What there was in her of good shall be set down with honesty; and indeed there was much in her that was good. She was energetic, full of resources, very brave, constant, devoted4 to the interests of the poor creature whose name she bore, and by no means a fool. She was utterly5 unscrupulous, dishonest, a liar6, cruel, hard as a nether7 mill-stone to all the world except Lieutenant8 Brumby,—harder to him than to all the world besides when he made any faintest attempt at rebellion,—and as far as we could judge, absolutely without conscience. Had she been a man and had circumstances favoured her, she might have been a prime minister, or an archbishop, or a chief justice. We intend no silly satire9 on present or past holders10 of the great offices indicated; but we think that they have generally been achieved by such{325} a combination of intellect, perseverance11, audacity12, and readiness as that which Mrs. Brumby certainly possessed13. And that freedom from the weakness of scruple,—which in men who have risen in public life we may perhaps call adaptability14 to compromise,—was in her so strong, that had she been a man, she would have trimmed her bark to any wind that blew, and certainly have sailed into some port. But she was a woman,—and the ports were not open to her.
Those ports were not open to her which had she been a man would have been within her reach; but,—fortunately for us and for the world at large as to the general question, though so very unfortunately as regarded this special case,—the port of literature is open to women. It seems to be the only really desirable harbour to which a female captain can steer15 her vessel16 with much hope of success. There are the Fine Arts, no doubt. There seems to be no reason why a woman should not paint as well as Titian. But they don’t. With the pen they hold their own, and certainly run a better race against men on that course than on any other. Mrs. Brumby, who was very desirous of running a race and winning a place, and who had seen all this, put on her cap, and jacket, and boots, chose her colours, and entered her name. Why,{326} oh why, did she select the course upon which we, wretched we, were bound by our duties to regulate the running?
We may as well say at once that though Mrs. Brumby might have made a very good prime minister, she could not write a paper for a magazine, or produce literary work of any description that was worth paper and ink. We feel sure that we may declare without hesitation17 that no perseverance on her part, no labour however unswerving, no training however long, would have enabled her to do in a fitting manner even a review for the “Literary Curricle.” There was very much in her, but that was not in her. We find it difficult to describe the special deficiency under which she laboured;—but it existed and was past remedy. As a man suffering from a chronic18 stiff joint19 cannot run, and cannot hope to run, so was it with her. She could not combine words so as to make sentences, or sentences so as to make paragraphs. She did not know what style meant. We believe that had she ever read, Johnson, Gibbon, Archdeacon Coxe, Mr. Grote, and Macaulay would have been all the same to her. And yet this woman chose literature as her profession, and clung to it for awhile with a persistence20 which brought her nearer to the rewards of success than{327} many come who are at all points worthy21 to receive them.
We have said that she was not a young woman when we knew her. We cannot fancy her to have been ever young. We cannot bring our imagination to picture to ourselves the person of Mrs. Brumby surrounded by the advantages of youth. When we knew her she may probably have been forty or forty-five, and she then possessed a rigidity23 of demeanour and a sternness of presence which we think must have become her better than any softer guise24 or more tender phase of manner could ever have done in her earlier years. There was no attempt about her to disguise or modify her sex, such as women have made since those days. She talked much about her husband, the lieutenant, and she wore a double roll of very stiff dark brown curls on each side of her face,—or rather over her brows,—which would not have been worn by a woman meaning to throw off as far as possible her femininity. Whether those curls were or were not artificial we never knew. Our male acquaintances who saw her used to swear that they were false, but a lady who once saw her, assured us that they were real. She told us that there is a kind of hair growing on the heads of some women, thick, short, crisp, and shiny,{328} which will maintain its curl unbroken and unruffled for days. She told us, also, that women blessed with such hair are always pachy-dermatous and strong-minded. Such certainly was the character of Mrs. Brumby. She was a tall, thin woman, not very tall or very thin. For aught that we can remember, her figure may have been good;—but we do remember well that she never seemed to us to have any charm of womanhood. There was a certain fire in her dark eyes,—eyes which were, we think, quite black,—but it was the fire of contention25 and not of love. Her features were well formed, her nose somewhat long, and her lips thin, and her face too narrow, perhaps, for beauty. Her chin was long, and the space from her nose to her upper lip was long. She always carried a well-wearing brown complexion26;—a complexion with which no man had a right to find fault, but which, to a pondering, speculative27 man, produced unconsciously a consideration whether, in a matter of kissing, an ordinary mahogany table did not offer a preferable surface. When we saw her she wore, we think always, a dark stuff dress,—a fur tippet in winter and a most ill-arranged shawl in summer,—and a large commanding bonnet28, which grew in our eyes till it assumed all the attributes of a helmet,—inspiring that reverence29 and{329} creating that fear which Minerva’s headgear is intended to produce. When we add our conviction that Mrs. Brumby trusted nothing to female charms, that she neither suffered nor enjoyed anything from female vanity, and that the lieutenant was perfectly30 safe, let her roam the world alone, as she might, in search of editors, we shall have said enough to introduce the lady to our readers.
Of her early life, or their early lives, we know nothing; but the unfortunate circumstances which brought us into contact with Mrs. Brumby, made us also acquainted with the lieutenant. The lieutenant, we think, was younger than his wife;—a good deal younger we used to imagine, though his looks may have been deceptive31. He was a confirmed invalid32, and there are phases of ill-health which give an appearance of youthfulness rather than of age. What was his special ailing33 we never heard,—though, as we shall mention further on, we had our own idea on that subject; but he was always spoken of in our hearing as one who always had been ill, who always was ill, who always would be ill, and who never ought to think of getting well. He had been in some regiment35 called the Duke of Sussex’s Own, and his wife used to imagine that her claims upon the public as a woman of{330} literature were enhanced by the royalty36 of her husband’s corps37. We never knew her attempt to make any other use whatever of his services. He was not confined to his bed, and could walk at any rate about the house; but she never asked him, or allowed him to do anything. Whether he ever succeeded in getting his face outside the door we do not know. He wore, when we saw him, an old dressing-gown and slippers38. He was a pale, slight, light-haired man, and we fancy that he took a delight in novels.
Their settled income consisted of his half-pay and some very small property which belonged to her. Together they might perhaps have possessed ￡150 per annum. When we knew them they had lodgings39 in Harpur Street, near Theobald’s Road, and she had resolved to push her way in London as a woman of literature. She had been told that she would have to deal with hard people, and that she must herself be hard;—that advantage would be taken of her weakness, and that she must therefore struggle vehemently40 to equal the strength of those with whom she would be brought in contact;—that editors, publishers, and brother authors would suck her brains and give her nothing for them, and that, therefore, she must get what she could out of them, giving them as{331} little as possible in return. It was an evil lesson that she had learned; but she omitted nothing in the performance of the duties which that lesson imposed upon her.
She first came to us with a pressing introduction from an acquaintance of ours who was connected with a weekly publication called the “Literary Curricle.” The “Literary Curricle” was not in our estimation a strong paper, and we will own that we despised it. We did not think very much of the acquaintance by whom the strong introductory letter was written. But Mrs. Brumby forced herself into our presence with the letter in her hand, and before she left us extracted from us a promise that we would read a manuscript which she pulled out of a bag which she carried with her. Of that first interview a short account shall be given, but it must first be explained that the editor of the “Literary Curricle” had received Mrs. Brumby with another letter from another editor, whom she had first taken by storm without any introduction whatever. This first gentleman, whom we had not the pleasure of knowing, had, under what pressure we who knew the lady can imagine, printed three or four short paragraphs from Mrs. Brumby’s pen. Whether they reached publication we never could learn,{332} but we saw the printed slips. He, however, passed her on to the “Literary Curricle,”—which dealt almost exclusively in the reviewing of books,—and our friend at the office of that influential41 “organ” sent her to us with an intimation that her very peculiar42 and well-developed talents were adapted rather for the creation of tales, or the composition of original treatises43, than for reviewing. The letter was very strong, and we learned afterwards that Mrs. Brumby had consented to abandon her connection with the “Literary Curricle” only on the receipt of a letter in her praise that should be very strong indeed. She rejected the two first offered to her, and herself dictated44 the epithets45 with which the third was loaded. On no other terms would she leave the office of the “Literary Curricle.”
We cannot say that the letter, strong as it was, had much effect upon us; but this effect it had perhaps,—that after reading it we could not speak to the lady with that acerbity46 which we might have used had she come to us without it. As it was we were not very civil, and began our intercourse47 by assuring her that we could not avail ourselves of her services. Having said so, and observing that she still kept her seat, we rose from our chair, being well aware how potent48 a spell that movement{333} is wont49 to exercise upon visitors who are unwilling50 to go. She kept her seat and argued the matter out with us. A magazine such as that which we then conducted must, she surmised51, require depth of erudition, keenness of intellect, grasp of hand, force of expression, and lightness of touch. That she possessed all these gifts she had, she alleged52, brought to us convincing evidence. There was the letter from the editor of the “Literary Curricle,” with which she had been long connected, declaring the fact! Did we mean to cast doubt upon the word of our own intimate friend? For the gentleman at the office of the “Literary Curricle” had written to us as “Dear ——,” though as far as we could remember we had never spoken half-a-dozen words to him in our life. Then she repeated the explanation, given by her godfather, of the abrupt53 termination of the close connection which had long existed between her and the “Curricle.” She could not bring herself to waste her energies in the reviewing of books. At that moment we certainly did believe that she had been long engaged on the “Curricle,” though there was certainly not a word in our correspondent’s letter absolutely stating that to be the fact. He declared to us her capabilities54 and excellences55, but did not say that he{334} had ever used them himself. Indeed, he told us that great as they were, they were hardly suited for his work. She, before she had left us on that occasion, had committed herself to positive falsehoods. She boasted of the income she had earned from two periodicals, whereas up to that moment she had never received a shilling for what she had written.
We find it difficult, even after so many years,—when the shame of the thing has worn off together with the hairs of our head,—to explain how it was that we allowed her to get, in the first instance, any hold upon us. We did not care a brass56 farthing for the man who had written from the “Literary Curricle.” His letter to us was an impertinence, and we should have stated as much to Mrs. Brumby had we cared to go into such matter with her. And our first feelings with regard to the lady herself were feelings of dislike,—and almost of contempt even, though we did believe that she had been a writer for the press. We disliked her nose, and her lips, and her bonnet, and the colour of her face. We didn’t want her. Though we were very much younger then than we are now, we had already learned to set our backs up against strong-minded female intruders. As we said before, we rose from our chair with the idea{335} of banishing57 her, not absolutely uncivilly, but altogether unceremoniously. It never occurred to us during that meeting that she could be of any possible service to us, or that we should ever be of any slightest service to her. Nevertheless she had extracted from us a great many words, and had made a great many observations herself before she left us.
When a man speaks a great many words it is impossible that he should remember what they all were. That we told Mrs. Brumby on that occasion that we did not doubt but that we would use the manuscript which she left in our hands, we are quite sure was not true. We never went so near making a promise in our lives,—even when pressed by youth and beauty,—and are quite sure that what we did say to Mrs. Brumby was by no means near akin58 to this. That we undertook to read the manuscript we think probable, and therein lay our first fault,—the unfortunate slip from which our future troubles sprang, and grew to such terrible dimensions. We cannot now remember how the hated parcel, the abominable59 roll, came into our hands. We do remember the face and form and figure of the woman as she brought it out of the large reticule which she carried, and we remember also how we put our hands{336} behind us to avoid it, as she presented it to us. We told her flatly that we did not want it, and would not have it;—and yet it came into our hands! We think that it must have been placed close to our elbow, and that, being used to such playthings, we took it up. We know that it was in our hands, and that we did not know how to rid ourselves of it when she began to tell us the story of the lieutenant. We were hard-hearted enough to inform her,—as we have, under perhaps lesser60 compulsion, informed others since,—that the distress61 of the man or of the woman should never be accepted as a reason for publishing the works of the writer. She answered us gallantly62 enough that she had never been weak enough or foolish enough so to think “I base my claim to attention,” she said, “on quite another ground. Do not suppose, Sir, that I am appealing to your pity. I scorn to do so. But I wish you should know my position as a married woman, and that you should understand that my husband, though unfortunately an invalid, has been long attached to a regiment which is peculiarly the Duke of Sussex’s own. You cannot but be aware of the connection which His Royal Highness has long maintained with literature.”{337}
Mrs. Brumby could not write, but she could speak. The words she had just uttered were absolutely devoid64 of sense. The absurdity65 of them was ludicrous and gross. But they were not without a certain efficacy. They did not fill us with any respect for her literary capacity because of her connection with the Duke of Sussex, but they did make us feel that she was able to speak up for herself. We are told sometimes that the world accords to a man that treatment which he himself boldly demands; and though the statement seems to be monstrous66, there is much truth in it. When Mrs. Brumby spoke34 of her husband’s regiment being “peculiarly the Duke of Sussex’s own,” she used a tone which compelled from us more courtesy than we had hitherto shown her. We knew that the duke was neither a man of letters nor a warrior67, though he had a library, and, as we were now told, a regiment. Had he been both, his being so would have formed no legitimate68 claim for Mrs. Brumby upon us. But, nevertheless, the royal duke helped her to win her way. It was not his royalty, but her audacity that was prevailing69. She sat with us for more than an hour; and when she left us the manuscript was with us, and we had no doubt undertaken to read it. We are perfectly certain that at that time we had not{338} gone beyond this in the way of promising70 assistance to Mrs. Brumby.
The would-be author, who cannot make his way either by intellect or favour, can hardly do better, perhaps, than establish a grievance71. Let there be anything of a case of ill-usage against editor or publisher, and the aspirant72, if he be energetic and unscrupulous, will greatly increase his chance of working his way into print. Mrs. Brumby was both energetic and unscrupulous, and she did establish her grievance. As soon as she brought her first visit to a close, the roll, which was still in our hands, was chucked across our table to a corner commodiously74 supported by the wall, so that occasionally there was accumulated in it a heap of such unwelcome manuscripts. In the doing of this, in the moment of our so chucking the parcel, it was always our conscientious76 intention to make a clearance77 of the whole heap, at the very furthest, by the end of the week. We knew that strong hopes were bound up in those various little packets, that eager thoughts were imprisoned78 there the owners of which believed that they were endowed with wings fit for a?rial soaring, that young hearts,—ay, and old hearts, too,—sore with deferred79 hope, were waiting to know whether their aspirations80 might now be realised, whether those{339} azure81 wings might at last be released from bondage82 and allowed to try their strength in the broad sunlight of public favour. We think, too, that we had a conscience; and, perhaps, the heap was cleared as frequently as are the heaps of other editors. But there it would grow, in the commodious73 corner of our big table, too often for our own peace of mind. The aspect of each individual little parcel would be known to us, and we would allow ourselves to fancy that by certain external signs we could tell the nature of the interior. Some of them would promise well,—so well as to create even almost an appetite for their perusal83. But there would be others from which we would turn with aversion, which we seemed to abhor84, which, when we handled the heap, our fingers would refuse to touch, and which, thus lying there neglected and ill-used, would have the dust of many days added to those other marks which inspired disgust. We confess that as soon as Mrs. Brumby’s back was turned her roll was sent in upon this heap with that determined85 force which a strong feeling of dislike can lend even to a man’s little finger. And there it lay for,—perhaps a fortnight. When during that period we extracted first one packet and then another for judgment86, we would still leave Mrs. Brumby’s roll{340} behind in the corner. On such occasions a pang87 of conscience will touch the heart; some idea of neglected duty will be present to the mind; a silent promise will perhaps be made that it shall be the next; some momentary88 sudden resolve will be half formed that for the future a rigid22 order of succession shall be maintained, which no favour shall be allowed to infringe89. But, alas90! when the hand is again at work selecting, the odious75 ugly thing is left behind, till at last it becomes infested91 with strange terrors, with an absolute power of its own, and the guilty conscience will become afraid. All this happened in regard to Mrs. Brumby’s manuscript. “Dear, dear, yes;—Mrs. Brumby!” we would catch ourselves exclaiming with that silent inward voice which occasionally makes itself audible to most of us. And then, quite silently, without even whispered violence, we would devote Mrs. Brumby to the infernal gods. And so the packet remained amidst the heap,—perhaps for a fortnight.
“There’s a lady waiting in your room, Sir!” This was said to us one morning on our reaching our office by the lad whom we used to call our clerk. He is now managing a red-hot Tory newspaper down in Barsetshire, has a long beard, a flaring92 eye, a round belly93, and is{341} upon the whole the most arrogant94 personage we know. In the days of Mrs. Brumby he was a little wizened95 fellow about eighteen years old, but looking three years younger, modest, often almost dumb, and in regard to ourselves not only reverential but timid. We turned upon him in great anger. What business had any woman to be in our room in our absence? Were not our orders on this subject exact and very urgent? Was he not kept at an expense of 14s. a week,—we did not actually throw the amount in his teeth, but such was intended to be the effect of our rebuke96,—at 14s. a week, paid out of our own pocket,—nominally, indeed, as a clerk, but chiefly for the very purpose of keeping female visitors out of our room? And now, in our absence and in his, there was actually a woman among the manuscripts! We felt from the first moment that it was Mrs. Brumby.
With bated breath and downcast eyes the lad explained to us his inability to exclude her. “She walked straight in, right over me,” he said; “and as for being alone,—she hasn’t been alone. I haven’t left her, not a minute.”
We walked at once into our own room, feeling how fruitless it was to discuss the matter further with the boy{342} in the passage, and there we found Mrs. Brumby seated in the chair opposite to our own. We had gathered ourselves up, if we may so describe an action which was purely97 mental, with a view to severity. We thought that her intrusion was altogether unwarrantable, and that it behoved us to let her know that such was the case. We entered the room with a clouded brow, and intended that she should read our displeasure in our eyes. But Mrs. Brumby could,—“gather herself up,” quite as well as we could do, and she did so. She also could call clouds to her forehead and could flash anger from her eyes. “Madam,” we exclaimed, as we paused for a moment, and looked at her.
But she cared nothing for our “Madam,” and condescended98 to no apology. Rising from her chair, she asked us why we had not kept the promise we had made her to use her article in our next number. We don’t know how far our readers will understand all that was included in this accusation100. Use her contribution in our next number! It had never occurred to us as probable, or hardly as possible, that we should use it in any number. Our eye glanced at the heap to see whether her fingers had been at work, but we perceived that the heap had not been touched. We have always flattered{343} ourselves that no one can touch our heap without our knowing it. She saw the motion of our eye, and at once understood it. Mrs. Brumby, no doubt, possessed great intelligence, and, moreover, a certain majesty101 of demeanour. There was always something of the helmet of Minerva in the bonnet which she wore. Her shawl was an old shawl, but she was never ashamed of it; and she could always put herself forward, as though there were nothing behind her to be concealed102, the concealing103 of which was a burden to her. “I cannot suppose,” she said, “that my paper has been altogether neglected!”
We picked out the roll with all the audacity we could assume, and proceeded to explain how very much in error she was in supposing that we had ever even hinted at its publication. We had certainly said that we would read it, mentioning no time. We never did mention any time in making any such promise. “You named a week, Sir,” said Mrs. Brumby, “and now a month has passed by. You assured me that it would be accepted unless returned within seven days. Of course it will be accepted now.” We contradicted her flatly. We explained, we protested, we threatened. We endeavoured to put the manuscript into her hand, and made a faint attempt to{344} stick it into her bag. She was indignant, dignified104, and very strong. She said nothing on that occasion about legal proceedings105, but stuck manfully to her assertion that we had bound ourselves to decide upon her manuscript within a week. “Do you think, Sir,” said she, “that I would entrust106 the very essence of my brain to the keeping of a stranger, without some such assurance as that?” We acknowledged that we had undertaken to read the paper, but again disowned the week. “And how long would you be justified in taking?” demanded Mrs. Brumby. “If a month, why not a year? Does it not occur to you, Sir, that when the very best of my intellect, my inmost thoughts, lie there at your disposal,” and she pointed107 to the heap, “it may be possible that a property has been confided108 to you too valuable to justify109 neglect? Had I given you a ring to keep you would have locked it up, but the best jewels of my mind are left to the tender mercies of your charwoman.” What she said was absolutely nonsense,—abominable, villanous trash; but she said it so well that we found ourselves apologising for our own misconduct. There had perhaps been a little undue110 delay. In our peculiar business such would occasionally occur. When we had got to this, any expression of our wrath111 at her intrusion was impossible.{345} As we entered the room we had intended almost to fling her manuscript at her head. We now found ourselves handling it almost affectionately while we expressed regret for our want of punctuality. Mrs. Brumby was gracious, and pardoned us, but her forgiveness was not of the kind which denotes the intention of the injured one to forget as well as forgive the trespass112. She had suffered from us a great injustice113; but she would say no more on that score now, on the condition that we would at once attend to her essay. She thrice repeated the words, “at once,” and she did so without rebuke from us. And then she made us a proposition, the like of which never reached us before or since. Would we fix an hour within the next day or two at which we would call upon her in Harpur Street and arrange as to terms? The lieutenant, she said, would be delighted to make our acquaintance. Call upon her!—upon Mrs. Brumby! Travel to Harpur Street, Theobald’s Road, on the business of a chance bit of scribbling114, which was wholly indifferent to us except in so far as it was a trouble to us! And then we were invited to make arrangements as to terms! Terms!! Had the owner of the most illustrious lips in the land offered to make us known in those days to the partner of her greatness, she could not have{346} done so with more assurance that she was conferring on us an honour, than was assumed by Mrs. Brumby when she proposed to introduce us to the lieutenant.
When many wrongs are concentrated in one short speech, and great injuries inflicted115 by a few cleverly-combined words, it is generally difficult to reply so that some of the wrongs shall not pass unnoticed. We cannot always be so happy as was Mr. John Robinson, when in saying that he hadn’t been “dead at all,” he did really say everything that the occasion required. We were so dismayed by the proposition that we should go to Harpur Street, so hurt in our own personal dignity, that we lost ourselves in endeavouring to make it understood that such a journey on our part was quite out of the question. “Were we to do that, Mrs. Brumby, we should live in cabs and spend our entire days in making visits.” She smiled at us as we endeavoured to express our indignation, and said something as to circumstances being different in different cases;—something also, if we remember right, she hinted as to the intelligence needed for discovering the differences. She left our office quicker than we had expected, saying that as we could not afford to spend our time in cabs she would call again on the day but one following. Her departure was almost abrupt,{347} but she went apparently116 in good-humour. It never occurred to us at the moment to suspect that she hurried away before we should have had time to repudiate117 certain suggestions which she had made.
When we found ourselves alone with the roll of paper in our hands, we were very angry with Mrs. Brumby, but almost more angry with ourselves. We were in no way bound to the woman, and yet she had in some degree substantiated118 a claim upon us. We piqued119 ourselves specially120 on never making any promise beyond the vaguest assurance that this or that proposed contribution should receive consideration at some altogether undefined time; but now we were positively121 pledged to read Mrs. Brumby’s effusion and have our verdict ready by the day after to-morrow. We were wont, too, to keep ourselves much secluded122 from strangers; and here was Mrs. Brumby, who had already been with us twice, positively entitled to a third audience. We had been scolded, and then forgiven, and then ridiculed124 by a woman who was old, and ugly, and false! And there was present to us a conviction that though she was old, and ugly, and false, Mrs. Brumby was no ordinary woman. Perhaps it might be that she was really qualified125 to give us valuable assistance in regard to the magazine, as to which we must own{348} we were sometimes driven to use matter that was not quite so brilliant as, for our readers’ sakes, we would have wished it to be. We feel ourselves compelled to admit that old and ugly women, taken on the average, do better literary work than they who are young and pretty. I did not like Mrs. Brumby, but it might be that in her the age would find another De Sta?l. So thinking, we cut the little string, and had the manuscript open in our own hands. We cannot remember whether she had already indicated to us the subject of the essay, but it was headed, “Costume in 18—.” There were perhaps thirty closely-filled pages, of which we read perhaps a third. The handwriting was unexceptionable, orderly, clean, and legible; but the matter was undeniable twaddle. It proffered126 advice to women that they should be simple, and to men that they should be cleanly in their attire127. Anything of less worth for the purpose of amusement or of instruction could not be imagined. There was, in fact, nothing in it. It has been our fate to look at a great many such essays, and to cause them at once either to be destroyed or returned. There could be no doubt at all as to Mrs. Brumby’s essay.
She came punctual as the clock. As she seated herself in our chair and made some remark as to her hope{349} that we were satisfied, we felt something like fear steal across our bosom128. We were about to give offence, and dreaded129 the arguments that would follow. It was, however, quite clear that we could not publish Mrs. Brumby’s essay on Costume, and therefore, though she looked more like Minerva now than ever, we must go through our task. We told her in half-a-dozen words that we had read the paper, and that it would not suit our columns.
“Not suit your columns!” she said, looking at us by no means in sorrow, but in great anger. “You do not mean to trifle with me like that after all you have made me suffer?” We protested that we were responsible for none of her sufferings. “Sir,” she said, “when I was last here you owned the wrong you had done me.” We felt that we must protest against this, and we rose in our wrath. There were two of us angry now.
“Madam,” we said, “you have kindly130 offered us your essay, and we have courteously132 declined it. You will allow us to say that this must end the matter.” There were allusions133 here to kindness and courtesy, but the reader will understand that the sense of the words was altogether changed by the tone of the voice.
“Indeed, Sir, the matter will not be ended so. If you{350} think that your position will enable you to trample134 upon those who make literature really a profession, you are very much mistaken.”
“Mrs. Brumby,” we said, “we can give you no other answer, and as our time is valuable——”
“Time valuable!” she exclaimed,—and as she stood up an artist might have taken her for a model of Minerva had she only held a spear in her hand. “And is no time valuable, do you think, but yours? I had, Sir, your distinct promise that the paper should be published if it was left in your hands above a week.”
“That is untrue, Madam.”
“Untrue, Sir?”
“Absolutely untrue.” Mrs. Brumby was undoubtedly135 a woman, and might be very like a goddess, but we were not going to allow her to palm off upon us without flat contradiction so absolute a falsehood as that. “We never dreamed of publishing your paper.”
“Then why, Sir, have you troubled yourself to read it,—from the beginning to the end?” We had certainly intimated that we had made ourselves acquainted with the entire essay, but we had in fact skimmed and skipped through about a third of it.
“How dare you say, Sir, you have never dreamed of{351} publishing it, when you know that you studied it with that view?”
“We didn’t read it all,” we said, “but we read quite enough.”
“And yet but this moment ago you told me that you had perused136 it carefully.” The word peruse137 we certainly never used in our life. We object to “perusing,” as we do to “commencing” and “performing.” We “read,” and we “begin,” and we “do.” As to that assurance which the word “carefully” would intend to convey, we believe that we were to that extent guilty. “I think, Sir,” she continued, “that you had better see the lieutenant.”
“With a view to fighting the gentleman?” we asked.
“No, Sir. An officer in the Duke of Sussex’s Own draws his sword against no enemy so unworthy of his steel.” She had told me at a former interview that the lieutenant was so confirmed an invalid as to be barely able, on his best days, to drag himself out of bed. “One fights with one’s equal, but the law gives redress138 from injury, whether it be inflicted by equal, by superior, or by,—Inferior.” And Mrs. Brumby, as she uttered the last word, wagged her helmet at us in a manner which left no doubt as to the position which she assigned to us.{352}
It became clearly necessary that an end should be put to an intercourse which had become so very unpleasant. We told our Minerva very plainly that we must beg her to leave us. There is, however, nothing more difficult to achieve than the expulsion of a woman who is unwilling to quit the place she occupies. We remember to have seen a lady take possession of a seat in a mail coach to which she was not entitled, and which had been booked and paid for by another person. The agent for the coaching business desired her with many threats to descend99, but she simply replied that the journey to her was a matter of such moment that she felt herself called upon to keep her place. The agent sent the coachman to pull her out. The coachman threatened,—with his hands as well as with his words,—and then set the guard at her. The guard attacked her with inflamed139 visage and fearful words about Her Majesty’s mails, and then set the ostlers at her. We thought the ostlers were going to handle her roughly, but it ended by their scratching their heads, and by a declaration on the part of one of them that she was “the rummest go he’d ever seen.” She was a woman, and they couldn’t touch her. A policeman was called upon for assistance, who offered to lock her up, but he could only do so if allowed to lock up the whole{353} coach as well. It was ended by the production of another coach, by an exchange of the luggage and passengers, by a delay of two hours, and an embarrassing possession of the original vehicle by the lady in the midst of a crowd of jeering140 boys and girls. We could tell Mrs. Brumby to go, and we could direct our boy to open the door, and we could make motions indicatory of departure with our left hand, but we could not forcibly turn her out of the room. She asked us for the name of our lawyer, and we did write down for her on a slip of paper the address of a most respectable firm, whom we were pleased to regard as our attorneys, but who had never yet earned six and eightpence from the magazine. Young Sharp, of the firm of Sharp and Butterwell, was our friend, and would no doubt see to the matter for us should it be necessary;—but we could not believe that the woman would be so foolish. She made various assertions to us as to her position in the world of literature, and it was on this occasion that she brought out those printed slips which we have before mentioned. She offered to refer the matter in dispute between us to the arbitration141 of the editor of the “Curricle;” and when we indignantly declined such interference, protesting that there was no matter in dispute, she again informed us that if we{354} thought to trample upon her we were very much mistaken. Then there occurred a little episode which moved us to laughter in the midst of our wrath. Our boy, in obedience142 to our pressing commands that he should usher143 Mrs. Brumby out of our presence, did lightly touch her arm. Feeling the degradation144 of the assault, Minerva swung round upon the unfortunate lad and gave him a box on the ear which we’ll be bound the editor of the “West Barsetshire Gazette” remembers to this day. “Madam,” we said, as soon as we had swallowed down the first involuntary attack of laughter, “if you conduct yourself in this manner we must send for the police.”
“Do, Sir, if you dare,” replied Minerva, “and every man of letters in the metropolis145 shall hear of your conduct.” There was nothing in her threat to move us, but we confess that we were uncomfortable. “Before I leave you, Sir,” she said, “I will give you one more chance. Will you perform your contract with me and accept my contribution?”
“Certainly not,” we replied. She afterwards quoted this answer as admitting a contract.
We are often told that everything must come to an end,—and there was an end at last to Mrs. Brumby’s{355} visit. She went from us with an assurance that she should at once return home, pick up the lieutenant,—hinting that the exertion146, caused altogether by our wickedness, might be the death of that gallant63 officer,—and go with him direct to her attorney. The world of literature should hear of the terrible injustice which had been done to her, and the courts of law should hear of it too.
We confess that we were grievously annoyed. By the time that Mrs. Brumby had left the premises147, our clerk had gone also. He had rushed off to the nearest police-court to swear an information against her on account of the box on the ear which she had given him, and we were unable to leave our desk till he had returned. We found that for the present the doing of any work in our line of business was quite out of the question. A calm mind is required for the critical reading of manuscripts, and whose mind could be calm after such insults as those we had received? We sat in our chair, idle, reflective, indignant, making resolutions that we would never again open our lips to a woman coming to us with a letter of introduction and a contribution, till our lad returned to us. We were forced to give him a sovereign before we could induce him to withdraw his information. We object strongly to all{356} bribery148, but in this case we could see the amount of ridicule123 which would be heaped upon our whole establishment if some low-conditioned lawyer were allowed to cross-examine us as to our intercourse with Mrs. Brumby. It was with difficulty that the clerk arranged the matter the next day at the police office, and his object was not effected without the farther payment by us of ￡1 2s. 6d. for costs.
It was then understood between us and the clerk that on no excuse whatever should Mrs. Brumby be again admitted to my room, and I thought that the matter was over. “She shall have to fight her way through if she does get in,” said the lad. “She aint going to knock me about any more,—woman or no woman.” “O, dea, certe,” we exclaimed. “It shall be a dear job to her if she touches me again,” said the clerk, catching149 up the sound.
We really thought we had done with Mrs. Brumby, but at the end of four or five days there came to us a letter, which we have still in our possession, and which we will now venture to make public. It was as follows. It was addressed not to ourselves but to Messrs. X., Y., and Z., the very respectable proprietors150 of the periodical which we were managing on their behalf.{357}
“Pluck Court, Gray’s Inn, 31st March, 18—.
“Gentlemen,
“We are instructed by our client, Lieutenant Brumby, late of the Duke of Sussex’s Own regiment, to call upon you for payment of the sum of twenty-five guineas due to him for a manuscript essay on Costume, supplied by his wife to the —— Magazine, which is, we believe, your property, by special contract with Mr. ——, the Editor. We are also directed to require from you and from Mr. —— a full apology in writing for the assault committed on Mrs. Brumby in your Editor’s room on the 27th instant; and an assurance also that the columns of your periodical shall not be closed against that lady because of this transaction. We request that ￡1 13s. 8d., our costs, may be forwarded to us, together with the above-named sum of twenty-five guineas.
“We are, gentlemen,
“Your obedient servants,
“Messrs. X., Y., Z., Paternoster Row.”
We were in the habit of looking in at the shop in Paternoster Row on the first of every month, and on that{358} inauspicious first of April the above letter was handed to us by our friend Mr. X. “I hope you haven’t been and put your foot in it,” said Mr. X. We protested that we had not put our foot in it at all, and we told him the whole story. “Don’t let us have a lawsuit153, whatever you do,” said Mr. X. “The magazine isn’t worth it.” We ridiculed the idea of a lawsuit, but we took away with us Messrs. Badger and Blister’s letter and showed it to our legal adviser154, Mr. Sharp. Mr. Sharp was of opinion that Badger and Blister meant fighting. When we pointed out to him the absolute absurdity of the whole thing, he merely informed us that we did not know Badger and Blister. “They’ll take up any case,” said he, “however hopeless, and work it with superhuman energy, on the mere155 chance of getting something out of the defendant156. Whatever is got out of him becomes theirs. They never disgorge.” We were quite confident that nothing could be got out of the magazine on behalf of Mrs. Brumby, and we left the case in Mr. Sharp’s hands, thinking that our trouble in the matter was over.
A fortnight elapsed, and then we were called upon to meet Mr. Sharp in Paternoster Row. We found our friend Mr. X. with a somewhat unpleasant visage. Mr. X. was a thriving man, usually just, and sometimes generous{359} but he didn’t like being “put upon.” Mr. Sharp had actually recommended that some trifle should be paid to Mrs. Brumby, and Mr. X. seemed to think that this expense would, in case that advice were followed, have been incurred157 through fault on our part. “A ten-pound note will set it all right,” said Mr. Sharp.
“Yes;—a ten-pound note,—just flung into the gutter158. I wonder that you allowed yourself to have anything to do with such a woman.” We protested against this injustice, giving Mr. X. to know that he didn’t understand and couldn’t understand our business. “I’m not so sure of that,” said Mr. X. There was almost a quarrel, and we began to doubt whether Mrs. Brumby would not be the means of taking the very bread from out of our mouths. Mr. Sharp at last suggested that in spite of what he had seen from Mrs. Brumby, the lieutenant would probably be a gentleman. “Not a doubt about it,” said Mr. X., who was always fond of officers and of the army, and at the moment seemed to think more of a paltry159 lieutenant than of his own Editor.
Mr. Sharp actually pressed upon us and upon Mr. X. that we should call upon the lieutenant and explain matters to him. Mrs. Brumby had always been with us at twelve o’clock. “Go at noon,” said Mr. Sharp, “and{360} you’ll certainly find her out.” He instructed us to tell the lieutenant “just the plain truth,” as he called it, and to explain that in no way could the proprietors of a magazine be made liable to payment for an article because the Editor in discharge of his duty had consented to read it. “Perhaps the lieutenant doesn’t know that his name has been used at all,” said Mr. Sharp. “At any rate, it will be well to learn what sort of a man he is.”
“A high minded gentleman, no doubt,” said Mr. X. the name of whose second boy was already down at the Horse Guards for a commission.
Though it was sorely against the grain, and in direct opposition160 to our own opinion, we were constrained161 to go to Harpur Street, Theobald’s Road, and to call upon Lieutenant Brumby. We had not explained to Mr. X. or to Mr. Sharp what had passed between Mrs. Brumby and ourselves when she suggested such a visit, but the memory of the words which we and she had then spoken was on us as we endeavoured to dissuade162 our lawyer and our publisher. Nevertheless, at their instigation, we made the visit. The house in Harpur Street was small, and dingy163, and old. The door was opened for us by the normal lodging-house maid-of-all-work, who when we asked for the lieutenant, left us in the passage, that she{361} might go and see. We sent up our name, and in a few minutes were ushered164 into a sitting-room165 up two flights of stairs. The room was not untidy, but it was as comfortless as any chamber166 we ever saw. The lieutenant was lying on an old horsehair sofa, but we had been so far lucky as to find him alone. Mr. Sharp had been correct in his prediction as to the customary absence of the lady at that hour in the morning. In one corner of the room we saw an old ram-shackle desk, at which, we did not doubt, were written those essays on costume and other subjects, in the disposing of which the lady displayed so much energy. The lieutenant himself was a small gray man, dressed, or rather enveloped167, in what I supposed to be an old wrapper of his wife’s. He held in his hands a well-worn volume of a novel, and when he rose to greet us he almost trembled with dismay and bashfulness. His feet were thrust into slippers which were too old to stick on them, and round his throat he wore a dirty, once white, woollen comforter. We never learned what was the individual character of the corps which specially belonged to H.R.H. the Duke of Sussex; but if it was conspicuous168 for dash and gallantry, Lieutenant Brumby could hardly have held his own among his brother officers. We knew, however, from his wife{362} that he had been invalided169, and as an invalid we respected him. We proceeded to inform him that we had been called upon to pay him a sum of twenty-five guineas, and to explain how entirely170 void of justice any such claim must be. We suggested to him that he might be made to pay some serious sum by the lawyers he employed, and that the matter to us was an annoyance171 and a trouble,—chiefly because we had no wish to be brought into conflict with any one so respectable as Lieutenant Brumby. He looked at us with imploring172 eyes, as though begging us not to be too hard upon him in the absence of his wife, trembled from head to foot, and muttered a few words which were nearly inaudible. We will not state as a fact that the lieutenant had taken to drinking spirits early in life, but that certainly was our impression during the only interview we ever had with him. When we pressed upon him as a question which he must answer whether he did not think that he had better withdraw his claim, he fell back upon his sofa, and began to sob173. While he was thus weeping Mrs. Brumby entered the room. She had in her hand the card which we had given to the maid-of-all-work, and was therefore prepared for the interview. “Sir,” she said, “I hope you have come to settle my husband’s just demands.”{363}
Amidst the husband’s wailings there had been one little sentence which reached our ears. “She does it all,” he had said, throwing his eyes up piteously towards our face. At that moment the door had been opened, and Mrs. Brumby had entered the room. When she spoke of her husband’s “just demands,” we turned to the poor prostrate174 lieutenant, and were deterred175 from any severity towards him by the look of supplication176 in his eye,. “The lieutenant is not well this morning,” said Mrs. Brumby, “and you will therefore be pleased to address yourself to me.” We explained that the absurd demand for payment had been made on the proprietors of the magazine in the name of Lieutenant Brumby, and that we had therefore been obliged, in the performance of a most unpleasant duty, to call upon that gentleman; but she laughed our argument to scorn. “You have driven me to take legal steps,” she said, “and as I am only a woman I must take them in the name of my husband. But I am the person aggrieved177, and if you have any excuse to make you can make it to me. Your safer course, Sir, will be to pay me the money that you owe me.”
I had come there on a fool’s errand, and before I could get away was very angry both with Mr. Sharp and Mr.{364} X. I could hardly get a word in amidst the storm of indignant reproaches which was bursting over my head during the whole of the visit. One would have thought from hearing her that she had half filled the pages of the magazine for the last six months, and that we, individually, had pocketed the proceeds of her labour. She laughed in our face when we suggested that she could not really intend to prosecute178 the suit, and told us to mind our own business when we hinted that the law was an expensive amusement. “We, Sir,” she said, “will have the amusement, and you will have to pay the bill.” When we left her she was indignant, defiant179, and self-confident.
And what will the reader suppose was the end of all this? The whole truth has been told as accurately180 as we can tell it. As far as we know our own business we were not wrong in any single step we took. Our treatment of Mrs. Brumby was courteous131, customary, and conciliatory. We had treated her with more consideration than we had perhaps ever before shown to an unknown, would-be contributor. She had been admitted thrice to our presence. We had read at any rate enough of her trash to be sure of its nature. On the other hand, we had been insulted, and our clerk had had his ears boxed. What should{365} have been the result? We will tell the reader what was the result. Mr. X. paid ￡10 to Messrs. Badger and Blister on behalf of the lieutenant; and we, under Mr. Sharp’s advice, wrote a letter to Mrs. Brumby in which we expressed deep sorrow for our clerk’s misconduct, and our own regret that we should have delayed,—“the perusal of her manuscript.” We could not bring ourselves to write the words ourselves with our own fingers, but signed the document which Mr. Sharp put before us. Mr. Sharp had declared to Messrs. X., Y., and Z., that unless some such arrangement were made, he thought that we should be cast for a much greater sum before a jury. For one whole morning in Paternoster Row we resisted this infamous181 tax, not only on our patience, but,—as we then felt it,—on our honour. We thought that our very old friend Mr. X. should have stood to us more firmly, and not have demanded from us a task that was so peculiarly repugnant to our feelings. “And it is peculiarly repugnant to my feelings to pay ￡10 for nothing,” said Mr. X., who was not, we think, without some little feeling of revenge against us; “but I prefer that to a lawsuit.” And then he argued that the simple act on our part of signing such a letter as that presented to us could cost us no trouble, and ought to occasion us{366} no sorrow. “What can come of it? Who’ll know it?” said Mr. X. “We’ve got to pay ￡10, and that we shall feel.” It came to that at last, that we were constrained to sign the letter,—and did sign it. It did us no harm, and can have done Mrs. Brumby no good but the moment in which we signed it was perhaps the bitterest we ever knew.
That in such a transaction Mrs. Brumby should have been so thoroughly182 successful, and that we should have been so shamefully183 degraded, has always appeared to us to be an injury too deep to remain unredressed for ever. Can such wrongs be, and the heavens not fall! Our greatest comfort has been in the reflection that neither the lieutenant nor his wife ever saw a shilling of the ￡10. That, doubtless, never went beyond Badger and Blister.
THE END.
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1
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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bonnet
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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regiment
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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vehemently
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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59
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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60
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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61
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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62
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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63
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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64
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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65
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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66
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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67
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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68
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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69
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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70
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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71
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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72
aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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73
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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74
commodiously
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| adv.宽阔地，方便地 | |
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75
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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76
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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77
clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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78
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
deferred
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| 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 | |
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80
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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81
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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82
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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83
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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84
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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85
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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86
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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87
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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88
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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89
infringe
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| v.违反，触犯，侵害 | |
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90
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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91
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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92
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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93
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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94
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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95
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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96
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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97
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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98
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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99
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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100
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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101
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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102
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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103
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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104
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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105
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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106
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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107
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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108
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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109
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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110
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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111
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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112
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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113
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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114
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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115
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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117
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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118
substantiated
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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120
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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121
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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122
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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123
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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124
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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126
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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128
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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129
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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130
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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131
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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132
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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133
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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134
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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135
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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136
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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137
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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138
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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139
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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141
arbitration
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| n.调停，仲裁 | |
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142
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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143
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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144
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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145
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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146
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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147
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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148
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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149
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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150
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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151
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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152
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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153
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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154
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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155
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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156
defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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157
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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158
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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159
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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160
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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161
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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162
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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163
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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164
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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166
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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167
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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169
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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170
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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171
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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172
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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173
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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174
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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175
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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177
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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178
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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179
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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180
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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181
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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182
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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183
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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