Whilst Pen, in his own county, was thus carrying on his selfish plans and parliamentary schemes, news came to him that Lady Rockminster had arrived at Baymouth, and had brought with her our friend Laura. At the announcement that Laura his sister was near him, Pen felt rather guilty. His wish was to stand higher in her esteem1, perhaps; than in that of any other person in the world. She was his mother’s legacy2 to him. He was to be her patron and protector in some sort. How would she brave the news which he had to tell her; and how should he explain the plans which he was meditating3? He felt as if neither he nor Blanche could bear Laura’s dazzling glance of calm scrutiny4, and as if he would not dare to disclose his worldly hopes and ambitions to that spotless judge. At her arrival at Baymouth, he wrote a letter thither5 which contained a great number of fine phrases and protests of affection, and a great deal of easy satire6 and raillery; in the midst of all which Mr. Pen could not help feeling that he was in panic, and that he was acting7 like a rogue8 and hypocrite.
How was it that a simple country girl should be the object of fear and trembling to such an accomplished9 gentleman as Mr. Pen? His worldly tactics and diplomacy10, his satire and knowledge of the world, could not bear the test of her purity, he felt somehow. And he had to own to himself that his affairs were in such a position, that he could not tell the truth to that honest soul. As he rode from Clavering to Baymouth he felt as guilty as a schoolboy who doesn’t know his lesson and is about to face the awful master. For is not truth the master always, and does she not have the power and hold the book?
Under the charge of her kind, though somewhat wayward and absolute patroness, Lady Rockminster, Laura had seen somewhat of the world in the last year, had gathered some accomplishments11, and profited by the lessons of society. Many a girl who had been accustomed to that too great tenderness in which Laura’s early life had been passed, would have been unfitted for the changed existence which she now had to lead. Helen worshipped her two children, and thought, as home-bred women will, that all the world was made for them, or to be considered after them. She tended Laura with a watchfulness12 of affection which never left her. If she had a headache, the widow was as alarmed as if there had never been an aching head before in the world. She slept and woke, read and moved under her mother’s fond superintendence, which was now withdrawn13 from her, along with the tender creature whose anxious heart would beat no more. And painful moments of grief and depression no doubt Laura had, when she stood in the great careless world alone. Nobody heeded14 her griefs or her solitude15. She was not quite the equal, in social rank, of the lady whose companion she was, or of the friends and relatives of the imperious, but kind old dowager. Some very likely bore her no goodwill16 — some, perhaps, slighted her: it might have been that servants were occasionally rude; their mistress certainly was often. Laura not seldom found herself in family meetings, the confidence and familiarity of which she felt were interrupted by her intrusion; and her sensitiveness of course was wounded at the idea that she should give or feel this annoyance18. How many governesses are there in the world, thought cheerful Laura,— how many ladies, whose necessities make them slaves and companions by profession! What bad tempers and coarse unkindness have not these to encounter? How infinitely19 better my lot is with these really kind and affectionate people than that of thousands of unprotected girls! It was with this cordial spirit that our young lady adapted herself to her new position; and went in advance of her fortune with a trustful smile.
Did you ever know a person who met Fortune in that way, whom the goddess did not regard kindly20? Are not even bad people won by a constant cheerfulness and a pure and affectionate heart? When the babes in the wood, in the ballad21, looked up fondly and trustfully at those notorious rogues22 whom their uncle had set to make away with the little folks, we all know how one of the rascals23 relented, and made away with the other — not having the heart to be unkind to so much innocence24 and beauty. Oh, happy they who have that virgin25 loving trust and sweet smiling confidence in the world, and fear no evil because they think none! Miss Laura Bell was one of these fortunate persons; and besides the gentle widow’s little cross, which, as we have seen, Pen gave her, had such a sparkling and brilliant kohinoor in her bosom26, as is even more precious than that famous jewel; for it not only fetches a price, and is retained, by its owner in another world where diamonds are stated to be of no value, but here, too, is of inestimable worth to its possessor; is a talisman27 against evil, and lightens up the darkness of life, like Cogia Hassan’s famous stone.
So that before Miss Bell had been a year in Lady Rockminster’s house, there was not a single person in it whose love she had not won by the use of this talisman. From the old lady to the lowest dependent of her bounty28, Laura had secured the goodwill and kindness of everybody. With a mistress of such a temper, my Lady’s woman (who had endured her mistress for forty years, and had been clawed and scolded and jibed29 every day and night in that space of time) could not be expected to have a good temper of her own; and was at first angry against Miss Laura, as she had been against her Ladyship’s fifteen preceding companions. But when Laura was ill at Paris, this old woman nursed her in spite of her mistress, who was afraid of catching30 the fever, and absolutely fought for her medicine with Martha from Fairoaks, now advanced to be Miss Laura’s own maid. As she was recovering, Grandjean the chef wanted to kill her by the numbers of delicacies31 which he dressed for her, and wept when she ate her first slice of chicken. The Swiss major-domo of the house celebrated32 Miss Bell’s praises in almost every European language, which he spoke33 with indifferent incorrectness; the coachman was happy to drive her out; the page cried when he heard she was ill; and Calverley and Coldstream (those two footmen, so large, so calm ordinarily, and so difficult to move) broke out into extraordinary hilarity34 at the news of her convalescence35, and intoxicated36 the page at a wine-shop, to fete Laura’s recovery. Even Lady Diana Pynsent (our former acquaintance Mr. Pynsent had married by this time), Lady Diana, who had had a considerable dislike to Laura for some time, was so enthusiastic as to say that she thought Miss Bell was a very agreeable person, and that grandmamma had found a great trouvaille in her. All this goodwill and kindness Laura had acquired, not by any arts, not by any flattery, but by the simple force of good-nature, and by the blessed gift of pleasing and being pleased.
On the one or two occasions when he had seen Lady Rockminster, the old lady, who did not admire him, had been very pitiless and abrupt37 with our young friend, and perhaps Pen expected when he came to Baymouth to find Laura installed in her house in the quality of humble38 companion, and treated no better than himself. When she heard of his arrival she came running downstairs, and I am not sure that she did not embrace him in the presence of Calverley and Coldstream: not that those gentlemen ever told: if the fractus orbis had come to a smash, if Laura, instead of kissing Pen, had taken her scissors and snipped39 off his head — Calverley and Coldstream would have looked on impavidly, without allowing a grain of powder to be disturbed by the calamity40.
Laura had so much improved in health and looks that Pen could not but admire her. The frank and kind eyes which met his, beamed with good-health; the cheek which he kissed blushed with beauty. As he looked at her, artless and graceful41, pure and candid42, he thought he had never seen her so beautiful. Why should he remark her beauty now so much, and remark too to himself that he had not remarked it sooner? He took her fair trustful hand and kissed it fondly: he looked in her bright clear eyes, and read in them that kindling43 welcome which he was always sure to find there. He was affected44 and touched by the tender tone and the pure sparkling glance; their innocence smote45 him somehow and moved him.
“How good you are to me, Laura — sister!” said Pen; “I don’t deserve that you should — that you should be so kind to me.”
“Mamma left you to me,” she said, stooping down and brushing his forehead with her lips hastily. “You know you were to come to me when you were in trouble, or to tell me when you were very happy: that was our compact, Arthur, last year, before we parted. Are you very happy now, or are you in trouble — which is it?” and she looked at him with an arch glance of kindness. “Do you like going into Parliament! Do you intend to distinguish yourself there? How I shall tremble for your first speech!”
“Do you know about the Parliament plan, then?” Pen asked.
“Know?— all the world knows! I have heard it talked about many times. Lady Rockminster’s doctor talked about it today. I daresay it will be in the Chatteris paper tomorrow. It is all over the county that Sir Francis Clavering, of Clavering, is going to retire, in behalf of Mr. Arthur Pendennis, of Fairoaks; and that the young and beautiful Miss Blanche Amory is ——”
“What! that too?” asked Pendennis.
“That, too, dear Arthur. Tout46 se sait, as somebody would say, whom I intend to be very fond of; and who I am sure is very clever and pretty. I have had a letter from Blanche. The kindest of letters. She speaks so warmly of you, Arthur! I hope — I know she feels what she writes.— When is it to be, Arthur? Why did you not tell me? I may come and live with you then, mayn’t I?”
“My home is yours, dear Laura, and everything I have,” Pen said. “If I did not tell you, it was because — because — I do not know: nothing is decided47 as yet. No words have passed between us. But you think Blanche could be happy with me — don’t you? Not a romantic fondness, you know. I have no heart, I think; I’ve told her so: only a sober-sided attachment48: — and want my wife on one side of the fire and my sister on the other,— Parliament in the session and Fairoaks in the holidays, and my Laura never to leave me until somebody who has a right comes to take her away.”
Somebody who has a right — somebody with a right! Why did Pen, as he looked at the girl and slowly uttered the words, begin to feel angry and jealous of the invisible somebody with the right to take her away? Anxious, but a minute ago, how she would take the news regarding his probable arrangements with Blanche, Pen was hurt somehow that she received the intelligence so easily, and took his happiness for granted.
“Until somebody comes,” Laura said, with a laugh, “I will stay at home and be aunt Laura, and take care of the children when Blanche is in the world. I have arranged it all. I am an excellent housekeeper49. Do you know I have been to market at Paris with Mrs. Beck, and have taken some lessons from M. Grandjean? And I have had some lessons in Paris in singing too, with the money which you sent me, you kind boy: and I can sing much better now: and I have learned to dance, though not so well as Blanche; and when you become a minister of state, Blanche shall present me:” and with this, and with a provoking good-humour, she performed for him the last Parisian curtsey.
Lady Rockminster came in whilst this curtsey was being performed, and gave to Arthur one finger to shake; which he took, and over which he bowed as well as he could, which, in truth, was very clumsily.
“So you are going to be married, sir,” said the old lady.
“Scold him, Lady Rockminster, for not telling us,” Laura said, going away: which, in truth, the old lady began instantly to do. “So you are going to marry, and to go into Parliament in place of that good-for-nothing Sir Francis Clavering. I wanted him to give my grandson his seat — why did he not give my grandson his seat? I hope you are to have a great deal of money with Miss Amory. I wouldn’t take her without a great deal.”
“Sir Francis Clavering is tired of Parliament,” Pen said, wincing50, “and — and I rather wish to attempt that career. The rest of the story is at least premature51.”
“I wonder, when you had Laura at home, you could take up with such an affected little creature as that,” the old lady continued.
“I am very sorry Miss Amory does not please your ladyship,” said Pen, smiling.
“You mean — that it is no affair of mine, and that I am not going to marry her. Well, I’m not, and I’m very glad I am not — a little odious52 thing — when I think that a man could prefer her to my Laura, I’ve no patience with him, and so I tell you, Mr. Arthur Pendennis.”
“I am very glad you see Laura with such favourable53 eyes,” Pen said.
“You are very glad, and you are very sorry. What does it matter, sir, whether you are very glad or very sorry? A young man who prefers Miss Amory to Miss Bell has no business to be sorry or glad. A young man who takes up with such a crooked54 lump of affectation as that little Amory,— for she is crooked, I tell you she is,— after seeing my Laura, has no right to hold up his head again. Where is your friend Bluebeard? The tall young man, I mean,— Warrington, isn’t his name? Why does he not come down, and marry Laura? What do the young men mean by not marrying such a girl as that? They all marry for money now. You are all selfish and cowards. We ran away with each other, and made foolish matches in my time. I have no patience with the young men! When I was at Paris in the winter, I asked all the three attaches at the Embassy why they did not fall in love with Miss Bell? They laughed — they said they wanted money. You are all selfish — you are all cowards.”
“I hope before you offered Miss Bell to the attaches,” said Pen, with some heat, “you did her the favour to consult her?”
“Miss Bell has only a little money. Miss Bell must marry soon. Somebody must make a match for her, sir; and a girl can’t offer herself,” said the old dowager, with great state. “Laura, my dear, I’ve been telling your cousin that all the young men are selfish; and that there is not a pennyworth of romance left among them. He is as bad as the rest.”
“Have you been asking Arthur why he won’t marry me?” said Laura, with a kindling smile, coming back and taking her cousin’s hand. (She had been away, perhaps, to hide some traces of emotion, which she did not wish others to see.) “He is going to marry somebody else; and I intend to be very fond of her, and to go and live with them, provided he then does not ask every bachelor who comes to his house, why he does not marry me?”
The terrors of Pen’s conscience being thus appeased55, and his examination before Laura over without any reproaches on the part of the latter, Pen began to find that his duty and inclination56 led him constantly to Baymouth, where Lady Rockminster informed him that a place was always reserved for him at her table. “And I recommend you to come often,” the old lady said, “for Grandjean is an excellent cook, and to be with Laura and me will do your manners good. It is easy to see that you are always thinking about yourself. Don’t blush and stammer57 — almost all young men are always thinking about themselves. My sons and grandsons always were until I cured them. Come here, and let us teach you to behave properly; you will not have to carve, that is done at the side-table. Hecker will give you as much wine as is good for you; and on days when you are very good and amusing you shall have some champagne58. Hecker, mind what I say. Mr. Pendennis is Miss Laura’s brother; and you will make him comfortable, and see that he does not have too much wine, or disturb me whilst I am taking my nap after dinner. You are selfish: I intend to cure you of being selfish. You will dine here when you have no other engagements; and if it rains you had better put up at the hotel.” As long as the good lady could order everybody round about her, she was not hard to please; and all the slaves and subjects of her little dowager court trembled before her, but loved her.
She did not receive a very numerous or brilliant society. The doctor, of course, was admitted as a constant and faithful visitor; the vicar and his curate; and on public days the vicar’s wife and daughters, and some of the season visitors at Baymouth, were received at the old lady’s entertainments: but generally the company was a small one, and Mr. Arthur drank his wine by himself, when Lady Rockminster retired59 to take her doze60, and to be played and sung to sleep by Laura after dinner.
“If my music can give her a nap,” said the good-natured girl, “ought I not to be very glad that it can do so much good? Lady Rockminster sleeps very little of nights: and I used to read to her until I fell ill at Paris, since when she will not hear of my sitting up.”
“Why did you not write to me when you were ill?” asked Pen, with a blush.
“What good could you do me? I had Martha to nurse me and the doctor every day. You are too busy to write to women or to think about them. You have your books and your newspapers, and your politics and your railroads to occupy you. I wrote when I was well.”
And Pen looked at her, and blushed again, as he remembered that, during all the time of her illness, he had never written to her and had scarcely thought about her.
In consequence of his relationship, Pen was free to walk and ride with his cousin constantly, and in the course of those walks and rides, could appreciate the sweet frankness of her disposition61, and the truth, simplicity62, and kindliness63 of her fair and spotless heart. In their mother’s lifetime, she had never spoken so openly or so cordially as now. The desire of poor Helen to make an union between her two children, had caused a reserve on Laura’s part towards Pen; for which, under the altered circumstances of Arthur’s life, there was now no necessity. He was engaged to another woman; and Laura became his sister at once,— hiding, or banishing64 from herself, any doubts which she might have as to his choice; striving to look cheerfully forward, and hope for his prosperity; promising65 herself to do all that affection might do to make her mother’s darling happy.
Their talk was often about the departed mother. And it was from a thousand stories which Laura told him that Arthur was made aware how constant and absorbing that silent maternal66 devotion had been; which had accompanied him present and absent through life, and had only ended with the fond widow’s last breath. One day the people in Clavering saw a lad in charge of a couple of horses at the churchyard-gate: and it was told over the place that Pen and Laura had visited Helen’s grave together. Since Arthur had come down into the country, he had been there once or twice: but the sight of the sacred stone had brought no consolation67 to him. A guilty man doing a guilty deed: a mere68 speculator, content to lay down his faith and honour for a fortune and a worldly career; and owning that his life was but a contemptible69 surrender — what right had he in the holy place? what booted it to him in the world he lived in, that others were no better than himself? Arthur and Laura rode by the gates of Fairoaks; and he shook hands with his tenant’s children, playing on the lawn and the terrace — Laura looked steadily70 at the cottage wall, at the creeper on the porch and the magnolia growing up to her window. “Mr. Pendennis rode by today,” one of the boys told his mother, “with a lady, and he stopped and talked to us, and he asked for a bit of honeysuckle off the porch, and gave it the lady. I couldn’t see if she was pretty; she had her veil down. She was riding one of Cramp’s horses, out of Baymouth.”
As they rode over the downs between home and Baymouth, Pen did not speak much, though they rode very close together. He was thinking what a mockery life was, and how men refuse happiness when they may have it; or, having it, kick it down; or barter71 it, with their eyes open, for a little worthless money or beggarly honour. And then the thought came, what does it matter for the little space? The lives of the best and purest of us are consumed in a vain desire, and end in a disappointment: as the dear soul’s who sleeps in her grave yonder. She had her selfish ambition, as much as Caesar had; and died, baulked of her life’s longing72. The stone covers over our hopes and our memories. Our place knows us not. “Other people’s children are playing on the grass,” he broke out, in a hard voice, “where you and I used to play, Laura. And you see how the magnolia we planted has grown up since our time. I have been round to one or two of the cottages where my mother used to visit. It is scarcely more than a year that she is gone, and the people whom she used to benefit care no more for her death than for Queen Anne’s. We are all selfish: the world is selfish: there are but a few exceptions, like you, my dear, to shine like good deeds in a naughty world, and make the blackness more dismal73.”
“I wish you would not speak in that way, Arthur,” said Laura, looking down and bending her head to the honeysuckle on her breast. “When you told the little boy to give me this, you were not selfish.”
“A pretty sacrifice I made to get it for you!” said the sneerer74.
“But your heart was kind and full of love when you did so. One cannot ask for more than love and kindness; and if you think humbly75 of yourself Arthur, the love and kindness are — diminished — are they? I often thought our dearest mother spoiled you at home, by worshipping you; and that if you are — I hate the word — what you say, her too great fondness helped to make you so. And as for the world, when men go out into it, I suppose they cannot be otherwise than selfish. You have to fight for yourself, and to get on for yourself, and to make a name for yourself. Mamma and your uncle both encouraged you in this ambition. If it is a vain thing, why pursue it? I suppose such a clever man as you intend to do a great deal of good to the country, by going into Parliament, or you would not wish to be there. What are you going to do when you are in the House of Commons?”
“Women don’t understand about politics, my dear,” Pen said sneering76 at himself as he spoke.
“But why don’t you make us understand? I could never tell about Mr. Pynsent why he should like to be there so much. He is not a clever man ——”
“He certainly is not a genius, Pynsent,” said Pen.
“Lady Diana says that he attends Committees all day; that then again he is at the House all night; that he always votes as he is told; that he never speaks; that he will never get on beyond a subordinate place; and as his grandmother tells him, he is choked with red-tape. Are you going to follow the same career; Arthur? What is there in it so brilliant that you should be so eager for it? I would rather that you should stop at home, and write books — good books, kind books, with gentle kind thoughts, such as you have, dear Arthur, and such as might do people good to read. And if you do not win fame, what then? You own it is vanity, and you can live very happily without it. I must not pretend to advise; but I take you at your own word about the world; and as you own it is wicked, and that it tires you, ask you why you don’t leave it?”
“And what would you have me do?” asked Arthur.
“I would have you bring your wife to Fairoaks to live there, and study, and do good round about you. I would like to see your own children playing on the lawn, Arthur, and that we might pray in our mother’s church again once more, dear brother. If the world is a temptation, are we not told to pray that we may not be led into it?”
“Do you think Blanche would make a good wife for a petty country gentleman? Do you think I should become the character very well, Laura?” Pen asked. “Remember temptation walks about the hedgerows as well as the city streets: and idleness is the greatest tempter of all.”
“What does — does Mr. Warrington say?” said Laura, as a blush mounted up to her cheek, and of which Pen saw the fervour, though Laura’s veil fell over her face to hide it.
Pen rode on by Laura’s side silently for a while. George’s name so mentioned brought back the past to him, and the thoughts which he had once had regarding George and Laura. Why should the recurrence77 of the thought agitate78 him, now that he knew the union was impossible? Why should he be curious to know if, during the months of their intimacy79, Laura had felt a regard for Warrington? From that day until the present time George had never alluded80 to his story, and Arthur remembered now that since then George had scarcely ever mentioned Laura’s name.
At last he cane81 close to her. “Tell me something, Laura,” he said.
She put back her veil and looked at him. “What is it, Arthur?” she asked — though from the tremor82 of her voice she guessed very well.
“Tell me — but for George’s misfortune — I never knew him speak of it before or since that day — would you — would you have given him — what you refused me?”
“Yes, Pen,” she said, bursting into tears,
“He deserved you better than I did,” poor Arthur groaned83 forth84, with an indescribable pang85 at his heart. “I am but a selfish wretch86, and George is better, nobler, truer, than I am. God bless him!”
“Yes, Pen,” said Laura, reaching out her hand to her cousin, and he put his arm round her, and for a moment she sobbed87 on his shoulder.
The gentle girl had had her secret, and told it. In the widow’s last journey from Fairoaks, when hastening with her mother to Arthur’s sick-bed, Laura had made a different confession88; and it was only when Warrington told his own story, and described the hopeless condition of his life, that she discovered how much her feelings had changed, and with what tender sympathy, with what great respect, delight, and admiration89 she had grown to regard her cousin’s friend. Until she knew that some plans she might have dreamed of were impossible, and that Warrington, reading in her heart, perhaps, had told his melancholy90 story to warn her, she had not asked herself whether it was possible that her affections could change; and had been shocked and seared by the discovery of the truth. How should she have told it to Helen, and confessed her shame? Poor Laura felt guilty before her friend, with the secret which she dared not confide17 to her; felt as if she had been ungrateful for Helen’s love and regard; felt as if she had been wickedly faithless to Pen in withdrawing that love from him which he did not even care to accept; humbled91 even and repentant92 before Warrington, lest she should have encouraged him by undue93 sympathy, or shown the preference which she began to feel.
The catastrophe94 which broke up Laura’s home, and the grief and anguish95 which she felt for her mother’s death, gave her little leisure for thoughts more selfish; and by the time she rallied from that grief the minor96 one was also almost cured. It was but for a moment that she had indulged a hope about Warrington. Her admiration and respect for him remained as strong as ever. But the tender feeling with which she knew she had regarded him, was schooled into such calmness, that it may be said to have been dead and passed away. The pang which it left behind was one of humility97 and remorse98. “Oh, how wicked and proud I was about Arthur,” she thought, “how self-confident and unforgiving! I never forgave from my heart this poor girl, who was fond of him, or him for encouraging her love; and I have been more guilty than she, poor, little, artless creature! I, professing99 to love one man, could listen to another only too eagerly; and would not pardon the change of feelings in Arthur, whilst I myself was changing and unfaithful:” And so humiliating herself, and acknowledging her weakness, the poor girl sought for strength and refuge in the manner in which she had been accustomed to look for them.
She had done no wrong: but there are some folks who suffer for a fault ever so trifling100 as much as others whose stout101 consciences can walk under crimes of almost any weight; and poor Laura chose to fancy that she had acted in this delicate juncture102 of her life as a very great criminal. She determined103 that she had done Pen a great injury by withdrawing that love which, privately104 in her mother’s hearing, she had bestowed105 upon him; that she had been ungrateful to her dead benefactress by ever allowing herself to think of another or of violating her promise; and that, considering her own enormous crimes, she ought to be very gentle in judging those of others, whose temptations were much greater, very likely, and whose motives106 she could not understand.
A year back Laura would have been indignant at the idea that Arthur should marry Blanche: and her high spirit would have risen, as she thought that from worldly motives he should stoop to one so unworthy. Now when the news was brought to her of such a chance (the intelligence was given to her by old Lady Rockminster, whose speeches were as direct and rapid as a slap on the face), the humbled girl winced107 a little at the blow, but bore it meekly108, and with a desperate acquiescence109. “He has a right to marry, he knows a great deal more of the world than I do,” she argued with herself. “Blanche may not be so light-minded as she seemed, and who am I to be her judge? I daresay it is very good that Arthur should go into Parliament and distinguish himself, and my duty is to do everything that lies in my power to aid him and Blanche, and to make his home happy. I daresay I shall live with them. If I am godmother to one of their children, I will leave her my three thousand pounds!” And forthwith she began to think what she could give Blanche out of her small treasures, and how best to conciliate her affection. She wrote her forthwith a kind letter, in which, of course, no mention was made of the plans in contemplation, but in which Laura recalled old times, and spoke her goodwill, and in reply to this she received an eager answer from Blanche: in which not a word about marriage was said, to be sure, but Mr. Pendennis was mentioned two or three times in the letter, and they were to be henceforth, dearest Laura, and dearest Blanche, and loving sisters, and so forth.
When Pen and Laura reached home, after Laura’s confession (Pen’s noble acknowledgment of his own inferiority and generous expression of love for Warrington, causing the girl’s heart to throb110, and rendering111 doubly keen those tears which she sobbed on his shoulder), a little slim letter was awaiting Miss Bell in the hall, which she trembled rather guiltily as she unsealed, and which Pen blushed as he recognised: for he saw instantly that it was from Blanche.
Laura opened it hastily, and cast her eyes quickly over it, as Pen kept his fixed112 on her, blushing.
“She dates from London,” Laura said. “She has been with old Bonner, Lady Clavering’s maid. Bonner is going to marry Lightfoot the butler. Where do you think Blanche has been?” she cried out eagerly.
“To Paris, to Scotland, to the Casino?”
“To Shepherd’s Inn, to see Fanny; but Fanny wasn’t there, and Blanche is going to leave a present for her. Isn’t it kind of her and thoughtful?” And she handed the letter to Pen, who read —
“‘I saw Madame Mere, who was scrubbing the room, and looked at me with very scrubby looks; but la belle113 Fanny was not au logis; and as I heard that she was in Captain Strong’s apartments, Bonner and I mounted au troisieme to see this famous beauty. Another disappointment — only the Chevalier Strong and a friend of his in the room: so we came away after all without seeing the enchanting114 Fanny.
“‘Je t’envoie mille et mille baisers. When will that horrid115 canvassing116 be over? Sleeves are worn, etc. etc. etc.’”
After dinner the doctor was reading the Times. “A young gentleman I attended when he was here some eight or nine years ago, has come into a fine fortune,” the doctor said. “I see here announced the death of John Henry Foker, Esq., of Logwood Hall, at Pau, in the Pyrenees, on the 15th ult.”
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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legacy
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meditating
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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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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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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10
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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13
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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14
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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17
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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18
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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19
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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20
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
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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22
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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23
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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24
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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25
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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26
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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28
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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jibed
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| v.与…一致( jibe的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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30
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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31
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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32
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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33
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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34
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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35
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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36
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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37
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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38
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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39
snipped
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| v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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41
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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42
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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43
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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44
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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45
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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46
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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48
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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49
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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50
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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51
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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52
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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53
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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54
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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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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56
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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57
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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58
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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59
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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60
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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61
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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62
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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63
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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64
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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65
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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66
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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67
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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69
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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70
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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71
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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72
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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73
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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74
sneerer
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| 嘲笑者，讥笑者 | |
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75
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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76
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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77
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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78
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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79
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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80
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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82
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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83
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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84
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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85
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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86
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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87
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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88
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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89
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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90
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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91
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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92
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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93
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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94
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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95
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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96
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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97
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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98
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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99
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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100
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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102
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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103
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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104
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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105
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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107
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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109
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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110
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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111
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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112
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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113
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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114
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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115
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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116
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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