With the growth of his militant1 egoism, there had developed in Godwin Peak an excess of nervous sensibility which threatened to deprive his character of the initiative rightly belonging to it. Self-assertion is the practical complement2 of self-esteem. To be largely endowed with the latter quality, yet constrained3 by a coward delicacy4 to repress it, is to suffer martyrdom at the pleasure of every robust5 assailant, and in the end be driven to the refuge of a moody6 solitude7. That encounter with his objectionable uncle after the prize distribution at Whitelaw showed how much Godwin had lost of the natural vigour8 which declared itself at Andrew Peak’s second visit to Twybridge, when the boy certainly would not have endured his uncle’s presence but for hospitable9 considerations and the respect due to his mother. The decision with which he then unbosomed himself to Oliver, still characterised his thoughts, but he had not courage to elude10 the dialogue forced upon him, still less to make known his resentment11 of the man’s offensive vulgarity. He endured in silence, his heart afire with scornful wrath12.
The affliction could not have befallen him at a time when he was less capable of supporting it resignedly. Notwithstanding his noteworthy success in two classes, it seemed to him that he had lost everything—that the day was one of signal and disgraceful defeat. In any case that sequence of second prizes must have filled him with chagrin16, but to be beaten thus repeatedly by such a fellow as Bruno Chilvers was humiliation17 intolerable. A fopling, a mincer18 of effeminate English, a rote-repeater of academic catchwords—bah! The by-examinations of the year had whispered presage19, but Peak always felt that he was not putting forth20 his strength; when the serious trial came he would show what was really in him. Too late he recognised his error, though he tried not to admit it. The extra subjects had exacted too much of him; there was a limit to his powers. Within the College this would be well enough understood, but to explain a disagreeable fact is not to change it; his name was written in pitiful subordination. And as for the public assembly—he would have sacrificed some years of his life to have stepped forward in facile supremacy21, beneath the eyes of those clustered ladies. Instead of that, they had looked upon his shame; they had interchanged glances of amusement at each repetition of his defeat; had murmured comments in their melodious22 speech; had ended by losing all interest in him—as intuition apprised23 him was the wont24 of women.
As soon as he had escaped from his uncle, he relapsed into musing26 upon the position to which he was condemned27 when the new session came round. Again Chilvers would be in the same classes with him, and, as likely as not, with the same result. In the meantime, they were both ‘going in’ for the First B.A.; he had no fear of failure, but it might easily happen that Chilvers would achieve higher distinction. With an eye to awards that might be won—substantial cash-annuities—he was reading for Honours; but it seemed doubtful whether he could present himself, as the second examination was held only in London. Chilvers would of course be an Honours candidate. He would smile—confound him!—at an objection on the score of the necessary journey to London. Better to refrain altogether than again to see Chilvers come out ahead. General surprise would naturally be excited, questions asked on all hands. How would it sound: ‘I simply couldn’t afford to go up’—?
At this point of the meditation28 he had reached his lodgings29; he admitted himself with a latch-key, turned into his murky30 sitting-room31, and sat down.
The table was laid for tea, as usual. Though he might have gone to Twybridge this evening, he had preferred to stay overnight, for an odd reason. At a theatre in Kingsmill a London company, headed by an actress of some distinction, was to perform Romeo and Juliet, and he purposed granting himself this indulgence before leaving the town. The plan was made when his eye fell upon the advertisement, a few days ago. He then believed it probable that an evening at the theatre would appropriately follow upon a day of victory. His interest in the performance had collapsed32, but he did not care to alter his arrangements.
The landlady33 came in bearing the tea-pot. He wanted nothing, yet could not exert himself to say so.
But he was losing sight of a menace more formidable than defeat by Chilvers. What was it his blackguard uncle had said? Had the fellow really threatened to start an eating-house opposite the College, and flare34 his name upon a placard? ‘Peak’s Dining and Refreshment35 Rooms’—merciful heavens!
Again the mood of laughter came upon him. Why, here was a solution of all difficulties, as simple as unanticipated. If indeed that awful thing came to pass, farewell to Whitelaw! What possibility of pursuing his studies when every class-companion, every Professor,—nay, the very porters,—had become aware that he was nephew to the man who supplied meals over the way? Moral philosophy had no prophylactic36 against an ordeal37 such as this. Could the most insignificant38 lad attending lectures afford to disregard such an occasion of ridicule39 and contempt?
But the scheme would not be realised; it sounded too unlikely. Andrew Peak was merely a loose-minded vagabond, who might talk of this and that project for making money, but would certainly never quit his dirty haunts in London. Godwin asked himself angrily why he had submitted to the fellow’s companionship. This absurd delicacy must be corrected before it became his tyrant42. The idea of scrupling43 to hurt the sensibilities of Andrew Peak! The man was coarse-hided enough to undergo kicking, and then take sixpence in compensation,—not a doubt of it. This detestable tie of kindred must no longer be recognised. He would speak gravely to his mother about it. If Andrew again presented himself at the house he should be given plainly to understand that his visits were something less than welcome,—if necessary, a downright blunt word must effect their liberation. Godwin felt strong enough for that, musing here alone. And, student-like, he passed on to debate the theory of the problem. Andrew was his father’s brother, but what is a mere40 tie of blood if nature has alienated45 two persons by a subtler distinction? By the dead man, Andrew had never been loved or esteemed46; memory supplied proof of this. The widow shrank from him. No obligation of any kind lay upon them to tolerate the London ruffian.—Enough; he should be got rid of!
Alternating his causes of misery47, which—he could not quite forget—might blend for the sudden transformation48 of his life, Godwin let the tea grow cold upon the table, until it was time, if he still meant to visit the theatre, for setting forth. He had no mind to go, but as little to sit here and indulge harassing49 reflection. With an effort, he made ready and left the house.
The cost of his seat at the theatre was two shillings. So nicely had he adjusted the expenses of these last days that, after paying the landlady’s bill tomorrow morning, there would remain to him but a few pence more than the money needed for his journey home. Walking into the town, he debated with himself whether it were not better to save this florin. But as he approached the pit door, the spirit of pleasure revived in him; he had seen but one of Shakespeare’s plays, and he believed (naturally at his age) that to see a drama acted was necessary for its full appreciation50. Sidling with affected51 indifference52, he added himself to the crowd.
To stand thus, expectant of the opening doors, troubled him with a sense of shame. To be sure, he was in the spiritual company of Charles Lamb, and of many another man of brains who has waited under the lamp. But contact with the pittites of Kingsmill offended his instincts; he resented this appearance of inferiority to people who came at their leisure, and took seats in the better parts of the house. When a neighbour addressed him with a meaningless joke which defied grammar, he tried to grin a friendly answer, but inwardly shrank. The events of the day had increased his sensibility to such impressions. Had he triumphed over Bruno Chilvers, he could have behaved this evening with a larger humanity.
The fight for entrance—honest British stupidity, crushing ribs53 and rending54 garments in preference to seemly order of progress—enlivened him somewhat, and sent him laughing to his conquered place; but before the curtain rose he was again depressed55 by the sight of a familiar figure in the stalls, a fellow-student who sat there with mother and sister, black-uniformed, looking very much a gentleman. ‘I, of course, am not a gentleman,’ he said to himself, gloomily. Was there any chance that he might some day take his ease in that orthodox fashion? Inasmuch as it was conventionality, he scorned it; but the privileges which it represented had strong control of his imagination. That lady and her daughter would follow the play with intelligence. To exchange comments with them would be a keen delight. As for him—he had a shop-boy on one hand and a grocer’s wife on the other.
By the end he had fallen into fatigue56. Amid clamour of easily-won applause he made his way into the street, to find himself in a heavy downpour of rain. Having no umbrella, he looked about for a sheltered station, and the glare of a neighbouring public-house caught his eye; he was thirsty, and might as well refresh body and spirit with a glass of beer, an unwonted indulgence which had the pleasant semblance57 of dissipation. Arrived at the bar he came upon two acquaintances, who, to judge by their flushed cheeks and excited voices, had been celebrating jovially58 the close of their academic labours. They hailed him.
‘Hollo, Peak! Come and help us to get sober before bedtime!’
They were not exactly studious youths, but neither did they belong to the class that Godwin despised, and he had a comrade-like feeling for them. In a few minutes his demeanour was wholly changed. A glass of hot whisky acted promptly59 upon his nervous system, enabled him to forget vexations, and attuned60 him to kindred sprightliness61. He entered merrily into the talk of a time of life which is independent of morality—talk distinct from that of the blackguard, but equally so from that of the reflective man. His first glass had several successors. The trio rambled62 arm in arm from one place of refreshment to another, and presently sat down in hearty63 fellowship to a supper of such viands64 as recommend themselves at bibulous65 midnight. Peak was drawing recklessly upon the few coins that remained to him; he must leave his landlady’s claim undischarged, and send the money from home. Prudence66 be hanged! If one cannot taste amusement once in a twelvemonth, why live at all?
He reached his lodgings, at something after one o’clock, drenched67 with rain, gloriously indifferent to that and all other chances of life. Pooh! his system had been radically68 wrong. He should have allowed himself recreation once a week or so; he would have been all the better for it, body and mind. Books and that kind of thing are all very well in their way, but one must live; he had wasted too much of his youth in solitude. O mihi proeteritos referat si Jupiter annos! Next session he would arrange things better. Success in examinations—what trivial fuss when one looked at it from the right point of view! And he had fretted69 himself into misery, because Chilvers had got more ‘marks’,—ha, ha, ha!
The morrow’s waking was lugubrious70 enough. Headache and nausea71 weighed upon him. Worse still, a scrutiny72 of his pockets showed that he had only the shamefaced change of half-a-crown wherewith to transport himself and his belongings73 to Twybridge. Now, the railway fare alone was three shillings; the needful cab demanded eighteenpence. O idiot!
And he hated the thought of leaving his bill unpaid74; the more so because it was a trifling75 sum, a week’s settlement. To put himself under however brief an obligation to a woman such as the landlady gnawed76 at his pride. Not that only. He had no business to make a demand upon his mother for this additional sum. But there was no way of raising the money; no one of whom he could borrow it; nothing he could afford to sell—even if courage had supported him through such a transaction. Triple idiot!
Bread turned to bran upon his hot palate; he could only swallow cups of coffee. With trembling hands he finished the packing of his box and portmanteau, then braced78 himself to the dreaded79 interview. Of course, it involved no difficulty, the words once uttered; but, when he was left alone again, he paced the room for a few minutes in flush of mortification81. It had made his headache worse.
The mode of his homeward journey he had easily arranged. His baggage having been labelled for Twybridge, he himself would book as far as his money allowed, then proceed on foot for the remaining distance. With the elevenpence now in his pocket he could purchase a ticket to a little town called Dent44, and by a calculation from the railway tariff82 he concluded that from Dent to Twybridge was some five-and-twenty miles. Well and good. At the rate of four miles an hour it would take him from half-past eleven to about six o’clock. He could certainly reach home in time for supper.
At Dent station, ashamed to ask (like a tramp) the way to so remote a place as Twybridge, he jotted83 down a list of intervening railway stoppages, and thus was enabled to support the semblance of one who strolls on for his pleasure. A small handbag he was obliged to carry, and the clouded sky made his umbrella a requisite84. On he trudged85 steadily87, for the most part by muddy ways, now through a pleasant village, now in rural solitude. He had had the precaution, at breakfast time, to store some pieces of bread in his pocket, and after two or three hours this resource was welcome. Happily the air and exercise helped him to get rid of his headache. A burst of sunshine in the afternoon would have made him reasonably cheerful, but for the wretched meditations88 surviving from yesterday.
He pondered frequently on his spasmodic debauch89, repeating, as well as memory permitted, all his absurdities90 of speech and action. Defiant91 self-justification was now far to seek. On the other hand, he perceived very clearly how easy it would be for him to lapse25 by degrees of weakened will into a ruinous dissoluteness. Anything of that kind would mean, of course, the abandonment of his ambitions. All he had to fight the world with was his brain; and only by incessant92 strenuousness93 in its exercise had he achieved the moderate prominence94 declared in yesterday’s ceremony. By birth, by station, he was of no account; if he chose to sink, no influential95 voice would deplore96 his falling off or remind him of what he owed to himself. Chilvers, now—what a wide-spreading outcry, what calling upon gods and men, would be excited by any defection of that brilliant youth! Godwin Peak must make his own career, and that he would hardly do save by efforts greater than the ordinary man can put forth. The ordinary man?—Was he in any respect extraordinary? were his powers noteworthy? It was the first time that he had deliberately97 posed this question to himself, and for answer came a rush of confident blood, pulsing through all the mechanism98 of his being.
The train of thought which occupied him during this long trudge86 was to remain fixed99 in his memory; in any survey of the years of pupilage this recollection would stand prominently forth, associated, moreover, with one slight incident which at the time seemed a mere interruption of his musing. From a point on the high-road he observed a small quarry100, so excavated101 as to present an interesting section; though weary, he could not but turn aside to examine these strata102. He knew enough of the geology of the county to recognise the rocks and reflect with understanding upon their position; a fragment in his hand, he sat down to rest for a moment. Then a strange fit of brooding came over him. Escaping from the influences of personality, his imagination wrought103 back through eras of geologic104 time, held him in a vision of the infinitely105 remote, shrivelled into insignificance106 all but the one fact of inconceivable duration. Often as he had lost himself in such reveries, never yet had he passed so wholly under the dominion107 of that awe77 which attends a sudden triumph of the pure intellect. When at length he rose, it was with wide, blank eyes, and limbs partly numbed108. These needed half-an-hour’s walking before he could recover his mood of practical self-search.
Until the last moment he could not decide whether to let his mother know how he had reached Twybridge. His arrival corresponded pretty well with that of a train by which he might have come. But when the door opened to him, and the familiar faces smiled their welcome, he felt that he must have nothing to do with paltry109 deceit; he told of his walk, explaining it by the simple fact that this morning he had found himself short of money. How that came to pass, no one inquired. Mrs. Peak, shocked at such martyrdom, tended him with all motherly care; for once, Godwin felt that it was good to have a home, however simple.
This amiable110 frame of mind was not likely to last beyond the first day. Matter of irritation111 soon enough offered itself, as was invariably the case at Twybridge. It was pleasant enough to be feted as the hero of the family, to pull out a Kingsmill newspaper and exhibit the full report of prize-day at Whitelaw, with his own name, in very small type, demanding the world’s attention, and finally to exhibit the volumes in tree-calf which his friend the librarian had forwarded to him. But domestic circumstances soon made assault upon his nerves, and trial of his brief patience.
First of all, there came an unexpected disclosure. His sister Charlotte had affianced herself to a young man of Twybridge, one Mr Cusse, whose prospects113 were as slender as his present means. Mrs Peak spoke114 of the affair in hushed privacy, with shaking of the head and frequent sighs, for to her mind Mr. Cusse had few even personal recommendations. He was a draper’s assistant. Charlotte had made his acquaintance on occasions of church festivity, and urged the fact of his zeal115 in Sunday-school tuition as sufficient reply to all doubts. As he listened, Godwin bit his lips.
‘Does he come here, then?’ was his inquiry116.
‘Once or twice a week. I haven’t felt able to say anything against it, Godwin. I suppose it will be a very long engagement.’
Charlotte was just twenty-two, and it seemed probable that she knew her own mind; in any case, she was of a character which would only be driven to obstinacy117 by adverse118 criticism. Godwin learnt that his aunt Emily (Miss Cadman) regarded this connection with serious disapproval119. Herself a shopkeeper, she might have been expected to show indulgence to a draper’s assistant, but, so far from this, her view of Mr. Cusse was severely120 scornful. She had nourished far other hopes for Charlotte, who surely at her age (Miss Cadman looked from the eminence121 of five-and-forty) should have been less precipitate122. No undue123 harshness had been exhibited by her relatives, but Charlotte took a stand which sufficiently124 declared her kindred with Godwin. She held her head higher than formerly125, spoke with habitual126 decision which bordered on snappishness, and at times displayed the absentmindedness of one who in silence suffers wrong.
There passed but a day or two before Godwin was brought face to face with Mr. Cusse, who answered too well to the idea Charlotte’s brother had formed of him. He had a very smooth and shiny forehead, crowned by sleek127 chestnut128 hair; his chin was deferential129; the bend of his body signified a modest hope that he did his duty in the station to which Providence130 had summoned him. Godwin he sought to flatter with looks of admiring interest; also, by entering upon a conversation which was meant to prove that he did not altogether lack worldly knowledge, of however little moment that might be in comparison with spiritual concerns. Examining, volume by volume and with painful minuteness, the prizes Godwin had carried off, he remarked fervently131, in each instance, ‘I can see how very interesting that is! So thorough, so thorough!’ Even Charlotte was at length annoyed, when Mr. Cusse had exclaimed upon the ‘thoroughness’ of Ben Jonson’s works; she asked an abrupt132 question about some town affair, and so gave her brother an opportunity of taking the books away. There was no flagrant offence in the man. He spoke with passable accent, and manifested a high degree of amiability133; but one could not dissociate him from the counter. At the thought that his sister might become Mrs. Cusse, Godwin ground his teeth. Now that he came to reflect on the subject, he found in himself a sort of unreasoned supposition that Charlotte would always remain single; it seemed so unlikely that she would be sought by a man of liberal standing13, and at the same time so impossible for her to accept any one less than a gentleman. Yet he remembered that to outsiders such fastidiousness must show in a ridiculous light. What claim to gentility had they, the Peaks? Was it not all a figment of his own self-conceit? Even in education Charlotte could barely assert a superiority to Mr. Cusse, for her formal schooling134 had ended when she was twelve, and she had never cared to read beyond the strait track clerical inspiration.
There were other circumstances which helped to depress his estimate of the family dignity. His brother Oliver, now seventeen, was developing into a type of young man as objectionable as it is easily recognised. The slow, compliant135 boy had grown more flesh and muscle than once seemed likely, and his wits had begun to display that kind of vivaciousness136 which is only compatible with a nature moulded in common clay. He saw much company, and all of low intellectual order; he had purchased a bicycle, and regarded it as a source of distinction, a means of displaying himself before shopkeepers’ daughters; he believed himself a modest tenor137, and sang verses of sentimental138 imbecility; he took in several weekly papers of unpromising title, for the chief purpose of deciphering cryptograms, in which pursuit he had singular success. Add to these characteristics a penchant139 for cheap jewellery, and Oliver Peak stands confessed.
It appeared to Godwin that his brother had leapt in a few months to these heights of vulgar accomplishment140; each separate revelation struck unexpectedly upon his nerves and severely tried his temper. When at length Oliver, waiting for supper, began to dance grotesquely141 to an air which local talent had somehow caught from the London music-halls, Godwin’s self-control gave way.
‘Is it your ambition,’ he asked, with fiery142 sarcasm143, ‘to join a troupe144 of nigger minstrels?’
Oliver was startled into the military posture145 of attention. He answered, with some embarrassment146:
‘I can’t say it is.’
‘Yet anyone would suppose so,’ went on Godwin, hotly. ‘Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.’
Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed147 of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement148 that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke.
‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes.’
‘There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn’t mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.’
‘Oh.’
The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity.
‘You don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t?’
Oliver delayed a little before replying.
‘I suppose it wouldn’t be very nice for you.’
‘That’s rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.’
‘I see,’ returned the other, with slow apprehension149.
There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night.
‘If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn’t very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.’
‘Do you mean to say I am like uncle?’
‘I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won’t be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don’t always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness150 to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven’s sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don’t, it’s all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!’
Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible.
‘I can’t see what harm I do.’
‘No!’ burst from his brother’s lips, scornfully. ‘And that’s just your danger. Do you suppose I could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic151 puzzles?’
‘We’re not all alike, and it wouldn’t do for us to be.’
‘It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.’
‘Well, if I haven’t got brains, I can’t help it,’ replied Oliver, with sullen152 resignation.
‘You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.’
There followed a vehement153 exhortation154, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness155. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours.
The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should ‘go up’ at all, and this uncertainty157 involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed159 with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration160, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him.
A result of the family’s removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies161, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal162 of intercourse163 with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental164 kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy165; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin41 to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist166 found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor167; one was learning the drug-trade in his father’s shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered168 about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry169; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling.
So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts170 of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed171, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement172? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed173 such a prospect112. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted174 himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that—at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure.
Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave175 a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement176 in the suggestion; travel had always tempted156 his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed177 from the humble178 origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance179, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient180 moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter.
Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over.
He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout181 in his mellow182 years and looking more leisurely183 than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation184.
‘Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.’
‘Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.’
‘Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.’
There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane185 in his hand. His name was Christian186 Moxey.
‘Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,’ he said, with a winning smile. ‘I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished187 yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle’s I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.’
Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking188 for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man’s attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful15 manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance189 of peculiar190 charm, vividly191 illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities192. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin’s features.
‘Come along, and have something to eat with us,’ said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial193 invitation. ‘I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.’
Godwin had a perturbing194 vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility.
‘Yes, yes; come along!’ added his friend, heartily195. ‘Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won’t be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers—the Rotherhithe people, you know.’
This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries196 about the examination in chemistry.
The five daughters—all assembled in a homely197 sitting-room—were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive198 satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate199 gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired200 lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously201 troubled about his attire202, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof203 from a young man who had been in their father’s employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly204 grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled205 visage expressed a haughty206 reserve, intensified207 as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged.
‘My sister,’ said Christian, glancing at Godwin. ‘Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.’
‘Oh yes,’ the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand.
She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her ‘Oh yes’ sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive208 interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced.
Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments209, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him.
Such play of the imaginative and speculative210 faculties211 accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation212 of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse158 with suavity213, and to heed214 the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly215 graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy216. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement.
When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;—was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner217 of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal218 of Sir Job’s benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately219 received a cheque which represented the exact outlay220 in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar221 as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw’s sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion222 in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly223 private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements224, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job’s right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude.
When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest225 Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented226 mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate.
‘What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?’ he inquired. ‘Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.’
‘I haven’t the least idea what I shall do,’ was Peak’s reply.
‘Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.’ He laughed good-humouredly. ‘Perhaps you will be drawn227 to London?’
‘Yes—I think it likely,’ Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that.
‘In any case,’ pursued the other, ‘you’ll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o’clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven’t much leisure. I’m an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don’t quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.’
Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted.
Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more.
His attempts to ‘read’ were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy228 of college competition. He ought now to have been ‘sweating’ at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured229 works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom.
A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate230, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self—bloodless, hollow-eyed.
‘This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!’ the sufferer growled231 in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. ‘It’ll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn’t know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I’d a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!—So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You’ve got a bit beyond Figuier and his Deluge232, eh? His Deluge, bah!’
And he laughed discordantly233. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame234. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible235 words.
The geologist’s forecast of doom236 was speedily justified237. Another day bereft238 him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity239 purchased out of her husband’s savings240. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery’s funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together.
To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the ‘natural supernatural’ had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant241 instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic242 in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein243 of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality244 in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker’s habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened245 in Godwin when he transferred to his mother’s house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery’s pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued246 in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings.
Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance247 of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother’s resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree?
He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally248 offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted249 Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably250 have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper’s assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother’s reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder’s irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length—on a memorable251 Saturday afternoon—debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired252 himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table.
‘What is this thing?’ inquired Godwin, with ominous253 calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear.
‘A hat, I suppose,’ replied his brother.
‘You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?’
‘And why not?’
Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly.
‘Can’t you feel,’ burst from the other, ‘that it’s a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?’
‘Disgrace! what’s the matter with the hat? It’s the fashionable shape.’
Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself.
‘I can’t see what you’re finding fault with,’ he exclaimed. ‘Everybody wears this shape.’
‘And isn’t that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It’s bad enough to follow when you can’t help it, but to imitate asses14 gratuitously254 is the lowest depth of degradation255. Don’t you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?’
‘You and I are different,’ said Oliver, impatiently. ‘I am content to be like other people.’
‘And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!’
The loud passionate256 voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room.
‘Godwin! Godwin!’ she remonstrated257. ‘Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?’
She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow’s dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament258.
Oliver began to represent his grievance259.
‘What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that’s in fashion? I pay for it out of my own’—
But he was interrupted by a loud visitor’s knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading260 contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son.
‘Well, Grace!’ was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. ‘I told you you’d ‘ev the pleasure of seem’ me again before so very long. Godwin at ‘ome with you, I s’pose? Thet you, Noll? ‘Ow do, my bo-oy? ‘Ere’s yer cousin Jowey. Shike ‘ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn’t bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. ‘Ow’s Charlotte? Bloomin’, I ‘ope?’
He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour.
‘Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down’t be afride of your awnt.’
‘Oi ain’t afride!’ cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion.
Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly261 left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence262 of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance263.
‘What does he say, mother?’ he inquired anxiously. ‘Anything about Kingsmill?’
‘Not yet. Oh, I do so wish we could bring this connection to an end!’
It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly.
‘Then, shall I see him in private,’ said Godwin, ‘and simply let him know the truth?’
‘I dread80 the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I’ll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don’t come down at all? I might say you are too busy.’
‘No, no; you shan’t have to do it all alone. I’ll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.’
They descended264. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully265:
‘Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It’s all settled! Got the bloomin’ shop from next quarter dye! “Peak’s Dinin’ and Refreshment Rooms!” Jowey an’ me was over there all yisterday—wasn’t us, Jowey? Oh, it’s immense!’
Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament266 round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled267, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill.
Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-inlaw’s proposed undertaking268. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged269 his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew’s announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew.
‘Shall you make any changes in the place?’ Godwin asked, carelessly.
‘Shan’t I, jest! It’ll take a month to refit them eatin’ rooms. I’m agoin’ to do it proper—up to Dick! and I want your ‘elp, my bo-oy. You an’ me ‘II jest write a bit of a circular—see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an’ all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of—see?’
Even amid his pangs270 of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it never occurred to him that the public proximity271 of an uneducated shopkeeping relative must be unwelcome to a lad who was distinguishing himself at Whitelaw College? Were that truly the case, then it would be unjust to regard Andrew resentfully; destiny alone was to blame. And, after all, the man might be so absorbed in his own interest, so strictly confined to the views of his own class, as never to have dreamt of the sensibilities he wounded. In fact, the shame excited by this prospect was artificial. Godwin had already felt that it was unworthy alike of a philosopher and of a high-minded man of the world. The doubt as to Andrew’s state of mind, and this moral problem, had a restraining effect upon the young man’s temper. A practical person justifies272 himself in wrath as soon as his judgment273 is at one with that of the multitude. Godwin, though his passions were of exceptional force, must needs refine, debate with himself points of abstract justice.
‘I’ve been tellin’ Jowey, Grace, as I ‘ope he may turn out such another as Godwin ’ere. ‘E’ll go to Collige, will Jowey. Godwin, jest arst the bo-oy a question or two, will you? ‘E ain’t been doin’ bad at ‘is school. Jest put ’im through ‘is pyces, as yer may sye. Stend up, Jowey, bo-oy.’
Godwin looked askance at his cousin, who stood with pert face, ready for any test.
‘What’s the date of William the Conqueror274?’ he asked, mechanically.
‘Ow!’ shouted the youth. ‘Down’t mike me larff! Zif I didn’t know thet! Tensixsixtenightysivn, of course!’
The father turned round with an expression of such sincere pride that Godwin, for all his loathing275, was obliged to smile.
‘Jowey, jest sye a few verses of poitry; them as you learnt larst. ‘E’s good at poitry, is Jowey.’
The boy broke into fearsome recitation:
‘The silly buckits on the deck That ‘ed so long rem’ined, I dreamt as they was filled with jew, End when I awowk, it r’ined.’
Half-a-dozen verses were thus massacred, and the reciter stopped with the sudden jerk of a machine.
‘Goes str’ight on, don’t ‘e, Grace?’ cried the father, exultantly276. ‘Jowey ain’t no fool. Know what he towld me the other day? Somethin’ as I never knew, and shouldn’t never ‘ave thought of s’long as I lived. We was talkin’ about jewellery, an’ Jowey, ‘e pops up all at wunst. “It’s called jewellery,” says ‘e, “‘cos it’s mostly the Jews as sell it.” Now, oo’d a thought o’ that? But you see it’s right as soon as you’re towld, eh? Now ain’t it right, Godwin?’
‘No doubt,’ was the dry answer.
‘It never struck me,’ murmured Mrs. Peak, who took her son’s assent277 seriously, and felt that it was impossible to preserve an obstinate278 silence.
”E ain’t no fool, ain’t Jowey!’ cried the parent. ‘Wite till ‘e gits to Collige. Godwin’ll put us up to all the ins and outs. Plenty o’ time for that; ‘e’ll often run over an’ ‘ev a bit o’ dinner, and no need to talk about p’yment.’
‘Do you stay in Twybridge to-night?’ inquired Godwin, who had changed in look and manner, so that he appeared all but cheerful.
‘No, we’re on our w’y ‘ome, is Jowey an’ me. Jest thought we’d break the journey ’ere. We shall ketch the six-fifty hup.’
‘Then you will have a cup of tea with us,’ said Mrs. Peak, surprised at Godwin’s transformation, but seeing that hospitality was now unavoidable.
Charlotte presently entered the house, and, after a private conversation with her mother, went to greet Andrew. If only to signify her contempt for Godwin’s prejudices, Charlotte would have behaved civilly to the London uncle. In the end, Andrew took his leave in the friendliest possible way, repeating often that he would soon have the pleasure of entertaining Mrs. Peak and all her family at his new dining-rooms over against Whitelaw College.
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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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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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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mincer
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| n.粉碎机 | |
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presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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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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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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prophylactic
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| adj.预防疾病的；n.预防疾病 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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scrupling
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的现在分词 ) | |
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dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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46
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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47
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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48
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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49
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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50
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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51
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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52
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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53
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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54
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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55
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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56
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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57
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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58
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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59
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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60
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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61
sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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62
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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63
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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64
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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65
bibulous
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| adj.高度吸收的，酗酒的 | |
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66
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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67
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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68
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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69
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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70
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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71
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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72
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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73
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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74
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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75
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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76
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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77
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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78
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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79
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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80
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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81
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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82
tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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83
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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84
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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85
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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86
trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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87
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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88
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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89
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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90
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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91
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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92
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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93
strenuousness
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94
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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95
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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96
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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97
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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98
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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99
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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100
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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101
excavated
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| v.挖掘( excavate的过去式和过去分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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102
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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103
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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104
geologic
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| adj.地质的 | |
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105
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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106
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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107
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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108
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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110
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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111
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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112
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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113
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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114
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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115
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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116
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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117
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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118
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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119
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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120
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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121
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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122
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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123
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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124
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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125
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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126
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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127
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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128
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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129
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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130
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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131
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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132
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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133
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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134
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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135
compliant
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| adj.服从的，顺从的 | |
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136
vivaciousness
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| 活泼的性格 | |
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137
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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138
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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139
penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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140
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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141
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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142
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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143
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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144
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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145
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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146
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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147
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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148
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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149
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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150
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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151
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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152
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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153
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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154
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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155
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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156
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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157
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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158
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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159
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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160
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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161
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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162
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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163
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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164
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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165
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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166
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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167
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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168
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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169
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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170
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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171
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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172
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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173
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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174
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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175
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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176
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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177
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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178
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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179
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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180
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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182
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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183
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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184
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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185
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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186
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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187
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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188
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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189
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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190
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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191
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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192
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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193
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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194
perturbing
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| v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的现在分词 ) | |
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195
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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196
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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197
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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198
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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199
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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200
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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201
superfluously
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| 过分地； 过剩地 | |
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202
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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203
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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204
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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205
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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207
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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208
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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209
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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210
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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211
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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212
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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213
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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214
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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215
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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216
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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217
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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218
bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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219
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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220
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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221
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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222
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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223
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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224
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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225
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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226
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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227
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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228
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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229
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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230
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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231
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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232
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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233
discordantly
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| adv.不一致地，不和谐地 | |
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234
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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235
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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236
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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237
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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238
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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239
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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240
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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241
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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242
analytic
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| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
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243
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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244
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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245
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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246
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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247
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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248
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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249
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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250
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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251
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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252
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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253
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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254
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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255
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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256
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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257
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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258
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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259
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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260
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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261
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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262
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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263
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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264
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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265
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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266
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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267
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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269
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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270
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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271
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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272
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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273
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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274
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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275
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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276
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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277
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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278
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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