Amongst the many imprudences of which Horatio Paget — once a cornet in a crack cavalry1 regiment2, always a captain in his intercourse3 with the world — had been guilty during the course of a long career, there was none for which he so bitterly reproached himself as for a certain foolish marriage which he had made late in his life. It was when he had thrown away the last chance that an indulgent destiny had given him, that the ruined fop of the Regency, the sometime member of the Beef-steak Club, the man who in his earliest youth had worn a silver gridiron at his button-hole, and played piquet in the gilded4 saloons of Georgina of Devonshire, found himself laid on a bed of sickness in dingy5 London lodgings6, and nearer death than he had ever been in the course of his brief military career; so nearly gliding8 from life’s swift-flowing river into eternity’s trackless ocean, that the warmest thrill of gratitude9 which ever stirred the slow pulses of his cold heart quickened its beating as he clasped the hand that had held him back from the unknown region whose icy breath had chilled him with an awful fear. Such men as Horatio Paget are apt to feel a strange terror when the black night drops suddenly down upon them, and the “Gray Boatman’s” voice sounds hollow and mysterious in the darkness, announcing that the ocean is near. The hand that held the ruined spendthrift back when the current swept so swiftly oceanward was a woman’s tender hand; and Heaven only knows what patient watchfulness11, what careful administration of medicines and unwearying preparation of broths12 and jellies and sagos and gruels, what untiring and devoted13 slavery, had been necessary to save the faded rake who looked out upon the world once more, a ghastly shadow of his former self, a penniless helpless burden for any one who might choose to support him.
“Don’t thank me,” said the doctor, when his feeble patient whimpered flourishing protestations of his gratitude, unabashed by the consciousness that such grateful protestations were the sole coin with which the medical man would be paid for his services; “thank that young woman, if you want to thank anybody; for if it had not been for her you wouldn’t be here to talk about gratitude. And if ever you get such another attack of inflammation on the lungs, you had better pray for such another nurse, though I don’t think you’re likely to find one.”
And with this exordium, the rough-and-ready surgeon took his departure, leaving Horatio Paget alone with the woman who had saved his life.
She was only his landlady14’s daughter; and his landlady was no prosperous householder in Mayfair, thriving on the extravagance of wealthy bachelors, but an honest widow, living in an obscure little street leading out of the Old Kent-road, and letting a meagrely-furnished little parlour and a still more meagrely-furnished little bedroom to any single gentleman whom reverse of fortune might lead into such a locality. Captain Paget had sunk very low in the world when he took possession of that wretched parlour and laid himself down to rest on the widow’s flock-bed.
There is apt to be a dreary16 interval17 in the life of such a man — a blank dismal18 interregnum, which divides the day in which he spends his last shilling from the hour in which he begins to prey19 deliberately20 upon the purses of other people. It was in that hopeless interval that Horatio Paget established himself in the widow’s parlour. But though he slept in the Old Kent-road, he had not yet brought himself to endure existence on that Surrey side of the water. He emerged from his lodging7 every morning to hasten westward21, resplendent in clean linen22 and exquisitely-fitting gloves, and unquestionable overcoat, and varnished23 boots.
The wardrobe has its Indian summer; and the glory of a first-rate tailor’s coat is like the splendour of a tropical sun — it is glorious to the last, and sinks in a moment. Captain Paget’s wardrobe was in its Indian summer in these days; and when he felt how fatally near the Bond-street pavement was to the soles of his feet, he could not refrain from a fond admiration24 of the boots that were so beautiful in decay.
He walked the West-end for many weary hours every day during this period of his decadence25. He tried to live in an honest gentlemanly way, by borrowing money of his friends, or discounting an accommodation-bill obtained from some innocent acquaintance who was deluded26 by his brilliant appearance and specious27 tongue into a belief in the transient nature of his difficulties. He spent his days in hanging about the halls and waiting-rooms of clubs — of some of which he had once been a member; he walked weary miles between St James’s and Mayfair, Kensington Gore28 and Notting Hill, leaving little notes for men who were not at home, or writing a little note in one room while the man to whom he was writing hushed his breath in an adjoining chamber29. People who had once been Captain Paget’s fast friends seemed to have simultaneously30 decided31 upon spending their existence out of doors, as it appeared to the impecunious32 Captain. The servants of his friends were afflicted33 with a strange uncertainty34 as to their masters’ movements. At whatever hall-door Horatio Paget presented himself, it seemed equally doubtful whether the proprietor35 of the mansion36 would be home to dinner that day, or whether he would be at home any time next day, or the day after that, or at the end of the week, or indeed whether he would ever come home again. Sometimes the Captain, calling in the evening dusk, in the faint hope of gaining admittance to some friendly dwelling37, saw the glimmer38 of light under a dining-room door, and heard the clooping of corks39 and the pleasant jingling40 of glass and silver in the innermost recesses41 of a butler’s pantry; but still the answer was — not at home, and not likely to be home. All the respectable world was to be out henceforth for Horatio Paget. But now and then at the clubs he met some young man, who had no wife at home to keep watch upon his purse and to wail43 piteously over a five-pound note ill-bestowed, and who took compassion44 on the fallen spendthrift, and believed, or pretended to believe, his story of temporary embarrassment45; and then the Captain dined sumptuously47 at a little French restaurant in Castle-street, Leicester-square, and took a half-bottle of chablis with his oysters48, and warmed himself with chambertin that was brought to him in a dusty cobweb-shrouded bottle reposing49 in a wicker-basket.
But in these latter days such glimpses of sunshine very rarely illumined the dull stream of the Captain’s life. Failure and disappointment had become the rule of his existence — success the rare exception. Crossing the river now on his way westward, he was wont50 to loiter a little on Waterloo Bridge, and to look dreamily down at the water, wondering whether the time was near at hand when, under cover of the evening dusk, he would pay his last halfpenny to the toll-keeper, and never again know the need of an earthly coin.
“I saw a fellow in the Morgue one day — a poor wretch15 who had drowned himself a week or two before. Great God, how horrible he looked! If there was any certainty they would find one immediately, and bury one decently, there’d be no particular horror in that kind of death. But to be found like that, and to lie in some riverside deadhouse down by Wapping, with a ghastly placard rotting on the rotting door, and nothing but ooze51 and slime and rottenness round about one — waiting to be identified! And who knows, after all, whether a dead man doesn’t feel that sort of thing?”
It was after such musings as these had begun to be very common with Horatio Paget that he caught the chill which resulted in a very dangerous illness of many weeks. The late autumn was wet and cold and dreary; but Captain Paget, although remarkably52 clever after a certain fashion, had never been a lover of intellectual pursuits, and imprisonment53 in Mrs. Kepp’s shabby parlour was odious54 to him. When he had read every page of the borrowed newspaper, and pished and pshawed over the leaders, and groaned55 aloud at the announcement of some wealthy marriage made by one of his quondam friends, or chuckled56 at the record of another quondam friend’s insolvency57 — when he had poked58 the fire savagely60 half a dozen times in an hour, cursing the pinched grate and the bad coals during every repetition of the operation — when he had smoked his last cigar, and varnished his favourite boots, and looked out of the window, and contemplated61 himself gloomily in the wretched little glass over the narrow chimney-piece — Captain Paget’s intellectual resources were exhausted62, and an angry impatience63 took possession of him. Then, in defiance64 of the pelting65 rain or the lowering sky, he flung his slippers66 into the farthest corner — and the farthest corner of Mrs. Kepp’s parlour was not very remote from the Captain’s arm-chair — he drew on the stoutest67 of his varnished boots — and there were none of them very stout68 now — buttoned his perfect overcoat, adjusted his hat before the looking-glass, and sallied forth42, umbrella in hand, to make his way westward. Westward always, through storm and shower, back to the haunts of his youth, went the wanderer and outcast, to see the red glow of cheery fires reflected on the plate-glass windows of his favourite clubs; to see the lamps in spacious69 reading-rooms lit early in the autumn dusk, and to watch the soft light glimmering70 on the rich bindings of the books, and losing itself in the sombre depths of crimson71 draperies. To this poor worldly creature the agony of banishment72 from those palaces of Pall73 Mall or St. James’s-street was as bitter as the pain of a fallen angel. It was the dullest, deadest time of the year, and there were not many loungers in those sumptuous46 reading-rooms, where the shaded lamps shed their subdued74 light on the chaste75 splendour of the sanctuary76; so Captain Paget could haunt the scene of his departed youth without much fear of recognition: but his wanderings in the West grew more hopeless and purposeless every day. He began to understand how it was that people were never at home when he assailed77 their doors with his fashionable knock. He could no longer endure the humiliation78 of such repulses79, for he began to understand that the servants knew his errand as well as their masters, and had their answers ready, let him present himself before them when he would: so he besieged80 the doors of St. James’s and Mayfair, Kensington Gore and Netting Hill, no longer. He knew that the bubble of his poor foolish life had burst, and that there was nothing left for him but to die.
It seemed about this time as if the end of all was very near. Captain Paget caught a chill one miserable81 evening on which he returned to his lodging with his garments dripping, and his beautiful varnished boots reduced to a kind of pulp82; and the chill resulted in a violent inflammation of the lungs. Then it was that a woman’s hand was held out to save him, and a woman’s divine tenderness cared for him in his dire83 extremity84.
The ministering angel who comforted this helpless and broken-down wayfarer85 was only a low-born ignorant girl called Mary Anne Kepp — a girl who had waited upon the Captain during his residence in her mother’s house, but of whom he had taken about as much notice as he had been wont to take of the coloured servants who tended him when he was with his regiment in India. Horatio Paget had been a night-brawler and a gamester, a duellist86 and a reprobate87, in the glorious days that were gone; but he had never been a profligate88; and he did not know that the girl who brought him his breakfast and staggered under the weight of his coal-scuttle was one of the most beautiful women he had ever looked upon.
The Captain was so essentially89 a creature of the West-end, that Beauty without her glitter of diamonds and splendour of apparel was scarcely Beauty for him. He waited for the groom90 of the chambers91 to announce her name, and the low hum of well-bred approval to accompany her entrance, before he bowed the knee and acknowledged her perfection. The Beauties whom he remembered had received their patent from the Prince Regent, and had graduated in the houses of Devonshire and Hertford. How should the faded bachelor know that this girl, in a shabby cotton gown, with unkempt hair dragged off her pale face, and with grimy smears92 from the handles of saucepans and fire-irons imprinted93 upon her cheeks — how should he know that she was beautiful? It was only during the slow monotonous94 hours of his convalescence95, when he lay upon the poor faded little sofa in Mrs. Kepp’s parlour — the sofa that was scarcely less faded and feeble than himself — it was then, and then only, that he discovered the loveliness of the face which had been so often bent96 over him during his delirious97 wanderings.
“I have mistaken you for all manner of people, my dear,” he said to his landlady’s daughter, who sat by the little Pembroke-table working, while her mother dozed98 in a corner with a worsted stocking drawn99 over her arm and a pair of spectacles resting upon her elderly nose. Mrs. Kepp and her daughter were wont to spend their evenings in the lodger100’s apartment now; for the invalid101 complained bitterly of “the horrors” when they left him.
“I have taken you for all sorts of people, Mary Anne,” pursued the Captain dreamily. “Sometimes I have fancied you were the Countess of Jersey102, and I could see her smile as she looked at me when I was first presented to her. I was very young in the beautiful Jersey’s time; and then there was the other one — whom I used to drink tea with at Brighton. Ah me! what a dull world it seems nowadays! The King gone, and everything changed — everything — everything! I am a very old man, Mary Anne.”
He was fifty-two years of age; he felt quite an old man. He had spent all his money, he had outlived the best friends of his youth; for it had been his fate to adorn103 a declining era, and he had been a youngster among elderly patrons and associates. His patrons were dead and gone, and the men he had patronised shut their doors upon him in the day of his poverty. As for his relations, he had turned his back upon them long ago, when first he followed in the shining wake of that gorgeous vessel104, the Royal George. In this hour of his penniless decline there was none to help him. To have outlived every affection and every pleasure is the chief bitterness of old age; and this bitterness Horatio Paget suffered in all its fulness, though his years were but fifty-two.
“I am a very old man, Mary Anne,” he repeated plaintively105. But Mary Anne Kepp could not think him old. To her eyes he must for ever appear the incarnation of all that is elegant and distinguished106. He was the first gentleman she had ever seen. Mrs. Kepp had given shelter to other lodgers107 who had called themselves gentlemen, and who had been pompous108 and grandiose109 of manner in their intercourse with the widow and her daughter; but O, what pitiful lacquered counterfeits110, what Brummagem paste they had been, compared to the real gem111! Mary Anne Kepp had seen varnished boots before the humble112 flooring of her mother’s dwelling was honoured by the tread of Horatio Paget, but what clumsy vulgar boots, and what awkward plebeian113 feet had worn them! The lodger’s slim white hands and arched instep, the patrician114 curve of his aquiline115 nose, the perfect grace of his apparel, the high-bred modulation116 of his courteous117 accents — all these had impressed Mary Anne’s tender little heart so much the more because of his poverty and loneliness. That such a man should be forgotten and deserted118 — that such a man should be poor and lonely, seemed so cruel a chance to the simple maiden119: and then when illness overtook him, and invested him with a supreme120 claim upon her tenderness and pity — then the innocent girl lavished121 all the treasures of a compassionate122 heart upon the ruined gentleman. She had no thought of fee or reward; she knew that her mother’s lodger was miserably123 poor, and that his payments had become more and more irregular week by week and month by month. She had no consciousness of the depth of feeling that rendered her so gentle a nurse; for her life was a busy one, and she had neither time nor inclination124 for any morbid125 brooding upon her own feelings.
She protested warmly against the Captain’s lamentation126 respecting his age.
“The idear of any gentleman calling hisself old at fifty!” she said — and Horatio shuddered127 at the supererogatory “r” and the “hisself,” though they proceeded from the lips of his consoler; —“you’ve got many, many years before you yet, sir, please God,” she added piously129; “and there’s good friends will come forward yet to help you, I make no doubt.”
Captain Paget shook his head peevishly131.
“You talk as if you were telling my fortune with a pack of cards,” he said. “No, my girl, I shall have only one friend to rely upon, if ever I am well enough to go outside this house; and that friend is myself. I have spent the fortune my father left me; I have spent the price of my commission; and I have parted with every object of any value that I ever possessed132 — in vulgar parlance133, I am cleaned out, Mary Anne. But other men have spent every sixpence belonging to them, and have contrived134 to live pleasantly enough for half a century afterwards; and I daresay I can do as they have done. If the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, I suppose the hawks135 and vultures take care of themselves. I have tried my luck as a shorn lamb, and the tempest has been very bitter for me; so I have no alternative but to join the vultures.”
Mary Anne Kepp stared wonderingly at her mother’s lodger. She had some notion that he had been saying something wicked and blasphemous137; but she was too ignorant and too innocent to follow his meaning.
“O, pray don’t talk in that wild way, sir,” she entreated138. “It makes me so unhappy to hear you go on like that.”
“And why should anything that I say make you unhappy, Mary Anne?” asked the lodger earnestly.
There was something in his tone that set her pale face on fire with unwonted crimson, and she bent very low over her work to hide those painful blushes. She did not know that the Captain’s tone presaged139 a serious address; she did not know that the grand crisis of her life was close upon her.
Horatio Paget had determined140 upon making a sacrifice. The doctor had told him that he owed his life to this devoted girl; and he would have been something less than man if he had not been moved with some grateful emotion. He was grateful; and in the dreary hours of his slow recovery he had ample leisure for the contemplation of the woman to whom he owed so much, if his poor worthless life could indeed be much. He saw that she was devoted to him; that she loved him more truly than he had ever been conscious of being loved before. He saw too that she was beautiful. To an ugly woman Captain Paget might have felt extremely grateful; but he could never have thought of an ugly woman as he thought of Mary Anne Kepp. The end of his contemplation and his deliberation came to this: She was beautiful, and she loved him, and his life was utterly141 wretched and lonely; so he determined on proving his gratitude by a sublime142 sacrifice. Before the girl had lifted her face from the needlework over which she had bent to hide her blushes, Horatio Paget had asked her to be his wife. Her emotion almost overpowered her as she tried to answer him; but she struggled against it bravely, and came to the sofa on which he lay and dropped upon her knees by his side. The beggar-maid who was wooed by a king could have felt no deeper sense of her lover’s condescension143 than that which filled the heart of this poor simple girl as she knelt by her mother’s gentleman lodger.
“I— to be your wife!” she exclaimed. “O, surely, sir, you cannot mean it?”
“But I do mean it, with all my heart and soul, my dear,” answered the Captain. “I’m not offering you any grand chance, Mary Anne; for I’m about as low down in the world as a man can be. But I don’t mean to be poor all my life. Come, my dear, don’t cry,” he exclaimed, just a little impatiently — for the girl had covered her face with her hands, and tears were dropping between the poor hard-working fingers —“but lift up your head and tell me whether you will take a faded old bachelor for your husband or not.”
Horatio Paget had admired many women in the bright years of his youth, and had fancied himself desperately144 in love more than once in his life; but it is doubtful whether the mighty145 passion had ever really possessed the Captain’s heart, which was naturally cold and sluggish146, rarely fluttered by any emotion that was not engendered147 of selfishness. Horatio had set up an idol148 and had invented a religion for himself very early in life; and that idol was fashioned after his own image, and that religion had its beginning and end in his own pleasure. He might have been flattered and pleased by Miss Kepp’s agitation149; but he was ill and peevish130; and having all his life been subject to a profound antipathy150 to feminine tearfulness, the girl’s display of emotion annoyed him.
“Is it to be yes, or no, my dear?” he asked, with, some vexation in his tone.
Mary Anne looked up at him with tearful, frightened eyes.
“O, yes, sir, if I can be of any use to you, and nurse you when you are ill, and work for you till I work my fingers to the bone.”
She clenched151 her hands spasmodically as she spoke152. In imagination she was already toiling153 and striving for the god of her idolatry — the GENTLEMAN whose varnished boots had been to her as a glimpse of another and a fairer world than that represented by Tulliver’s-terrace, Old Kent-road. But Captain Paget checked her enthusiasm by a gentle gesture of his attenuated154 hands.
“That will do, my dear,” he murmured languidly; “I’m not very strong yet, and anything in the way of fuss is inexpressibly painful to me. Ah, my poor child,” he exclaimed, pityingly, “if you could have seen a dinner at the Marquis of Hertford’s, you would have understood how much can be achieved without fuss. But I am talking of things you don’t understand. You will be my wife; and a very good, kind, obedient little wife, I have no doubt. That is all settled. As for working for me, my love, it would be about as much as these poor little hands could do to earn me a cigar a day — and I seldom smoke less than half a dozen cigars; so, you see, that is all so much affectionate nonsense. And now you may wake your mother, my dear; for I want to take a little nap, and I can’t close my eyes while that good soul is snoring so intolerably; but not a word about our little arrangement, Mary Anne, till you and your mother are alone.”
And hereupon the Captain spread a handkerchief over his face and subsided155 into a gentle slumber156. The little scene had fatigued157 him; though it had been so quietly enacted158, that Mrs. Kepp had slept on undisturbed by the brief fragment of domestic drama performed within a few yards of her uneasy arm-chair. Her daughter awoke her presently, and she resumed her needlework, while Mary Anne made some tea for the beloved sleeper159. The cups and saucers made more noise to-night than they were wont to make in the girl’s careful hands. The fluttering of her heart seemed to communicate itself to the tips of her fingers, and the jingling of the crockery-ware betrayed the intensity160 of her emotion. He was to be her husband! She was to have a gentleman for a husband; and such a gentleman! Out of such base trifles as a West-end tailor’s coat and a West-end workman’s boots may be engendered the purest blossom of womanly love and devotion. Wisely may the modern philosopher cry that the history of the world is only a story of old clothes. Mary Anne had begun by admiring the graces of Stultz and Hoby, and now she was ready to lay down her life for the man who wore the perishing garments.
Miss Kepp obeyed her lover’s behest; and it was only on the following day, when she and her mother were alone together in the dingy little kitchen below Captain Paget’s apartments, that she informed that worthy161 woman of the honour which had been vouchsafed162 to her. And thereupon Mary Anne endured the first of the long series of disappointments which were to arise out of her affection for the penniless Captain. The widow was a woman of the world, and was obstinately163 blind to the advantages of a union with a ruined gentleman of fifty. “How’s he to keep you, I should like to know,” Mrs. Kepp exclaimed, as the girl stood blushing before her after having told her story; “if he can’t pay me regular? — and you know the difficulty I have had to get his money, Mary Anne. If he can’t keep hisself, how’s he to keep you?”
“Don’t talk like that, mother,” cried the girl, wincing164 under her parent’s practical arguments; “you go on as if all I cared for was being fed and clothed. Besides, Captain Paget is not going to be poor always. He told me so last night, when he ——”
“He told you so!” echoed the honest widow with unmitigated scorn; “hasn’t he told me times and often that I should have my rent regular after this week, and regular after that week, and have I ever had it regular? And ain’t I keeping him out of charity now? — a poor widow-woman like me — which I may be wanting charity myself before long: and if it wasn’t for your whimpering and going on he’d have been out of the house three weeks ago, when the doctor said he was well enough to be moved; for I ast him.”
“And you’d have turned him out to die in the streets, mother!” cried Mary; “I didn’t think you was so ‘artless.”
From this time there was ill-feeling between Mrs. Kepp and her daughter, who had been hitherto one of the most patient and obedient of children. The fanatic165 can never forgive the wretch who disbelieves in the divinity of his god; and women who love as blindly and foolishly as Mary Anne Kepp are the most bigoted166 of worshippers. The girl could not forgive her mother’s disparagement167 of her idol — the mother had no mercy upon her daughter’s folly168; and after much wearisome contention169 and domestic misery170 — carefully hidden from the penniless sybarite in the parlour — after many tears and heart-burnings, and wakeful nights and prayerful watches, Mary Anne Kepp consented to leave the house quietly one morning with the gentleman lodger while the widow had gone to market. Miss Kepp left a piteous little note for her mother, rather ungrammatical, but very womanly and tender, imploring171 pardon for her want of duty; and, “O, mother, if you knew how good and nobel he is, you coudent be angery with me for luving him has I do, and we shall come back to you after oure marige, wich you will be pade up honourabel to the last farthin’.”
After writing this epistle in the kitchen, with more deliberation and more smudging than Captain Paget would have cared to behold172 in the bride of his choice, Mary Anne attired173 herself in her Sabbath-day raiment, and left Tulliver’s-terrace with the Captain in a cab. She would fain have taken a little lavender paper-covered box that contained the remainder of her wardrobe, but after surveying it with a shudder128, Captain Paget told her that such a box would condemn174 them anywhere.
“You may get on sometimes without luggage, my dear,” he said sententiously; “but with such luggage as that, never!”
The girl obeyed without comprehending. It was not often that she understood her lover’s meaning, nor did he particularly care that she should understand him. He talked to her rather in the same spirit in which one talks to a faithful canine175 companion — as Napoleon III. may talk to his favourite Nero; “I have great plans yet unfulfilled, my honest Nero, though you may not be wise enough to guess their nature. And we must have another Boulevard, old fellow; and we must settle that little dispute about Venetia; and we must do something for those unfortunate Poles, eh — good dog?” and so on.
Captain Paget drove straight to a registrar176’s office, where the new Marriage Act enabled him to unite himself to Miss Kepp sans fa?on, in presence of the cabman and a woman who had been cleaning the door-step. The Captain went through the brief ceremonial as coolly as if it had been the settlement of a water-rate, and was angered by the tears that poor Mary Anne shed under her cheap black veil. He had forgotten the poetic177 superstition178 in favour of a wedding-ring, but he slipped a little onyx ring off his own finger, and put it on the clumsier finger of his bride. It was the last of his jewels — the rejected of the pawnbrokers180, who, not being learned in antique intaglios, had condemned182 the ring as trumpery183. There is always something a little ominous184 in the bridegroom’s forgetfulness of that simple golden circle which typifies an eternal union; and a superstitious185 person might have drawn a sinister186 augury187 from the subject of Captain Paget’s intaglio181, which was a head of Nero — an emperor whose wife was by no means the happiest of women. But as neither Mary Anne nor the registrar, neither the cabman nor the charwoman who had been cleaning the door-step, had ever heard of Nero, and as Horatio Paget was much too indifferent to be superstitious, there was no one to draw evil inferences: and Mary Anne went away with her gentleman husband, proud and happy, with a happiness that was only disturbed now and then by the image of an infuriated mother.
Captain Paget took his bride to some charming apartments in Halfmoon-street, Mayfair; and she was surprised to hear him tell the landlady that he and his wife had just arrived from Devonshire, and that they meant to stay a week or so in London, en passant, before starting for the Continent.
“My wife has spent the best part of her life in the country,” said the Captain, “so I suppose I must show her some of the sights of London in spite of the abominable188 weather. But the deuce of it is, that my servant has misunderstood my directions, and gone on to Paris with the luggage. However, we can set that all straight to-morrow.”
Nothing could be more courteously189 acquiescent190 than the manner of the landlady; for Captain Paget had offered her references, and the people to whom he referred were among the magnates of the land. The Captain knew enough of human nature to know that if references are only sufficiently191 imposing192, they are very unlikely to be verified. The swindler who refers his dupe to the Duke of Sutherland and Baring Brothers has a very good chance of getting his respectability accepted without inquiry193, on the mere194 strength of those sacred names.
From this time until the day of her death Mary Anne Paget very seldom heard her husband make any statement which she did not know to be false. He had joined the ranks of the vultures. He had lain down upon his bed of sickness a gentlemanly beggar; he arose from that couch of pain and weariness a swindler.
Now began those petty shifts and miserable falsifications whereby the birds of prey thrive on the flesh and blood of hapless pigeons. Now the dovecotes were fluttered by a new destroyer — a gentlemanly vulture, whose suave195 accents and perfect manners were fatal to the unwary. Henceforth Horatio Cromie Nugent Paget flourished and fattened196 upon the folly of his fellow-men. As promoter of joint-stock companies that never saw the light; as treasurer197 of loan-offices where money was never lent; as a gentleman with capital about to introduce a novel article of manufacture from the sale of which a profit of five thousand a year would infallibly be realized, and desirous to meet with another gentleman of equal capital; as the mysterious X.Y.Z. who will — for so small a recompense as thirty postage-stamps — impart the secret of an elegant and pleasing employment, whereby seven-pound-ten a-week may be made by any individual, male or female; — under every flimsy disguise with which the swindler hides his execrable form, Captain Paget plied198 his cruel trade, and still contrived to find fresh dupes. Of course there were occasions when the pigeons were slow to flutter into the fascinating snare199, and when the vulture had a bad time of it; and it was a common thing for the Captain to sink from the splendour of Mayfair or St. James’s-street into some dingy transpontine hiding-place. But he never went back to Tulliver’s-terrace, though Mary Anne pleaded piteously for the payment of her poor mother’s debt. When her husband was in funds, he patted her head affectionately, and told her that he would see about it — i.e. the payment of Mrs. Kepp’s bill; while, if she ventured to mention the subject to him when his purse was scantily200 furnished, he would ask her fiercely how he was to satisfy her mother’s extortionate claims when he had not so much as a sixpence for his own use.
Mrs. Kepp’s bill was never paid, and Mary Anne never saw her mother’s face again. Mrs. Paget was one of those meek201 loving creatures who are essentially cowardly. She could not bring herself to encounter her mother without the money owed by the Captain; she could not bring herself to endure the widow’s reproaches, the questioning that would be so horribly painful to answer, the taunts202 that would torture her poor sorrowful heart.
Alas203 for her brief dream of love and happiness! Alas for her foolish worship of the gentleman lodger! She knew now that her mother had been wiser than herself, and that it would have been better for her if she had renounced204 the shadowy glory of an alliance with Horatio Cromie Nugent Paget, whose string of high-sounding names, written on the cover of an old wine-book, had not been without its influence on the ignorant girl. The widow’s daughter knew very little happiness during the few years of her wedded205 life. To be hurried from place to place; to dine in Mayfair to-day, and to eat your dinner at a shilling ordinary in Whitecross-street to-morrow; to wear fine clothes that have not been paid for, and to take them off your back at a moment’s notice when they are required for the security of the friendly pawnbroker179; to know that your life is a falsehood and a snare, and that to leave a place is to leave contempt and execration206 behind you — these things constitute the burden of a woman whose husband lives by his wits. And over and above these miseries207, Mrs. Paget had to endure all the variations of temper to which the schemer is subject. If the pigeons dropped readily into the snare, and if their plumage proved well worth the picking, the Captain was very kind to his wife, after his own fashion; that is to say, he took her out with him, and after lecturing her angrily because of the shabbiness of her bonnet208, bought her a new one, and gave her a dinner that made her ill, and then sent her home in a cab, while he finished the evening in more congenial society. But if the times were bad for the vulture tribe — O, then, what a gloomy companion for the domestic hearth209 was the elegant Horatio! After smiling his false smile all day, while rage and disappointment were gnawing210 at his heart, it was a kind of relief to the Captain to be moody211 and savage59 by his own fireside. The human vulture has something of the ferocity of his feathered prototype. The man who lives upon his fellow-men has need to harden his heart; for one sentiment of compassion, one touch of human pity, would shatter his finest scheme in the hour of its fruition. Horatio Paget and compassion parted fellowship very early in the course of his unscrupulous career. What if the pigeon has a widowed mother dependent on his prosperity, or half a dozen children who will be involved in his ruin? Is the hawk136 to forego his natural prey for any such paltry212 consideration as a vulgar old woman or a brood of squalling brats213?
Captain Paget was not guilty of any persistent214 unkindness towards the woman whose fate he had deigned215 to link with his own. The consciousness that he had conferred a supreme honour oh Mary Anne Kepp by offering her his hand, and a share of his difficulties, never deserted him. He made no attempt to elevate the ignorant girl into companionship with himself. He shuddered when she misplaced her h’s and turned from her peevishly, with a muttered oath, when she was more than usually ungrammatical: but though he found it disagreeable to hear her, he would have found it troublesome to set her right; and trouble was a thing which Horatio Paget held in gentlemanly aversion. The idea that the mode of his existence could be repulsive216 to his wife — that this low-born and low-bred girl could have scruples217 that he never felt, and might suffer agonies of remorse218 and shame of which his coarser nature was incapable219 — never entered the Captain’s mind. It would have been too great an absurdity220 for the daughter of plebeian Kepps to affect a tenderness of conscience unknown to the scion221 of Pagets and Cromies and Nugents. Mary Anne was afraid of her elegant husband; and she worshipped and waited upon him in meek silence, keeping the secret of her own sorrows, and keeping it so well that he never guessed the manifold sources of that pallor of countenance222 and hollow brightness of eye which had of late annoyed him when he looked at his wife. She had borne him a child — a sweet girl baby, with those great black eyes that always have rather a weird223 look in the face of infancy224; and she would fain have clung to the infant as the hope and consolation225 of her joyless life. But the vulture is not a domestic bird, and a baby would have been an impediment in the rapid hegiras which Captain Paget and his wife were wont to make. The Captain put an advertisement in a daily paper before the child was a week old; and in less than a fortnight after Mary Anne had looked at the baby face for the first time, she was called upon to surrender her treasure to an elderly woman of fat and greasy226 aspect, who had agreed to bring the infant up “by hand” in a miserable little street in a remote and dreary district lying between Vauxhall and Battersea.
Mary Anne gave up the child uncomplainingly, as meekly227 as she would have surrendered herself if the Captain had brought a masked executioner to her bedside, and had told her a block was prepared for her in the adjoining chamber. She had no idea of resistance to the will of her husband. She endured her existence for nearly five years after the birth of her child, and during those miserable years the one effort of her life was to secure the miserable stipend228 paid for the little girl’s maintenance; but before the child’s fifth birthday the mother faded off the face of the earth. She died in a miserable lodging not very far from Tulliver’s-terrace, expiring in the arms of a landlady who had comforted her in her hour of need, as she had comforted the ruined gentleman. Captain Paget was a prisoner in Whitecross-street at the time of his wife’s death, and was much surprised when he missed her morning visits, and the little luxuries she had been wont to bring him.
He had missed her for more than a week, and had written to her twice — rather angrily on the second occasion — when a rough unkempt boy in corduroy waited upon him in the dreary ward10, where he and half a dozen other depressed229 and melancholy230 men sat at little tables writing letters, or pretending to read newspapers, and looking at one another furtively231 every now and then. There is no prisoner so distracted by his own cares that he will not find time to wonder what his neighbour is “in for.”
The boy had received instructions to be careful how he imparted his dismal tidings to the “poor dear gentleman;” but the lad grew nervous and bewildered at sight of the Captain’s fierce hook-nose and scrutinising gray eyes, and blurted232 out his news without any dismal note of warning.
“The lady died at two o’clock this morning, please, sir; and mother said I was to come and tell you, please, sir.”
Captain Paget staggered under the blow.
“Good God!” he cried, as he dropped upon a rickety Windsor chair, that creaked under his weight; “and I did not even know that she was ill!”
Still less did he know that all her married life had been one long heart-sickness — one monotonous agony of remorse and shame.
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1
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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broths
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| n.肉汤( broth的名词复数 )；厨师多了烧坏汤；人多手杂反坏事；人多添乱 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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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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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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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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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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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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corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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51
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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52
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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53
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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54
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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55
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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56
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
insolvency
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| n.无力偿付，破产 | |
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58
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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59
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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repulses
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| v.击退( repulse的第三人称单数 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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86
duellist
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| n.决斗者；[体]重剑运动员 | |
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reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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88
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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smears
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| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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95
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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96
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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97
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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98
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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100
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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101
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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102
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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103
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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104
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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105
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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106
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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107
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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108
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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109
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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110
counterfeits
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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111
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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112
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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113
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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114
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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115
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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116
modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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117
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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118
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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119
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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120
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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121
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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123
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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124
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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125
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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126
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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127
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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128
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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129
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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130
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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131
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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132
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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133
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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134
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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135
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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136
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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137
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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138
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
presaged
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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141
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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142
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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143
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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144
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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145
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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146
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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147
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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149
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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150
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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151
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
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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153
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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154
attenuated
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|
| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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155
subsided
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|
| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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156
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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157
fatigued
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|
| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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158
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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160
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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161
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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162
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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163
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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164
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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165
fanatic
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|
| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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166
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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167
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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168
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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169
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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170
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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171
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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172
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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173
attired
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|
| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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175
canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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176
registrar
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|
| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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177
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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178
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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179
pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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180
pawnbrokers
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| n.当铺老板( pawnbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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181
intaglio
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| n.凹版雕刻；v.凹雕 | |
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182
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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183
trumpery
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|
| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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184
ominous
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|
| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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185
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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186
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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187
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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188
abominable
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|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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189
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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190
acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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191
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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192
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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193
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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194
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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195
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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196
fattened
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| v.喂肥( fatten的过去式和过去分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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197
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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198
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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199
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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200
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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201
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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202
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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203
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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204
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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205
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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207
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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208
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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209
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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210
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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211
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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212
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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213
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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214
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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215
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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217
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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218
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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219
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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220
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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221
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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222
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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223
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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224
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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226
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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227
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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228
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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230
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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