The mistress's bell rang, and Betty 'gaed benn the hoose to see what she cud be wantin',' whereupon a conversation ensued.
'Wha was that at the door, Betty?' asked Mrs. Falconer; for Robert had not shut the door so carefully as he ought, seeing that the deafness of his grandmother was of much the same faculty1 as her blindness.
Had Robert not had a hold of Betty by the forelock of her years, he would have been unable to steal any liberty at all. Still Betty had a conscience, and although she would not offend Robert if she could help it, yet she would not lie.
''Deed, mem, I canna jist distinckly say 'at I heard the door,' she answered.
'Whaur's Robert?' was her next question.
'He's generally up the stair aboot this hoor, mem—that is, whan he's no i' the parlour at 's lessons.'
''Deed I dinna ken, mem. I never tuik it into my heid to gang considerin' aboot it. He'll hae some ploy3 o' 's ain, nae doobt. Laddies will be laddies, ye ken, mem.'
'I doobt, Betty, ye'll be aidin' an' abettin'. An' it disna become yer years, Betty.'
'Do ye mean whan he gangs up the stair, mem?'
'Ay. Ye ken weel eneuch what I mean.'
'Weel, mem, I tell ye I dinna ken. An' ye never heard me tell ye a lee sin' ever I was i' yer service, mem.'
'Na, nae doonricht. Ye gang aboot it an' aboot it, an' at last ye come sae near leein' that gin ye spak anither word, ye wad be at it; and it jist fleys (frights) me frae speirin' ae ither question at ye. An' that's hoo ye win oot o' 't. But noo 'at it's aboot my ain oye (grandson), I'm no gaein' to tyne (lose) him to save a woman o' your years, wha oucht to ken better; an sae I'll speir at ye, though ye suld be driven to lee like Sawtan himsel'.—What's he aboot whan he gangs up the stair? Noo!'
'Weel, as sure's deith, I dinna ken. Ye drive me to sweirin', mem, an' no to leein'.'
'I carena. Hae ye no idea aboot it, than, Betty?'
'Weel, mem, I think sometimes he canna be weel, and maun hae a tod (fox) in 's stamack, or something o' that nater. For what he eats is awfu'. An' I think whiles he jist gangs up the stair to eat at 's ain wull.'
'That jumps wi' my ain observations, Betty. Do ye think he micht hae a rabbit, or maybe a pair o' them, in some boxie i' the garret, noo?'
'And what for no, gin he had, mem?'
'What for no? Nesty stinkin' things! But that's no the pint. I aye hae to haud ye to the pint, Betty. The pint is, whether he has rabbits or no?'
'Or guinea-pigs,' suggested Betty.
'Weel.'
'Or maybe a pup or twa. Or I kent a laddie ance 'at keepit a haill faimily o' kittlins. Or maybe he micht hae a bit lammie. There was an uncle o' min' ain—'
'Haud yer tongue, Betty! Ye hae ower muckle to say for a' the sense there's intil 't.'
'Weel, mem, ye speirt questions at me.'
'Weel, I hae had eneuch o' yer answers, Betty. Gang and tell Robert to come here direckly.'
Betty went, knowing perfectly7 that Robert had gone out, and returned with the information. Her mistress searched her face with a keen eye.
'That maun hae been himsel' efter a' whan ye thocht ye hard the door gang,' said Betty.
'It's a strange thing that I suld hear him benn here wi' the door steekit, an' your door open at the verra door-cheek o' the ither, an' you no hear him, Betty. And me sae deif as weel!'
''Deed, mem,' retorted Betty, losing her temper a little, 'I can be as deif 's ither fowk mysel' whiles.'
When Betty grew angry, Mrs. Falconer invariably grew calm, or, at least, put her temper out of sight. She was silent now, and continued silent till Betty moved to return to her kitchen, when she said, in a tone of one who had just arrived at an important resolution:
'Betty, we'll jist awa' up the stair an' luik.'
'Weel, mem, I hae nae objections.'
'Nae objections! What for suld you or ony ither body hae ony objections to me gaein' whaur I like i' my ain hoose? Umph!' exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, turning and facing her maid.
'In coorse, mem. I only meant I had nae objections to gang wi' ye.'
'And what for suld you or ony ither woman that I paid twa pun' five i' the half-year till, daur to hae objections to gaein' whaur I wantit ye to gang i' my ain hoose?'
'Slip me nae sic slips, or ye'll come by a fa' at last, I doobt, Betty,' concluded Mrs. Falconer, in a mollified tone, as she turned and led the way from the room.
They got a candle in the kitchen and proceeded up-stairs, Mrs. Falconer still leading, and Betty following. They did not even look into the ga'le-room, not doubting that the dignity of the best bed-room was in no danger of being violated even by Robert, but took their way upwards9 to the room in which he kept his school-books—almost the only articles of property which the boy possessed10. Here they found nothing suspicious. All was even in the best possible order—not a very wonderful fact, seeing a few books and a slate11 were the only things there besides the papers on the shelves.
What the feelings of Shargar must have been when he heard the steps and voices, and saw the light approaching his place of refuge, we will not change our point of view to inquire. He certainly was as little to be envied at that moment as at any moment during the whole of his existence.
The first sense Mrs. Falconer made use of in the search after possible animals lay in her nose. She kept snuffing constantly, but, beyond the usual musty smell of neglected apartments, had as yet discovered nothing. The moment she entered the upper garret, however—
'There's an ill-faured smell here, Betty,' she said, believing that they had at last found the trail of the mystery; 'but it's no like the smell o' rabbits. Jist luik i' the nuik there ahin' the door.'
'There's naething here,' responded Betty.
'Roon the en' o' that kist there. I s' luik into the press.'
As Betty rose from her search behind the chest and turned towards her mistress, her eyes crossed the cavernous opening of the bed. There, to her horror, she beheld12 a face like that of a galvanised corpse13 staring at her from the darkness. Shargar was in a sitting posture14, paralysed with terror, waiting, like a fascinated bird, till Mrs. Falconer and Betty should make the final spring upon him, and do whatever was equivalent to devouring15 him upon the spot. He had sat up to listen to the noise of their ascending16 footsteps, and fear had so overmastered him, that he either could not, or forgot that he could lie down and cover his head with some of the many garments scattered17 around him.
'I didna say whusky, did I?' he kept repeating to himself, in utter imbecility of fear.
'The Lord preserve 's!' exclaimed Betty, the moment she could speak; for during the first few seconds, having caught the infection of Shargar's expression, she stood equally paralysed. 'The Lord preserve 's!' she repeated.
'Ance is eneuch,' said Mrs. Falconer, sharply, turning round to see what the cause of Betty's ejaculation might be.
I have said that she was dim-sighted. The candle they had was little better than a penny dip. The bed was darker than the rest of the room. Shargar's face had none of the more distinctive18 characteristics of manhood upon it.
'Gude preserve 's!' exclaimed Mrs. Falconer in her turn: 'it's a wumman.'
Poor deluded19 Shargar, thinking himself safer under any form than that which he actually bore, attempted no protest against the mistake. But, indeed, he was incapable21 of speech. The two women flew upon him to drag him out of bed. Then first recovering his powers of motion, he sprung up in an agony of terror, and darted22 out between them, overturning Betty in his course.
'Ye rouch limmer!' cried Betty, from the floor. 'Ye lang-leggit jaud!' she added, as she rose—and at the same moment Shargar banged the street-door behind him in his terror—'I wat ye dinna carry yer coats ower syde (too long)!'
For Shargar, having discovered that the way to get the most warmth from Robert's great-grandfather's kilt was to wear it in the manner for which it had been fabricated, was in the habit of fastening it round his waist before he got into bed; and the eye of Betty, as she fell, had caught the swing of this portion of his attire23.
But poor Mrs. Falconer, with sunken head, walked out of the garret in the silence of despair. She went slowly down the steep stair, supporting herself against the wall, her round-toed shoes creaking solemnly as she went, took refuge in the ga'le-room, and burst into a violent fit of weeping. For such depravity she was not prepared. What a terrible curse hung over her family! Surely they were all reprobate24 from the womb, not one elected for salvation25 from the guilt26 of Adam's fall, and therefore abandoned to Satan as his natural prey27, to be led captive of him at his will. She threw herself on her knees at the side of the bed, and prayed heart-brokenly. Betty heard her as she limped past the door on her way back to her kitchen.
Meantime Shargar had rushed across the next street on his bare feet into the Crookit Wynd, terrifying poor old Kirstan Peerie, the divisions betwixt the compartments28 of whose memory had broken down, into the exclamation29 to her next neighbour, Tam Rhin, with whom she was trying to gossip:
'Eh, Tammas! that'll be ane o' the slauchtert at Culloden.'
He never stopped till he reached his mother's deserted30 abode—strange instinct! There he ran to earth like a hunted fox. Rushing at the door, forgetful of everything but refuge, he found it unlocked, and closing it behind him, stood panting like the hart that has found the water-brooks. The owner had looked in one day to see whether the place was worth repairing, for it was a mere31 outhouse, and had forgotten to turn the key when he left it. Poor Shargar! Was it more or less of a refuge that the mother that bore him was not there either to curse or welcome his return? Less—if we may judge from a remark he once made in my hearing many long years after:
'For, ye see,' he said, 'a mither's a mither, be she the verra de'il.'
Searching about in the dark, he found the one article unsold by the landlord, a stool, with but two of its natural three legs. On this he balanced himself and waited—simply for what Robert would do; for his faith in Robert was unbounded, and he had no other hope on earth. But Shargar was not miserable32. In that wretched hovel, his bare feet clasping the clay floor in constant search of a wavering equilibrium33, with pitch darkness around him, and incapable of the simplest philosophical34 or religious reflection, he yet found life good. For it had interest. Nay35, more, it had hope. I doubt, however, whether there is any interest at all without hope.
While he sat there, Robert, thinking him snug36 in the garret, was walking quietly home from the shoemaker's; and his first impulse on entering was to run up and recount the particulars of his interview with Alexander. Arrived in the dark garret, he called Shargar, as usual, in a whisper—received no reply—thought he was asleep—called louder (for he had had a penny from his grandmother that day for bringing home two pails of water for Betty, and had just spent it upon a loaf for him)—but no Shargar replied. Thereupon he went to the bed to lay hold of him and shake him. But his searching hands found no Shargar. Becoming alarmed, he ran down-stairs to beg a light from Betty.
When he reached the kitchen, he found Betty's nose as much in the air as its construction would permit. For a hook-nosed animal, she certainly was the most harmless and ovine creature in the world, but this was a case in which feminine modesty37 was both concerned and aggrieved38. She showed her resentment39 no further, however, than by simply returning no answer in syllable40, or sound, or motion, to Robert's request. She was washing up the tea-things, and went on with her work as if she had been in absolute solitude41, saving that her countenance42 could hardly have kept up that expression of injured dignity had such been the case. Robert plainly saw, to his great concern, that his secret had been discovered in his absence, and that Shargar had been expelled with contumely. But, with an instinct of facing the worst at once which accompanied him through life, he went straight to his grandmother's parlour.
'Well, grandmamma,' he said, trying to speak as cheerfully as he could.
Grannie's prayers had softened43 her a little, else she would have been as silent as Betty; for it was from her mistress that Betty had learned this mode of torturing a criminal. So she was just able to return his greeting in the words, 'Weel, Robert,' pronounced in a finality of tone that indicated she had done her utmost, and had nothing to add.
'Here's a browst (brewage)!' thought Robert to himself; and, still on the principle of flying at the first of mischief44 he saw—the best mode of meeting it, no doubt—addressed his grandmother at once. The effort necessary gave a tone of defiance45 to his words.
'What for willna ye speik to me, grannie?' he said. 'I'm no a haithen, nor yet a papist.'
'Ye're waur nor baith in ane, Robert.'
'Hoots46! ye winna say baith, grannie,' returned Robert, who, even at the age of fourteen, when once compelled to assert himself, assumed a modest superiority.
'Nane o' sic impidence!' retorted Mrs. Falconer. 'I wonner whaur ye learn that. But it's nae wonner. Evil communications corrupt47 gude mainners. Ye're a lost prodigal48, Robert, like yer father afore ye. I hae jist been sittin' here thinkin' wi' mysel' whether it wadna be better for baith o' 's to lat ye gang an' reap the fruit o' yer doin's at ance; for the hard ways is the best road for transgressors. I'm no bund to keep ye.'
'Weel, weel, I s' awa' to Shargar. Him and me 'ill haud on thegither better nor you an' me, grannie. He's a puir cratur, but he can stick till a body.'
'What are ye haverin' aboot Shargar for, ye heepocreet loon49? Ye'll no gang to Shargar, I s' warran'! Ye'll be efter that vile50 limmer that's turnt my honest hoose intil a sty this last fortnicht.'
'Grannie, I dinna ken what ye mean.'
'She kens51, than. I sent her aff like ane o' Samson's foxes, wi' a firebrand at her tail. It's a pity it wasna tied atween the twa o' ye.'
'Preserve 's, grannie! Is't possible ye hae ta'en Shargar for ane o' wumman-kin'?'
'I ken naething aboot Shargar, I tell ye. I ken that Betty an' me tuik an ill-faured dame52 i' the bed i' the garret.'
'Cud it be his mither?' thought Robert in bewilderment; but he recovered himself in a moment, and answered,
'Shargar may be a quean efter a', for onything 'at I ken to the contrairy; but I aye tuik him for a loon. Faith, sic a quean as he'd mak!'
And careless to resist the ludicrousness of the idea, he burst into a loud fit of laughter, which did more to reassure53 his grannie than any amount of protestation could have done, however she pretended to take offence at his ill-timed merriment.
Seeing his grandmother staggered, Robert gathered courage to assume the offensive.
'But, granny! hoo ever Betty, no to say you, cud hae driven oot a puir half-stervit cratur like Shargar, even supposin' he oucht to hae been in coaties, and no in troosers—and the mither o' him run awa' an' left him—it's mair nor I can unnerstan.' I misdoobt me sair but he's gane and droont himsel'.'
Robert knew well enough that Shargar would not drown himself without at least bidding him good-bye; but he knew too that his grandmother could be wrought54 upon. Her conscience was more tender than her feelings; and this peculiarity55 occasioned part of the mutual56 non-understanding rather than misunderstanding between her grandson and herself. The first relation she bore to most that came near her was one of severity and rebuke57; but underneath58 her cold outside lay a warm heart, to which conscience acted the part of a somewhat capricious stoker, now quenching59 its heat with the cold water of duty, now stirring it up with the poker60 of reproach, and ever treating it as an inferior and a slave. But her conscience was, on the whole, a better friend to her race than her heart; and, indeed, the conscience is always a better friend than a heart whose motions are undirected by it. From Falconer's account of her, however, I cannot help thinking that she not unfrequently took refuge in severity of tone and manner from the threatened ebullition of a feeling which she could not otherwise control, and which she was ashamed to manifest. Possibly conscience had spoken more and more gently as its behests were more and more readily obeyed, until the heart began to gather courage, and at last, as in many old people, took the upper hand, which was outwardly inconvenient62 to one of Mrs. Falconer's temperament63. Hence, in doing the kindest thing in the world, she would speak in a tone of command, even of rebuke, as if she were compelling the performance of the most unpleasant duty in the person who received the kindness. But the human heart is hard to analyze64, and, indeed, will not submit quietly to the operation, however gently performed. Nor is the result at all easy to put into words. It is best shown in actions.
Again, it may appear rather strange that Robert should be able to talk in such an easy manner to his grandmother, seeing he had been guilty of concealment65, if not of deception66. But she had never been so actively67 severe towards Robert as she had been towards her own children. To him she was wonderfully gentle for her nature, and sought to exercise the saving harshness which she still believed necessary, solely68 in keeping from him every enjoyment69 of life which the narrowest theories as to the rule and will of God could set down as worldly. Frivolity70, of which there was little in this sober boy, was in her eyes a vice6; loud laughter almost a crime; cards, and novelles, as she called them, were such in her estimation, as to be beyond my powers of characterization. Her commonest injunction was, 'Noo be douce,'—that is sober—uttered to the soberest boy she could ever have known. But Robert was a large-hearted boy, else this life would never have had to be written; and so, through all this, his deepest nature came into unconscious contact with that of his noble old grandmother. There was nothing small about either of them. Hence Robert was not afraid of her. He had got more of her nature in him than of her son's. She and his own mother had more share in him than his father, though from him he inherited good qualities likewise.
He had concealed71 his doings with Shargar simply because he believed they could not be done if his grandmother knew of his plans. Herein he did her less than justice. But so unpleasant was concealment to his nature, and so much did the dread72 of discovery press upon him, that the moment he saw the thing had come out into the daylight of her knowledge, such a reaction of relief took place as, operating along with his deep natural humour and the comical circumstance of the case, gave him an ease and freedom of communication which he had never before enjoyed with her. Likewise there was a certain courage in the boy which, if his own natural disposition73 had not been so quiet that he felt the negations of her rule the less, might have resulted in underhand doings of a very different kind, possibly, from those of benevolence74.
He must have been a strange being to look at, I always think, at this point of his development, with his huge nose, his black eyes, his lanky75 figure, and his sober countenance, on which a smile was rarely visible, but from which burst occasional guffaws76 of laughter.
At the words 'droont himsel',' Mrs. Falconer started.
'Rin, laddie, rin,' she said, 'an' fess him back direckly! Betty! Betty! gang wi' Robert and help him to luik for Shargar. Ye auld77, blin', doited body, 'at says ye can see, and canna tell a lad frae a lass!'
'Na, na, grannie. I'm no gaein' oot wi' a dame like her trailin' at my fut. She wad be a sair hinnerance to me. Gin Shargar be to be gotten—that is, gin he be in life—I s' get him wantin' Betty. And gin ye dinna ken him for the crater78 ye fand i' the garret, he maun be sair changed sin' I left him there.'
'Weel, weel, Robert, gang yer wa's. But gin ye be deceivin' me, may the Lord—forgie ye, Robert, for sair ye'll need it.'
'Nae fear o' that, grannie,' returned Robert, from the street door, and vanished.
Mrs. Falconer stalked—No, I will not use that word of the gait of a woman like my friend's grandmother. 'Stately stept she butt79 the hoose' to Betty. She felt strangely soft at the heart, Robert not being yet proved a reprobate; but she was not therefore prepared to drop one atom of the dignity of her relation to her servant.
'Betty,' she said, 'ye hae made a mistak.'
'What's that, mem?' returned Betty.
'It wasna a lass ava; it was that crater Shargar.'
'Ye said it was a lass yersel' first, mem.'
'Ye ken weel eneuch that I'm short sichtit, an' hae been frae the day o' my birth.'
'I'm no auld eneuch to min' upo' that, mem,' returned Betty revengefully, but in an undertone, as if she did not intend her mistress to hear. And although she heard well enough, her mistress adopted the subterfuge80. 'But I'll sweir the crater I saw was in cwytes (petticoats).'
'Sweir not at all, Betty. Ye hae made a mistak ony gait.'
'Wha says that, mem?'
'Robert.'
'Aweel, gin he be tellin' the trowth—'
'Daur ye mint (insinuate) to me that a son o' mine wad tell onything but the trowth?'
'Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny but she luikit unco like ane, and no a blate (bashful) ane eyther.'
'Gin he was a loon, he wadna luik like a blate lass, ony gait, Betty. And there ye're wrang.'
'Weel, weel, mem, hae 't yer ain gait,' muttered Betty.
'I wull hae 't my ain gait,' retorted her mistress, 'because it's the richt gait, Betty. An' noo ye maun jist gang up the stair, an' get the place cleant oot an' put in order.'
'I wull do that, mem.'
'Ay wull ye. An' luik weel aboot, Betty, you that can see sae weel, in case there suld be ony cattle aboot; for he's nane o' the cleanest, yon dame!'
'I wull do that, mem.'
'An' gang direckly, afore he comes back.'
'Wha comes back?'
'Robert, of course.'
'What for that?'
''Cause he's comin' wi' 'im.'
'What he 's comin' wi' 'im?'
'Ca' 't she, gin ye like. It's Shargar.'
'I say that. An' ye gang an' du what I tell ye, this minute.'
Betty obeyed instantly; for the tone in which the last words were spoken was one she was not accustomed to dispute. She only muttered as she went, 'It 'll a' come upo' me as usual.'
Betty's job was long ended before Robert returned. Never dreaming that Shargar could have gone back to the old haunt, he had looked for him everywhere before that occurred to him as a last chance. Nor would he have found him even then, for he would not have thought of his being inside the deserted house, had not Shargar heard his footsteps in the street.
He started up from his stool saying, 'That's Bob!' but was not sure enough to go to the door: he might be mistaken; it might be the landlord! He heard the feet stop and did not move; but when he heard them begin to go away again, he rushed to the door, and bawled83 on the chance at the top of his voice, 'Bob! Bob!'
'Eh! ye crater!' said Robert, 'ir ye there efter a'?
'Eh! Bob,' exclaimed Shargar, and burst into tears. 'I thocht ye wad come efter me.'
'Of coorse,' answered Robert, coolly. 'Come awa' hame.'
'Whaur til?' asked Shargar in dismay.
'Hame to yer ain bed at my grannie's.'
'Na, na,' said Shargar, hurriedly, retreating within the door of the hovel. 'Na, na, Bob, lad, I s' no du that. She's an awfu' wuman, that grannie o' yours. I canna think hoo ye can bide84 wi' her. I'm weel oot o' her grups, I can tell ye.'
It required a good deal of persuasion85, but at last Robert prevailed upon Shargar to return. For was not Robert his tower of strength? And if Robert was not frightened at his grannie, or at Betty, why should he be? At length they entered Mrs. Falconer's parlour, Robert dragging in Shargar after him, having failed altogether in encouraging him to enter after a more dignified86 fashion.
It must be remembered that although Shargar was still kilted, he was not the less trowsered, such as the trowsers were. It makes my heart ache to think of those trowsers—not believing trowsers essential to blessedness either, but knowing the superiority of the old Roman costume of the kilt.
No sooner had Mrs. Falconer cast her eyes upon him than she could not but be convinced of the truth of Robert's averment.
'Here he is, grannie; and gin ye bena saitisfeed yet—'
'Haud yer tongue, laddie. Ye hae gi'en me nae cause to doobt yer word.'
Indeed, during Robert's absence, his grandmother had had leisure to perceive of what an absurd folly87 she had been guilty. She had also had time to make up her mind as to her duty with regard to Shargar; and the more she thought about it, the more she admired the conduct of her grandson, and the better she saw that it would be right to follow his example. No doubt she was the more inclined to this benevolence that she had as it were received her grandson back from the jaws88 of death.
When the two lads entered, from her arm-chair Mrs. Falconer examined Shargar from head to foot with the eye of a queen on her throne, and a countenance immovable in stern gentleness, till Shargar would gladly have sunk into the shelter of the voluminous kilt from the gaze of those quiet hazel eyes.
'Robert, tak him awa'.'
'Whaur'll I tak him till, grannie?'
'Tak him up to the garret. Betty 'ill ha' ta'en a tub o' het water up there 'gen this time, and ye maun see that he washes himsel' frae heid to fut, or he s' no bide an 'oor i' my hoose. Gang awa' an' see till 't this minute.'
But she detained them yet awhile with various directions in regard of cleansing89, for the carrying out of which Robert was only too glad to give his word. She dismissed them at last, and Shargar by and by found himself in bed, clean, and, for the first time in his life, between a pair of linen90 sheets—not altogether to his satisfaction, for mere order and comfort were substituted for adventure and success.
But greater trials awaited him. In the morning he was visited by Brodie, the tailor, and Elshender, the shoemaker, both of whom he held in awe81 as his superiors in the social scale, and by them handled and measured from head to feet, the latter included; after which he had to lie in bed for three days, till his clothes came home; for Betty had carefully committed every article of his former dress to the kitchen fire, not without a sense of pollution to the bottom of her kettle. Nor would he have got them for double the time, had not Robert haunted the tailor, as well as the soutar, like an evil conscience, till they had finished them. Thus grievous was Shargar's introduction to the comforts of respectability. Nor did he like it much better when he was dressed, and able to go about; for not only was he uncomfortable in his new clothes, which, after the very easy fit of the old ones, felt like a suit of plate-armour, but he was liable to be sent for at any moment by the awful sovereignty in whose dominions91 he found himself, and which, of course, proceeded to instruct him not merely in his own religious duties, but in the religious theories of his ancestors, if, indeed, Shargar's ancestors ever had any. And now the Shorter Catechism seemed likely to be changed into the Longer Catechism; for he had it Sundays as well as Saturdays, besides Alleine's Alarm to the Unconverted, Baxter's Saint's Rest, Erskine's Gospel Sonnets92, and other books of a like kind. Nor was it any relief to Shargar that the gloom was broken by the incomparable Pilgrim's Progress and the Holy War, for he cared for none of these things. Indeed, so dreary93 did he find it all, that his love to Robert was never put to such a severe test. But for that, he would have run for it. Twenty times a day was he so tempted20.
At school, though it was better, yet it was bad. For he was ten times as much laughed at for his new clothes, though they were of the plainest, as he had been for his old rags. Still he bore all the pangs94 of unwelcome advancement95 without a grumble96, for the sake of his friend alone, whose dog he remained as much as ever. But his past life of cold and neglect, and hunger and blows, and homelessness and rags, began to glimmer97 as in the distance of a vaporous sunset, and the loveless freedom he had then enjoyed gave it a bloom as of summer-roses.
I wonder whether there may not have been in some unknown corner of the old lady's mind this lingering remnant of paganism, that, in reclaiming98 the outcast from the error of his ways, she was making an offering acceptable to that God whom her mere prayers could not move to look with favour upon her prodigal son Andrew. Nor from her own acknowledged religious belief as a background would it have stuck so fiery99 off either. Indeed, it might have been a partial corrective of some yet more dreadful articles of her creed,—which she held, be it remembered, because she could not help it.
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ken
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6
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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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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8
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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9
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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12
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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13
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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14
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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15
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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16
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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18
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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19
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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21
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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22
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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23
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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24
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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25
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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27
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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28
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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29
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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30
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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39
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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40
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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41
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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42
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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43
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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44
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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45
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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46
hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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47
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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49
loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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50
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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51
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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52
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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53
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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54
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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55
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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56
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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57
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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58
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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59
quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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60
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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61
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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62
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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63
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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64
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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65
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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66
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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67
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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68
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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69
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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70
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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71
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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72
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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73
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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74
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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75
lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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76
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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78
crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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79
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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80
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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81
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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82
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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83
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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84
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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85
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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86
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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87
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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88
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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89
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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90
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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91
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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92
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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93
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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94
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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95
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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96
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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97
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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98
reclaiming
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| v.开拓( reclaim的现在分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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99
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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