The little group gathered together in Major Milroy’s parlor1 to wait for the carriages from Thorpe Ambrose would hardly have conveyed the idea, to any previously2 uninstructed person introduced among them, of a party assembled in expectation of a picnic. They were almost dull enough, as far as outward appearances went, to have been a party assembled in expectation of a marriage.
Even Miss Milroy herself, though conscious, of looking her best in her bright muslin dress and her gayly feathered new hat, was at this inauspicious moment Miss Milroy under a cloud. Although Allan’s note had assured her, in Allan’s strongest language, that the one great object of reconciling the governess’s arrival with the celebration of the picnic was an object achieved, the doubt still remained whether the plan proposed — whatever it might be — would meet with her father’s approval. In a word, Miss Milroy declined to feel sure of her day’s pleasure until the carriage made its appearance and took her from the door. The major, on his side, arrayed for the festive3 occasion in a tight blue frock-coat which he had not worn for years, and threatened with a whole long day of separation from his old friend and comrade the clock, was a man out of his element, if ever such a man existed yet. As for the friends who had been asked at Allan’s request — the widow lady (otherwise Mrs. Pentecost) and her son (the Reverend Samuel) in delicate health — two people less capable, apparently4 of adding to the hilarity5 of the day could hardly have been discovered in the length and breadth of all England. A young man who plays his part in society by looking on in green spectacles, and listening with a sickly smile, may be a prodigy6 of intellect and a mine of virtue7, but he is hardly, perhaps, the right sort of man to have at a picnic. An old lady afflicted8 with deafness, whose one inexhaustible subject of interest is the subject of her son, and who (on the happily rare occasions when that son opens his lips) asks everybody eagerly, “What does my boy say?” is a person to be pitied in respect of her infirmities, and a person to be admired in respect of her maternal9 devotedness10, but not a person, if the thing could possibly be avoided, to take to a picnic. Such a man, nevertheless, was the Reverend Samuel Pentecost, and such a woman was the Reverend Samuel’s mother; and in the dearth11 of any other producible guests, there they were, engaged to eat, drink, and be merry for the day at Mr. Armadale’s pleasure party to the Norfolk Broads.
The arrival of Allan, with his faithful follower12, Pedgift Junior, at his heels, roused the flagging spirits of the party at the cottage. The plan for enabling the governess to join the picnic, if she arrived that day, satisfied even Major Milroy’s anxiety to show all proper attention to the lady who was coming into his house. After writing the necessary note of apology and invitation, and addressing it in her very best handwriting to the new governess, Miss Milroy ran upstairs to say good-by to her mother, and returned with a smiling face and a side look of relief directed at her father, to announce that there was nothing now to keep any of them a moment longer indoors. The company at once directed their steps to the garden gate, and were there met face to face by the second great difficulty of the day. How were the six persons of the picnic to be divided between the two open carriages that were in waiting for them?
Here, again, Pedgift Junior exhibited his invaluable13 faculty14 of contrivance. This highly cultivated young man possessed15 in an eminent16 degree an accomplishment17 more or less peculiar18 to all the young men of the age we live in: he was perfectly19 capable of taking his pleasure without forgetting his business. Such a client as the Master of Thorpe Ambrose fell but seldom in his father’s way, and to pay special but unobtrusive attention to Allan all through the day was the business of which young Pedgift, while proving himself to be the life and soul of the picnic, never once lost sight from the beginning of the merry-making to the end. He had detected the state of affairs between Miss Milroy and Allan at glance, and he at once provided for his client’s inclinations20 in that quarter by offering, in virtue of his local knowledge, to lead the way in the first carriage, and by asking Major Milroy and the curate if they would do him the honor of accompanying him.
“We shall pass a very interesting place to a military man, sir,” said young Pedgift, addressing the major, with his happy and unblushing confidence —“the remains21 of a Roman encampment. And my father, sir, who is a subscriber,” proceeded this rising lawyer, turning to the curate, “wished me to ask your opinion of the new Infant School buildings at Little Gill Beck. Would you kindly22 give it me as we go along?” He opened the carriage door, and helped in the major and the curate before they could either of them start any difficulties. The necessary result followed. Allan and Miss Milroy rode together in the same carriage, with the extra convenience of a deaf old lady in attendance to keep the squire23’s compliments within the necessary limits.
Never yet had Allan enjoyed such an interview with Miss Milroy as the interview he now obtained on the road to the Broads.
The dear old lady, after a little anecdote24 or two on the subject of her son, did the one thing wanting to secure the perfect felicity of her two youthful companions: she became considerately blind for the occasion, as well as deaf. A quarter of an hour after the carriage left the major’s cottage, the poor old soul, reposing25 on snug26 cushions, and fanned by a fine summer air, fell peaceably asleep. Allan made love, and Miss Milroy sanctioned the manufacture of that occasionally precious article of human commerce, sublimely27 indifferent on both sides to a solemn bass28 accompaniment on two notes, played by the curate’s mother’s unsuspecting nose. The only interruption to the love-making (the snoring, being a thing more grave and permanent in its nature, was not interrupted at all) came at intervals29 from the carriage ahead. Not satisfied with having the major’s Roman encampment and the curate’s Infant Schools on his mind, Pedgift Junior rose erect30 from time to time in his place, and, respectfully hailing the hindmost vehicle, directed Allan’s attention, in a shrill31 tenor32 voice, and with an excellent choice of language, to objects of interest on the road. The only way to quiet him was to answer, which Allan invariably did by shouting back, “Yes, beautiful,” upon which young Pedgift disappeared again in the recesses33 of the leading carriage, and took up the Romans and the Infants where he had left them last.
The scene through which the picnic party was now passing merited far more attention than it received either from Allan or Allan’s friends.
An hour’s steady driving from the major’s cottage had taken young Armadale and his guests beyond the limits of Midwinter’s solitary34 walk, and was now bringing them nearer and nearer to one of the strangest and loveliest aspects of nature which the inland landscape, not of Norfolk only, but of all England, can show. Little by little the face of the country began to change as the carriages approached the remote and lonely district of the Broads. The wheat fields and turnip35 fields became perceptibly fewer, and the fat green grazing grounds on either side grew wider and wider in their smooth and sweeping36 range. Heaps of dry rushes and reeds, laid up for the basket-maker and the thatcher37, began to appear at the road-side. The old gabled cottages of the early part of the drive dwindled38 and disappeared, and huts with mud walls rose in their place. With the ancient church towers and the wind and water mills, which had hitherto been the only lofty objects seen over the low marshy39 flat, there now rose all round the horizon, gliding40 slow and distant behind fringes of pollard willows41, the sails of invisible boats moving on invisible waters. All the strange and startling anomalies presented by an inland agricultural district, isolated42 from other districts by its intricate surrounding network of pools and streams — holding its communications and carrying its produce by water instead of by land — began to present themselves in closer and closer succession. Nets appeared on cottage pailings; little flat-bottomed boats lay strangely at rest among the flowers in cottage gardens; farmers’ men passed to and fro clad in composite costume of the coast and the field, in sailors’ hats, and fishermen’s boots, and plowmen’s smocks; and even yet the low-lying labyrinth43 of waters, embosomed in its mystery of solitude45, was a hidden labyrinth still. A minute more, and the carriages took a sudden turn from the hard high-road into a little weedy lane. The wheels ran noiseless on the damp and spongy ground. A lonely outlying cottage appeared with its litter of nets and boats. A few yards further on, and the last morsel46 of firm earth suddenly ended in a tiny creek47 and quay48. One turn more to the end of the quay — and there, spreading its great sheet of water, far and bright and smooth, on the right hand and the left — there, as pure in its spotless blue, as still in its heavenly peacefulness, as the summer sky above it, was the first of the Norfolk Broads.
The carriages stopped, the love-making broke off, and the venerable Mrs. Pentecost, recovering the use of her senses at a moment’s notice, fixed49 her eyes sternly on Allan the instant she woke.
“I see in your face, Mr. Armadale,” said the old lady, sharply, “that you think I have been asleep.”
The consciousness of guilt51 acts differently on the two sexes. In nine cases out of ten, it is a much more manageable consciousness with a woman than with a man. All the confusion, on this occasion, was on the man’s side. While Allan reddened and looked embarrassed, the quick-witted Miss Milroy instantly embraced the old lady with a burst of innocent laughter. “He is quite incapable53, dear Mrs. Pentecost,” said the little hypocrite, “of anything so ridiculous as thinking you have been asleep!”
“All I wish Mr. Armadale to know,” pursued the old lady, still suspicious of Allan, “is, that my head being giddy, I am obliged to close my eyes in a carriage. Closing the eyes, Mr. Armadale, is one thing, and going to sleep is another. Where is my son?”
The Reverend Samuel appeared silently at the carriage door, and assisted his mother to get out (“Did you enjoy the drive, Sammy?” asked the old lady. “Beautiful scenery, my dear, wasn’t it?”) Young Pedgift, on whom the arrangements for exploring the Broads devolved, hustled54 about, giving his orders to the boatman. Major Milroy, placid55 and patient, sat apart on an overturned punt, and privately56 looked at his watch. Was it past noon already? More than an hour past. For the first time, for many a long year, the famous clock at home had struck in an empty workshop. Time had lifted his wonderful scythe57, and the corporal and his men had relieved guard, with no master’s eye to watch their performances, with no master’s hand to encourage them to do their best. The major sighed as he put his watch back in his pocket. “I’m afraid I’m too old for this sort of thing,” thought the good man, looking about him dreamily. “I don’t find I enjoy it as much as I thought I should. When are we going on the water, I wonder? Where’s Neelie?”
Neelie — more properly Miss Milroy — was behind one of the carriages with the promoter of the picnic. They were immersed in the interesting subject of their own Christian58 names, and Allan was as near a pointblank proposal of marriage as it is well possible for a thoughtless young gentleman of two-and-twenty to be.
“Tell me the truth,” said Miss Milroy, with her eyes modestly riveted59 on the ground. “When you first knew what my name was, you didn’t like it, did you?”
“I like everything that belongs to you,” rejoined Allan, vigorously. “I think Eleanor is a beautiful name; and yet, I don’t know why, I think the major made an improvement when he changed it to Neelie.”
“I can tell you why, Mr. Armadale,” said the major’s daughter, with great gravity. ‘There are some unfortunate people in this world whose names are — how can I express it?— whose names are misfits. Mine is a misfit. I don’t blame my parents, for of course it was impossible to know when I was a baby how I should grow up. But as things are, I and my name don’t fit each other. When you hear a young lady called Eleanor, you think of a tall, beautiful, interesting creature directly — the very opposite of me ! With my personal appearance, Eleanor sounds ridiculous; and Neelie, as you yourself remarked, is just the thing. No! no! don’t say any more; I’m tired of the subject. I’ve got another name in my head, if we must speak of names, which is much better worth talking about than mine.”
She stole a glance at her companion which said plainly enough, “The name is yours.” Allan advanced a step nearer to her, and lowered his voice, without the slightest necessity, to a mysterious whisper. Miss Milroy instantly resumed her investigation60 of the ground. She looked at it with such extraordinary interest that a geologist61 might have suspected her of scientific flirtation62 with the superficial strata63.
“What name are you thinking of?” asked Allan.
Miss Milroy addressed her answer, in the form of a remark, to the superficial strata — and let them do what they liked with it, in their capacity of conductors of sound. “If I had been a man,” she said, “I should so like to have been called Allan!”
She felt his eyes on her as she spoke64, and, turning her head aside, became absorbed in the graining of the panel at the back of the carriage. “How beautiful it is!” she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of interest in the vast subject of varnish65. “I wonder how they do it?”
Man persists, and woman yields. Allan declined to shift the ground from love-making to coach-making. Miss Milroy dropped the subject.
“Call me by my name, if you really like it,” he whispered, persuasively66. “Call me ‘Allan’ for once; just to try.”
She hesitated with a heightened color and a charming smile, and shook her head. “I couldn’t just yet,” she answered, softly.
“May I call you Neelie? Is it too soon?”
She looked at him again, with a sudden disturbance67 about the bosom44 of her dress, and a sudden flash of tenderness in her dark-gray eyes.
“You know best,” she said, faintly, in a whisper.
The inevitable68 answer was on the tip of Allan’s tongue. At the very instant, however, when he opened his lips, the abhorrent69 high tenor of Pedgift Junior, shouting for “Mr. Armadale,” rang cheerfully through the quiet air. At the same moment, from the other side of the carriage, the lurid70 spectacles of the Reverend Samuel showed themselves officiously on the search; and the voice of the Reverend Samuel’s mother (who had, with great dexterity71, put the two ideas of the presence of water and a sudden movement among the company together) inquired distractedly if anybody was drowned? Sentiment flies and Love shudders72 at all demonstrations73 of the noisy kind. Allan said: “Damn it,” and rejoined young Pedgift. Miss Milroy sighed, and took refuge with her father.
“I’ve done it, Mr. Armadale!” cried young Pedgift, greeting his patron gayly. “We can all go on the water together; I’ve got the biggest boat on the Broads. The little skiffs,” he added, in a lower tone, as he led the way to the quay steps, “besides being ticklish74 and easily upset, won’t hold more than two, with the boatman; and the major told me he should feel it his duty to go with his daughter, if we all separated in different boats. I thought that would hardly do, sir,” pursued Pedgift Junior, with a respectfully sly emphasis on the words. “And, besides, if we had put the old lady into a skiff, with her weight (sixteen stone if she’s a pound), we might have had her upside down in the water half her time, which would have occasioned delay, and thrown what you call a damp on the proceedings75. Here’s the boat, Mr. Armadale. What do you think of it?”
The boat added one more to the strangely anomalous76 objects which appeared at the Broads. It was nothing less than a stout77 old lifeboat, passing its last declining years on the smooth fresh water, after the stormy days of its youth time on the wild salt sea. A comfortable little cabin for the use of fowlers in the winter season had been built amidships, and a mast and sail adapted for inland navigation had been fitted forward. There was room enough and to spare for the guests, the dinner, and the three men in charge. Allan clapped his faithful lieutenant78 approvingly on the shoulder; and even Mrs. Pentecost, when the whole party were comfortably established on board, took a comparatively cheerful view of the prospects80 of the picnic. “If anything happens,” said the old lady, addressing the company generally, “there’s one comfort for all of us. My son can swim.”
The boat floated out from the creek into the placid waters of the Broad, and the full beauty of the scene opened on the view.
On the northward81 and westward82, as the boat reached the middle of the lake, the shore lay clear and low in the sunshine, fringed darkly at certain points by rows of dwarf83 trees; and dotted here and there, in the opener spaces, with windmills and reed-thatched cottages, of puddled mud. Southward, the great sheet of water narrowed gradually to a little group of close-nestling islands which closed the prospect79; while to the east a long, gently undulating line of reeds followed the windings84 of the Broad, and shut out all view of the watery85 wastes beyond. So clear and so light was the summer air that the one cloud in the eastern quarter of the heaven was the smoke cloud left by a passing steamer three miles distant and more on the invisible sea. When the voices of the pleasure party were still, not a sound rose, far or near, but the faint ripple86 at the bows, as the men, with slow, deliberate strokes of their long poles, pressed the boat forward softly over the shallow water. The world and the world’s turmoil87 seemed left behind forever on the land; the silence was the silence of enchantment88 — the delicious interflow of the soft purity of the sky and the bright tranquillity89 of the lake.
Established in perfect comfort in the boat — the major and his daughter on one side, the curate and his mother on the other, and Allan and young Pedgift between the two — the water party floated smoothly90 toward the little nest of islands at the end of the Broad. Miss Milroy was in raptures91; Allan was delighted; and the major for once forgot his clock. Every one felt pleasurably, in their different ways, the quiet and beauty of the scene. Mrs. Pentecost, in her way, felt it like a clairvoyant92 — with closed eyes.
“Look behind you, Mr. Armadale,” whispered young Pedgift. “I think the parson’s beginning to enjoy himself.”
An unwonted briskness93 — portentous94 apparently of coming speech — did certainly at that moment enliven the curate’s manner. He jerked his head from side to side like a bird; he cleared his throat, and clasped his hands, and looked with a gentle interest at the company. Getting into spirits seemed, in the case of this excellent person, to be alarmingly like getting into the pulpit.
“Even in this scene of tranquillity,” said the Reverend Samuel, coming out softly with his first contribution to the society in the shape of a remark, “the Christian mind — led, so to speak, from one extreme to another — is forcibly recalled to the unstable95 nature of all earthly enjoyments97. How if this calm should not last? How if the winds rose and the waters became agitated98?”
“You needn’t alarm yourself about that, sir,” said young Pedgift; “June’s the fine season here — and you can swim.”
Mrs. Pentecost (mesmerically affected99, in all probability, by the near neighborhood of her son) opened her eyes suddenly and asked, with her customary eagerness. “What does my boy say?”
The Reverend Samuel repeated his words in the key that suited his mother’s infirmity. The old lady nodded in high approval, and pursued her son’s train of thought through the medium of a quotation100.
“Ah!” sighed Mrs. Pentecost, with infinite relish101, “He rides the whirlwind, Sammy, and directs the storm!”
“Noble words!” said the Reverend Samuel. “Noble and consoling words!”
“I say,” whispered Allan, “if he goes on much longer in that way, what’s to be done?”
“I told you, papa, it was a risk to ask them,” added Miss Milroy, in another whisper.
“My dear!” remonstrated102 the major. “We knew nobody else in the neighborhood, and, as Mr. Armadale kindly suggested our bringing our friends, what could we do?”
“We can’t upset the boat,” remarked young Pedgift, with sardonic103 gravity. “It’s a lifeboat, unfortunately. May I venture to suggest putting something into the reverend gentleman’s mouth, Mr. Armadale? It’s close on three o’clock. What do you say to ringing the dinner-bell, sir?”
Never was the right man more entirely104 in the right place than Pedgift Junior at the picnic. In ten minutes more the boat was brought to a stand-still among the reeds; the Thorpe Ambrose hampers105 were unpacked106 on the roof of the cabin; and the current of the curate’s eloquence107 was checked for the day.
How inestimably important in its moral results — and therefore how praiseworthy in itself — is the act of eating and drinking! The social virtues108 center in the stomach. A man who is not a better husband, father, and brother after dinner than before is, digestively speaking, an incurably109 vicious man. What hidden charms of character disclose themselves, what dormant110 amiabilities awaken111, when our common humanity gathers together to pour out the gastric112 juice! At the opening of the hampers from Thorpe Ambrose, sweet Sociability113 (offspring of the happy union of Civilization and Mrs. Gripper) exhaled114 among the boating party, and melted in one friendly fusion52 the discordant115 elements of which that party had hitherto been composed. Now did the Reverend Samuel Pentecost, whose light had hitherto been hidden under a bushel, prove at last that he could do something by proving that he could eat. Now did Pedgift Junior shine brighter than ever he had shone yet in gems116 of caustic117 humor and exquisite118 fertilities of resource. Now did the squire, and the squire’s charming guest, prove the triple connection between Champagne119 that sparkles, Love that grows bolder, and Eyes whose vocabulary is without the word No. Now did cheerful old times come back to the major’s memory, and cheerful old stories not told for years find their way to the major’s lips. And now did Mrs. Pentecost, coming out wakefully in the whole force of her estimable maternal character, seize on a supplementary120 fork, and ply50 that useful instrument incessantly121 between the choicest morsels122 in the whole round of dishes, and the few vacant places left available on the Reverend Samuel’s plate. “Don’t laugh at my son,” cried the old lady, observing the merriment which her proceedings produced among the company. “It’s my fault, poor dear — I make him eat!” And there are men in this world who, seeing virtues such as these developed at the table, as they are developed nowhere else, can, nevertheless, rank the glorious privilege of dining with the smallest of the diurnal123 personal worries which necessity imposes on mankind — with buttoning your waistcoat, for example, or lacing your stays! Trust no such monster as this with your tender secrets, your loves and hatreds124, your hopes and fears. His heart is uncorrected by his stomach, and the social virtues are not in him.
The last mellow125 hours of the day and the first cool breezes of the long summer evening had met before the dishes were all laid waste, and the bottles as empty as bottles should be. This point in the proceedings attained126, the picnic party looked lazily at Pedgift Junior to know what was to be done next. That inexhaustible functionary127 was equal as ever to all the calls on him. He had a new amusement ready before the quickest of the company could so much as ask him what that amusement was to be.
“Fond of music on the water, Miss Milroy?” he asked, in his airiest and pleasantest manner.
Miss Milroy adored music, both on the water and the land — always excepting the one case when she was practicing the art herself on the piano at home.
“We’ll get out of the reeds first,” said young Pedgift. He gave his orders to the boatmen, dived briskly into the little cabin, and reappeared with a concertina in his hand. “Neat, Miss Milroy, isn’t it?” he observed, pointing to his initials, inlaid on the instrument in mother-of-pearl. “My name’s Augustus, like my father’s. Some of my friends knock off the ‘A,’ and call me ‘Gustus Junior.’ A small joke goes a long way among friends, doesn’t it, Mr. Armadale? I sing a little to my own accompaniment, ladies and gentlemen; and, if quite agreeable, I shall be proud and happy to do my best.”
“Stop!” cried Mrs. Pentecost; “I dote on music.”
With this formidable announcement, the old lady opened a prodigious128 leather bag, from which she never parted night or day, and took out an ear-trumpet129 of the old-fashioned kind — something between a key-bugle and a French horn. “I don’t care to use the thing generally,” explained Mrs. Pentecost, “because I’m afraid of its making me deafer than ever. But I can’t and won’t miss the music. I dote on music. If you’ll hold the other end, Sammy, I’ll stick it in my ear. Neelie, my dear, tell him to begin.”
Young Pedgift was troubled with no nervous hesitation130. He began at once, not with songs of the light and modern kind, such as might have been expected from an amateur of his age and character, but with declamatory and patriotic131 bursts of poetry, set to the bold and blatant132 music which the people of England loved dearly at the earlier part of the present century, and which, whenever they can get it, they love dearly still. “The Death of Marmion,” “The Battle of the Baltic,” “The Bay of Biscay,” “Nelson,” under various vocal133 aspects, as exhibited by the late Braham — these were the songs in which the roaring concertina and strident tenor of Gustus Junior exulted134 together. “Tell me when you’re tired, ladies and gentlemen,” said the minstrel solicitor135. “There’s no conceit136 about me . Will you have a little sentiment by way of variety? Shall I wind up with ‘The Mistletoe Bough’ and ‘Poor Mary Anne’?”
Having favored his audience with those two cheerful melodies, young Pedgift respectfully requested the rest of the company to follow his vocal example in turn, offering, in every case, to play “a running accompaniment” impromptu137, if the singer would only be so obliging as to favor him with the key-note.
“Go on, somebody!” cried Mrs. Pentecost, eagerly. “I tell you again, I dote on music. We haven’t had half enough yet, have we, Sammy?”
The Reverend Samuel made no reply. The unhappy man had reasons of his own — not exactly in his bosom, but a little lower — for remaining silent, in the midst of the general hilarity and the general applause. Alas138 for humanity! Even maternal love is alloyed with mortal fallibility. Owing much already to his excellent mother, the Reverend Samuel was now additionally indebted to her for a smart indigestion.
Nobody, however, noticed as yet the signs and tokens of internal revolution in the curate’s face. Everybody was occupied in entreating139 everybody else to sing. Miss Milroy appealed to the founder140 of the feast. “Do sing something, Mr. Armadale,” she said; “I should so like to hear you!”
“If you once begin, sir,” added the cheerful Pedgift, “you’ll find it get uncommonly141 easy as you go on. Music is a science which requires to be taken by the throat at starting.”
“With all my heart,” said Allan, in his good-humored way. “I know lots of tunes142, but the worst of it is, the words escape me. I wonder if I can remember one of Moore’s Melodies? My poor mother used to be fond of teaching me Moore’s Melodies when I was a boy.”
“Whose melodies?” asked Mrs. Pentecost. “Moore’s? Aha! I know Tom Moore by heart.”
“Perhaps in that case you will he good enough to help me, ma’am, if my memory breaks down,” rejoined Allan. “I’ll take the easiest melody in the whole collection, if you’ll allow me. Everybody knows it —‘Eveleen’s Bower143.’ ”
“I’m familiar, in a general sort of way, with the national melodies of England, Scotland, and Ireland,” said Pedgift Junior. “I’ll accompany you, sir, with the greatest pleasure. This is the sort of thing, I think.” He seated himself cross-legged on the roof of the cabin, and burst into a complicated musical improvisation144 wonderful to hear — a mixture of instrumental flourishes and groans145; a jig146 corrected by a dirge147, and a dirge enlivened by a jig. “That’s the sort of thing,” said young Pedgift, with his smile of supreme148 confidence. “Fire away, sir!”
Mrs. Pentecost elevated her trumpet, and Allan elevated his voice. “Oh, weep for the hour when to Eveleen’s Bower —” He stopped; the accompaniment stopped; the audience waited. “It’s a most extraordinary thing,” said Allan; “I thought I had the next line on the tip of my tongue, and it seems to have escaped me. I’ll begin again, if you have no objection. ‘Oh, weep for the hour when to Eveleen’s Bower —’ ”
“‘The lord of the valley with false vows149 came,’” said Mrs. Pentecost.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Allan. “Now I shall get on smoothly. ‘Oh, weep for the hour when to Eveleen’s Bower, the lord of the valley with false vows came. The moon was shining bright —’”
“No!” said Mrs. Pentecost.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” remonstrated Allan. “‘The moon was shining bright —’ ”
“The moon wasn’t doing anything of the kind,” said Mrs. Pentecost.
Pedgift Junior, foreseeing a dispute, persevered150 sotto voce with the accompaniment, in the interests of harmony.
“Moore’s own words, ma’am,” said Allan, “in my mother’s copy of the Melodies.”
“Your mother’s copy was wrong,” retorted Mrs. Pentecost. “Didn’t I tell you just now that I knew Tom Moore by heart?”
Pedgift Junior’s peace-making concertina still flourished and groaned151 in the minor152 key.
“Well, what did the moon do?” asked Allan, in despair.
“What the moon ought to have done, sir, or Tom Moore wouldn’t have written it so,” rejoined Mrs. Pentecost. “‘The moon hid her light from the heaven that night, and wept behind her clouds o’er the maiden’s shame!’ I wish that young man would leave off playing,” added Mrs. Pentecost, venting153 her rising irritation154 on Gustus Junior. “I’ve had enough of him — he tickles155 my ears.”
“Proud, I’m sure, ma’am,” said the unblushing Pedgift. “The whole science of music consists in tickling156 the ears.”
“We seem to be drifting into a sort of argument,” remarked Major Milroy, placidly157. “Wouldn’t it be better if Mr. Armadale went on with his song?”
“Do go on, Mr. Armadale!” added the major’s daughter. “Do go on, Mr. Pedgift!”
“One of them doesn’t know the words, and the other doesn’t know the music,” said Mrs. Pentecost. “Let them go on if they can!”
“Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am,” said Pedgift Junior; “I’m ready to go on myself to any extent. Now, Mr. Armadale!”
Allan opened his lips to take up the unfinished melody where he had last left it. Before he could utter a note, the curate suddenly rose, with a ghastly face, and a hand pressed convulsively over the middle region of his waistcoat.
“What’s the matter?” cried the whole boating party in chorus.
“I am exceedingly unwell,” said the Reverend Samuel Pentecost. The boat was instantly in a state of confusion. “Eveleen’s Bower” expired on Allan’s lips, and even the irrepressible concertina of Pedgift was silenced at last. The alarm proved to be quite needless. Mrs. Pentecost’s son possessed a mother, and that mother had a bag. In two seconds the art of medicine occupied the place left vacant in the attention of the company by the art of music.
“Rub it gently, Sammy,” said Mrs. Pentecost. “I’ll get out the bottles and give you a dose. It’s his poor stomach, major. Hold my trumpet, somebody — and stop the boat. You take that bottle, Neelie, my dear; and you take this one, Mr. Armadale; and give them to me as I want them. Ah, poor dear, I know what’s the matter with him! Want of power here , major — cold, acid, and flabby. Ginger158 to warm him; soda159 to correct him; sal volatile160 to hold him up. There, Sammy! drink it before it settles; and then go and lie down, my dear, in that dog-kennel of a place they call the cabin. No more music!” added Mrs. Pentecost, shaking her forefinger161 at the proprietor162 of the concertina —“unless it’s a hymn163, and that I don’t object to.”
Nobody appearing to be in a fit frame of mind for singing a hymn, the all-accomplished Pedgift drew upon his stores of local knowledge, and produced a new idea. The course of the boat was immediately changed under his direction. In a few minutes more, the company found themselves in a little island creek, with a lonely cottage at the far end of it, and a perfect forest of reeds closing the view all round them. “What do you say, ladies and gentlemen, to stepping on shore and seeing what a reed-cutter’s cottage looks like?” suggested young Pedgift.
“We say yes, to be sure,” answered Allan. “I think our spirits have been a little dashed by Mr. Pentecost’s illness and Mrs. Pentecost’s bag,” he added, in a whisper to Miss Milroy. “A change of this sort is the very thing we want to set us all going again.”
He and young Pedgift handed Miss Milroy out of the boat. The major followed. Mrs. Pentecost sat immovable as the Egyptian Sphinx, with her bag on her knees, mounting guard over “Sammy” in the cabin.
“We must keep the fun going, sir,” said Allan, as he helped the major over the side of the boat. “We haven’t half done yet with the enjoyment96 of the day.”
His voice seconded his hearty164 belief in his own prediction to such good purpose that even Mrs. Pentecost heard him, and ominously165 shook her head.
“Ah!” sighed the curate’s mother, “if you were as old as I am, young gentleman, you wouldn’t feel quite so sure of the enjoyment of the day!”
So, in rebuke166 of the rashness of youth, spoke the caution of age. The negative view is notoriously the safe view, all the world over, and the Pentecost philosophy is, as a necessary consequence, generally in the right.
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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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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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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devotedness
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dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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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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sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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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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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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thatcher
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| n.茅屋匠 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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51
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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53
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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54
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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57
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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58
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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59
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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61
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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62
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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63
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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64
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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65
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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66
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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67
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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68
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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69
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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70
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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72
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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73
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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74
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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75
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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78
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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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81
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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82
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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83
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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84
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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85
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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86
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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87
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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92
clairvoyant
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| adj.有预见的；n.有预见的人 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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100
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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101
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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102
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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103
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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104
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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105
hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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107
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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108
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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109
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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110
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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111
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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112
gastric
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| adj.胃的 | |
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113
sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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114
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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115
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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116
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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diurnal
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| adj.白天的，每日的 | |
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hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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tickles
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| （使）发痒( tickle的第三人称单数 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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