Could Helen have suspected that, with Pen’s returning strength, his unhappy partiality for little Fanny would also reawaken? Though she never spoke1 a word regarding that young person, after her conversation with the Major, and though, to all appearances, she utterly2 ignored Fanny’s existence, yet Mrs. Pendennis kept a particularly close watch upon all Master Arthur’s actions; on the plea of ill-health would scarcely let him out of her sight; and was especially anxious that he should be spared the trouble of all correspondence for the present at least. Very likely Arthur looked at his own letters with some tremor3; very likely, as he received them at the family table, feeling his mother’s watch upon him (though the good soul’s eye seemed fixed4 upon her teacup or her book), he expected daily to see a little handwriting, which he would have known, though he had never seen it yet, and his heart beat as he received the letters to his address. Was he more pleased or annoyed, that, day after day, his expectations were not realised; and was his mind relieved, that there came no letter from Fanny? Though, no doubt, in these matters, when Lovelace is tired of Clarissa (or the contrary) it is best for both parties to break at once, and each, after the failure of the attempt at union, to go his own way, and pursue his course through life solitary5; yet our self-love, or our pity, or our sense of decency6, does not like that sudden bankruptcy7. Before we announce to the world that our firm of Lovelace and Co. can’t meet its engagements, we try to make compromises: we have mournful meetings of partners: we delay the putting up of the shutters8, and the dreary9 announcement of the failure. It must come: but we pawn10 our jewels to keep things going a little longer. On the whole, I dare say, Pen was rather annoyed that he had no remonstrances11 from Fanny. What! could she part from him, and never so much as once look round? could she sink, and never once hold a little hand out, or cry, “Help, Arthur?” Well, well: they don’t all go down who venture on that voyage. Some few drown when the vessel12 founders13; but most are only ducked, and scramble14 to shore. And the reader’s experience of A. Pendennis, Esquire, of the Upper Temple, will enable him to state whether that gentleman belonged to the class of persons who were likely to sink or to swim.
Though Pen was as yet too weak to walk half a mile; and might not, on account of his precious health, be trusted to take a drive in a carriage by himself, and without a nurse in attendance; yet Helen could not keep watch over Mr. Warrington too, and had no authority to prevent that gentleman from going to London if business called him thither15. Indeed, if he had gone and stayed, perhaps the widow, from reasons of her own, would have been glad; but she checked these selfish wishes as soon as she ascertained16 or owned them; and, remembering Warrington’s great regard and services, and constant friendship for her boy, received him as a member of her family almost, with her usual melancholy17 kindness and submissive acquiescence18. Yet somehow, one morning when his affairs called him to town, she divined what Warrington’s errand was, and that he was gone to London to get news about Fanny for Pen.
Indeed, Arthur had had some talk with his friend, and told him more at large what his adventures had been with Fanny (adventures which the reader knows already), and what were his feelings respecting her. He was very thankful that he had escaped the great danger, to which Warrington said Amen heartily19: that he had no great fault wherewith to reproach himself in regard of his behaviour to her, but that if they parted, as they must, he would be glad to say a God bless her, and to hope that she would remember him kindly20. In his discourse21 with Warrington he spoke upon these matters with so much gravity, and so much emotion, that George, who had pronounced himself most strongly for the separation too, began to fear that his friend was not so well cured as he boasted of being; and that, if the two were to come together again, all the danger and the temptation might have to be fought once more. And with what result? “It is hard to struggle, Arthur, and it is easy to fall,” Warrington said: “and the best courage for us poor wretches22 is to fly from danger. I would not have been what I am now, had I practised what I preach.
“And what did you practise, George?” Pen asked, eagerly. “I knew there was something. Tell us about it, Warrington.”
“There was something that can’t be mended, and that shattered my whole fortunes early,” Warrington answered. “I said I would tell you about it some day, Pen: and will, but not now. Take the moral without the fable24 now, Pen, my boy; and if you want to see a man whose whole life has been wrecked26, by an unlucky rock against which he struck as a boy — here he is, Arthur: and so I warn you.”
We have shown how Mr. Huxter, in writing home to his Clavering friends, mentioned that there was a fashionable club in London of which he was an attendant, and that he was there in the habit of meeting an Irish officer of distinction, who, amongst other news, had given that intelligence regarding Pendennis, which the young surgeon had transmitted to Clavering. This club was no other than the Back Kitchen, where the disciple27 of Saint Bartholomew was accustomed to meet the General, the peculiarities29 of whose brogue, appearance, disposition30, and general conversation, greatly diverted many young gentlemen who used the Back Kitchen as a place of nightly entertainment and refreshment31. Huxter, who had a fine natural genius for mimicking33 everything, whether it was a favourite tragic34 or comic actor, or a cock on a dunghill, a corkscrew going into a bottle and a cork35 issuing thence, or an Irish officer of genteel connexions who offered himself as an object of imitation with only too much readiness, talked his talk, and twanged his poor old long bow whenever drink, a hearer, and an opportunity occurred, studied our friend the General with peculiar28 gusto, and drew the honest fellow out many a night. A bait, consisting of sixpennyworth of brandy-and-water, the worthy36 old man was sure to swallow: and under the influence of this liquor, who was more happy than he to tell his stories of his daughter’s triumphs and his own, in love, war, drink, and polite society? Thus Huxter was enabled to present to his friends many pictures of Costigan: of Costigan fighting a jewel in the Phaynix — of Costigan and his interview with the Juke of York — of Costigan at his sonunlaw’s teeble, surrounded by the nobilitee of his countree — of Costigan, when crying drunk, at which time he was in the habit of confidentially37 lamenting39 his daughter’s ingratichewd, and stating that his grey hairs were hastening to a praymachure greeve. And thus our friend was the means of bringing a number of young fellows to the Back Kitchen, who consumed the landlord’s liquors whilst they relished40 the General’s peculiarities, so that mine host pardoned many of the latter’s foibles, in consideration of the good which they brought to his house. Not the highest position in life was this — certainly, or one which, if we had a reverence41 for an old man, we would be anxious that he should occupy: but of this aged42 buffoon43 it may be mentioned that he had no particular idea that his condition of life was not a high one, and that in his whiskied blood there was not a black drop, nor in his muddled44 brains a bitter feeling, against any mortal being. Even his child, his cruel Emily, he would have taken to his heart and forgiven with tears; and what more can one say of the Christian45 charity of a man than that he is actually ready to forgive those who have done him every kindness, and with whom he is wrong in a dispute!
There was some idea amongst the young men who frequented the Back Kitchen, and made themselves merry with the society of Captain Costigan, that the Captain made a mystery regarding his lodgings46 for fear of duns, or from a desire of privacy, and lived in some wonderful place. Nor would the landlord of the premises47, when questioned upon this subject, answer any inquiries48; his maxim49 being that he only knew gentlemen who frequented that room, in that room; that when they quitted that room, having paid their scores as gentlemen, and behaved as gentlemen, his communication with them ceased; and that, as a gentleman himself, he thought it was only impertinent curiosity to ask where any other gentleman lived. Costigan, in his most intoxicated50 and confidential38 moments, also evaded51 any replies to questions or hints addressed to him on this subject: there was no particular secret about it, as we have seen, who have had more than once the honour of entering his apartments, but in the vicissitudes52 of a long life he had been pretty often in the habit of residing in houses where privacy was necessary to his comfort, and where the appearance of some visitors would have brought him anything but pleasure. Hence all sorts of legends were formed by wags or credulous53 persons respecting his place of abode54. It was stated that he slept habitually55 in a watch-box in the city: in a cab at a mews, where a cab-proprietor gave him a shelter: in the Duke of York’s Column etc, the wildest of these theories being put abroad by the facetious56 and imaginative Huxter. For Huxey, when not silenced by the company of “swells,” and when in the society of his own friends, was a very different fellow to the youth whom we have seen cowed by Pen’s impertinent airs, and, adored by his family at home, was the life and soul of the circle whom he met, either round the festive57 board or the dissecting58 table. On one brilliant September morning, as Huxter was regaling himself with a cup of coffee at a stall in Covent Garden, having spent a delicious night dancing at Vauxhall, he spied the General reeling down Henrietta Street, with a crowd of hooting59 blackguard boys at his heels, who had left their beds under the arches of the river betimes, and were prowling about already for breakfast, and the strange livelihood60 of the day. The poor old General was not in that condition when the sneers61 and jokes of these young beggars had much effect upon him: the cabmen and watermen at the cabstand knew him and passed their comments upon him: the policemen gazed after him and warned the boys off him, with looks of scorn and pity; what did the scorn and pity of men, the jokes of ribald children, matter to the General? He reeled along the street with glazed62 eyes, having just sense enough to know whither he was bound, and to pursue his accustomed beat homewards. He went to bed not knowing how he had reached it, as often as any man in London. He woke and found himself there, and asked no questions, and he was tacking63 about on this daily though perilous64 voyage, when, from his station at the coffee-stall, Huxter spied him. To note his friend, to pay his twopence (indeed, he had but eightpence left, or he would have had a cab from Vauxhall to take him home), was with the eager Huxter the work of an instant — Costigan dived down the alleys65 by Drury Lane Theatre, where gin-shops, oyster-shops, and theatrical66 wardrobes abound67, the proprietors68 of which were now asleep behind their shutters, as the pink morning lighted up their chimneys; and through these courts Huxter followed the General, until he reached Oldcastle Street, in which is the gate of Shepherd’s Inn.
Here, just as he was within sight of home, a luckless slice of orange-peel came between the General’s heel and the pavement, and caused the poor old fellow to fall backwards69.
Huxter ran up to him instantly, and after a pause, during which the veteran, giddy with his fall and his previous whisky, gathered, as he best might, his dizzy brains together, the young surgeon lifted up the limping General, and very kindly and good-naturedly offered to conduct him to his home. For some time, and in reply to the queries70 which the student of medicine put to him, the muzzy General refused to say where his lodgings were and declared that they were hard by, and that he could reach them without difficulty; and he disengaged himself from Huxter’s arm, and made a rush as if to get to his own home unattended: but he reeled and lurched so, that the young surgeon insisted upon accompanying him, and, with many soothing71 expressions and cheering and consolatory72 phrases, succeeded in getting the General’s dirty old hand under what he called his own fin32, and led the old fellow, moaning piteously, across the street. He stopped when he came to the ancient gate, ornamented74 with the armorial bearings of the venerable Shepherd. “Here ’tis,” said he, drawing up at the portal, and he made a successful pull at the gate bell, which presently brought out old Mr. Bolton, the porter, scowling75 fiercely, and grumbling76 as he was used to do every morning when it became his turn to let in that early bird.
Costigan tried to hold Bolton for a moment in genteel conversation, but the other surlily would not. “Don’t bother me,” said he; “go to your hown bed Capting, and don’t keep honest men out of theirs.” So the Captain tacked77 across the square and reached his own staircase, up which he stumbled with the worthy Huxter at his heels. Costigan had a key of his own, which Huxter inserted into the keyhole for him, so that there was no need to call up little Mr. Bows from the sleep into which the old musician had not long since fallen, and Huxter having aided to disrobe his tipsy patient, and ascertained that no bones were broken, helped him to bed and applied78 compresses an water to one of his knees and shins, which, with the pair of trousers which encased them, Costigan had severely79 torn in his fall. At the General’s age, and with his habit of body, such wounds as he had inflicted80 on himself are slow to heal: a good deal of inflammation ensued, and the old fellow lay ill for some days, suffering both pain and fever.
Mr. Huxter undertook the case of his interesting patient with great confidence and alacrity81, and conducted it with becoming skill. He visited his friend day after day, and consoled him with lively rattle82 and conversation for the absence of the society which Costigan needed, and of which he was an ornament73; and he gave special instructions to the invalid’s nurse about the quantity of whisky which the patient was to take — instructions which, as the poor old fellow could not for many days get out of his bed or sofa himself, he could not by any means infringe83. Bows, Mrs. Bolton, and our little friend Fanny, when able to do so, officiated at the General’s bedside, and the old warrior84 was made as comfortable as possible under his calamity85.
Thus Huxter, whose affable manners and social turn made him quickly intimate with persons in whose society he fell, and whose over-refinement did not lead them to repulse86 the familiarities of this young gentleman, became pretty soon intimate in Shepherd’s Inn, both with our acquaintances in the garrets and those in the porter’s lodge87. He thought he had seen Fanny somewhere: he felt certain that he had: but it is no wonder that he should not accurately88 remember her, for the poor little thing never chose to tell him where she had met him: he himself had seen her at a period, when his own views both of persons and of right and wrong were clouded by the excitement of drinking and dancing, and also little Fanny was very much changed and worn by the fever and agitation89, and passion and despair, which the past three weeks had poured upon the head of that little victim. Borne down was the head now, and very pale and wan25 the face; and many and many a time the sad eyes had looked into the postman’s, as he came to the Inn, and the sickened heart had sunk as he passed away. When Mr. Costigan’s accident occurred, Fanny was rather glad to have an opportunity of being useful and doing something kind — something that would make her forget her own little sorrows perhaps: she felt she bore them better whilst she did her duty, though I dare say many a tear dropped into the old Irishman’s gruel90. Ah, me! stir the gruel well, and have courage, little Fanny! If everybody who has suffered from your complaint were to die of it straightway, what a fine year the undertakers would have!
Whether from compassion91 for his only patient, or delight in his society, Mr. Huxter found now occasion to visit Costigan two or three times in the day at least, and if any of the members of the porter’s lodge family were not in attendance on the General, the young doctor was sure to have some particular directions to address to those at their own place of habitation. He was a kind fellow; he made or purchased toys for the children; he brought them apples and brandy-balls; he brought a mask and frightened them with it, and caused a smile upon the face of pale Fanny. He called Mrs. Bolton Mrs. B., and was very intimate, familiar, and facetious with that lady, quite different from that “aughty, artless beast,” as Mrs. Bolton now denominated a certain young gentleman of our acquaintance, and whom she now vowed92 she never could abear.
It was from this lady, who was very free in her conversation, that Huxter presently learnt what was the illness which was evidently preying93 upon little Fan, and what had been Pen’s behaviour regarding her. Mrs. Bolton’s account of the transaction was not, it may be imagined, entirely94 an impartial95 narrative96. One would have thought from her story that the young gentleman had employed a course of the most persevering97 and flagitious artifices98 to win the girl’s heart, had broken the most solemn promises made to her and was a wretch23 to be hated and chastised99 by every champion of woman. Huxter, in his present frame of mind respecting Arthur, and suffering under the latter’s contumely, was ready, of course, to take all for granted that was said in the disfavour of this unfortunate convalescent. But why did he not write home to Clavering, as he had done previously100, giving an account of Pen’s misconduct, and of the particulars regarding it, which had now come to his knowledge? He soon, in a letter to his brother-inlaw, announced that that nice young man, Mr. Pendennis, had escaped narrowly from a fever, and that no doubt all Clavering, where he was so popular, would be pleased at his recovery; and he mentioned that he had an interesting case of compound fracture, an officer of distinction, which kept him in town; but as for Fanny Bolton, he made no more mention of her in his letters — no more than Pen himself had made mention of her. O you mothers at home, how much do you think you know about your lads? How much do you think you know?
But with Bows, there was no reason why Huxter should not speak his mind, and so, a very short time after his conversation with Mrs. Bolton, Mr. Sam talked to the musician about his early acquaintance with Pendennis; described him as a confounded conceited101 blackguard, and expressed a determination to punch his impudent102 head as soon as ever he should be well enough to stand up like a man.
Then it was that Bows on his part spoke and told his version of the story, whereof Arthur and little Fan were the hero and heroine; how they had met by no contrivance of the former, but by a blunder of the old Irishman, now in bed with a broken shin — how Pen had acted with manliness103 and self-control in the business — how Mrs Bolton was an idiot; and he related the conversation which he, Bows, had had with Pen, and the sentiments uttered by the young man. Perhaps Bow’s story caused some twinges of conscience in the breast of Pen’s accuser, and that gentleman frankly104 owned that he had been wrong with regard to Arthur, and withdrew his project for punching Mr. Pendennis’s head.
But the cessation of his hostility105 for Pen did not diminish Huxter’s attentions to Fanny, which unlucky Mr Bows marked with his usual jealousy106 and bitterness of spirit, “I have but to like anybody” the old fellow thought, “and somebody is sure to come and be preferred to me. It has been the same ill-luck with me since I was a lad, until now that I am sixty years old. What can such a man as I am expect better than to be laughed at? It is for the young to succeed, and to be happy, and not for old fools like me. I’ve played a second fiddle107 through life,” he said, with a bitter laugh; “how can I suppose the luck is to change after it has gone against me so long?” This was the selfish way in which Bows looked at the state of affairs: though few persons would have thought there was any cause for his jealousy, who looked at the pale and grief-stricken countenance108 of the hapless little girl, its object. Fanny received Huxter’s good-natured efforts at consolation109 and kind attentions kindly. She laughed now and again at his jokes and games with her little sisters, but relapsed quickly into a dejection which ought to have satisfied Mr. Bows that the new-comer had no place in her heart as yet, had jealous Mr. Bows been enabled to see with clear eyes.
But Bows did not. Fanny attributed Pen’s silence somehow to Bows’s interference. Fanny hated him. Fanny treated Bows with constant cruelty and injustice110. She turned from him when he spoke — she loathed111 his attempts at consolation. A hard life had Mr. Bows, and a cruel return for his regard.
When Warrington came to Shepherd’s Inn as Pen’s ambassador, it was for Mr. Bows’s apartments he inquired (no doubt upon a previous agreement with the principal for whom he acted in this delicate negotiation), and he did not so much as catch a glimpse of Miss Fanny when he stopped at the Inn-gate and made his inquiry112. Warrington was, of course, directed to the musician’s chambers113, and found him tending the patient there, from whose chamber114 he came out to wait upon his guest. We have said that they had been previously known to one another, and the pair shook hands with sufficient cordiality. After a little preliminary talk, Warrington said that he had come from his friend Arthur Pendennis, and from his family, to thank Bows for his attention at the commencement of Pen’s illness, and for his kindness in hastening into the country to fetch the Major.
Bows replied that it was but his duty: he had never thought to have seen the young gentleman alive again when he went in search of Pen’s relatives, and he was very glad of Mr. Pendennis’s recovery, and that he had his friends with him. “Lucky are they who have friends, Mr. Warrington,” said the musician. “I might be up in this garret and nobody would care for me, or mind whether I was alive or dead.”
“What! not the General, Mr. Bows?” Warrington asked.
“The General likes his whisky-bottle more than anything in life,” the other answered; “we live together from habit and convenience; and he cares for me no more than you do. What is it you want to ask me, Mr. Warrington? You ain’t come to visit me, I know very well. Nobody comes to visit me. It is about Fanny, the porter’s daughter, you are come — I see that — very well. Is Mr. Pendennis, now he has got well, anxious to see her again? Does his lordship the Sultan propose to throw his ‘andkerchief to her? She has been very ill, sir, ever since the day when Mrs. Pendennis turned her out of doors — kind of a lady, wasn’t it? The poor girl and myself found the young gentleman raving115 in a fever, knowing nobody, with nobody to tend him but his drunken laundress — she watched day and night by him. I set off to fetch his uncle. Mamma comes and turns Fanny to the right-about. Uncle comes and leaves me to pay the cab. Carry my compliments to the ladies and gentleman, and say we are both very thankful, very. Why, a countess couldn’t have behaved better, and for an apothecary’s lady, as I’m given to understand Mrs. Pendennis was — I’m sure her behaviour is most uncommon116 aristocratic and genteel. She ought to have a double-gilt pestle117 and mortar118 to her coach.”
It was from Mr. Huxter that Bows had learned Pen’s parentage, no doubt, and if he took Pen’s part against the young surgeon, and Fanny’s against Mr. Pendennis, it was because the old gentleman was in so savage119 a mood, that his humour was to contradict everybody.
Warrington was curious, and not ill pleased at the musician’s taunts120 and irascibility. “I never heard of these transactions,” he said, “or got but a very imperfect account of them from Major Pendennis. What was a lady to do? I think (I have never spoken with her on the subject) she had some notion that the young woman and my friend Pen were on — on terms of — of an intimacy121 which Mrs. Pendennis could not, of course, recognise ——”
“Oh, of course not, sir. Speak out, sir; say what you mean at once, that the young gentleman of the Temple had made a victim of the girl of Shepherd’s Inn, eh? And so she was turned to be out of doors — or brayed122 alive in the double-gilt pestle and mortar, by Jove! No, Mr. Warrington, there was no such thing: there was no victimising, or if there was, Mr. Arthur was the victim, not the girl. He is an honest fellow, he is, though he is conceited, and a puppy sometimes. He can feel like a man, and run away from temptation like a man. I own it, though I suffer by it, I own it. He has a heart, he has: but the girl hasn’t, sir. That girl will do anything to win a man, and fling him away without a pang123, sir. If she’s flung away herself, sir, she’ll feel it and cry. She had a fever when Mrs. Pendennis turned her out of doors; and she made love to the Doctor, Doctor Goodenough, who came to cure her. Now she has taken on with another chap — another sawbones, ha, ha! d —— it, sir, she likes the pestle and mortar, and hangs round the pill-boxes, she’s so fond of ’em, and she has got a fellow from Saint Bartholomew’s, who grins through a horse-collar for her sisters, and charms away her melancholy. Go and see, sir: very likely he’s in the lodge now. If you want news about Miss Fanny, you must ask at the Doctor’s shop, sir, not of an old fiddler like me — Good-bye, sir. There’s my patient calling.”
And a voice was heard from the Captain’s bedroom, a well-known voice, which said, “I’d loike a dthrop of dthrink, Bows, I’m thirstee.” And not sorry, perhaps, to hear that such was the state of things, and that Pen’s forsaken124 was consoling herself, Warrington took his leave of the irascible musician.
As luck would have it, he passed the lodge door just as Mr. Huxter was in the act of frightening the children with the mask whereof we have spoken, and Fanny was smiling languidly at his farces125. Warrington laughed bitterly. “Are all women like that?” he thought. “I think there’s one that’s not,” he added, with a sigh.
At Piccadilly, waiting for the Richmond omnibus, George fell in with Major Pendennis, bound in the same direction, and he told the old gentleman of what he had seen and heard respecting Fanny.
Major Pendennis was highly delighted: and as might be expected of such a philosopher, made precisely126 the same observation as that which had escaped from Warrington. “All women are the same,” he said. “La petite se console. Daymy, when I used to read ‘Telemaque’ at school, Calypso ne pouvait se consoler,— you know the rest, Warrington,— I used to say it was absard. Absard, by Gad127, and so it is. And so she’s got a new soupirant, has she, the little porteress? Dayvlish nice little girl. How mad Pen will be — eh, Warrington? But we must break it to him gently, or he’ll be in such a rage that he will be going after her again. We must menager the young fellow.”
“I think Mrs. Pendennis ought to know that Pen acted very well in the business. She evidently thinks him guilty, and according to Mr. Bows, Arthur behaved like a good fellow,” Warrington said.
“My dear Warrington,” said the Major, with a look of some alarm, “in Mrs. Pendennis’s agitated128 state of health and that sort of thing, the best way, I think, is not to say a single word about the subject — or, stay, leave it to me: and I’ll talk to her — break it to her gently, you know, and that sort of thing. I give you my word I will. And so Calypso’s consoled, is she,” And he sniggered over this gratifying truth, happy in the corner of the omnibus during the rest of the journey.
Pen was very anxious to hear from his envoy129 what had been the result of the latter’s mission; and as soon as the two young men could be alone, the ambassador spoke in reply to Arthur’s eager queries.
“You remember your poem, Pen, of Ariadne in Naxos,” Warrington said; “devilish bad poetry it was, to be sure.”
“Apres?” asked Pen, in a great state of excitement.
“When Theseus left Ariadne, do you remember what happened to her, young fellow?”
“It’s a lie, it’s a lie! You don’t mean that!” cried out Pen, starting up, his face turning red.
“Sit down, stoopid,” Warrington said, and with two fingers pushed Pen back into his seat again. “It’s better for you as it is, young one,” he said sadly, in reply to the savage flush in Arthur’s face.
收听单词发音 |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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14
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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18
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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19
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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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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21
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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22
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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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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24
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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25
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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26
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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27
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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28
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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29
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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30
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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31
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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32
fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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33
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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34
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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35
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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36
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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37
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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38
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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39
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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40
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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41
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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42
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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43
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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44
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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45
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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46
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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47
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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48
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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49
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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50
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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51
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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52
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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53
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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54
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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55
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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56
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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57
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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58
dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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59
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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60
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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61
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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62
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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63
tacking
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| （帆船）抢风行驶，定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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64
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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65
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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66
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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67
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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68
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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69
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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70
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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71
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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72
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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73
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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74
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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75
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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76
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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77
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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78
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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79
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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80
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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82
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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83
infringe
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| v.违反，触犯，侵害 | |
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84
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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85
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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86
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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87
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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88
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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89
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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90
gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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91
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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92
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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93
preying
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| v.掠食( prey的现在分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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94
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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95
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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96
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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97
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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98
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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99
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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100
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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101
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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102
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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103
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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104
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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105
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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106
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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107
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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108
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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109
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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110
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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111
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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112
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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113
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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114
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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115
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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116
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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117
pestle
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| n.杵 | |
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118
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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119
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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120
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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121
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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122
brayed
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的过去式和过去分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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123
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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124
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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125
farces
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| n.笑剧( farce的名词复数 )；闹剧；笑剧剧目；作假的可笑场面 | |
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126
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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127
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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128
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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129
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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