You know that, in some parts of India, infanticide is the common custom. It is part of the religion of the land, as, in other districts, widow-burning used to be. I can’t imagine that ladies like to destroy either themselves or their children, though they submit with bravery, and even cheerfulness, to the decrees of that religion which orders them to make away with their own or their young ones’ lives. Now, suppose you and I, as Europeans, happened to drive up where a young creature was just about to roast herself, under the advice of her family and the highest dignitaries of her church; what could we do? Rescue her? No such thing. We know better than to interfere2 with her, and the laws and usages of her country. We turn away with a sigh from the mournful scene; we pull out our pocket-handkerchiefs, tell coachman to drive on, and leave her to her sad fate.
Now about poor Agnes Twysden: how, in the name of goodness, can we help her? You see she is a well brought up and religious young woman of the Brahminical sect3. If she is to be sacrificed, that old Brahmin her father, that good and devout4 mother, that most special Brahmin her brother, and that admirable girl her strait-laced sister, all insist upon her undergoing the ceremony, and deck her with flowers ere they lead her to that dismal5 altar flame. Suppose, I say, she has made up her mind to throw over poor Philip, and take on with some one else? What sentiment ought our virtuous6 bosoms7 to entertain towards her? Anger? I have just been holding a conversation with a young fellow in rags and without shoes, whose bed is commonly a dry arch, who has been repeatedly in prison, whose father and mother were thieves, and whose grandfathers were thieves; — are we to be angry with him for following the paternal8 profession? With one eye brimming with pity, the other steadily9 keeping watch over the family spoons, I listen to his artless tale. I have no anger against that child; nor towards thee, Agnes, daughter of Talbot the Brahmin.
For though duty is duty, when it comes to the pinch, it is often hard to do. Though dear papa and mamma say that here is a gentleman with ever so many thousands a year, an undoubted part in So-and-So-shire, and whole islands in the western main, who is wildly in love with your fair skin and blue eyes, and is ready to fling all his treasures at your feet; yet, after all, when you consider that he is very ignorant though very cunning; very stingy though very rich; very ill-tempered, probably, if faces and eyes and mouths can tell truth: and as for Philip Firmin — though actually his legitimacy10 is dubious11, as we have lately heard, in which case his maternal12 fortune is ours — and as for his paternal inheritance, we don’t know whether the doctor is worth thirty thousand pounds or a shilling; — yet, after all — as for Philip — he is a man; he is a gentleman; he has brains in his head, and a great honest heart of which he has offered to give the best feelings to his cousin; — I say, when a poor girl has to be off with that old love, that honest and fair love, and be on with the new one, the dark one, I feel for her; and though the Brahmins are, as we know, the most genteel sect in Hindostan, I rather wish the poor child could have belonged to some lower and less rigid13 sect. Poor Agnes! to think that he has sat for hours, with mamma and Blanche or the governess, of course, in the room (for, you know, when she and Philip were quite wee wee things dear mamma had little amiable14 plans in view); has sat for hours by Miss Twysden’s side pouring out his heart to her; has had, mayhap, little precious moments of confidential15 talk — little hasty whispers in corridors, on stairs, behind window curtains, and — and so forth17 in fact. She must remember all this past; and can’t, without some pang18, listen on the same sofa, behind the same window-curtains, to her dark suitor pouring out his artless tales of barracks, boxing, horseflesh, and the tender passion. He is dull, he is mean, he is ill-tempered, he is ignorant, and the other was ...; but she will do her duty: oh, yes! she will do her duty! Poor Agnes! C’est à fendre le coeur. I declare I quite feel for her.
When Philip’s temper was roused, I have been compelled, as his biographer, to own how very rude and disagreeable he could be; and you must acknowledge that a young man has some reason to be displeased19, when he finds the girl of his heart hand in hand with another young gentleman in an occult and shady recess20 of the woodwork of Brighton Pier21. The green waves are softly murmuring: so is the officer of the Life Guards Green. The waves are kissing the beach. Ah, agonizing22 thought! I will not pursue the simile23, which may be but a jealous man’s mad fantasy. Of this I am sure, no pebble24 on that beach is cooler than polished Agnes. But, then, Philip drunk with jealousy25 is not a reasonable being like Philip sober. “He had a dreadful temper,” Philip’s dear aunt said of him afterwards, — “I trembled for my dear, gentle child, united for ever to a man of that violence. Never, in my secret mind, could I think that their union could be a happy one. Besides, you know, the nearness of their relationship. My scruples27 on that score, dear Mrs. Candour, never, never could be quite got over.” And these scruples came to weigh whole tons, when Mangrove28 Hall, the house in Berkeley Square, and Mr. Woolcomb’s West India island were put into the scale along with them.
Of course there was no good in remaining amongst those damp, reeking29 timbers, now that the pretty little tête-à-tête was over. Little Brownie hung fondling and whining30 round Philip’s ankles, as the party ascended31 to the upper air. “My child, how pale you look!” cries Mrs. Penfold, putting down her volume. Out of the captain’s opal eyeballs shot lurid32 flames, and hot blood burned behind his yellow cheeks. In a quarrel, Mr. Philip Firmin could be particularly cool and self-possessed33. When Miss Agnes rather piteously introduced him to Mrs. Penfold, he made a bow as polite and gracious as any performed by his royal father. “My little dog knew me,” he said, caressing34 the animal. “She is a faithful little thing, and she led me down to my cousin; and — Captain Woolcomb, I think, is your name, sir?”
As Philip curls his moustache and smiles blandly35, Captain Woolcomb pulls his and scowls36 fiercely. “Yes, sir,” he mutters, “my name is Woolcomb.” Another bow and a touch of the hat from Mr. Firmin. A touch? — a gracious wave of the hat; acknowledged by no means so gracefully38 by Captain Woolcomb.
To these remarks, Mrs. Penfold says, “Oh!” In fact, “Oh!” is about the best thing that could be said under the circumstances.
“My cousin, Miss Twysden, looks so pale because she was out very late dancing last night. I hear it was a very pretty ball. But ought she to keep such late hours, Mrs. Penfold, with her delicate health? Indeed, you ought not, Agnes! Ought she to keep late hours, Brownie? There — don’t, you little foolish thing! I gave my cousin the dog: and she’s very fond of me — the dog is — still. You were saying, Captain Woolcomb, when I came up, that you would give Miss Twysden a dog on whose nose you could hang your — I beg pardon?”
Mr. Woolcomb, as Philip made this second allusion39 to the peculiar40 nasal formation of the pug, ground his little white teeth together, and let slip a most improper41 monosyllable. More acute bronchial suffering was manifested on the part of Miss Twysden. Mrs. Penfold said, “The day is clouding over. I think, Agnes, I will have my chair, and go home.”
“May I be allowed to walk with you as far as your house?” says Philip, twiddling a little locket which he wore at his watch-chain. It was a little gold locket, with a little pale hair inside. Whose hair could it have been that was so pale and fine? As for the pretty hieroglyphical42 A. T. at the back, those letters might indicate Alfred Tennyson, or Anthony Trollope, who might have given a lock of their golden hair to Philip, for I know he is an admirer of their works.
Agnes looked guiltily at the little locket. Captain Woolcomb pulled his moustache so, that you would have thought he would have pulled it off; and his opal eyes glared with fearful confusion and wrath43.
“Will you please to fall back and let me speak to you, Agnes? Pardon me, Captain Woolcomb, I have a private message for my cousin; and I came from London expressly to deliver it.”
“If Miss Twysden desires me to withdraw, I fall back in one moment,” says the captain, clenching44 the little lemon-coloured gloves.
“My cousin and I have lived together all our lives, and I bring her a family message. Have you any particular claim to hear it, Captain Woolcomb?”
“Not if Miss Twysden don’t want me hear it. ... D— the little brute45.”
“Don’t kick poor little harmless Brownie! He shan’t kick you, shall he, Brownie?”
“If the brute comes between my shins, I’ll kick her!” shrieks46 the captain. “Hang her, I’ll throw her into the sea!”
“Whatever you do to my dog, I swear I will do to you!” whispers Philip to the captain.
“Where are you staying?” shrieks the captain. “Hang you, you shall hear from me.”
“Quiet — Bedford Hotel. Easy, or I shall think you want the ladies to overhear.”
“Your conduct is horrible, sir,” says Agnes, rapidly, in the French language. “Mr. does not comprehend it.”
“ — it! If you have any secrets to talk, I’ll withdraw fast enough, Miss Agnes,” says Othello.
“Oh, Grenville! can I have any secrets from you? Mr. Firmin is my first-cousin. We have lived together all our lives. Philip, I— I don’t know whether mamma announced to you my — my engagement with Captain Grenville Woolcomb.” The agitation47 has brought on another severe bronchial attack. Poor, poor little Agnes! What it is to have a delicate throat!
The pier tosses up to the skies, as though it had left its moorings — the houses on the cliff dance and reel, as though an earthquake was driving them — the sea walks up into the lodging-houses — and Philip’s legs are failing from under him: it is only for a moment. When you have a large, tough double tooth out, doesn’t the chair go up to the ceiling, and your head come off too? But, in the next instant, there is a grave gentleman before you, making you a bow, and concealing48 something in his right sleeve. The crash is over. You are a man again. Philip clutches hold of the chain pier for a minute: it does not sink under him. The houses, after reeling for a second or two, reassume the perpendicular49, and bulge50 their bow windows towards the main. He can see the people looking from the windows, the carriages passing, Professor Spurrier riding on the cliff with eighteen young ladies, his pupils. In long after days he remembers those absurd little incidents with a curious tenacity51.
“This news, “Philip says, “was not — not altogether unexpected. I congratulate my cousin, I am sure. Captain Woolcomb, had I known this for certain, I am sure I should not have interrupted you. You were going, perhaps, to ask me to your hospitable52 house, Mrs. Penfold?”
“Was she though?” cries the captain.
“I have asked a friend to dine with me at the Bedford, and shall go to town, I hope, in the morning. Can I take anything for you, Agnes? Good-by:” and he kisses his hand in quite a dégagé manner, as Mrs. Penfold’s chair turns eastward53 and he goes to the west. Silently the tall Agnes sweeps along, a fair hand laid upon her friend’s chair.
It’s over! it’s over! She has done it. He was bound, and kept his honour, but she did not: it was she who forsook54 him. And I fear very much Mr. Philip’s heart leaps with pleasure and an immense sensation of relief at thinking he is free. He meets half a dozen acquaintances on the cliff. He laughs, jokes, shakes hands, invites two or three to dinner in the gayest manner. He sits down on that green, not very far from his inn, and is laughing to himself, when he suddenly feels something nestling at his knee, — rubbing, and nestling, and whining plaintively55. “What, is that you?” It is little Brownie, who has followed him. Poor little rogue56!
Then Philip bent57 down his head over the dog, and as it jumped on him, with little bleats58, and whines59, and innocent caresses60, he broke out into a sob26, and a great refreshing61 rain of tears fell from his eyes. Such a little illness! Such a mild fever! Such a speedy cure! Some people have the complaint so mildly that they are scarcely ever kept to their beds. Some bear its scars for ever.
Philip sat resolutely62 at the hotel all night, having given special orders to the porter to say that he was at home, in case any gentleman should call. He had a faint hope, he afterwards owned, that some friend of Captain Woolcomb might wait on him on that officer’s part. He had a faint hope that a letter might come explaining that treason, — as people will have a sick, gnawing63, yearning64, foolish desire for letters — letters which contain nothing, which never did contain anything — letters which, nevertheless, you — You know, in fact, about those letters, and there is no earthly use in asking to read Philip’s . Have we not all read those love-letters which, after love-quarrels, come into court sometimes? We have all read them; and how many have written them? Nine o’clock. Ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock. No challenge from the captain; no explanation from Agnes. Philip declares he slept perfectly65 well. But poor little Brownie the dog made a piteous howling all night in the stables. She was not a well-bred dog. You could not have hung the least hat on her nose.
We compared anon our dear Agnes to a Brahmin lady, meekly66 offering herself up to sacrifice according to the practice used in her highly respectable caste. Did we speak in anger or in sorrow? — surely in terms of respectful grief and sympathy. And if we pity her, ought we not likewise to pity her highly respectable parents? When the notorious Brutus ordered his sons to execution, you can’t suppose he was such a brute as to be pleased? All three parties suffered by the transaction: the sons, probably, even more than their austere67 father; but it stands to reason that the whole trio were very melancholy68. At least, were I a poet or musical composer depicting69 that business, I certainly should make them so:— the sons, piping in a very minor70 key indeed; the father’s manly71 basso, accompanied by deep wind instruments, and interrupted by appropriate sobs72. Though pretty fair Agnes is being led to execution, I don’t suppose she likes it, or that her parents are happy, who are compelled to order the tragedy.
That the rich young proprietor74 of Mangrove Hall should be fond of her, was merely a coincidence, Mrs. Twysden afterwards always averred76. Not for mere75 wealth — ah, no! not for mines of gold — would they sacrifice their darling child. But when that sad Firmin affair happened, you see it also happened that Captain Woolcomb was much struck by dear Agnes, whom he met everywhere. Her scapegrace of a cousin would go nowhere. He preferred his bachelor associates, and horrible smoking and drinking habits, to the amusements and pleasures of more refined society. He neglected Agnes. There is not the slightest doubt he neglected and mortified77 her, and his wilful78 and frequent absence showed how little he cared for her. Would you blame the dear girl for coldness to a man who himself showed such indifference79 to her? “No, my good Mrs. Candour. Had Mr. Firmin been ten times as rich as Mr. Woolcomb, I should have counselled my child to refuse him. I take the responsibility of the measure entirely80 on myself — I, and her father, and her brother.” So Mrs. Twysden afterwards spoke81, in circles where an absurd and odious82 rumour83 ran, that the Twysdens had forced their daughter to jilt young Mr. Firmin in order to marry a young quadroon. People will talk, you know, de me, de te. If Woolcomb’s dinners had not gone off so after his marriage, I have little doubt the scandal would have died away, and he and his wife might have been pretty generally respected and visited.
Nor must you suppose, as we have said, that dear Agnes gave up her first love without a pang. That bronchitis showed how acutely the poor thing felt her position. It broke out very soon after Mr. Woolcomb’s attentions became a little particular; and she actually left London in consequence. It is true that he could follow her without difficulty, but so, for the matter of that, could Philip, as we have seen, when he came down and behaved so rudely to Captain Woolcomb. And before Philip came, poor Agnes could plead, “My father pressed me sair,” as in the case of the notorious Mrs. Robin84 Gray.
Father and mother both pressed her sair. Mrs. Twysden, I think I have mentioned, wrote an admirable letter, and was aware of her accomplishment85. She used to write reams of gossip regularly every week to dear uncle Ringwood when he was in the country: and when her daughter Blanche married, she is said to have written several of her new son’s sermons. As a Christian87 mother, was she not to give her daughter her advice at this momentous88 period of her life? That advice went against poor Philip’s chances with his cousin, who was kept acquainted with all the circumstances of the controversy89 of which we have just seen the issue. I do not mean to say that Mrs. Twysden gave an impartial90 statement of case. What parties in a lawsuit91 do speak impartily on their own side or their adversaries’? Mrs. Twysden’s view, as I have learned subsequently, and as imparted to her daughter, was this:— That most unprincipled man, Dr. Firmin, who had already attempted, and unjustly, to deprive the Twysdens of a part of their property, had commenced in quite early life his career of outrage92 and wickedness against the Ringwood family. He had led dear Lord Ringwood’s son, poor dear Lord Cinqbars, into a career of vice1 and extravagance which caused the premature93 death of that unfortunate young nobleman. Mr. Firmin had then made a marriage, in spite of the tears and entreaties94 of Mrs. Twysden, with her late unhappy sister, whose whole life had been made wretched by the doctor’s conduct. But the climax95 of outrage and wickedness was, that when he — he, a low, penniless adventurer — married Colonel Ringwood’s daughter, he was married already, as could be sworn by the repentant96 clergyman who had been forced, by threats of punishment which Dr. Firmin held over him, to perform the rite86! “The mind” — Mrs. Talbot Twysden’s fine mind — “shuddered at the thought of such wickedness.” But most of all (for to think ill of any one whom she had once loved gave her pain) there was reason to believe that the unhappy Philip Firmin was his father’s accomplice97, and that he knew of his own illegitimacy, which he was determined98 to set aside by any fraud or artifice99 — (she trembled, she wept to have to say this: O heaven! that there should be such perversity100 in thy creatures!) And so little store did Philip set by his mother’s honour, that he actually visited the abandoned woman who acquiesced101 in her own infamy102, and had brought such unspeakable disgrace on the Ringwood family! The thought of this crime had caused Mrs. Twysden and her dear husband nights of sleepless103 anguish104 — had made them years and years older — had stricken their hearts with a grief which must endure to the end of their days. With people so unscrupulous, so grasping, so artful as Dr. Firmin and (must she say?) his son, they were bound to be on their guard; and though they had avoided Philip, she had deemed it right, on the rare occasions when she and the young man whom she must now call her illegitimate nephew met, to behave as though she knew nothing of this most dreadful controversy.
“And now, dearest child” ... Surely the moral is obvious? The dearest child “must see at once that any foolish plans which were formed in childish days and under former delusions105 must be cast aside for ever as impossible, as unworthy of a Twysden — of a Ringwood. Be not concerned for the young man himself,” wrote Mrs. Twysden — “I blush that he should bear that dear father’s name who was slain107 in honour on Busaco’s glorious field. P. F. has associates amongst whom he has ever been much more at home than in our refined circle, and habits which will cause him to forget you only too easily. And if near you is one whose ardour shows itself in his every word and action, whose wealth and property may raise you to a place worthy106 of my child, need I say, a mother’s , a father’s blessing108 go with you.” This letter was brought to Miss Twysden, at Brighton, by a special messenger; and the superscription announced that it was “honoured by Captain Grenville Woolcomb.”
Now when Miss Agnes has had a letter to this effect, from a mother in whose prudence109 and affection a child could surely confide16; when she remembers all the abuse her brother lavishes110 against Philip, as, heaven bless some of them! dear relatives can best do; when she thinks how cold he has of late been — how he will come smelling of cigars — how he won’t conform to the usages du monde, and has neglected all the decencies of society — how she often can’t understand his strange rhapsodies about poetry, painting, and the like, nor how he can live with such associates as those who seem to delight him — and now how he is showing himself actually unprincipled and abetting111 his horrid112 father; when we consider mither pressing sair, and all these points in mither’s favour, I don’t think we can order Agnes to instant execution for the resolution to which she is coming. She will give him up — she will give him up. Good-by, Philip. Good-by the past. Be forgotten, be forgotten, fond words spoken in not unwilling113 ears! Be still and breathe not, eager lips, that have trembled so near to one another! Unlock, hands, and part for ever, that seemed to be formed for life’s long journey! Ah, to part for ever is hard; but harder and more humiliating still to part without regret!
That papa and mamma had influenced Miss Twysden in her behaviour my wife and I could easily imagine, when Philip, in his wrath and grief, came to us and poured out the feelings of his heart. My wife is a repository of men’s secrets, and untiring consoler and comforter; and she knows many a sad story which we are not at liberty to tell, like this one of which this person, Mr. Firmin, has given us possession.
“Father and mother’s orders,” shouts Philip, “I daresay, Mrs. Pendennis; but the wish was father to the thought of parting, and it was for the blackamoor’s parks and acres that the girl jilted me. Look here. I told you just now that I slept perfectly well on that infernal night after I had said farewell to her. Well, I didn’t. It was a lie. I walked ever so many times the whole length of the cliff, from Hove to Rottingdean almost, and then went to bed afterwards, and slept a little out of sheer fatigue114. And as I was passing by Horizontal Place ( — I happened to pass by there two or three times in the moonlight, like a great jackass — ) you know those verses of mine which I have hummed here sometimes?” (hummed! he used to roar them!) “‘When the locks of burnished115 gold, lady, shall to silver turn!’ Never mind the rest. You know the verses about fidelity116 and old age? She was singing them on that night, to that negro. And I heard the beggar’s voice say, ‘Bravo!’ through the open windows.”
“Ah, Philip! it was cruel,” says my wife, heartily117 pitying our friend’s anguish and misfortune. “It was cruel indeed. I am sure we can feel for you. But think what certain misery118 a marriage with such a person would have been! Think of your warm heart given away for ever to that heartless creature.”
“Laura, Laura, have you not often warned me not to speak ill of people?” says Laura’s husband.
“I can’t help it sometimes,” cries Laura in a transport. “I try and do my best not to speak ill of my neighbours; but the worldliness of those people shocks me so that I can’t bear to be near them. They are so utterly119 tied and bound by conventionalities, so perfectly convinced of their own excessive high-breeding, that they seem to me more odious and more vulgar than quite low people; and I am sure Mr. Philip’s friend, the Little Sister, is infinitely120 more ladylike than his dreary121 aunt or either of his supercilious122 cousins!” Upon my word, when this lady did speak her mind, there was no mistaking her meaning.
I believe Mr. Firmin took a considerable number of people into his confidence regarding this love affair. He is one of those individuals who can’t keep their secrets; and when hurt he roars so loudly that all his friends can hear. It has been remarked that the sorrows of such persons do not endure very long; nor surely was there any great need in this instance that Philip’s heart should wear a lengthened123 mourning. Ere long he smoked his pipes, he played his billiards124, he shouted his songs; he rode in the Park for the pleasure of severely125 cutting his aunt and cousins when their open carriage passed, or of riding down Captain Woolcomb or his cousin Ringwood, should either of those worthies126 come in his way.
One day, when the old Lord Ringwood came to town for his accustomed spring visit, Philip condescended127 to wait upon him, and was announced to his lordship just as Talbot Twysden and Ringwood his son were taking leave of their noble kinsman128. Philip looked at them with a flashing eye and a distended129 nostril130, according to his swaggering wont131. I daresay they on their part bore a very mean and hangdog appearance; for my lord laughed at their discomfiture132, and seemed immensely amused as they slunk out of the door when Philip came hectoring in.
“So, sir, there has been a family row. Heard all about it: at least, their side. Your father did me the favour to marry my niece, having another wife already?”
“Having no other wife already, sir — though my dear relations wish to show that he had.”
“Wanted your money; thirty thousand pounds is not a trifle. Ten thousand apiece for those children. And no more need of any confounded pinching and scraping, as they have to do at Beaunash Street. Affair off between you and Agnes? Absurd affair. So much the better.”
“Yes, sir, so much the better.”
“Have ten thousand apiece. Would have twenty thousand if they got yours. Quite natural to want it.”
“Quite.”
“Woolcomb a sort of negro, I understand. Fine property here: besides the West India rubbish. Violent man — so people tell me. Luckily Agnes seems a cool, easy-going woman, and must put up with the rough as well as the smooth in marrying a property like that. Very lucky for you that that woman persists there was no marriage with your father. Twysden says the doctor bribed134 her. Take it he’s not got much money to bribe133, unless you gave some of yours.”
“I don’t bribe people to bear false witness, my lord — and if —
“Don’t be in a huff; I didn’t say so. Twysden says so — perhaps thinks so. When people are at law they believe anything of one another.”
“I don’t know what other people may do, sir. If I had another man’s money, I should not be easy until I had paid him back. Had my share of my grandfather’s property not been lawfully135 mine — and for a few hours I thought it was not — please God, I would have given it up to its rightful owners — at least, my father would.”
“Why, hang it all, man, you don’t mean to say your father has not settled with you?”
Philip blushed a little. He had been rather surprised that there had been no settlement between him and his father.
“I am only of age a few months, sir. I am not under any apprehension136. I get my dividends138 regularly enough. One of my grandfather’s trustees, General Baynes, is in India. He is to return almost immediately, or we should have sent a power of attorney out to him. There’s no hurry about the business.”
Philip’s maternal grandfather, and Lord Ringwood’s brother, the late Colonel Philip Ringwood, had died possessed of but trifling139 property of his own; but his wife had brought him a fortune of sixty thousand pounds, which was settled on their children, and in the names of trustees — Mr. Briggs, a lawyer, and Colonel Baynes, an East India officer, and friend of Mrs. Philip Ringwood’s family. Colonel Baynes had been in England some eight years before; and Philip remembered a kind old gentleman coming to see him at school, and leaving tokens of his bounty140 behind. The other trustee, Mr. Briggs, a lawyer of considerable county reputation, was dead long since, having left his affairs in an involved condition. During the trustee’s absence and the son’s minority, Philip’s father received the dividends on his son’s property, and liberally spent them on the boy, Indeed, I believe that for some little time at college, and during his first journeys abroad, Mr. Philip spent rather more than the income of his maternal inheritance, being freely supplied by his father, who told him not to stint141 himself. He was a sumptuous142 man, Dr.Firmin — openhanded — subscribing143 to many charities — a lover of solemn good cheer. The doctor’s dinners and the doctor’s equipages were models in their way; and I remember the sincere respect with which my uncle the major (the family guide in such matters) used to speak of Dr. Firmin’s taste. “No duchess in London, sir,” he would say, “drove better horses than Mrs. Firmin. Sir George Warrender, sir, could not give a better dinner, sir, than that to which we sat down yesterday.” And for the exercise of these civic144 virtues145 the doctor had the hearty146 respect of the good major.
“Don’t tell me, sir,” on the other hand, Lord Ringwood would say; “I dined with the fellow once — a swaggering fellow, sir; but a servile fellow. The way he bowed and flattered was perfectly absurd. Those fellows think we like it — and we may. Even at my age, I like flattery — any quantity of it; and not what you call delicate, but strong, sir. I like a man to kneel down and kiss my shoestrings147. I have my own opinion of him afterwards, but that is what I like — what all men like; and that is what Firmin gave in quantities. But you could see that his house was monstrously148 expensive. His dinner was excellent, and you saw it was good every day — not like your dinners, my good Maria; not like your wines, Twysden, which, hang it, I can’t swallow, unless I send ’em in myself. Even at my own house, I don’t give that kind of wine on common occasions which Firmin used to give. I drink the best myself, of course, and give it to some who know; but I don’t give it to common fellows, who come to hunting dinners, or to girls and boys who are dancing at my balls.”
“Yes; Mr. Firmin’s dinners were very handsome — and a pretty end came of the handsome dinners!” sighed Mrs. Twysden.
“That’s not the question; I am only speaking about the fellow’s meat and drink, and they were both good. And it’s my opinion, that fellow will have a good dinner wherever he goes.”
I had the fortune to be present at one of these feasts, which Lord Ringwood attended, and at which I met Philip’s trustee, General Baynes, who had just arrived from India. I remember now the smallest details of the little dinner, — the brightness of the old plate, on which the doctor prided himself, and the quiet comfort, not to say splendour, of the entertainment. The general seemed to take a great liking149 to Philip, whose grandfather had been his special friend and comrade in arms. He thought he saw something of Philip Ringwood in Philip Firmin’s face.
“Ah, indeed!” growls150 Lord Ringwood.
“You ain’t a bit like him,” says the downright general. “Never saw a handsomer or more openlooking fellow than Philip Ringwood.”
“Oh! I daresay I looked pretty open myself forty years ago,” said my lord; “now I’m shut, I suppose. I don’t see the least likeness151 in this young man to my brother.”
“That is some sherry as old as the century,” whispers the host; “it is the same the Prince Regent liked so at a Mansion152 House dinner, five-and-twenty years ago.”
“Never knew anything about wine; was always tippling liqueurs and punch. What do you give for this sherry, doctor?”
The doctor sighed, and looked up to the chandelier. “Drink it while it lasts, my good lord; but don’t ask me the price. The fact is, I don’t like to say what I gave for it.”
“You need not stint yourself in the price of sherry, doctor,” cries the general gaily153; “you have but one son, and he has a fortune of his own, as I happen to know. You haven’t dipped it, master Philip?”
“I fear, sir, I may have exceeded my income sometimes, in the last three years; but my father has helped me.”
“Exceeded nine hundred a-year! Upon my word! When I was a sub, my friends gave me fifty pounds a year, and I never was a shilling in debt! What are men coming to now?”
“If doctors drink Prince Regent’s sherry at ten guineas a dozen, what can you expect of their sons, General Baynes?” grumbles154 my lord.
“My father gives you his best, my lord,” says Philip gaily; “if you know of any better, he will get it for you. Si non, his utere mecum! Please to pass me that decanter, Pen!”
I thought the old lord did not seem ill pleased at the young man’s freedom; and now, as I recal it, think I can remember, that a peculiar silence and anxiety seemed to weigh upon our host — upon him whose face was commonly so anxious and sad.
The famous sherry, which had made many voyages to Indian climes before it acquired its exquisite155 flavour, had travelled some three or four times round the doctor’s polished table, when Brice, his man, entered with a letter on his silver tray. Perhaps Philip’s eyes and mine exchanged glances in which ever so small a scintilla156 of mischief157 might sparkle. The doctor often had letters when he was entertaining his friends; and his patients had a knack158 of falling ill at awkward times.
“Gracious heavens!” cries the doctor, when he read the despatch159 — it was a telegraphic message. “The poor Grand Duke!”
“What Grand Duke?” asks the surly lord of Ringwood.
“My earliest patron and friend — the Grand Duke of Groningen! Seized this morning at eleven at Potzendorff! Has sent for me. I promised to go to him if ever he had need of me. I must go! I can save the night-train yet. General! our visit to city must be deferred160 till my return. Get a portmanteau, Brice; and call a cab at once. Philip will entertain my friends for the evening. My dear lord, you won’t mind an old doctor leaving you to attend an old patient? I will write from Groningen. I shall be there on Friday morning. Farewell, gentlemen! Brice, another bottle of that sherry! I pray, don’t let anybody stir! God bless you, Philip, my boy!” And with this the doctor went up, took his son by the hand, and laid the other very kindly161 on the young man’s shoulder. Then he made a bow round the table to his guests — one of his graceful37 bows, for which he was famous. I can see the sad smile on his face now, and the light from the chandelier over the dining-table glancing from his shining forehead, and casting deep shadows on to his cheek from his heavy brows.
The departure was a little abrupt162, and, of course, cast somewhat of a gloom upon the company.
“My carriage ain’t ordered till ten — must go on sitting here, I suppose. Confounded life doctor’s must be! Called up any hour in the night! Get their fees! Must go!” growled163 the great man of the party.
“People are glad enough to have them when they are ill, my lord. I think I have heard that once, when you were at Ryde — ”
The great man started back as if a little shock of cold water had fallen on him; and then looked at Philip with not unfriendly glances. “Treated for gout — so he did. Very well, too!” said my lord; and whispered, not inaudibly, “Cool hand, that boy!” And then his lordship fell to talk with General Baynes about his campaigning, and his early acquaintance with his own brother, Philip’s grandfather.
The general did not care to brag164 about his own feats165 of arms, but was loud in praises of his old comrade. Philip was pleased to hear his grandsire so well spoken of. The general had known Dr. Firmin’s father also, who likewise had been a colonel in the famous old Peninsular army. “A Tartar that fellow was, and no mistake!” said the good officer. “Your father has a strong look of him; and you have a glance of him at times. But you remind me of Philip Ringwood not a little; and you could not belong to a better man.”
“Ha!” says my lord. There has been differences between him and his brother. He may have been thinking of days when they were friends. Lord Ringwood now graciously asked if General Baynes was staying in London? But the general had only come to do this piece of business, which must now be delayed. He was too poor to live in London. He must look out for a country place, where he and his children could live cheaply. “Three boys at school, and one at college, Mr. Philip — you know what that must cost; though, thank my stars, my college boy does not spend nine hundred a year. Nine hundred! Where should we be if he did?” In fact, the days of nabobs are long over, and the general had come back to his native country with only very small means for the support of a great family.
When my lord’s carriage came, he departed, and the other guests presently took their leave. The general, who was a bachelor for the nonce, remained awhile, and we three prattled166 over cheroots in Philip’s smokingroom. It was a night like a hundred I have spent there, and yet how well I remember it! We talked about Philip’s future prospects167, and he communicated his intentions to us in his lordly way. As for practising at the bar: No, sir! he said, in reply to General Baynes’ queries168, he should not make much hand of that: shouldn’t if he were ever so poor. He had his own money, and his father’s , and he condescended to say that he might, perhaps, try for Parliament, should an eligible169 opportunity offer. “Here’s a fellow born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” says the general, as we walked away together. “A fortune to begin with; a fortune to inherit. My fortune was two thousand pounds and the price of my two first commissions; and when I die my children will not be quite so well off as their father was when he began!”
Having parted with the old officer at his modest sleeping quarters near his club, I walked to my own home, little thinking that yonder cigar, of which I had shaken some of ashes in Philip’s smoking-room, was to be the last tobacco I ever should smoke there. The pipe was smoked out. The wine was drunk. When that door closed on me, it closed for the last time — at least, was never more to admit me as Philip’s , as Dr. Firmin’s, guest and friend. I pass the place often now. My youth comes back to me as I gaze at those blank, shining windows. I see myself a boy, and Philip a child; and his fair mother; and his father, the hospitable, the melancholy, the magnificent. I wish I could have helped him. I wish somehow he had borrowed money. He never did. He gave me his often. I have never seen him since that night when his own door closed upon him.
On the second day after the doctor’s departure, as I was at breakfast with my family, I received the following letter:—
My dear Pendennis,
Could I have seen you in private on Tuesday night, I might have warned you of the calamity170 which was hanging over my house. But to what good end? That you should know a few weeks, hours before, what all the world will ring with to-morrow? Neither you nor I, nor one whom we both love, would have been the happier for knowing my misfortunes a few hours sooner. In four-and-twenty hours every club in London will be busy with talk of the departure of the celebrated171 Dr. Firmin — the wealthy Dr. Firmin; a few months more and (I have strict and confidential reason to believe) hereditary172 rank would have been mine, but Sir George Firmin would have been an insolvent173 man, and his son Sir Philip a beggar. Perhaps the thought of this honour has been one of the reasons which has determined me on expatriating myself sooner than I otherwise needed to have done.
George Firmin, the honoured, the wealthy physician, and his son a beggar? I see you are startled at the news! You wonder how, with a great practice, and no great ostensible174 expenses, such ruin should have come upon me — upon him. It has seemed as if for years past Fate has been determined to make war upon George Brand Firmin; and who can battle against Fate? A man universally admitted to be of good judgment175, I have embarked176 in mercantile speculations177 the most promising178. Everything upon which I laid my hand has crumbled179 to ruin; but I can say with the Roman bard180, “Impavidum ferient ruin?.” And, almost penniless, almost aged73, an exile driven from my country, I seek another where I do not despair — I even have a firm belief that I small be enabled to repair my shattered fortunes! My race has never been deficient181 in courage, and Philip and Philip’s father must use all theirs, so as to be enabled to face the dark times which menace them. Si celeres quatit pennas Fortuna, we must resign what she gave us, and bear our calamity with unshaken hearts!
There is a man, I own to you, whom I cannot, I must not face. General Baynes has just come from India, with but very small savings182, I fear; and these are jeopardized183 by his imprudence and my most cruel and unexpected misfortune. I need not tell you that my all would have been my boy’s . My will, made long since, will be found in the tortoiseshell secretaire standing184 in my consulting-room under the picture of Abraham offering up Isaac. In it you will see that everything, except annuities185 to old and deserving servants and a legacy186 to one excellent and faithful woman whom I own I have wronged — my all, which once was considerable, is left to my boy.
I am now worth less than nothing, and have compromised Philip’s property along with my own. As a man of business, General Baynes, Colonel Ringwood’s old companion in arms, was culpably187 careless, and I— alas188! that I must own it — deceived him. Being the only surviving trustee (Mrs. Philip Ringwood’s other trustee was an unprincipled attorney who has been long dead), General B. signed a paper authorizing189, as he imagined, my bankers to receive Philip’s dividends, but, in fact, giving me the power to dispose of the capital sum. On my honour, as a man, as a gentleman, as a father, Pendcnnis, I hoped to replace it! I took it; I embarked it in speculations in which it sank down with ten times the amount of my own private property. Half-year after halfyear, with straitened means and with the greatest difficulty to myself, my poor boy has had his dividend137; and he at least has never known what was want or anxiety until now. Want? Anxiety? Pray heaven he never may suffer the sleepless anguish, the racking care which has pursued me! “Post equitem sedet atra cura,” our favourite poet says. Ah! how truly, too, does he remark, “Patri? quis exul se quoque fugit?” Think you where I go grief and remorse190 will not follow me? They will never leave me until I shall return to this country — for that I shall return, my heart tells me — until I can reimburse191 General Baynes, who stands indebted to Philip through his incautiousness and my overpowering necessity; and my heart — an erring192 but fond father’s heart — tells me that my boy will not eventually lose a penny by my misfortune.
I own, between ourselves, that this illness of the Grand Duke of Groningen was a pretext193 which I put forward. You will hear of me cre long from the place whither for some time past I have determined on bending my steps. I placed 2001. on Saturday, to Philip’s credit, at his banker’s I take little more than that sum with me; depressed194, yet full of hope; having done wrong, yet determined to retrieve195 it, and vowing196 that ere I die my poor boy shall not have to blush at bearing the name of
George Brand Firmin.
Good-by, dear Philip! Your old friend will tell you of my misfortunes. When I write again, it will be to tell you where to address me; and wherever I am, or whatever misfortunes oppress me, think of me always as your fond.
Father.
I had scarce read this awful letter when Philip Firmin himself came into our breakfast-room, looking very much disturbed.
收听单词发音 |
1
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
interfere
|
|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
sect
|
|
| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
devout
|
|
| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
bosoms
|
|
| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
paternal
|
|
| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
steadily
|
|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
legitimacy
|
|
| n.合法，正当 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
dubious
|
|
| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
maternal
|
|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
rigid
|
|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
confidential
|
|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
confide
|
|
| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
displeased
|
|
| a.不快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
recess
|
|
| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
pier
|
|
| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
agonizing
|
|
| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
simile
|
|
| n.直喻，明喻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
pebble
|
|
| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
sob
|
|
| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
scruples
|
|
| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
mangrove
|
|
| n.(植物)红树，红树林 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
reeking
|
|
| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
whining
|
|
| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
ascended
|
|
| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
lurid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
caressing
|
|
| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
blandly
|
|
| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
scowls
|
|
| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
gracefully
|
|
| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
improper
|
|
| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
hieroglyphical
|
|
| n.象形文字，象形文字的文章 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
43
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
clenching
|
|
| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
shrieks
|
|
| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
concealing
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
perpendicular
|
|
| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
bulge
|
|
| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
tenacity
|
|
| n.坚韧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
hospitable
|
|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
eastward
|
|
| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
forsook
|
|
| forsake的过去式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
plaintively
|
|
| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
rogue
|
|
| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
bleats
|
|
| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的第三人称单数 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
whines
|
|
| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
caresses
|
|
| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
refreshing
|
|
| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
resolutely
|
|
| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
gnawing
|
|
| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
meekly
|
|
| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
austere
|
|
| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
depicting
|
|
| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
minor
|
|
| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
sobs
|
|
| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
aged
|
|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
proprietor
|
|
| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
averred
|
|
| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
mortified
|
|
| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
wilful
|
|
| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
rumour
|
|
| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
robin
|
|
| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
accomplishment
|
|
| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
rite
|
|
| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
momentous
|
|
| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
controversy
|
|
| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
impartial
|
|
| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
lawsuit
|
|
| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
outrage
|
|
| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
premature
|
|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
entreaties
|
|
| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
climax
|
|
| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
repentant
|
|
| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
accomplice
|
|
| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
artifice
|
|
| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
perversity
|
|
| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
acquiesced
|
|
| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
infamy
|
|
| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
sleepless
|
|
| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
delusions
|
|
| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
slain
|
|
| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
blessing
|
|
| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
prudence
|
|
| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
lavishes
|
|
| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
abetting
|
|
| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的现在分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
burnished
|
|
| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
fidelity
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
infinitely
|
|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
supercilious
|
|
| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
lengthened
|
|
| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
billiards
|
|
| n.台球 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
severely
|
|
| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
worthies
|
|
| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
condescended
|
|
| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
kinsman
|
|
| n.男亲属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
distended
|
|
| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
nostril
|
|
| n.鼻孔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
discomfiture
|
|
| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
bribe
|
|
| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
bribed
|
|
| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
lawfully
|
|
| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
apprehension
|
|
| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
dividend
|
|
| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
dividends
|
|
| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
trifling
|
|
| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
bounty
|
|
| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
stint
|
|
| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
sumptuous
|
|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
subscribing
|
|
| v.捐助( subscribe的现在分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
civic
|
|
| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
virtues
|
|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
shoestrings
|
|
| n.以极少的钱( shoestring的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
monstrously
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
growls
|
|
| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
likeness
|
|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
mansion
|
|
| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
gaily
|
|
| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
grumbles
|
|
| 抱怨( grumble的第三人称单数 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
scintilla
|
|
| n.极少，微粒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
knack
|
|
| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
despatch
|
|
| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
deferred
|
|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
growled
|
|
| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
brag
|
|
| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
feats
|
|
| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
prattled
|
|
| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
prospects
|
|
| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
queries
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
eligible
|
|
| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
calamity
|
|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
hereditary
|
|
| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
insolvent
|
|
| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
ostensible
|
|
| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
embarked
|
|
| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
speculations
|
|
| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
promising
|
|
| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
crumbled
|
|
| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
bard
|
|
| n.吟游诗人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
deficient
|
|
| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
savings
|
|
| n.存款，储蓄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
jeopardized
|
|
| 危及，损害( jeopardize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
annuities
|
|
| n.养老金；年金( annuity的名词复数 )；（每年的）养老金；年金保险；年金保险投资 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
legacy
|
|
| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
culpably
|
|
| adv.该罚地，可恶地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
188
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
authorizing
|
|
| 授权，批准，委托( authorize的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
reimburse
|
|
| v.补偿，付还 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
erring
|
|
| 做错事的，错误的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
193
pretext
|
|
| n.借口，托词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
retrieve
|
|
| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
vowing
|
|
| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |