As Fanny saw the two ladies and the anxious countenance1 of the eider, who regarded her with a look of inscrutable alarm and terror, the poor girl at once knew that Pen’s mother was before her; there was a resemblance between the widow’s haggard eyes and Arthur’s as he tossed in his bed in fever. Fanny looked wistfully at Mrs. Pendennis and at Laura afterwards; there was no more expression in the latter’s face than if it had been a mass of stone. Hard-heartedness and gloom dwelt on the figures of both the new-comers; neither showed any the faintest gleam of mercy or sympathy for Fanny. She looked desperately2 from them to the Major behind them. Old Pendennis dropped his eyelids3, looking up ever so stealthily from under them at Arthur’s poor little nurse.
“I— I wrote to you yesterday, if you please, ma’am,” Fanny said, trembling in every limb as she spoke4; and as pale as Laura, whose sad menacing face looked over Mrs. Pendennis’s shoulder.
“Did you, madam?” Mrs. Pendennis said. “I suppose I may now relieve you from nursing my son. I am his mother, you understand.”
“Yes, ma’am. I— this is the way to his — Oh, wait a minute,” cried out Fanny. “I must prepare you for his ——”
The widow, whose face had been hopelessly cruel and ruthless, here started back with a gasp5 and a little cry, which she speedily stifled6.
“He’s been so since yesterday,” Fanny said, trembling very much, and with chattering8 teeth.
A horrid9 shriek10 of laughter came out of Pen’s room, whereof the door was open; and, after several shouts, the poor wretch11 began to sing a college drinking-song, and then to hurray and to shout as if he was in the midst of a wine-party, and to thump12 with his fist against the wainscot. He was quite delirious13.
“He does not know me, ma’am,” Fanny said.
“Indeed. Perhaps he will know his mother; let me pass, if you please, and go in to him.” And the widow hastily pushed by little Fanny, and through the dark passage which led into Pen’s sitting-room14. Laura sailed by Fanny, too, without a word; and Major Pendennis followed them. Fanny sat down on a bench in the passage, and cried, and prayed as well as she could. She would have died for him; and they hated her. They had not a word of thanks or kindness for her, the fine ladies. She sate15 there in the passage, she did not know how long. They never came out to speak to her. She sate there until Doctor Goodenough came to pay his second visit that day; he found the poor little thing at the door.
“What, nurse? How’s your patient?” asked the good-natured Doctor. “Has he had any rest?”
“Go and ask them. They’re inside,” Fanny answered.
“Who? his mother?”
Fanny nodded her head and didn’t speak.
“You must go to bed yourself, my poor little maid,” said the Doctor. “You will be ill, too, if you don’t.”
“Oh, mayn’t I come and see him: mayn’t I come and see him! I— I— love him so,” the little girl said; and as she spoke she fell down on her knees and clasped hold of the Doctor’s hand in such an agony that to see her melted the kind physician’s heart, and caused a mist to come over his spectacles.
“Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! Nurse, has he taken his draught16? Has he had any rest? Of course you must come and see him. So must I.”
“They’ll let me sit here, won’t they, sir? I’ll never make no noise. I only ask to stop here,” Fanny said. On which the Doctor called her a stupid little thing; put her down upon the bench where Pen’s printer’s devil used to sit so many hours; tapped her pale cheek with his finger, and bustled17 into the farther room.
Mrs. Pendennis was ensconced pale and solemn in a great chair by Pen’s bedside. Her watch was on the bed-table by Pen’s medicines. Her bonnet18 and cloaks were laid in the window. She had her Bible in her lap, without which she never travelled. Her first movement, after seeing her son, had been to take Fanny’s shawl and bonnet which were on his drawers, and bring them out and drop them down upon his study-table. She had closed the door upon Major Pendennis, and Laura too; and taken possession of her son.
She had had a great doubt and terror lest Arthur should not know her; but that pang19 was spared to her in part at least. Pen knew his mother quite well, and familiarly smiled and nodded at her. When she came in, he instantly fancied that they were at home at Fairoaks; and began to talk and chatter7 and laugh in a rambling20 wild way. Laura could hear him outside. His laughter shot shafts21 of poison into her heart. It was true, then. He had been guilty — and with that creature!— an intrigue22 with a servant-maid, and she had loved him — and he was dying most likely raving23 and unrepentant. The Major now and then hummed out a word of remark or consolation24, which Laura scarce heard.
A dismal25 sitting it was for all parties; and when Goodenough appeared, he came like an angel into the room.
It is not only for the sick man, it is for the sick man’s friends that the Doctor comes. His presence is often as good for them as for the patient, and they long for him yet more eagerly. How we have all watched after him! what an emotion the thrill of his carriage-wheels in the street, and at length at the door, has made us feel! how we hang upon his words, and what a comfort we get from a smile or two, if he can vouchsafe26 that sunshine to lighten our darkness! Who hasn’t seen the mother prying27 into his face, to know if there is hope for the sick infant that cannot speak, and that lies yonder, its little frame battling with fever? Ah how she looks into his eyes! What thanks if there is light there; what grief and pain if he casts them down, and dares not say “hope!” Or it is the house-father who is stricken. The terrified wife looks on, while the Physician feels his patient’s wrist, smothering28 her agonies, as the children have been called upon to stay their plays and their talk. Over the patient in the fever, the wife expectant, the children unconscious, the Doctor stands as if he were Fate, the dispenser of life and death: he must let the patient off this time: the woman prays so for his respite29! One can fancy how awful the responsibility must be to a conscientious30 man: how cruel the feeling that he has given the wrong remedy, or that it might have been possible to do better: how harassing31 the sympathy with survivors32, if the case is unfortunate — how immense the delight of victory!
Having passed through a hasty ceremony of introduction to the new-comers, of whose arrival he had been made aware by the heartbroken little nurse in waiting without, the Doctor proceeded to examine the patient, about whose condition of high fever there could be no mistake, and on whom he thought it necessary to exercise the strongest antiphlogistic remedies in his power. He consoled the unfortunate mother as best he might; and giving her the most comfortable assurances on which he could venture, that there was no reason to despair yet, that everything might still be hoped from his youth, the strength of his constitution, and so forth33; and having done his utmost to allay34 the horrors of the alarmed matron, he took the elder Pendennis aside into the vacant room (Warrington’s bedroom), for the purpose of holding a little consultation35.
The case was very critical. The fever, if not stopped, might and would carry off the young fellow: he must be bled forthwith: the mother must be informed of this necessity. Why was that other young lady brought with her? She was out of place in a sick-room.
“And there was another woman still, be hanged to it!” the Major said, “the — the little person who opened the door.” His sister-inlaw had brought the poor little devil’s bonnet and shawl out, flung them upon the study-table. Did Goodenough know anything about the — the little person? “I just caught a glimpse of her as we passed in,” the Major said, “and begad she was uncommonly36 nice-looking.” The Doctor looked queer: the Doctor smiled — in the very gravest moments, with life and death pending37, such strange contrasts and occasions of humour will arise, and such smiles will pass, to satirise the gloom, as it were, and to make it more gloomy!
“I have it,” at last he said, re-entering the study; and he wrote a couple of notes hastily at the table there, and sealed one of them. Then, taking up poor Fanny’s shawl and bonnet, and the notes, he went out in the passage to that poor little messenger, and said, “Quick, nurse; you must carry this to the surgeon, and bid him come instantly; and then go to my house, and ask for my servant Harbottle, and tell him to get this prescription38 prepared, and wait until I— until it is ready. It may take a little in preparation.”
So poor Fanny trudged39 away with her two notes, and found the apothecary40, who lived in the Strand41 hard by, and who came straightway, his lancet in his pocket, to operate on his patient; and then Fanny made for the Doctor’s house, in Hanover Square.
The Doctor was at home again before the prescription was made up, which took Harbottle, his servant, such a long time in compounding; and, during the remainder of Arthur’s illness, poor Fanny never made her appearance in the quality of nurse at his chambers42 any more. But for that day and the next, a little figure might be seen lurking43 about Pen’s staircase,— a sad, sad little face looked at and interrogated44 the apothecary, and the apothecary’s boy, and the laundress, and the kind physician himself, as they passed out of the chambers of the sick man. And on the third day, the kind Doctor’s chariot stopped at Shepherd’s Inn, and the good, and honest, and benevolent45 man went into the porter’s lodge46, and tended a little patient whom he had there, for the best remedy he found was on the day when he was enabled to tell Fanny Bolton that the crisis was over, and that there was at length every hope for Arthur Pendennis.
J. Costigan, Esquire, late of Her Majesty’s service, saw the Doctor’s carriage, and criticised its horses and appointments. “Green liveries, bedad!” the General said, “and as foin a pair of high-stepping bee horses as ever a gentleman need sit behoind, let alone a docthor. There’s no ind to the proide and ar’gance of them docthors, nowadays — not but that is a good one, and a scoientific cyarkter, and a roight good fellow, bedad; and he’s brought the poor little girl well troo her faver, Bows, me boy;” and so pleased was Mr. Costigan with the Doctor’s behaviour and skill, that, whenever he met Dr. Goodenough’s carriage in future, he made a point of saluting47 it and the physician inside, in as courteous48 and magnificent a manner, as if Dr. Goodenough had been the Lord Liftenant himself, and Captain Costigan had been in his glory in Phaynix Park.
The widow’s gratitude49 to the physician knew no bounds — or scarcely any bounds, at least. The kind gentleman laughed at the idea of taking a fee from a literary man, or the widow of a brother practitioner50; and she determined51 when she got to Fairoaks that she would send Goodenough the silver-gilt vase, the jewel of the house, and the glory of the late John Pendennis, preserved in green baize, and presented to him at Bath, by the Lady Elizabeth Firebrace, on the recovery of her son, the late Sir Anthony Firebrace, from the scarlet52 fever. Hippocrates, Hygeia, King Bladud, and a wreath of serpents surmount53 the cup to this day; which was executed in their finest manner by Messrs. Abednego, of Milsom Street; and the inscription54 was by Mr. Birch, tutor to the young baronet.
This priceless gem55 of art the widow determined to devote to Goodenough, the preserver of her son; and there was scarcely any other favour which her gratitude would not have conferred upon him, except one, which he desired most, and which was that she should think a little charitably and kindly56 of poor Fanny, of whose artless, sad story he had got something during his interviews with her, and of whom he was induced to think very kindly,— not being disposed, indeed, to give much credit to Pen for his conduct in the affair, or not knowing what that conduct had been. He knew enough, however, to be aware that the poor infatuated little girl was without stain as yet; that while she had been in Pen’s room it was to see the last of him, as she thought, and that Arthur was scarcely aware of her presence; and that she suffered under the deepest and most pitiful grief, at the idea of losing him, dead or living.
But on the one or two occasions when Goodenough alluded57 to Fanny, the widow’s countenance, always soft and gentle, assumed an expression so cruel and inexorable, that the Doctor saw it was in vain to ask her for justice or pity, and he broke off all entreaties58, and ceased making any further allusions59 regarding his little client. There is a complaint which neither poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy60 syrups61 of the East could allay, in the men in his time, as we are informed by a popular poet of the days of Elizabeth; and which, when exhibited in women, no medical discoveries or practice subsequent — neither homoeopathy, nor hydropathy, nor mesmerism, nor Dr. Simpson, nor Dr. Locock can cure, and that is — we won’t call it jealousy62, but rather gently denominate rivalry63 and emulation64 in ladies.
Some of those mischievous65 and prosaic66 people who carp and calculate at every detail of the romancer, and want to know, for instance, how, when the characters in the ‘Critic’ are at a dead lock with their daggers68 at each other’s throats, they are to be got out of that murderous complication of circumstances, may be induced to ask how it was possible in a set of chambers in the Temple, consisting of three rooms, two cupboards, a passage, and a coal-box, Arthur a sick gentleman, Helen his mother, Laura her adopted daughter, Martha their country attendant, Mrs. Wheezer69 a nurse from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, Mrs. Flanagan an Irish laundress, Major Pendennis a retired70 military officer, Morgan his valet, Pidgeon Mr. Arthur Pendennis’s boy, and others could be accommodated — the answer is given at once, that almost everybody in the Temple was out of town, and that there was scarcely a single occupant of Pen’s house in Lamb Court except those who were occupied round the sick-bed of the sick gentleman, about whose fever we have not given a lengthy71 account, neither enlarge we very much upon the more cheerful theme of his recovery.
Everybody we have said was out of town, and of course such a fashionable man as young Mr. Sibwright, who occupied chambers on the second floor in Pen’s staircase, could not be supposed to remain in London. Mrs. Flanagan, Mr. Pendennis’s laundress was acquainted with Mrs. Rouncy who did for Mr. Sibwright; and that gentleman’s bedroom was got ready for Miss Bell, or Mrs. Pendennis, when the latter should be inclined to leave her son’s sick-room, to try and seek for a little rest for herself.
If that young buck72 and flower of Baker73 Street, Percy Sibwright, could have known who was the occupant of his bedroom, how proud he would have been of that apartment:— what poems he would have written about Laura! (several of his things have appeared in the annuals, and in manuscript in the nobility’s albums)— he was a Camford man and very nearly got the English Prize Poem, it was said — Sibwright, however, was absent and his bed given up to Miss Bell. It was the prettiest little brass74 bed in the world, with chintz curtains lined with pink — he had a mignonette-box in his bedroom window, and the mere75 sight of his little exhibition of shiny boots, arranged in trim rows over his wardrobe, was a gratification to the beholder76. He had a museum of scent77, pomatum, and bear’s-grease pots, quite curious to examine, too; and a choice selection of portraits of females, almost always in sadness and generally in disguise or deshabille, glittered round the neat walls of his elegant little bower78 of repose79. Medora with dishevelled hair was consoling herself over her banjo for the absence of her Conrad — the Princesse Fleur de Marie (of Rudolstein and the Mysteres de Paris) was sadly ogling80 out of the bars of her convent cage, in which, poor prisoned bird, she was moulting away,— Dorothea of Don Quixote was washing her eternal feet:— in fine, it was such an elegant gallery as became a gallant81 lover of the sex. And in Sibwright’s sitting-room, while there was quite an infantine law library clad in skins of fresh new-born calf82, there was a tolerably large collection of classical books which he could not read, and of English and French works of poetry and fiction which he read a great deal too much. His invitation cards of the past season still decorated his looking-glass: and scarce anything told of the lawyer but the wig83-box beside the Venus upon the middle shelf of the bookcase, on which the name of P. Sibwright, Esquire, was gilded84.
With Sibwright in chambers was Mr. Bangham. Mr. Bangham was a sporting man married to a rich widow. Mr. Bangham had no practice — did not come to chambers thrice in a term: went a circuit for those mysterious reasons which make men go circuit,— and his room served as a great convenience to Sibwright when that young gentleman gave his little dinners. It must be confessed that these two gentlemen have nothing to do with our history, will never appear in it again probably, but we cannot help glancing through their doors as they happen to be open to us, and as we pass to Pen’s rooms; as in the pursuit of our own business in life through the Strand, at the Club, nay85 at church itself, we cannot help peeping at the shops on the way, or at our neighbour’s dinner, or at the faces under the bonnets86 in the next pew.
Very many years after the circumstances about which we are at present occupied, Laura, with a blush and a laugh showing much humour, owned to having read a French novel once much in vogue87, and when her husband asked her, wondering where on earth she could have got such a volume, she owned that it was in the Temple, when she lived in Mr. Percy Sibwright’s chambers.
“And, also, I never confessed,” she said, “on that same occasion, what I must now own to: that I opened the japanned box, and took out that strange-looking wig inside it, and put it on and looked at myself in the glass in it.”
Suppose Percy Sibwright had come in at such a moment as that? What would he have said,— the enraptured88 rogue89? What would have been all the pictures of disguised beauties in his room compared to that living one? Ah, we are speaking of old times, when Sibwright was a bachelor and before he got a county court,— when people were young — when most people were young. Other people are young now; but we no more.
When Miss Laura played this prank90 with the wig, you can’t suppose that Pen could have been very ill upstairs; otherwise, though she had grown to care for him ever so little, common sense of feeling and decorum would have prevented her from performing any tricks or trying any disguises.
But all sorts of events had occurred in the course of the last few days which had contributed to increase or account for her gaiety, and a little colony of the reader’s old friends and acquaintances was by this time established in Lamb Court, Temple, and round Pen’s sick-bed there. First, Martha, Mrs. Pendennis’s servant, had arrived from Fairoaks, being summoned thence by the Major who justly thought her presence would be comfortable and useful to her mistress and her young master, for neither of whom the constant neighbourhood of Mrs. Flanagan (who during Pen’s illness required more spirituous consolation than ever to support her) could be pleasant. Martha then made her appearance in due season to wait upon Mr. Pendennis, nor did that lady go once to bed until the faithful servant had reached her, when, with a heart full of maternal91 thankfulness she went and lay down upon Warrington’s straw mattress92, and among his mathematical books as has been already described.
It is true that ere that day a great and delightful93 alteration94 in Pen’s condition had taken place. The fever, subjugated95 by Dr. Goodenough’s blisters96, potions, and lancet, had left the young man, or only returned at intervals97 of feeble intermittence98; his wandering senses had settled in his weakened brain: he had had time to kiss and bless his mother for coming to him, and calling for Laura and his uncle (who were both affected99 according to their different natures by his wan67 appearance, his lean shrunken hands, his hollow eyes and voice, his thin bearded face) to press their hands and thank them affectionately; and after this greeting, and after they had been turned out of the room by his affectionate nurse, he had sunk into a fine sleep which had lasted for about sixteen hours, at the end of which period he awoke calling out that he was very hungry. If it is hard to be ill and to loathe100 food, oh, how pleasant to be getting well and to be feeling hungry — how hungry! Alas101, the joys of convalescence103 become feebler with increasing years, as other joys do — and then — and then comes that illness when one does not convalesce102 at all.
On the day of this happy event, too, came another arrival in Lamb Court. This was introduced into the Pen-Warring sitting-room by large puffs104 of tobacco smoke — the puffs of were followed by an individual with a cigar in his mouth, and a carpet-bag under his arm — this was Warrington who had run back from Norfolk, when Mr. Bows thoughtfully wrote to inform him of his friend’s calamity105. But he had been from home when Bows’s letter had reached his brother’s house — the Eastern Counties did not then boast of a railway (for we beg the reader to understand that we only commit anachronisms when we choose and when by a daring violation106 of those natural laws some great ethical107 truth is to be advanced)— in fine, Warrington only appeared with the rest of the good luck upon the lucky day after Pen’s convalescence may have been said to have begun.
His surprise was, after all, not very great when he found the chambers of his sick friend occupied, and his old acquaintance the Major seated demurely108 in an easy-chair (Warrington had let himself into the rooms with his own passkey), listening, or pretending to listen, to a young lady who was reading to him a play of Shakspeare in a low sweet voice. The lady stopped and started, and laid down her book, at the apparition109 of the tall traveller with the cigar and the carpet-bag. He blushed, he flung the cigar into the passage: he took off his hat, and dropped that too, and going up to the Major, seized that old gentleman’s hand, and asked questions about Arthur.
The Major answered in a tremulous, though cheery voice — it was curious how emotion seemed to olden him — and returning Warrington’s pressure with a shaking hand, told him the news of Arthur’s happy crisis, of his mother’s arrival — with her young charge — with Miss ——”
“You need not tell me her name,” Mr. Warrington said with great animation110, for he was affected and elated with the thought of his friend’s recovery —“you need not tell me your name. I knew at once it was Laura.” And he held out his hand and took hers. Immense kindness and tenderness gleamed from under his rough eyebrows111, and shook his voice as he gazed at her and spoke to her. “And this is Laura!” his looks seemed to say. “And this is Warrington!” the generous girl’s heart beat back. “Arthur’s hero — the brave and the kind — he has come hundreds of miles to succour him, when he heard of his friend’s misfortune!”
“Thank you, Mr. Warrington,” was all that Laura said, however; and as she returned the pressure of his kind hand, she blushed so, that she was glad the lamp was behind her to conceal112 her flushing face.
As these two were standing113 in this attitude, the door of Pen’s bedchamber was opened stealthily as his mother was wont114 to open it, and Warrington saw another lady, who first looked at him, and then turning round towards the bed, said, “Hsh!” and put up her hand.
It was to Pen Helen was turning, and giving caution. He called out with a feeble, tremulous, but cheery voice, “Come in, Stunner — come in, Warrington. I knew it was you — by the — by the smoke, old boy,” he said, as holding his worn hand out, and with tears at once of weakness and pleasure in his eyes, he greeted his friend.
“I— I beg pardon, ma’am, for smoking,” Warrington said, who now almost for the first time blushed for his wicked propensity115.
Helen only said, “God bless you, Mr. Warrington.” She was so happy, she would have liked to kiss George. Then, and after the friends had had a brief, very brief interview, the delighted and inexorable mother, giving her hand to Warrington, sent him out of the room, too, back to Laura and the Major, who had not resumed their play of Cymbeline where they had left it off at the arrival of the rightful owner of Pen’s chambers.
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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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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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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29
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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30
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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31
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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32
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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33
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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34
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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35
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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36
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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37
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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38
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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39
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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40
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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41
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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42
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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43
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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44
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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45
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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46
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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47
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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48
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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49
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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50
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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52
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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53
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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54
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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57
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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59
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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60
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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61
syrups
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| n.糖浆，糖汁( syrup的名词复数 )；糖浆类药品 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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63
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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67
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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68
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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wheezer
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| 喘息； 发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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71
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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72
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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73
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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74
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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77
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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79
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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80
ogling
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的现在分词 ) | |
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81
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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82
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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83
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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84
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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85
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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86
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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87
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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88
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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90
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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91
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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92
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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93
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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94
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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95
subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
blisters
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| n.水疱( blister的名词复数 )；水肿；气泡 | |
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97
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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98
intermittence
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| n.间断；间歇 | |
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99
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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100
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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101
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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102
convalesce
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| v.康复，复原 | |
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103
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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104
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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105
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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106
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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107
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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108
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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109
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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110
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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111
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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112
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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113
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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114
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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115
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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