hair he was to give to Taunton’s mother; the other, to encounter that French officer who had rallied the men under whose fire Taunton fell. A new legend now began to circulate among our troops; and it was, that when he and the French officer came face to face once more, there would be weeping in France.
The war went on—and through it went the exact picture of the French officer on the one side, and the bodily reality upon the other—until the Battle of Toulouse was fought. In the returns sent home appeared these words: “Severely wounded, but not dangerously, Lieutenant48 Richard Doubledick.”
At Midsummer-time, in the year eighteen hundred and fourteen, Lieutenant Richard Doubledick, now a browned soldier, seven-and-thirty years of age, came home to England invalided49. He brought the hair with him, near his heart. Many a French officer had he seen since that day; many a dreadful night, in searching with men and lanterns for his wounded, had he relieved French officers lying disabled; but the mental picture and the reality had never come together.
Though he was weak and suffered pain, he lost not an hour in getting down to Frome in Somersetshire, where Taunton’s mother lived. In the sweet, compassionate50 words that naturally present themselves to the mind to-night, “he was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.”
It was a Sunday evening, and the lady sat at her quiet garden-window, reading the Bible; reading to herself, in a trembling voice, that very passage in it, as I have heard him tell. He heard the words: “Young man, I say unto thee, arise!”
He had to pass the window; and the bright, dark eyes of his debased time seemed to look at him. Her heart told her who he was; she came to the door quickly, and fell upon his neck.
“He saved me from ruin, made me a human creature, won me from infamy51 and shame. O, God for ever bless him! As He will, He Will!”
“He will!” the lady answered. “I know he is in heaven!” Then she piteously cried, “But O, my darling boy, my darling boy!”
Never from the hour when Private Richard Doubledick enlisted at Chatham had the Private, Corporal, Sergeant, Sergeant-Major, Ensign, or Lieutenant breathed his right name, or the name of Mary Marshall, or a word of the story of his life, into any ear except his reclaimer’s. That previous scene in his existence was closed. He had firmly resolved that his expiation52 should be to live unknown; to disturb no more the peace that had long grown over his old offences; to let it be revealed, when he was dead, that he had striven and suffered, and had never forgotten; and then, if they could forgive him and believe him—well, it would be time enough—time enough!
But that night, remembering the words he had cherished for two years, “Tell her how we became friends. It will comfort her, as it comforts me,” he related everything. It gradually seemed to him as if in his maturity53 he had recovered a mother; it gradually seemed to her as if in her bereavement54 she had found a son. During his stay in England, the quiet garden into which he had slowly and painfully crept, a stranger, became the boundary of his home; when he was able to rejoin his regiment in the spring, he left the garden, thinking was this indeed the first time he had ever turned his face towards the old colours with a woman’s blessing55!
He followed them—so ragged56, so scarred and pierced now, that they would scarcely hold together—to Quatre Bras and Ligny. He stood beside them, in an awful stillness of many men, shadowy through the mist and drizzle57 of a wet June forenoon, on the field of Waterloo. And down to that hour the picture in his mind of the French officer had never been compared with the reality.
The famous regiment was in action early in the battle, and received its first check in many an eventful year, when he was seen to fall. But it swept on to avenge58 him, and left behind it no such creature in the world of consciousness as Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.
Through pits of mire59, and pools of rain; along deep ditches, once roads, that were pounded and ploughed to pieces by artillery60, heavy waggons61, tramp of men and horses, and the struggle of every wheeled thing that could carry wounded soldiers; jolted62 among the dying and the dead, so disfigured by blood and mud as to be hardly recognisable for humanity; undisturbed by the moaning of men and the shrieking63 of horses, which, newly taken from the peaceful pursuits of life, could not endure the sight of the stragglers lying by the wayside, never to resume their toilsome journey; dead, as to any sentient64 life that was in it, and yet alive,—the form that had been Lieutenant Richard Doubledick, with whose praises England rang, was conveyed to Brussels. There it was tenderly laid down in hospital; and there it lay, week after week, through the long bright summer days, until the harvest, spared by war, had ripened65 and was gathered in.
Over and over again the sun rose and set upon the crowded city; over and over again the moonlight nights were quiet on the plains of Waterloo: and all that time was a blank to what had been Lieutenant Richard Doubledick. Rejoicing troops marched into Brussels, and marched out; brothers and fathers, sisters, mothers, and wives, came thronging66 thither67, drew their lots of joy or agony, and departed; so many times a day the bells rang; so many times the shadows of the great buildings changed; so many lights sprang up at dusk; so many feet passed here and there upon the pavements; so many hours of sleep and cooler air of night succeeded: indifferent to all, a marble face lay on a bed, like the face of a recumbent statue on the tomb of Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.
Slowly labouring, at last, through a long heavy dream of confused time and place, presenting faint glimpses of army surgeons whom he knew, and of faces that had been familiar to his youth,—dearest and kindest among them, Mary Marshall’s, with a solicitude69 upon it more like reality than anything he could discern,—Lieutenant Richard Doubledick came back to life. To the beautiful life of a calm autumn evening sunset, to the peaceful life of a fresh quiet room with a large window standing70 open; a balcony beyond, in which were moving leaves and sweet-smelling flowers; beyond, again, the clear sky, with the sun full in his sight, pouring its golden radiance on his bed.
It was so tranquil71 and so lovely that he thought he had passed into another world. And he said in a faint voice, “Taunton, are you near me?”
“I came to nurse you. We have nursed you many weeks. You were moved here long ago. Do you remember nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Where is the regiment? What has happened? Let me call you mother. What has happened, mother?”
“A great victory, dear. The war is over, and the regiment was the bravest in the field.”
His eyes kindled73, his lips trembled, he sobbed, and the tears ran down his face. He was very weak, too weak to move his hand.
“Was it dark just now?” he asked presently.
“No.”
“It was only dark to me? Something passed away, like a black shadow. But as it went, and the sun—O the blessed sun, how beautiful it is!—touched my face, I thought I saw a light white cloud pass out at the door. Was there nothing that went out?”
She shook her head, and in a little while he fell asleep, she still holding his hand, and soothing him.
From that time, he recovered. Slowly, for he had been desperately74 wounded in the head, and had been shot in the body, but making some little advance every day. When he had gained sufficient strength to converse75 as he lay in bed, he soon began to remark that Mrs. Taunton always brought him back to his own history. Then he recalled his preserver’s dying words, and thought, “It comforts her.”
One day he awoke out of a sleep, refreshed, and asked her to read to him. But the curtain of the bed, softening76 the light, which she always drew back when he awoke, that she might see him from her table at the bedside where she sat at work, was held undrawn; and a woman’s voice spoke, which was not hers.
“Can you bear to see a stranger?” it said softly. “Will you like to see a stranger?”
“Stranger!” he repeated. The voice awoke old memories, before the days of Private Richard Doubledick.
“A stranger now, but not a stranger once,” it said in tones that thrilled him. “Richard, dear Richard, lost through so many years, my name—”
“I am not breaking a rash vow79, Richard. These are not Mary Marshall’s lips that speak. I have another name.”
She was married.
“I have another name, Richard. Did you ever hear it?”
“Never!”
He looked into her face, so pensively80 beautiful, and wondered at the smile upon it through her tears.
“Think again, Richard. Are you sure you never heard my altered name?”
“Never!”
“Don’t move your head to look at me, dear Richard. Let it lie here, while I tell my story. I loved a generous, noble man; loved him with my whole heart; loved him for years and years; loved him faithfully, devotedly81; loved him without hope of return; loved him, knowing nothing of his highest qualities—not even knowing that he was alive. He was a brave soldier. He was honoured and beloved by thousands of thousands, when the mother of his dear friend found me, and showed me that in all his triumphs he had never forgotten me. He was wounded in a great battle. He was brought, dying, here, into Brussels. I came to watch and tend him, as I would have joyfully82 gone, with such a purpose, to the dreariest83 ends of the earth. When he knew no one else, he knew me. When he suffered most, he bore his sufferings barely murmuring, content to rest his head where your rests now. When he lay at the point of death, he married me, that he might call me Wife before he died. And the name, my dear love, that I took on that forgotten night—”
“I know it now!” he sobbed. “The shadowy remembrance strengthens. It is come back. I thank Heaven that my mind is quite restored! My Mary, kiss me; lull84 this weary head to rest, or I shall die of gratitude85. His parting words were fulfilled. I see Home again!”
Well! They were happy. It was a long recovery, but they were happy through it all. The snow had melted on the ground, and the birds were singing in the leafless thickets86 of the early spring, when those three were first able to ride out together, and when people flocked about the open carriage to cheer and congratulate Captain Richard Doubledick.
But even then it became necessary for the Captain, instead of returning to England, to complete his recovery in the climate of Southern France. They found a spot upon the Rhône, within a ride of the old town of Avignon, and within view of its broken bridge, which was all they could desire; they lived there, together, six months; then returned to England. Mrs. Taunton, growing old after three years—though not so old as that her bright, dark eyes were dimmed—and remembering that her strength had been benefited by the change resolved to go back for a year to those parts. So she went with a faithful servant, who had often carried her son in his arms; and she was to be rejoined and escorted home, at the year’s end, by Captain Richard Doubledick.
She wrote regularly to her children (as she called them now), and they to her. She went to the neighbourhood of Aix; and there, in their own château near the farmer’s house she rented, she grew into intimacy87 with a family belonging to that part of France. The intimacy began in her often meeting among the vineyards a pretty child, a girl with a most compassionate heart, who was never tired of listening to the solitary88 English lady’s stories of her poor son and the cruel wars. The family were as gentle as the child, and at length she came to know them so well that she accepted their invitation to pass the last month of her residence abroad under their roof. All this intelligence she wrote home, piecemeal89 as it came about, from time to time; and at last enclosed a polite note, from the head of the château, soliciting90, on the occasion of his approaching mission to that neighbourhood, the honour of the company of cet homme si justement célèbre, Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick.
Captain Doubledick, now a hardy91, handsome man in the full vigour92 of life, broader across the chest and shoulders than he had ever been before, dispatched a courteous93 reply, and followed it in person. Travelling through all that extent of country after three years of Peace, he blessed the better days on which the world had fallen. The corn was golden, not drenched94 in unnatural95 red; was bound in sheaves for food, not trodden underfoot by men in mortal fight. The smoke rose up from peaceful hearths96, not blazing ruins. The carts were laden97 with the fair fruits of the earth, not with wounds and death. To him who had so often seen the terrible reverse, these things were beautiful indeed; and they brought him in a softened98 spirit to the old château near Aix upon a deep blue evening.
It was a large château of the genuine old ghostly kind, with round towers, and extinguishers, and a high leaden roof, and more windows than Aladdin’s Palace. The lattice blinds were all thrown open after the heat of the day, and there were glimpses of rambling99 walls and corridors within. Then there were immense out-buildings fallen into partial decay, masses of dark trees, terrace-gardens, balustrades; tanks of water, too weak to play and too dirty to work; statues, weeds, and thickets of iron railing that seemed to have overgrown themselves like the shrubberies, and to have branched out in all manner of wild shapes. The entrance doors stood open, as doors often do in that country when the heat of the day is past; and the Captain saw no bell or knocker, and walked in.
He walked into a lofty stone hall, refreshingly100 cool and gloomy after the glare of a Southern day’s travel. Extending along the four sides of this hall was a gallery, leading to suites101 of rooms; and it was lighted from the top. Still no bell was to be seen.
“Faith,” said the Captain halting, ashamed of the clanking of his boots, “this is a ghostly beginning!”
He started back, and felt his face turn white. In the gallery, looking down at him, stood the French officer—the officer whose picture he had carried in his mind so long and so far. Compared with the original, at last—in every lineament how like it was!
He moved, and disappeared, and Captain Richard Doubledick heard his steps coming quickly down own into the hall. He entered through an archway. There was a bright, sudden look upon his face, much such a look as it had worn in that fatal moment.
Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick? Enchanted102 to receive him! A thousand apologies! The servants were all out in the air. There was a little fête among them in the garden. In effect, it was the fête day of my daughter, the little cherished and protected of Madame Taunton.
He was so gracious and so frank that Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick could not withhold103 his hand. “It is the hand of a brave Englishman,” said the French officer, retaining it while he spoke. “I could respect a brave Englishman, even as my foe104, how much more as my friend! I also am a soldier.”
“He has not remembered me, as I have remembered him; he did not take such note of my face, that day, as I took of his,” thought Captain Richard Doubledick. “How shall I tell him?”
The French officer conducted his guest into a garden and presented him to his wife, an engaging and beautiful woman, sitting with Mrs. Taunton in a whimsical old-fashioned pavilion. His daughter, her fair young face beaming with joy, came running to embrace him; and there was a boy-baby to tumble down among the orange trees on the broad steps, in making for his father’s legs. A multitude of children visitors were dancing to sprightly105 music; and all the servants and peasants about the château were dancing too. It was a scene of innocent happiness that might have been invented for the climax106 of the scenes of peace which had soothed107 the Captain’s journey.
He looked on, greatly troubled in his mind, until a resounding108 bell rang, and the French officer begged to show him his rooms. They went upstairs into the gallery from which the officer had looked down; and Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick was cordially welcomed to a grand outer chamber109, and a smaller one within, all clocks and draperies, and hearths, and brazen110 dogs, and tiles, and cool devices, and elegance111, and vastness.
“You were at Waterloo,” said the French officer.
“I was,” said Captain Richard Doubledick. “And at Badajos.”
Left alone with the sound of his own stern voice in his ears, he sat down to consider, What shall I do, and how shall I tell him? At that time, unhappily, many deplorable duels112 had been fought between English and French officers, arising out of the recent war; and these duels, and how to avoid this officer’s hospitality, were the uppermost thought in Captain Richard Doubledick’s mind.
He was thinking, and letting the time run out in which he should have dressed for dinner, when Mrs. Taunton spoke to him outside the door, asking if he could give her the letter he had brought from Mary. “His mother, above all,” the Captain thought. “How shall I tell her?”
“You will form a friendship with your host, I hope,” said Mrs. Taunton, whom he hurriedly admitted, “that will last for life. He is so true-hearted and so generous, Richard, that you can hardly fail to esteem113 one another. If He had been spared,” she kissed (not without tears) the locket in which she wore his hair, “he would have appreciated him with his own magnanimity, and would have been truly happy that the evil days were past which made such a man his enemy.”
She left the room; and the Captain walked, first to one window, whence he could see the dancing in the garden, then to another window, whence he could see the smiling prospect114 and the peaceful vineyards.
“Spirit of my departed friend,” said he, “is it through thee these better thoughts are rising in my mind? Is it thou who hast shown me, all the way I have been drawn77 to meet this man, the blessings115 of the altered time? Is it thou who hast sent thy stricken mother to me, to stay my angry hand? Is it from thee the whisper comes, that this man did his duty as thou didst,—and as I did, through thy guidance, which has wholly saved me here on earth,—and that he did no more?”
He sat down, with his head buried in his hands, and, when he rose up, made the second strong resolution of his life,—that neither to the French officer, nor to the mother of his departed friend, nor to any soul, while either of the two was living, would he breathe what only he knew. And when he touched that French officer’s glass with his own, that day at dinner, he secretly forgave him in the name of the Divine Forgiver of injuries.
Here I ended my story as the first Poor Traveller. But, if I had told it now, I could have added that the time has since come when the son of Major Richard Doubledick, and the son of that French officer, friends as their fathers were before them, fought side by side in one cause, with their respective nations, like long-divided brothers whom the better times have brought together, fast united.
《荒凉的小屋 Bleak House》
《荒凉的小屋 Bleak House》
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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11
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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12
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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13
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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14
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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15
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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16
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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17
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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18
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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19
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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20
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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21
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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22
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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23
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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24
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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25
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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26
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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27
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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28
extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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30
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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31
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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33
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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34
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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35
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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36
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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37
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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39
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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40
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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41
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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42
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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43
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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44
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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45
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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46
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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47
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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48
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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49
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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50
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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51
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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52
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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53
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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54
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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55
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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56
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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57
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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58
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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59
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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60
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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61
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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62
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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64
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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65
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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67
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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68
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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69
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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70
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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71
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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72
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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73
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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74
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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75
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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76
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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77
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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78
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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79
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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80
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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81
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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82
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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83
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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84
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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85
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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86
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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87
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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88
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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89
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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90
soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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91
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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92
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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93
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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94
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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95
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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96
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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97
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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98
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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99
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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100
refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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101
suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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102
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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104
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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105
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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106
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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107
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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108
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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109
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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110
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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111
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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112
duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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113
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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114
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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115
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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