I know that the tune1 I am piping is a very mild one (although there are some terrific chapters coming presently), and must beg the good-natured reader to remember that we are only discoursing2 at present about a stockbroker’s family in Russell Square, who are taking walks, or luncheon4, or dinner, or talking and making love as people do in common life, and without a single passionate5 and wonderful incident to mark the progress of their loves. The argument stands thus—Osborne, in love with Amelia, has asked an old friend to dinner and to Vauxhall—Jos Sedley is in love with Rebecca. Will he marry her? That is the great subject now in hand.
We might have treated this subject in the genteel, or in the romantic, or in the facetious6 manner. Suppose we had laid the scene in Grosvenor Square, with the very same adventures—would not some people have listened? Suppose we had shown how Lord Joseph Sedley fell in love, and the Marquis of Osborne became attached to Lady Amelia, with the full consent of the Duke, her noble father: or instead of the supremely7 genteel, suppose we had resorted to the entirely8 low, and described what was going on in Mr. Sedley’s kitchen—how black Sambo was in love with the cook (as indeed he was), and how he fought a battle with the coachman in her behalf; how the knife-boy was caught stealing a cold shoulder of mutton, and Miss Sedley’s new femme de chambre refused to go to bed without a wax candle; such incidents might be made to provoke much delightful9 laughter, and be supposed to represent scenes of “life.” Or if, on the contrary, we had taken a fancy for the terrible, and made the lover of the new femme de chambre a professional burglar, who bursts into the house with his band, slaughters10 black Sambo at the feet of his master, and carries off Amelia in her night-dress, not to be let loose again till the third volume, we should easily have constructed a tale of thrilling interest, through the fiery11 chapters of which the reader should hurry, panting. But my readers must hope for no such romance, only a homely12 story, and must be content with a chapter about Vauxhall, which is so short that it scarce deserves to be called a chapter at all. And yet it is a chapter, and a very important one too. Are not there little chapters in everybody’s life, that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the history?
Let us then step into the coach with the Russell Square party, and be off to the Gardens. There is barely room between Jos and Miss Sharp, who are on the front seat. Mr. Osborne sitting bodkin opposite, between Captain Dobbin and Amelia.
Every soul in the coach agreed that on that night Jos would propose to make Rebecca Sharp Mrs. Sedley. The parents at home had acquiesced13 in the arrangement, though, between ourselves, old Mr. Sedley had a feeling very much akin3 to contempt for his son. He said he was vain, selfish, lazy, and effeminate. He could not endure his airs as a man of fashion, and laughed heartily14 at his pompous15 braggadocio16 stories. “I shall leave the fellow half my property,” he said; “and he will have, besides, plenty of his own; but as I am perfectly18 sure that if you, and I, and his sister were to die to-morrow, he would say ‘Good Gad17!’ and eat his dinner just as well as usual, I am not going to make myself anxious about him. Let him marry whom he likes. It’s no affair of mine.”
Amelia, on the other hand, as became a young woman of her prudence19 and temperament20, was quite enthusiastic for the match. Once or twice Jos had been on the point of saying something very important to her, to which she was most willing to lend an ear, but the fat fellow could not be brought to unbosom himself of his great secret, and very much to his sister’s disappointment he only rid himself of a large sigh and turned away.
This mystery served to keep Amelia’s gentle bosom21 in a perpetual flutter of excitement. If she did not speak with Rebecca on the tender subject, she compensated22 herself with long and intimate conversations with Mrs. Blenkinsop, the housekeeper24, who dropped some hints to the lady’s-maid, who may have cursorily25 mentioned the matter to the cook, who carried the news, I have no doubt, to all the tradesmen, so that Mr. Jos’s marriage was now talked of by a very considerable number of persons in the Russell Square world.
It was, of course, Mrs. Sedley’s opinion that her son would demean himself by a marriage with an artist’s daughter. “But, lor’, Ma’am,” ejaculated Mrs. Blenkinsop, “we was only grocers when we married Mr. S., who was a stock-broker’s clerk, and we hadn’t five hundred pounds among us, and we’re rich enough now.” And Amelia was entirely of this opinion, to which, gradually, the good-natured Mrs. Sedley was brought.
Mr. Sedley was neutral. “Let Jos marry whom he likes,” he said; “it’s no affair of mine. This girl has no fortune; no more had Mrs. Sedley. She seems good-humoured and clever, and will keep him in order, perhaps. Better she, my dear, than a black Mrs. Sedley, and a dozen of mahogany grandchildren.”
So that everything seemed to smile upon Rebecca’s fortunes. She took Jos’s arm, as a matter of course, on going to dinner; she had sate23 by him on the box of his open carriage (a most tremendous “buck” he was, as he sat there, serene26, in state, driving his greys), and though nobody said a word on the subject of the marriage, everybody seemed to understand it. All she wanted was the proposal, and ah! how Rebecca now felt the want of a mother!—a dear, tender mother, who would have managed the business in ten minutes, and, in the course of a little delicate confidential27 conversation, would have extracted the interesting avowal28 from the bashful lips of the young man!
Such was the state of affairs as the carriage crossed Westminster bridge.
The party was landed at the Royal Gardens in due time. As the majestic29 Jos stepped out of the creaking vehicle the crowd gave a cheer for the fat gentleman, who blushed and looked very big and mighty30, as he walked away with Rebecca under his arm. George, of course, took charge of Amelia. She looked as happy as a rose-tree in sunshine.
“I say, Dobbin,” says George, “just look to the shawls and things, there’s a good fellow.” And so while he paired off with Miss Sedley, and Jos squeezed through the gate into the gardens with Rebecca at his side, honest Dobbin contented31 himself by giving an arm to the shawls, and by paying at the door for the whole party.
He walked very modestly behind them. He was not willing to spoil sport. About Rebecca and Jos he did not care a fig32. But he thought Amelia worthy33 even of the brilliant George Osborne, and as he saw that good-looking couple threading the walks to the girl’s delight and wonder, he watched her artless happiness with a sort of fatherly pleasure. Perhaps he felt that he would have liked to have something on his own arm besides a shawl (the people laughed at seeing the gawky young officer carrying this female burthen); but William Dobbin was very little addicted34 to selfish calculation at all; and so long as his friend was enjoying himself, how should he be discontented? And the truth is, that of all the delights of the Gardens; of the hundred thousand extra lamps, which were always lighted; the fiddlers in cocked hats, who played ravishing melodies under the gilded35 cockle-shell in the midst of the gardens; the singers, both of comic and sentimental36 ballads37, who charmed the ears there; the country dances, formed by bouncing cockneys and cockneyesses, and executed amidst jumping, thumping38 and laughter; the signal which announced that Madame Saqui was about to mount skyward on a slack-rope ascending39 to the stars; the hermit40 that always sat in the illuminated41 hermitage; the dark walks, so favourable42 to the interviews of young lovers; the pots of stout43 handed about by the people in the shabby old liveries; and the twinkling boxes, in which the happy feasters made-believe to eat slices of almost invisible ham—of all these things, and of the gentle Simpson, that kind smiling idiot, who, I daresay, presided even then over the place—Captain William Dobbin did not take the slightest notice.
He carried about Amelia’s white cashmere shawl, and having attended under the gilt44 cockle-shell, while Mrs. Salmon45 performed the Battle of Borodino (a savage46 cantata47 against the Corsican upstart, who had lately met with his Russian reverses)—Mr. Dobbin tried to hum it as he walked away, and found he was humming—the tune which Amelia Sedley sang on the stairs, as she came down to dinner.
He burst out laughing at himself; for the truth is, he could sing no better than an owl48.
It is to be understood, as a matter of course, that our young people, being in parties of two and two, made the most solemn promises to keep together during the evening, and separated in ten minutes afterwards. Parties at Vauxhall always did separate, but ’twas only to meet again at supper-time, when they could talk of their mutual49 adventures in the interval50. What were the adventures of Mr. Osborne and Miss Amelia? That is a secret. But be sure of this—they were perfectly happy, and correct in their behaviour; and as they had been in the habit of being together any time these fifteen years, their tête-à-tête offered no particular novelty.
But when Miss Rebecca Sharp and her stout companion lost themselves in a solitary51 walk, in which there were not above five score more of couples similarly straying, they both felt that the situation was extremely tender and critical, and now or never was the moment Miss Sharp thought, to provoke that declaration which was trembling on the timid lips of Mr. Sedley. They had previously52 been to the panorama53 of Moscow, where a rude fellow, treading on Miss Sharp’s foot, caused her to fall back with a little shriek54 into the arms of Mr. Sedley, and this little incident increased the tenderness and confidence of that gentleman to such a degree, that he told her several of his favourite Indian stories over again for, at least, the sixth time.
“How I should like to see India!” said Rebecca.
“should you?” said Joseph, with a most killing55 tenderness; and was no doubt about to follow up this artful interrogatory by a question still more tender (for he puffed56 and panted a great deal, and Rebecca’s hand, which was placed near his heart, could count the feverish57 pulsations of that organ), when, oh, provoking! the bell rang for the fireworks, and, a great scuffling and running taking place, these interesting lovers were obliged to follow in the stream of people.
Captain Dobbin had some thoughts of joining the party at supper: as, in truth, he found the Vauxhall amusements not particularly lively—but he paraded twice before the box where the now united couples were met, and nobody took any notice of him. Covers were laid for four. The mated pairs were prattling58 away quite happily, and Dobbin knew he was as clean forgotten as if he had never existed in this world.
“I should only be de trop,” said the Captain, looking at them rather wistfully. “I’d best go and talk to the hermit,” —and so he strolled off out of the hum of men, and noise, and clatter59 of the banquet, into the dark walk, at the end of which lived that well-known pasteboard Solitary. It wasn’t very good fun for Dobbin—and, indeed, to be alone at Vauxhall, I have found, from my own experience, to be one of the most dismal60 sports ever entered into by a bachelor.
The two couples were perfectly happy then in their box: where the most delightful and intimate conversation took place. Jos was in his glory, ordering about the waiters with great majesty61. He made the salad; and uncorked the Champagne62; and carved the chickens; and ate and drank the greater part of the refreshments63 on the tables. Finally, he insisted upon having a bowl of rack punch; everybody had rack punch at Vauxhall. “Waiter, rack punch.”
That bowl of rack punch was the cause of all this history. And why not a bowl of rack punch as well as any other cause? Was not a bowl of prussic acid the cause of Fair Rosamond’s retiring from the world? Was not a bowl of wine the cause of the demise64 of Alexander the Great, or, at least, does not Dr. Lempriere say so?—so did this bowl of rack punch influence the fates of all the principal characters in this “Novel without a Hero,” which we are now relating. It influenced their life, although most of them did not taste a drop of it.
The young ladies did not drink it; Osborne did not like it; and the consequence was that Jos, that fat gourmand65, drank up the whole contents of the bowl; and the consequence of his drinking up the whole contents of the bowl was a liveliness which at first was astonishing, and then became almost painful; for he talked and laughed so loud as to bring scores of listeners round the box, much to the confusion of the innocent party within it; and, volunteering to sing a song (which he did in that maudlin66 high key peculiar67 to gentlemen in an inebriated68 state), he almost drew away the audience who were gathered round the musicians in the gilt scollop-shell, and received from his hearers a great deal of applause.
“Brayvo, Fat un!” said one; “Angcore, Daniel Lambert!” said another; “What a figure for the tight-rope!” exclaimed another wag, to the inexpressible alarm of the ladies, and the great anger of Mr. Osborne.
“For Heaven’s sake, Jos, let us get up and go,” cried that gentleman, and the young women rose.
“Stop, my dearest diddle-diddle-darling,” shouted Jos, now as bold as a lion, and clasping Miss Rebecca round the waist. Rebecca started, but she could not get away her hand. The laughter outside redoubled. Jos continued to drink, to make love, and to sing; and, winking69 and waving his glass gracefully70 to his audience, challenged all or any to come in and take a share of his punch.
Mr. Osborne was just on the point of knocking down a gentleman in top-boots, who proposed to take advantage of this invitation, and a commotion71 seemed to be inevitable72, when by the greatest good luck a gentleman of the name of Dobbin, who had been walking about the gardens, stepped up to the box. “Be off, you fools!” said this gentleman—shouldering off a great number of the crowd, who vanished presently before his cocked hat and fierce appearance—and he entered the box in a most agitated73 state.
“Good Heavens! Dobbin, where have you been?” 0sborne said, seizing the white cashmere shawl from his friend’s arm, and huddling74 up Amelia in it.—“Make yourself useful, and take charge of Jos here, whilst I take the ladies to the carriage.”
Jos was for rising to interfere—but a single push from Osborne’s finger sent him puffing75 back into his seat again, and the lieutenant76 was enabled to remove the ladies in safety. Jos kissed his hand to them as they retreated, and hiccupped out “Bless you! Bless you!” Then, seizing Captain Dobbin’s hand, and weeping in the most pitiful way, he confided77 to that gentleman the secret of his loves. He adored that girl who had just gone out; he had broken her heart, he knew he had, by his conduct; he would marry her next morning at St. George’s, Hanover Square; he’d knock up the Archbishop of Canterbury at Lambeth: he would, by Jove! and have him in readiness; and, acting78 on this hint, Captain Dobbin shrewdly induced him to leave the gardens and hasten to Lambeth Palace, and, when once out of the gates, easily conveyed Mr. Jos Sedley into a hackney-coach, which deposited him safely at his lodgings79.
George Osborne conducted the girls home in safety: and when the door was closed upon them, and as he walked across Russell Square, laughed so as to astonish the watchman. Amelia looked very ruefully at her friend, as they went up stairs, and kissed her, and went to bed without any more talking.
“He must propose to-morrow,” thought Rebecca. “He called me his soul’s darling, four times; he squeezed my hand in Amelia’s presence. He must propose to-morrow.” And so thought Amelia, too. And I dare say she thought of the dress she was to wear as bridesmaid, and of the presents which she should make to her nice little sister-in- law, and of a subsequent ceremony in which she herself might play a principal part, &c., and &c., and &c., and &c.
Oh, ignorant young creatures! How little do you know the effect of rack punch! What is the rack in the punch, at night, to the rack in the head of a morning? To this truth I can vouch80 as a man; there is no headache in the world like that caused by Vauxhall punch. Through the lapse81 of twenty years, I can remember the consequence of two glasses! two wine-glasses! but two, upon the honour of a gentleman; and Joseph Sedley, who had a liver complaint, had swallowed at least a quart of the abominable82 mixture.
That next morning, which Rebecca thought was to dawn upon her fortune, found Sedley groaning83 in agonies which the pen refuses to describe. Soda-water was not invented yet. Small beer—will it be believed!—was the only drink with which unhappy gentlemen soothed84 the fever of their previous night’s potation. With this mild beverage85 before him, George Osborne found the ex- Collector of Boggley Wollah groaning on the sofa at his lodgings. Dobbin was already in the room, good- naturedly tending his patient of the night before. The two officers, looking at the prostrate86 Bacchanalian87, and askance at each other, exchanged the most frightful88 sympathetic grins. Even Sedley’s valet, the most solemn and correct of gentlemen, with the muteness and gravity of an undertaker, could hardly keep his countenance89 in order, as he looked at his unfortunate master.
“Mr. Sedley was uncommon90 wild last night, sir,” he whispered in confidence to Osborne, as the latter mounted the stair. “He wanted to fight the ’ackney-coachman, sir. The Capting was obliged to bring him upstairs in his harms like a babby.” A momentary91 smile flickered92 over Mr. Brush’s features as he spoke93; instantly, however, they relapsed into their usual unfathomable calm, as he flung open the drawing-room door, and announced “Mr. Hosbin.”
“How are you, Sedley?” that young wag began, after surveying his victim. “No bones broke? There’s a hackney-coachman downstairs with a black eye, and a tied-up head, vowing94 he’ll have the law of you.”
“What do you mean—law?” Sedley faintly asked.
“For thrashing him last night—didn’t he, Dobbin? You hit out, sir, like Molyneux. The watchman says he never saw a fellow go down so straight. Ask Dobbin.”
“You did have a round with the coachman,” Captain Dobbin said, “and showed plenty of fight too.”
“And that fellow with the white coat at Vauxhall! How Jos drove at him! How the women screamed! By Jove, sir, it did my heart good to see you. I thought you civilians95 had no pluck; but I’ll never get in your way when you are in your cups, Jos.”
“I believe I’m very terrible, when I’m roused,” ejaculated Jos from the sofa, and made a grimace97 so dreary98 and ludicrous, that the Captain’s politeness could restrain him no longer, and he and Osborne fired off a ringing volley of laughter.
Osborne pursued his advantage pitilessly. He thought Jos a milksop. He had been revolving99 in his mind the marriage question pending100 between Jos and Rebecca, and was not over well pleased that a member of a family into which he, George Osborne, of the —th, was going to marry, should make a mésalliance with a little nobody —a little upstart governess. “You hit, you poor old fellow!” said Osborne. “You terrible! Why, man, you couldn’t stand—you made everybody laugh in the Gardens, though you were crying yourself. You were maudlin, Jos. Don’t you remember singing a song?”
“A what?” Jos asked.
“A sentimental song, and calling Rosa, Rebecca, what’s her name, Amelia’s little friend—your dearest diddle- diddle-darling?” And this ruthless young fellow, seizing hold of Dobbin’s hand, acted over the scene, to the horror of the original performer, and in spite of Dobbin’s good- natured entreaties102 to him to have mercy.
“Why should I spare him?” Osborne said to his friend’s remonstrances103, when they quitted the invalid104, leaving him under the hands of Doctor Gollop. “What the deuce right has he to give himself his patronizing airs, and make fools of us at Vauxhall? Who’s this little schoolgirl that is ogling105 and making love to him? Hang it, the family’s low enough already, without her. A governess is all very well, but I’d rather have a lady for my sister-in-law. I’m a liberal man; but I’ve proper pride, and know my own station: let her know hers. And I’ll take down that great hectoring Nabob, and prevent him from being made a greater fool than he is. That’s why I told him to look out, lest she brought an action against him.”
“I suppose you know best,” Dobbin said, though rather dubiously106. “You always were a Tory, and your family’s one of the oldest in England. But —”
“Come and see the girls, and make love to Miss Sharp yourself,” the lieutenant here interrupted his friend; but Captain Dobbin declined to join Osborne in his daily visit to the young ladies in Russell Square.
As George walked down Southampton Row, from Holborn, he laughed as he saw, at the Sedley Mansion107, in two different stories two heads on the look-out.
The fact is, Miss Amelia, in the drawing-room balcony, was looking very eagerly towards the opposite side of the Square, where Mr. Osborne dwelt, on the watch for the lieutenant himself; and Miss Sharp, from her little bed- room on the second floor, was in observation until Mr. Joseph’s great form should heave in sight.
“Sister Anne is on the watch-tower,” said he to Amelia, “but there’s nobody coming”; and laughing and enjoying the joke hugely, he described in the most ludicrous terms to Miss Sedley, the dismal condition of her brother.
“I think it’s very cruel of you to laugh, George,” she said, looking particularly unhappy; but George only laughed the more at her piteous and discomfited108 mien109, persisted in thinking the joke a most diverting one, and when Miss Sharp came downstairs, bantered110 her with a great deal of liveliness upon the effect of her charms on the fat civilian96.
“O Miss Sharp! if you could but see him this morning,” he said—“moaning in his flowered dressing-gown— writhing111 on his sofa; if you could but have seen him lolling out his tongue to Gollop the apothecary112.”
“See whom?” said Miss Sharp.
“Whom? O whom? Captain Dobbin, of course, to whom we were all so attentive113, by the way, last night.”
“We were very unkind to him,” Emmy said, blushing very much. “I—I quite forgot him.”
“Of course you did,” cried Osborne, still on the laugh.
“One can’t be always thinking about Dobbin, you know, Amelia. Can one, Miss Sharp?”
“Except when he overset the glass of wine at dinner,” Miss Sharp said, with a haughty114 air and a toss of the head, “I never gave the existence of Captain Dobbin one single moment’s consideration.”
“Very good, Miss Sharp, I’ll tell him,” Osborne said; and as he spoke Miss Sharp began to have a feeling of distrust and hatred115 towards this young officer, which he was quite unconscious of having inspired. “He is to make fun of me, is he?” thought Rebecca. “Has he been laughing about me to Joseph? Has he frightened him? Perhaps he won’t come.”—A film passed over her eyes, and her heart beat quite quick.
“You’re always joking,” said she, smiling as innocently as she could. “Joke away, Mr. George; there’s nobody to defend me.” And George Osborne, as she walked away —and Amelia looked reprovingly at him—felt some little manly116 compunction for having inflicted117 any unnecessary unkindness upon this helpless creature. “My dearest Amelia,” said he, “you are too good—too kind. You don’t know the world. I do. And your little friend Miss Sharp must learn her station.”
“Don’t you think Jos will—”
“Upon my word, my dear, I don’t know. He may, or may not. I’m not his master. I only know he is a very foolish vain fellow, and put my dear little girl into a very painful and awkward position last night. My dearest diddle-diddle-darling!” He was off laughing again, and he did it so drolly118 that Emmy laughed too.
All that day Jos never came. But Amelia had no fear about this; for the little schemer had actually sent away the page, Mr. Sambo’s aide-de-camp, to Mr. Joseph’s lodgings, to ask for some book he had promised, and how he was; and the reply through Jos’s man, Mr. Brush, was, that his master was ill in bed, and had just had the doctor with him. He must come to-morrow, she thought, but she never had the courage to speak a word on the subject to Rebecca; nor did that young woman herself allude119 to it in any way during the whole evening after the night at Vauxhall.
The next day, however, as the two young ladies sate on the sofa, pretending to work, or to write letters, or to read novels, Sambo came into the room with his usual engaging grin, with a packet under his arm, and a note on a tray. “Note from Mr. Jos, Miss,” says Sambo.
How Amelia trembled as she opened it!
So it ran:
Dear Amelia,—I send you the “Orphan of the Forest.” I was too ill to come yesterday. I leave town to-day for Cheltenham. Pray excuse me, if you can, to the amiable120 Miss Sharp, for my conduct at Vauxhall, and entreat101 her to pardon and forget every word I may have uttered when excited by that fatal supper. As soon as I have recovered, for my health is very much shaken, I shall go to Scotland for some months, and am
Truly yours,
Jos Sedley
It was the death-warrant. All was over. Amelia did not dare to look at Rebecca’s pale face and burning eyes, but she dropt the letter into her friend’s lap; and got up, and went upstairs to her room, and cried her little heart out.
Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, there sought her presently with consolation121, on whose shoulder Amelia wept confidentially122, and relieved herself a good deal. “Don’t take on, Miss. I didn’t like to tell you. But none of us in the house have liked her except at fust. I sor her with my own eyes reading your Ma’s letters. Pinner says she’s always about your trinket-box and drawers, and everybody’s drawers, and she’s sure she’s put your white ribbing into her box.”
“I gave it her, I gave it her,” Amelia said.
But this did not alter Mrs. Blenkinsop’s opinion of Miss Sharp. “I don’t trust them governesses, Pinner,” she remarked to the maid. “They give themselves the hairs and hupstarts of ladies, and their wages is no better than you nor me.”
It now became clear to every soul in the house, except poor Amelia, that Rebecca should take her departure, and high and low (always with the one exception) agreed that that event should take place as speedily as possible. Our good child ransacked123 all her drawers, cupboards, reticules, and gimcrack boxes—passed in review all her gowns, fichus, tags, bobbins, laces, silk stockings, and fallals—selecting this thing and that and the other, to make a little heap for Rebecca. And going to her Papa, that generous British merchant, who had promised to give her as many guineas as she was years old—she begged the old gentleman to give the money to dear Rebecca, who must want it, while she lacked for nothing.
She even made George Osborne contribute, and nothing loth (for he was as free-handed a young fellow as any in the army), he went to Bond Street, and bought the best hat and spenser that money could buy.
“That’s George’s present to you, Rebecca, dear,” said Amelia, quite proud of the bandbox conveying these gifts. “What a taste he has! There’s nobody like him.”
“Nobody,” Rebecca answered. “How thankful I am to him!” She was thinking in her heart, “It was George Osborne who prevented my marriage.”—And she loved George Osborne accordingly.
She made her preparations for departure with great equanimity124; and accepted all the kind little Amelia’s presents, after just the proper degree of hesitation125 and reluctance126. She vowed127 eternal gratitude128 to Mrs. Sedley, of course; but did not intrude129 herself upon that good lady too much, who was embarrassed, and evidently wishing to avoid her. She kissed Mr. Sedley’s hand, when he presented her with the purse; and asked permission to consider him for the future as her kind, kind friend and protector. Her behaviour was so affecting that he was going to write her a cheque for twenty pounds more; but he restrained his feelings: the carriage was in waiting to take him to dinner, so he tripped away with a “God bless you, my dear, always come here when you come to town, you know.—Drive to the Mansion House, James.”
Finally came the parting with Miss Amelia, over which picture I intend to throw a veil. But after a scene in which one person was in earnest and the other a perfect performer—after the tenderest caresses130, the most pathetic tears, the smelling-bottle, and some of the very best feelings of the heart, had been called into requisition— Rebecca and Amelia parted, the former vowing to love her friend for ever and ever and ever.
收听单词发音 |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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supremely
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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slaughters
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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16
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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17
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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18
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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19
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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20
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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21
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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22
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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23
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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24
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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25
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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26
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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27
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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28
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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29
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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30
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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31
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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32
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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33
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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34
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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35
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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36
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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37
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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38
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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39
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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40
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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41
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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42
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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44
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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45
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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46
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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47
cantata
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| n.清唱剧，大合唱 | |
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48
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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49
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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50
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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51
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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52
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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53
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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54
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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55
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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56
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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57
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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58
prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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59
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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60
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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61
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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62
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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63
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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64
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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65
gourmand
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| n.嗜食者 | |
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66
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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67
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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68
inebriated
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| adj.酒醉的 | |
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69
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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70
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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71
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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72
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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73
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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74
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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75
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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76
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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77
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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78
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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79
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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80
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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81
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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82
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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83
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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84
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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85
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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86
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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87
bacchanalian
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| adj.闹酒狂饮的；n.发酒疯的人 | |
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88
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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89
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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90
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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91
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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92
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
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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94
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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95
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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96
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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97
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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98
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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99
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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100
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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101
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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102
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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103
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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104
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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105
ogling
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的现在分词 ) | |
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106
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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107
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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108
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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109
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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110
bantered
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| v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的过去式和过去分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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111
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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112
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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113
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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114
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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115
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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116
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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117
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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118
drolly
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| adv.古里古怪地；滑稽地；幽默地；诙谐地 | |
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119
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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120
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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121
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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122
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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123
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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124
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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125
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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126
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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127
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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128
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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129
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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130
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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