Our duty now is to record a fact concerning Pendennis, which, however shameful1 and disgraceful, when told regarding the chief personage and godfather of a novel, must, nevertheless, be made known to the public who reads his veritable memoirs3. Having gone to bed ill with fever, and suffering to a certain degree under the passion of love, after he had gone through his physical malady4, and had been bled and had been blistered5, and had had his head shaved, and had been treated and medicamented as the doctor ordained6:— it is a fact, that, when he rallied up from his bodily ailment7, his mental malady had likewise quitted him, and he was no more in love with Fanny Bolton than you or I, who are much too wise, or too moral, to allow our hearts to go gadding8 after porters’ daughters.
He laughed at himself as he lay on his pillow, thinking of this second cure which had been effected upon him. He did not care the least about Fanny now: he wondered how he ever should have cared: and according to his custom made an autopsy9 of that dead passion, and anatomised his own defunct10 sensation for his poor little nurse. What could have made him so hot and eager about her but a few weeks back? Not her wit, not her breeding, not her beauty — there were hundreds of women better-looking than she. It was out of himself that the passion had gone: it did not reside in her. She was the same; but the eyes which saw were changed; and, alas11, that it should be so! were not particularly eager to see her any more. He felt very well disposed towards the little thing, and so forth12, but as for violent personal regard, such as he had but a few weeks ago, it had fled under the influence of the pill and lancet, which had destroyed the fever in his frame. And an immense source of comfort and gratitude13 it was to Pendennis (though there was something selfish in that feeling, as in most others of our young man), that he had been enabled to resist temptation at the time when the danger was greatest, and had no particular cause of self-reproach as he remembered his conduct towards the young girl. As from a precipice14 down which he might have fallen, so from the fever from which he had recovered, he reviewed the Fanny Bolton snare15, now that he had escaped out of it, but I’m not sure that he was not ashamed of the very satisfaction which he experienced. It is pleasant, perhaps, but it is humiliating to own that you love no more.
Meanwhile the kind smiles and tender watchfulness16 of the mother at his bedside, filled the young man with peace and security. To see that health was returning, was all the unwearied nurse demanded: to execute any caprice or order of her patient’s, her chiefest joy and reward. He felt himself environed by her love, and thought himself almost as grateful for it as he had been when weak and helpless in childhood.
Some misty17 notions regarding the first part of his illness, and that Fanny had nursed him, Pen may have had, but they were so dim that he could not realise them with accuracy, or distinguish them from what he knew to be delusions18 which had occurred and were remembered during the delirium19 of his fever. So as he had not thought proper on former occasions to make any allusions20 about Fanny Bolton to his mother, of course he could not now confide22 to her his sentiments regarding Fanny, or make this worthy23 lady a confidante. It was on both sides an unlucky precaution and want of confidence; and a word or two in time might have spared the good lady, and those connected with her, a deal of pain and anguish24.
Seeing Miss Bolton installed as nurse and tender to Pen, I am sorry to say Mrs. Pendennis had put the worst construction on the fact of the intimacy25 of these two unlucky young persons, and had settled in her own mind that the accusations26 against Arthur were true. Why not have stopped to inquire?— There are stories to a man’s disadvantage that the women who are fondest of him are always the most eager to believe. Isn’t a man’s wife often the first to be jealous of him? Poor Pen got a good stock of this suspicious kind of love from the nurse who was now watching over him; and the kind and pure creature thought that her boy had gone through a malady much more awful and debasing than the mere27 physical fever, and was stained by crime as well as weakened by illness. The consciousness of this she had to bear perforce silently, and to try to put a mask of cheerfulness and confidence over her doubt and despair and inward horror.
When Captain Shandon, at Boulogne, read the next number of the Pall28 Mall Gazette, it was to remark to Mrs. Shandon that Jack29 Finucane’s hand was no longer visible in the leading articles, and that Mr. Warrington must be at work there again. “I know the crack of his whip in a hundred, and the cut which the fellow’s thong30 leaves. There’s Jack Bludyer, goes to work like a butcher, and mangles31 a subject. Mr. Warrington finished a man, and lays his cuts neat and regular, straight down the back, and drawing blood every line;” at which dreadful metaphor32, Mrs. Shandon said, “Law, Charles, how can you talk so! I always thought Mr. Warrington very high, but a kind gentleman; and I’m sure he was most kind to the children.” Upon which Shandon said, “yes; he’s kind to the children; but he’s savage33 to the men; and to be sure, my dear, you don’t understand a word about what I’m saying; and it’s best you shouldn’t; for it’s little good comes out of writing for newspapers; and it’s better here, living easy at Boulogne, where the wine’s plenty, and the brandy costs but two francs a bottle. Mix us another tumbler, Mary, my dear; we’ll go back into harness soon. ‘Cras ingens iterabimus aequor’ bad luck to it.”
In a word, Warrington went to work with all his might, in place of his prostrate34 friend, and did Pen’s portion of the Pall Mall Gazette “with a vengeance,” as the saying is. He wrote occasional articles and literary criticisms; he attended theatres and musical performances, and discoursed35 about them with his usual savage energy. His hand was too strong for such small subjects, and it pleased him to tell Arthur’s mother, and uncle, and Laura, that there was no hand in all the band of penmen more graceful2 and light, more pleasant and more elegant, than Arthur’s. “The people in this country, ma’am, don’t understand what style is, or they would see the merits of our young one,” he said to Mrs. Pendennis. “I call him ours, ma’am, for I bred him; and I am as proud of him as you are; and, bating a little wilfulness36, and a little selfishness, and a little dandification, I don’t know a more honest, or loyal, or gentle creature. His pen is wicked sometimes, but he is as kind as a young lady — as Miss Laura here — and I believe he would not do any living mortal harm.”
At this, Helen, though she heaved a deep, deep sigh, and Laura, though she, too, was sadly wounded, nevertheless were most thankful for Warrington’s good opinion of Arthur, and loved him for being so attached to their Pen. And Major Pendennis was loud in his praises of Mr. Warrington,— more loud and enthusiastic than it was the Major’s wont37 to be. “He is a gentleman, my dear creature,” he said to Helen, “every inch a gentleman, my good madam — the Suffolk Warringtons — Charles the First’s baronets:— what could he be but a gentleman, come out of that family?— father,— Sir Miles Warrington; ran away with — beg your pardon, Miss Bell. Sir Miles was a very well known man in London, and a friend of the Prince of Wales, This gentleman is a man of the greatest talents, the very highest accomplishments,— sure to get on, if he had a motive38 to put his energies to work.”
Laura blushed for herself whilst the Major was talking and praising Arthur’s hero. As she looked at Warrington’s manly39 face, and dark, melancholy40 eyes, this young person had been speculating about him, and had settled in her mind that he must have been the victim of an unhappy attachment41; and as she caught herself so speculating, why, Miss Bell blushed.
Warrington got chambers43 hard by,— Grenier’s chambers in Flag Court; and having executed Pen’s task with great energy in the morning, his delight and pleasure of an afternoon was to come and sit with the sick man’s company in the sunny autumn evenings; and he had the honour more than once of giving Miss Bell his arm for a walk in the Temple Gardens; to take which pastime, when the frank Laura asked of Helen permission, the Major eagerly said, “Yes, yes, begad — of course you go out with him — it’s like the country, you know; everybody goes out with everybody in the Gardens, and there are beadles, you know, and that sort of thing — everybody walks in the Temple Gardens.” If the great arbiter44 of morals did not object, why should simple Helen? She was glad that her girl should have such fresh air as the river could give, and to see her return with heightened colour and spirits from these harmless excursions.
Laura and Helen had come, you must know, to a little explanation. When the news arrived of Pen’s alarming illness, Laura insisted upon accompanying the terrified mother to London, would not hear of the refusal which the still angry Helen gave her, and, when refused a second time yet more sternly, and when it seemed that the poor lost lad’s life was despaired of, and when it was known that his conduct was such as to render all thoughts of union hopeless, Laura had, with many tears, told her mother a secret with which every observant person who reads this story was acquainted already. Now she never could marry him, was she to be denied the consolation45 of owning how fondly, how truly, how entirely46 she had loved him? The mingling47 tears of the woman appeased48 the agony of their grief somewhat; and the sorrows and terrors of their journey were at least in so far mitigated49 that they shared them together.
What could Fanny expect when suddenly brought up for sentence before a couple of such judges? Nothing but swift condemnation50, awful punishment, merciless dismissal! Women are cruel critics in cases such as that in which poor Fanny was implicated51; and we like them to be so; for, besides the guard which a man places round his own harem, and the defences which a woman has in her heart, her faith, and honour, hasn’t she all her own friends of her own sex to keep watch that she does not go astray, and to tear her to pieces if she is found erring52? When our Mahmouds or Selims of Baker53 Street or Belgrave Square visit their Fatimas with condign54 punishment, their mothers sew up Fatima’s sack for her, and her sisters and sisters-inlaw see her well under water. And this present writer does not say nay55. He protests most solemnly he is a Turk, too. He wears a turban and a beard like another, and is all for the sack practice, Bismillah! But O you spotless, who have the right of capital punishment vested in you, at least be very cautious that you make away with the proper (if so she may be called) person. Be very sure of the fact before you order the barge56 out: and don’t pop your subject into the Bosphorus, until you are quite certain that she deserves it. This is all I would urge in poor Fatima’s behalf — absolutely all — not a word more, by the beard of the Prophet. If she’s guilty, down with her — heave over the sack, away with it into the Golden Horn bubble and squeak57, and justice being done, give way, men, and let us pull back to supper.
So the Major did not in any way object to Warrington’s continued promenades58 with Miss Laura, but, like a benevolent59 old gentleman, encouraged in every way the intimacy of that couple. Were there any exhibitions in town? he was for Warrington conducting her to them. If Warrington had proposed to take her to Vauxhall itself, this most complaisant60 of men would have seen no harm,— nor would Helen, if Pendennis the elder had so ruled it,— nor would there have been any harm between two persons whose honour was entirely spotless,— between Warrington, who saw in intimacy a pure, and high-minded, and artless woman for the first time in his life,— and Laura, who too for the first time was thrown into the constant society of a gentleman of great natural parts and powers of pleasing; who possessed61 varied62 acquirements, enthusiasm, simplicity63, humour, and that freshness of mind which his simple life and habits gave him, and which contrasted so much with Pen’s dandy indifference64 of manner and faded sneer65. In Warrington’s very uncouthness66 there was a refinement67, which the other’s finery lacked. In his energy, his respect, his desire to please, his hearty68 laughter, or simple confiding69 pathos70, what a difference to Sultan Pen’s yawning sovereignty and languid acceptance of homage71! What had made Pen at home such a dandy and such a despot? The women had spoiled him, as we like them and as they like to do. They had cloyed72 him with obedience73, and surfeited74 him with sweet respect and submission75, until he grew weary of the slaves who waited upon him, and their caresses76 and cajoleries excited him no more. Abroad, he was brisk and lively, and eager and impassioned enough — most men are so constituted and so nurtured77.— Does this, like the former sentence, run a chance of being misinterpreted, and does any one dare to suppose that the writer would incite78 the women to revolt? Nevert, by the whiskers of the Prophet again, he says. He wears a beard, and he likes his women to be slaves. What man doesn’t? What man would be henpecked, I say? We will cut off all the heads in Christendom or Turkeydom rather than that.
Well, then, Arthur being so languid, and indifferent, and careless about the favours bestowed79 upon him, how came it that Laura should have such a love and rapturous regard for him, that a mere inadequate80 expression of it should have kept the girl talking all the way from Fairoaks to London, as she and Helen travelled in the post-chaise? As soon as Helen had finished one story about the dear fellow, and narrated81, with a hundred sobs82 and ejaculations, and looks up to heaven, some thrilling incidents which occurred about the period when the hero was breeched, Laura began another equally interesting and equally ornamented83 with tears, and told how heroically he had a tooth out or wouldn’t have it out, or how daringly he robbed a bird’s nest or how magnanimously he spared it; or how he gave a shilling to the old woman on the common, or went without his bread-and-butter for the beggar-boy who came into the yard — and so on One to another the sobbing84 women sang laments85 upon their hero, who, my worthy reader has long since perceived, is no more a hero than one of us. Being as he was, why should a sensible girl be so fond of him?
This point has been argued before in a previous unfortunate sentence (which lately drew down all the wrath86 of Ireland upon the writer’s head), and which said that the greatest rascal-cut-throats have had somebody to be fond of them, and if those monsters, why not ordinary mortals? And with whom shall a young lady fall in love but with the person she sees? She is not supposed to lose her heart in a dream, like a Princess in the Arabian Nights; or to plight87 her young affections to the portrait of a gentleman in the Exhibition, or a sketch88 in the Illustrated89 London News. You have an instinct within you which inclines you to attach yourself to some one: you meet Somebody: you hear Somebody constantly praised: you walk, or ride, or waltz, or talk or sit in the same pew at church with Somebody: you meet again, and again, and —“Marriages are made in Heave,” your dear mamma says, pinning your orange-flowers wreath on, with her blessed eyes dimmed with tears — and there is a wedding breakfast, and you take off your white satin and retire to your coach-and-four, and you and he are a happy pair.— Or, the affair is broken off, and then, poor wounded heart! why, then you meet Somebody Else, and twine90 your young affections round number two. It is your nature so to do. Do you suppose it is all for the man’s sake that you love, and not a bit for your own? Do you suppose you would drink if you were not thirsty, or eat if you were not hungry?
So then Laura liked Pen because she saw scarcely anybody else at Fairoaks except Doctor Portman and Captain Glanders, and because his mother constantly praised her Arthur, and because he was gentlemanlike, tolerably good-looking and witty91, and because, above all, it was of her nature to like somebody. And having once received this image into her heart, she there tenderly nursed it and clasped it — she there, in his long absences and her constant solitudes92, silently brooded over it and fondled it — and when after this she came to London, and had an opportunity of becoming rather intimate with Mr. George Warrington, what on earth was to prevent her from thinking him a most odd, original, agreeable, and pleasing person?
A long time afterwards, when these days were over, and Fate in its own way had disposed of the various persons now assembled in the dingy93 building in Lamb Court, perhaps some of them looked back and thought how happy the time was, and how pleasant had been their evening talks and little walks and simple recreations round the sofa of Pen the convalescent. The Major had a favourable94 opinion of September in London from that time forward, and declared at his clubs and in society that the dead season in town was often pleasant, doosid pleasant, begad. He used to go home to his lodgings95 in Bury Street of a night, wondering that it was already so late, and that the evening had passed away so quickly. He made his appearance at the Temple pretty constantly in the afternoon, and tugged96 up the long black staircase with quite a benevolent activity and perseverance97. And he made interest with the chef at Bays’s (that renowned98 cook, the superintendence of whose work upon Gastronomy99 compelled the gifted author to stay in the metropolis), to prepare little jellies, delicate clear soups, aspics, and other trifles good for invalids101, which Morgan the valet constantly brought down to the little Lamb Court colony. And the permission to drink a glass or two of pure sherry being accorded to Pen by Doctor Goodenough, the Major told with almost tears in his eyes how his noble friend the Marquis of Steyne, passing through London on his way to the Continent, had ordered any quantity of his precious, his priceless Amontillado, that had been a present from King Ferdinand to the noble Marquis, to be placed at the disposal of Mr. Arthur Pendennis. The widow and Laura tasted it with respect (though they didn’t in the least like the bitter flavour) but the invalid100 was greatly invigorated by it, and Warrington pronounced it superlatively good, and proposed the Major’s health in a mock speech after dinner on the first day when the wine was served, and that of Lord Steyne and the aristocracy in general.
Major Pendennis returned thanks with the utmost gravity and in a speech in which he used the words, ‘the present occasion,’ at least the proper number of times. Pen cheered with his feeble voice from his armchair. Warrington taught Miss Laura to cry “Hear! hear!” and tapped the table with his knuckles102. Pidgeon the attendant grinned, and honest Doctor Goodenough found the party so merrily engaged, when he came in to pay his faithful gratuitous103 visit.
Warrington knew Sibwright, who lived below and that gallant104 gentleman, in reply to a letter informing him of the use to which his apartment had been put, wrote back the most polite and flowery letter of acquiescence105 He placed his chambers at the service of their fair occupants, his bed at their disposal, his carpets at their feet. Everybody was kindly106 disposed towards the sick man and his family. His heart (and his mother’s too, as we may fancy) melted within him at the thought of so much good-feeling and good-nature. Let Pen’s biographer be pardoned for alluding107 to a time not far distant when a somewhat similar mishap108 brought him a providential friend, a kind physician, and a thousand proofs of a most touching109 and surprising kindness and sympathy.
There was a piano in Mr. Sibwright’s chamber42 (indeed, this gentleman, a lover of all the arts, performed himself — and excellently ill too — upon the instrument; and had had a song dedicated110 to him, the words by himself, the air by his devoted111 friend Leopoldo Twankidillo), and at this music-box, as Mr. Warrington called it, Laura, at first with a great deal of tremor112 and blushing (which became her very much), played and sang, sometimes of an evening, simple airs, and old songs of home. Her voice was a rich contralto, and Warrington, who scarcely knew one tune113 from another and who had but one tune or bray114 in his repertoire,— a most discordant115 imitation of ‘God save the King’— sat rapt in delight listening to these songs. He could follow their rhythm if not their harmony; and he could watch, with a constant and daily growing enthusiasm, the pure and tender and generous creature who made the music.
I wonder how that poor pale little girl in the black bonnet116, who used to stand at the lamp-post in Lamb Court sometimes of an evening, looking up to the open windows from which the music came, liked to hear it? When Pen’s bedtime came the songs were hushed. Lights appeared in the upper room: his room, whither the widow used to conduct him; and then the Major and Mr. Warrington, and sometimes Miss Laura, would have a game at ecarte or backgammon; or she would sit by working a pair of slippers117 in worsted — a pair of gentleman’s slippers — they might have been for Arthur or for George or for Major Pendennis: one of those three would have given anything for the slippers.
Whilst such business as this was going on within, a rather shabby old gentleman would come and lead away the pale girl in the black bonnet, who had no right to be abroad in the night air; and the Temple porters, the few laundresses, and other amateurs who had been listening to the concert, would also disappear.
Just before ten o’clock there was another musical performance, namely that of the chimes of St. Clement’s clock in the Strand118, which played the clear cheerful notes of a psalm119, before it proceeded to ring its ten fatal strokes. As they were ringing, Laura began to fold up the slippers; Martha from Fairoaks appeared with a bed-candle, and a constant smile on her face; the Major said, “God bless my soul, is it so late?” Warrington and he left their unfinished game, and got up and shook hands with Miss Bell. Martha from Fairoaks lighted them out of the passage and down the stair, and, as they descended120, they could hear her bolting and locking “the sporting door” after them, upon her young mistress and herself. If there had been any danger, grinning Martha said she would have got down “that thar hooky soord which hung up in gantleman’s room,”— meaning the Damascus scimitar with the names of the prophet engraved121 on the blade and the red velvet122 scabbard, which Percy Sibwright, Esquire, brought back from his tour in the Levant, along with an Albanian dress, and which he wore with such elegant effect at Lady Mullingar’s fancy ball, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park. It entangled123 itself in Miss Kewsey’s train, who appeared in the dress in which she, with her mamma, had been presented to their sovereign (the latter by the L— d Ch-nc-ll-r’s lady), and led to events which have nothing to do with this history. Is not Miss Kewsey now Mrs. Sibwright? Has Sibwright not got a county court?— Good night, Laura and Fairoaks Martha. Sleep well and wake happy, pure and gentle lady.
Sometimes after these evenings Warrington would walk a little way with Major Pendennis — just a little way just as far as the Temple gate — as the Strand — as Charing124 Cross — as the Club — he was not going into the Club? Well, as far as Bury Street, where he would laughingly shake hands on the Major’s own door-step. They had been talking about Laura all the way. It was wonderful how enthusiastic the Major, who, as we know, used to dislike her, had grown to be regarding the young lady —“Dev’lish fine girl, begad. Dev’lish well-mannered girl — my sister-inlaw has the manners of a duchess and would bring up any girl well. Miss Bell’s a little countryfied. But the smell of the hawthorn125 is pleasant, demmy. How she blushes! Your London girls would give many a guinea for a bouquet126 like that — natural flowers, begad! And she’s a little money too — nothing to speak of — but a pooty little bit of money.” In all which opinions no doubt Mr. Warrington agreed; and though he laughed as he shook hands with the Major, his face fell as he left his veteran companion; and he strode back to chambers, and smoked pipe after pipe long into the night, and wrote article upon article, more and more savage, in lieu of friend Pen disabled.
Well, it was a happy time for almost all parties concerned. Pen mended daily. Sleeping and eating were his constant occupations. His appetite was something frightful127. He was ashamed of exhibiting it before Laura, and almost before his mother who laughed and applauded him. As the roast chicken of his dinner went away he eyed the departing friend with sad longing128, and began to long for jelly, or tea, or what not. He was like an ogre in devouring129. The Doctor cried stop, but Pen would not. Nature called out to him more loudly than the Doctor, and that kind and friendly physician handed him over with a very good grace to the other healer.
And here let us speak very tenderly and in the strictest confidence of an event which befell him, and to which he never liked an allusion21. During his delirium the ruthless Goodenough ordered ice to be put to his head, and all his lovely hair to be cut. It was done in the time of — of the other nurse, who left every single hair of course in a paper for the widow to count and treasure up. She never believed but that the girl had taken away some of it, but then women are so suspicious upon these matters.
When this direful loss was made visible to Major Pendennis as of course it was the first time the elder saw the poor young man’s shorn pate130, and when Pen was quite out of danger, and gaining daily vigour131, the Major, with something like blushes and a queer wink132 of his eyes, said he knew of a — a person — a coiffeur, in fact — a good man, whom he would send down to the Temple, and who would — a — apply — a — a temporary remedy to that misfortune.
Laura looked at Warrington with the archest sparkle in her eyes — Warrington fairly burst out into a boohoo of laughter: even the widow was obliged to laugh: and the Major erubescent confounded the impudence133 of the young folks, and said when he had his hair cut he would keep a lock of it for Miss Laura.
Warrington voted that Pen should wear a barrister’s wig134. There was Sibwright’s down below, which would become him hugely. Pen said “Stuff,” and seemed as confused as his uncle; and the end was that a gentleman from Burlington Arcade135 waited next day upon Mr. Pendennis, and had a private interview with him in his bedroom; and a week afterwards the same individual appeared with a box under his arm, and an ineffable136 grin of politeness on his face, and announced that he had brought ‘ome Mr. Pendennis’s ‘ead of ‘air.
It must have been a grand but melancholy sight to see Pen in the recesses137 of his apartment, sadly contemplating138 his ravaged139 beauty, and the artificial means of hiding its ruin. He appeared at length in the ‘ead of ‘air; but Warrington laughed so, that Pen grew sulky, and went back for his velvet cap, a neat turban which the fondest of mammas had worked for him. Then Mr. Warrington and Miss Bell got some flowers off the ladies’ bonnets140 and made a wreath, with which they decorated the wig and brought it out in procession, and did homage before it. In fact they indulged in a hundred sports, jularities, waggeries, and petits jeux innocens: so that the second and third floors of Number 6 Lamb Court, Temple, rang with more cheerfulness and laughter than had been known in those precincts for many a long day.
At last, after about ten days of this life, one evening when the little spy of the court came out to take her usual post of observation at the lamp, there was no music from the second-floor window, there were no lights in the third-story chambers, the windows of each were open, and the occupants were gone. Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, told Fanny what had happened. The ladies and all the party had gone to Richmond for change of air. The antique travelling chariot was brought out again and cushioned with many pillows for Pen and his mother; and Miss Laura went in the most affable manner in the omnibus under the guardianship141 of Mr. George Warrington. He came back and took possession of his old bed that night in the vacant and cheerless chambers, and to his old books and his old pipes, but not perhaps to his old sleep.
The widow had left a jar full of flowers upon his table, prettily142 arranged, and when he entered they filled the solitary143 room with odour. They were memorials of the kind, gentle souls who had gone away, and who had decorated for a little while that lonely cheerless place. He had had the happiest days of his whole life George felt — he knew it now they were just gone: he went and took up the flowers and put his face to them, and smelt144 them — perhaps kissed them. As he put them down, he rubbed his rough hand across his eyes with a bitter word and laugh. He would have given his whole life and soul to win that prize which Arthur rejected. Did she want fame? he would have won it for her:— devotion?— a great heart full of pent-up tenderness and manly love and gentleness was there for her, if she might take it. But it might not be. Fate had ruled otherwise. “Even if I could, she would not have me,” George thought. “What has an ugly, rough old fellow like me, to make any woman like him? I’m getting old, and I’ve made no mark in life. I’ve neither good looks, nor youth, nor money, nor reputation. A man must be able to do something besides stare at her and offer on his knees his smooth devotion, to make a woman like him. What can I do? Lots of young fellows have passed me in the race — what they call the prizes of life didn’t seem to me worth the trouble of the struggle. But for her. If she had been mine and liked a diamond — ah! shouldn’t she have worn it! Psha, what a fool I am to brag145 of what I would have done! We are the slaves of destiny. Our lots are shaped for us, and mine is ordained long ago. Come, let us have a pipe, and put the smell of these flowers out of court, poor little silent flowers! you’ll be dead tomorrow. What business had you to show your red cheeks in this dingy place?”
By his bedside George found a new Bible which the widow had placed there, with a note inside saying that she had not seen the book amongst his collection in a room where she had spent a number of hours, and where God had vouchsafed146 to her prayers the life of her son, and that she gave to Arthur’s friend the best thing she could, and besought147 him to read in the volume sometimes, and to keep it as a token of a grateful mother’s regard and affection. Poor George mournfully kissed the book as he had done the flowers; and the morning found him still reading in its awful pages, in which so many stricken hearts, in which so many tender and faithful souls, have found comfort under calamity148, and refuge and hope in affliction.
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shameful
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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memoirs
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malady
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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ailment
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gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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autopsy
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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11
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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12
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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13
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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14
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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15
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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16
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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17
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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18
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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19
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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20
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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21
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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22
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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23
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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24
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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25
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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26
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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28
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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29
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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30
thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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31
mangles
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| n.轧布机，轧板机，碾压机（mangle的复数形式）vt.乱砍（mangle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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32
metaphor
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|
| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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33
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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34
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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35
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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36
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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37
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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38
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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39
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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40
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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41
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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42
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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43
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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44
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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45
consolation
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|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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46
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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47
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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48
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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49
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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51
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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52
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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53
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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54
condign
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| adj.应得的，相当的 | |
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55
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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56
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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57
squeak
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|
| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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58
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
benevolent
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|
| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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60
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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61
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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62
varied
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|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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63
simplicity
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|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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64
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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65
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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66
uncouthness
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67
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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68
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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69
confiding
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|
| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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70
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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71
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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72
cloyed
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| v.发腻，倒胃口( cloy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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74
surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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75
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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76
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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77
nurtured
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|
| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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78
incite
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| v.引起，激动，煽动 | |
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79
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
inadequate
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|
| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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81
narrated
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|
| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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83
ornamented
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|
| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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85
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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87
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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88
sketch
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|
| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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89
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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90
twine
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|
| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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91
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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92
solitudes
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|
| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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93
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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94
favourable
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|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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95
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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96
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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98
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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99
gastronomy
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| n.美食法；美食学 | |
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100
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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101
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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102
knuckles
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|
| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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103
gratuitous
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|
| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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104
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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105
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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106
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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107
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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108
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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109
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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110
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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111
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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112
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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113
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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114
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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115
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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116
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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117
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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118
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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119
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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120
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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121
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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122
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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123
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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125
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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126
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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127
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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128
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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129
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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130
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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131
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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132
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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133
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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134
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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135
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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136
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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137
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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138
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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139
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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140
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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141
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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142
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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143
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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144
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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145
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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146
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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147
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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148
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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