About this time there drove up to an exceedingly snug1 and well-appointed house in Park Lane, a travelling chariot with a lozenge on the panels, a discontented female in a green veil and crimped curls on the rumble2, and a large and confidential3 man on the box. It was the equipage of our friend Miss Crawley, returning from Hants. The carriage windows were shut; the fat spaniel, whose head and tongue ordinarily lolled out of one of them, reposed5 on the lap of the discontented female. When the vehicle stopped, a large round bundle of shawls was taken out of the carriage by the aid of various domestics and a young lady who accompanied the heap of cloaks. That bundle contained Miss Crawley, who was conveyed upstairs forthwith, and put into a bed and chamber6 warmed properly as for the reception of an invalid7. Messengers went off for her physician and medical man. They came, consulted, prescribed, vanished. The young companion of Miss Crawley, at the conclusion of their interview, came in to receive their instructions, and administered those antiphlogistic medicines which the eminent8 men ordered.
Captain Crawley of the Life Guards rode up from Knightsbridge Barracks the next day; his black charger pawed the straw before his invalid aunt’s door. He was most affectionate in his inquiries9 regarding that amiable10 relative. There seemed to be much source of apprehension11. He found Miss Crawley’s maid (the discontented female) unusually sulky and despondent12; he found Miss Briggs, her dame13 de compagnie, in tears alone in the drawing-room. She had hastened home, hearing of her beloved friend’s illness. She wished to fly to her couch, that couch which she, Briggs, had so often smoothed in the hour of sickness. She was denied admission to Miss Crawley’s apartment. A stranger was administering her medicines—a stranger from the country—an odious14 Miss . . .—tears choked the utterance15 of the dame de compagnie, and she buried her crushed affections and her poor old red nose in her pocket handkerchief.
Rawdon Crawley sent up his name by the sulky femme de chambre, and Miss Crawley’s new companion, coming tripping down from the sick-room, put a little hand into his as he stepped forward eagerly to meet her, gave a glance of great scorn at the bewildered Briggs, and beckoning16 the young Guardsman out of the back drawing- room, led him downstairs into that now desolate17 dining- parlour, where so many a good dinner had been celebrated18.
Here these two talked for ten minutes, discussing, no doubt, the symptoms of the old invalid above stairs; at the end of which period the parlour bell was rung briskly, and answered on that instant by Mr. Bowls, Miss Crawley’s large confidential butler (who, indeed, happened to be at the keyhole during the most part of the interview); and the Captain coming out, curling his mustachios, mounted the black charger pawing among the straw, to the admiration19 of the little blackguard boys collected in the street. He looked in at the dining-room window, managing his horse, which curvetted and capered20 beautifully —for one instant the young person might be seen at the window, when her figure vanished, and, doubtless, she went upstairs again to resume the affecting duties of benevolence21.
Who could this young woman be, I wonder? That evening a little dinner for two persons was laid in the dining- room—when Mrs. Firkin, the lady’s maid, pushed into her mistress’s apartment, and bustled22 about there during the vacancy23 occasioned by the departure of the new nurse—and the latter and Miss Briggs sat down to the neat little meal.
Briggs was so much choked by emotion that she could hardly take a morsel24 of meat. The young person carved a fowl25 with the utmost delicacy26, and asked so distinctly for egg-sauce, that poor Briggs, before whom that delicious condiment27 was placed, started, made a great clattering28 with the ladle, and once more fell back in the most gushing29 hysterical30 state.
“Had you not better give Miss Briggs a glass of wine?” said the person to Mr. Bowls, the large confidential man. He did so. Briggs seized it mechanically, gasped31 it down convulsively, moaned a little, and began to play with the chicken on her plate.
“I think we shall be able to help each other,” said the person with great suavity32: “and shall have no need of Mr. Bowls’s kind services. Mr. Bowls, if you please, we will ring when we want you.” He went downstairs, where, by the way, he vented34 the most horrid35 curses upon the unoffending footman, his subordinate.
“It is a pity you take on so, Miss Briggs,” the young lady said, with a cool, slightly sarcastic36, air.
“My dearest friend is so ill, and wo—o—on’t see me,” gurgled out Briggs in an agony of renewed grief.
“She’s not very ill any more. Console yourself, dear Miss Briggs. She has only overeaten herself—that is all. She is greatly better. She will soon be quite restored again. She is weak from being cupped and from medical treatment, but she will rally immediately. Pray console yourself, and take a little more wine.” “But why, why won’t she see me again?” Miss Briggs bleated37 out. “Oh, Matilda, Matilda, after three-and- twenty years’ tenderness! is this the return to your poor, poor Arabella?”
“Don’t cry too much, poor Arabella,” the other said (with ever so little of a grin); “she only won’t see you, because she says you don’t nurse her as well as I do. It’s no pleasure to me to sit up all night. I wish you might do it instead.”
“Have I not tended that dear couch for years?” Arabella said, “and now—”
“Now she prefers somebody else. Well, sick people have these fancies, and must be humoured. When she’s well I shall go.”
“Never, never,” Arabella exclaimed, madly inhaling38 her salts-bottle.
“Never be well or never go, Miss Briggs?” the other said, with the same provoking good-nature. “Pooh—she will be well in a fortnight, when I shall go back to my little pupils at Queen’s Crawley, and to their mother, who is a great deal more sick than our friend. You need not be jealous about me, my dear Miss Briggs. I am a poor little girl without any friends, or any harm in me. I don’t want to supplant39 you in Miss Crawley’s good graces. She will forget me a week after I am gone: and her affection for you has been the work of years. Give me a little wine if you please, my dear Miss Briggs, and let us be friends. I’m sure I want friends.”
The placable and soft-hearted Briggs speechlessly pushed out her hand at this appeal; but she felt the desertion most keenly for all that, and bitterly, bitterly moaned the fickleness40 of her Matilda. At the end of half an hour, the meal over, Miss Rebecca Sharp (for such, astonishing to state, is the name of her who has been described ingeniously as “the person” hitherto), went upstairs again to her patient’s rooms, from which, with the most engaging politeness, she eliminated poor Firkin. “Thank you, Mrs. Firkin, that will quite do; how nicely you make it! I will ring when anything is wanted.” “Thank you”; and Firkin came downstairs in a tempest of jealousy41, only the more dangerous because she was forced to confine it in her own bosom42.
Could it be the tempest which, as she passed the landing of the first floor, blew open the drawing-room door? No; it was stealthily opened by the hand of Briggs. Briggs had been on the watch. Briggs too well heard the creaking Firkin descend43 the stairs, and the clink of the spoon and gruel-basin the neglected female carried.
“Well, Firkin?” says she, as the other entered the apartment. “Well, Jane?”
“Wuss and wuss, Miss B.,” Firkin said, wagging her head.
“Is she not better then?”
“She never spoke44 but once, and I asked her if she felt a little more easy, and she told me to hold my stupid tongue. Oh, Miss B., I never thought to have seen this day!” And the water-works again began to play.
“What sort of a person is this Miss Sharp, Firkin? I little thought, while enjoying my Christmas revels45 in the elegant home of my firm friends, the Reverend Lionel Delamere and his amiable lady, to find a stranger had taken my place in the affections of my dearest, my still dearest Matilda!”
Miss Briggs, it will be seen by her language, was of a literary and sentimental46 turn, and had once published a volume of poems—“Trills of the Nightingale”—by subscription47. “Miss B., they are all infatyated about that young woman,” Firkin replied. “Sir Pitt wouldn’t have let her go, but he daredn’t refuse Miss Crawley anything. Mrs. Bute at the Rectory jist as bad—never happy out of her sight. The Capting quite wild about her. Mr. Crawley mortial jealous. Since Miss C. was took ill, she won’t have nobody near her but Miss Sharp, I can’t tell for where nor for why; and I think somethink has bewidged everybody.”
Rebecca passed that night in constant watching upon Miss Crawley; the next night the old lady slept so comfortably, that Rebecca had time for several hours’ comfortable repose4 herself on the sofa, at the foot of her patroness’s bed; very soon, Miss Crawley was so well that she sat up and laughed heartily48 at a perfect imitation of Miss Briggs and her grief, which Rebecca described to her. Briggs’ weeping snuffle, and her manner of using the handkerchief, were so completely rendered that Miss Crawley became quite cheerful, to the admiration of the doctors when they visited her, who usually found this worthy49 woman of the world, when the least sickness attacked her, under the most abject50 depression and terror of death.
Captain Crawley came every day, and received bulletins from Miss Rebecca respecting his aunt’s health. This improved so rapidly, that poor Briggs was allowed to see her patroness; and persons with tender hearts may imagine the smothered51 emotions of that sentimental female, and the affecting nature of the interview.
Miss Crawley liked to have Briggs in a good deal soon. Rebecca used to mimic52 her to her face with the most admirable gravity, thereby53 rendering54 the imitation doubly piquant55 to her worthy patroness.
The causes which had led to the deplorable illness of Miss Crawley, and her departure from her brother’s house in the country, were of such an unromantic nature that they are hardly fit to be explained in this genteel and sentimental novel. For how is it possible to hint of a delicate female, living in good society, that she ate and drank too much, and that a hot supper of lobsters57 profusely58 enjoyed at the Rectory was the reason of an indisposition which Miss Crawley herself persisted was solely59 attributable to the dampness of the weather? The attack was so sharp that Matilda—as his Reverence60 expressed it—was very nearly “off the hooks”; all the family were in a fever of expectation regarding the will, and Rawdon Crawley was making sure of at least forty thousand pounds before the commencement of the London season. Mr. Crawley sent over a choice parcel of tracts61, to prepare her for the change from Vanity Fair and Park Lane for another world; but a good doctor from Southampton being called in in time, vanquished62 the lobster56 which was so nearly fatal to her, and gave her sufficient strength to enable her to return to London. The Baronet did not disguise his exceeding mortification63 at the turn which affairs took. While everybody was attending on Miss Crawley, and messengers every hour from the Rectory were carrying news of her health to the affectionate folks there, there was a lady in another part of the house, being exceedingly ill, of whom no one took any notice at all; and this was the lady of Crawley herself. The good doctor shook his head after seeing her; to which visit Sir Pitt consented, as it could be paid without a fee; and she was left fading away in her lonely chamber, with no more heed64 paid to her than to a weed in the park. The young ladies, too, lost much of the inestimable benefit of their governess’s instruction, So affectionate a nurse was Miss Sharp, that Miss Crawley would take her medicines from no other hand. Firkin had been deposed65 long before her mistress’s departure from the country. That faithful attendant found a gloomy consolation66 on returning to London, in seeing Miss Briggs suffer the same pangs67 of jealousy and undergo the same faithless treatment to which she herself had been subject. Captain Rawdon got an extension of leave on his aunt’s illness, and remained dutifully at home. He was always in her antechamber. (She lay sick in the state bedroom, into which you entered by the little blue saloon.) His father was always meeting him there; or if he came down the corridor ever so quietly, his father’s door was sure to open, and the hyena68 face of the old gentleman to glare out. What was it set one to watch the other so? A generous rivalry69, no doubt, as to which should be most attentive70 to the dear sufferer in the state bedroom. Rebecca used to come out and comfort both of them; or one or the other of them rather. Both of these worthy gentlemen were most anxious to have news of the invalid from her little confidential messenger. At dinner—to which meal she descended71 for half an hour—she kept the peace between them: after which she disappeared for the night; when Rawdon would ride over to the depot72 of the 150th at Mudbury, leaving his papa to the society of Mr. Horrocks and his rum and water. She passed as weary a fortnight as ever mortal spent in Miss Crawley’s sick-room; but her little nerves seemed to be of iron, as she was quite unshaken by the duty and the tedium73 of the sick-chamber. She never told until long afterwards how painful that duty was; how peevish74 a patient was the jovial75 old lady; how angry; how sleepless76; in what horrors of death; during what long nights she lay moaning, and in almost delirious77 agonies respecting that future world which she quite ignored when she was in good health.—Picture to yourself, oh fair young reader, a worldly, selfish, graceless, thankless, religionless old woman, writhing78 in pain and fear, and without her wig79. Picture her to yourself, and ere you be old, learn to love and pray! Sharp watched this graceless bedside with indomitable patience. Nothing escaped her; and, like a prudent80 steward81, she found a use for everything. She told many a good story about Miss Crawley’s illness in after days— stories which made the lady blush through her artificial carnations82. During the illness she was never out of temper; always alert; she slept light, having a perfectly83 clear conscience; and could take that refreshment84 at almost any minute’s warning. And so you saw very few traces of fatigue85 in her appearance. Her face might be a trifle paler, and the circles round her eyes a little blacker than usual; but whenever she came out from the sick-room she was always smiling, fresh, and neat, and looked as trim in her little dressing-gown and cap, as in her smartest evening suit. The Captain thought so, and raved86 about her in uncouth87 convulsions. The barbed shaft88 of love had penetrated89 his dull hide. Six weeks—appropinquity— opportunity—had victimised him completely. He made a confidante of his aunt at the Rectory, of all persons in the world. She rallied him about it; she had perceived his folly91; she warned him; she finished by owning that little Sharp was the most clever, droll92, odd, good-natured, simple, kindly93 creature in England. Rawdon must not trifle with her affections, though—dear Miss Crawley would never pardon him for that; for she, too, was quite overcome by the little governess, and loved Sharp like a daughter. Rawdon must go away—go back to his regiment94 and naughty London, and not play with a poor artless girl’s feelings. Many and many a time this good-natured lady, compassionating95 the forlorn life-guardsman’s condition, gave him an opportunity of seeing Miss Sharp at the Rectory, and of walking home with her, as we have seen. When men of a certain sort, ladies, are in love, though they see the hook and the string, and the whole apparatus96 with which they are to be taken, they gorge97 the bait nevertheless—they must come to it—they must swallow it—and are presently struck and landed gasping98. Rawdon saw there was a manifest intention on Mrs. Bute’s part to captivate him with Rebecca. He was not very wise; but he was a man about town, and had seen several seasons. A light dawned upon his dusky soul, as he thought, through a speech of Mrs. Bute’s. “Mark my words, Rawdon,” she said. “You will have Miss Sharp one day for your relation.” “What relation—my cousin, hey, Mrs. Bute? James sweet on her, hey?” inquired the waggish99 officer. “More than that,” Mrs. Bute said, with a flash from her black eyes. “Not Pitt? He sha’n’t have her. The sneak100 a’n’t worthy of her. He’s booked to Lady Jane Sheepshanks.” “You men perceive nothing. You silly, blind creature —if anything happens to Lady Crawley, Miss Sharp will be your mother-in-law; and that’s what will happen.” Rawdon Crawley, Esquire, gave vent33 to a prodigious101 whistle, in token of astonishment102 at this announcement. He couldn’t deny it. His father’s evident liking103 for Miss Sharp had not escaped him. He knew the old gentleman’s character well; and a more unscrupulous old—whyou— he did not conclude the sentence, but walked home, curling his mustachios, and convinced he had found a clue to Mrs. Bute’s mystery. “By Jove, it’s too bad,” thought Rawdon, “too bad, by Jove! I do believe the woman wants the poor girl to be ruined, in order that she shouldn’t come into the family as Lady Crawley.” When he saw Rebecca alone, he rallied her about his father’s attachment104 in his graceful105 way. She flung up her head scornfully, looked him full in the face, and said, “Well, suppose he is fond of me. I know he is, and others too. You don’t think I am afraid of him, Captain Crawley? You don’t suppose I can’t defend my own honour,” said the little woman, looking as stately as a queen. “Oh, ah, why—give you fair warning—look out, you know—that’s all,” said the mustachio-twiddler. “You hint at something not honourable106, then?” said she, flashing out.
“O Gad107—really—Miss Rebecca,” the heavy dragoon interposed. “Do you suppose I have no feeling of self-respect, because I am poor and friendless, and because rich people have none? Do you think, because I am a governess, I have not as much sense, and feeling, and good breeding as you gentlefolks in Hampshire? I’m a Montmorency. Do you suppose a Montmorency is not as good as a Crawley?” When Miss Sharp was agitated108, and alluded109 to her maternal111 relatives, she spoke with ever so slight a foreign accent, which gave a great charm to her clear ringing voice. “No,” she continued, kindling112 as she spoke to the Captain; “I can endure poverty, but not shame— neglect, but not insult; and insult from—from you.” Her feelings gave way, and she burst into tears. “Hang it, Miss Sharp—Rebecca—by Jove—upon my soul, I wouldn’t for a thousand pounds. Stop, Rebecca!” She was gone. She drove out with Miss Crawley that day. It was before the latter’s illness. At dinner she was unusually brilliant and lively; but she would take no notice of the hints, or the nods, or the clumsy expostulations of the humiliated113, infatuated guardsman. Skirmishes of this sort passed perpetually during the little campaign —tedious to relate, and similar in result. The Crawley heavy cavalry114 was maddened by defeat, and routed every day.
If the Baronet of Queen’s Crawley had not had the fear of losing his sister’s legacy115 before his eyes, he never would have permitted his dear girls to lose the educational blessings116 which their invaluable117 governess was conferring upon them. The old house at home seemed a desert without her, so useful and pleasant had Rebecca made herself there. Sir Pitt’s letters were not copied and corrected; his books not made up; his household business and manifold schemes neglected, now that his little secretary was away. And it was easy to see how necessary such an amanuensis was to him, by the tenor118 and spelling of the numerous letters which he sent to her, entreating119 her and commanding her to return. Almost every day brought a frank from the Baronet, enclosing the most urgent prayers to Becky for her return, or conveying pathetic statements to Miss Crawley, regarding the neglected state of his daughters’ education; of which documents Miss Crawley took very little heed. Miss Briggs was not formally dismissed, but her place as companion was a sinecure120 and a derision; and her company was the fat spaniel in the drawing-room, or occasionally the discontented Firkin in the housekeeper’s closet. Nor though the old lady would by no means hear of Rebecca’s departure, was the latter regularly installed in office in Park Lane. Like many wealthy people, it was Miss Crawley’s habit to accept as much service as she could get from her inferiors; and good-naturedly to take leave of them when she no longer found them useful. Gratitude121 among certain rich folks is scarcely natural or to be thought of. They take needy122 people’s services as their due. Nor have you, O poor parasite123 and humble124 hanger-on, much reason to complain! Your friendship for Dives is about as sincere as the return which it usually gets. It is money you love, and not the man; and were Croesus and his footman to change places you know, you poor rogue125, who would have the benefit of your allegiance. And I am not sure that, in spite of Rebecca’s simplicity126 and activity, and gentleness and untiring good humour, the shrewd old London lady, upon whom these treasures of friendship were lavished127, had not a lurking128 suspicion all the while of her affectionate nurse and friend. It must have often crossed Miss Crawley’s mind that nobody does anything for nothing. If she measured her own feeling towards the world, she must have been pretty well able to gauge129 those of the world towards herself; and perhaps she reflected that it is the ordinary lot of people to have no friends if they themselves care for nobody. Well, meanwhile Becky was the greatest comfort and convenience to her, and she gave her a couple of new gowns, and an old necklace and shawl, and showed her friendship by abusing all her intimate acquaintances to her new confidante (than which there can’t be a more touching130 proof of regard), and meditated131 vaguely132 some great future benefit—to marry her perhaps to Clump133, the apothecary134, or to settle her in some advantageous135 way of life; or at any rate, to send her back to Queen’s Crawley when she had done with her, and the full London season had begun. When Miss Crawley was convalescent and descended to the drawing-room, Becky sang to her, and otherwise amused her; when she was well enough to drive out, Becky accompanied her. And amongst the drives which they took, whither, of all places in the world, did Miss Crawley’s admirable good-nature and friendship actually induce her to penetrate90, but to Russell Square, Bloomsbury, and the house of John Sedley, Esquire. Ere that event, many notes had passed, as may be imagined, between the two dear friends. During the months of Rebecca’s stay in Hampshire, the eternal friendship had (must it be owned?) suffered considerable diminution136, and grown so decrepit137 and feeble with old age as to threaten demise138 altogether. The fact is, both girls had their own real affairs to think of: Rebecca her advance with her employers—Amelia her own absorbing topic. When the two girls met, and flew into each other’s arms with that impetuosity which distinguishes the behaviour of young ladies towards each other, Rebecca performed her part of the embrace with the most perfect briskness139 and energy. Poor little Amelia blushed as she kissed her friend, and thought she had been guilty of something very like coldness towards her. Their first interview was but a very short one. Amelia was just ready to go out for a walk. Miss Crawley was waiting in her carriage below, her people wondering at the locality in which they found themselves, and gazing upon honest Sambo, the black footman of Bloomsbury, as one of the queer natives of the place. But when Amelia came down with her kind smiling looks (Rebecca must introduce her to her friend, Miss Crawley was longing140 to see her, and was too ill to leave her carriage)—when, I say, Amelia came down, the Park Lane shoulder-knot aristocracy wondered more and more that such a thing could come out of Bloomsbury; and Miss Crawley was fairly captivated by the sweet blushing face of the young lady who came forward so timidly and so gracefully141 to pay her respects to the protector of her friend.
“What a complexion142, my dear! What a sweet voice!” Miss Crawley said, as they drove away westward143 after the little interview. “My dear Sharp, your young friend is charming. Send for her to Park Lane, do you hear?” Miss Crawley had a good taste. She liked natural manners—a little timidity only set them off. She liked pretty faces near her; as she liked pretty pictures and nice china. She talked of Amelia with rapture144 half a dozen times that day. She mentioned her to Rawdon Crawley, who came dutifully to partake of his aunt’s chicken. Of course, on this Rebecca instantly stated that Amelia was engaged to be married—to a Lieutenant145 Osborne— a very old flame. “Is he a man in a line-regiment?” Captain Crawley asked, remembering after an effort, as became a guardsman, the number of the regiment, the —th. Rebecca thought that was the regiment. “The Captain’s name,” she said, “was Captain Dobbin.” “A lanky146 gawky fellow,” said Crawley, “tumbles over everybody. I know him; and Osborne’s a goodish-looking fellow, with large black whiskers?” “Enormous,” Miss Rebecca Sharp said, “and enormously proud of them, I assure you.” Captain Rawdon Crawley burst into a horse-laugh by way of reply; and being pressed by the ladies to explain, did so when the explosion of hilarity147 was over. “He fancies he can play at billiards148,” said he. “I won two hundred of him at the Cocoa-Tree. He play, the young flat! He’d have played for anything that day, but his friend Captain Dobbin carried him off, hang him!” “Rawdon, Rawdon, don’t be so wicked,” Miss Crawley remarked, highly pleased. “Why, ma’am, of all the young fellows I’ve seen out of the line, I think this fellow’s the greenest. Tarquin and Deuceace get what money they like out of him. He’d go to the deuce to be seen with a lord. He pays their dinners at Greenwich, and they invite the company.” “And very pretty company too, I dare say.” “Quite right, Miss Sharp. Right, as usual, Miss Sharp. Uncommon149 pretty company—haw, haw!” and the Captain laughed more and more, thinking he had made a good joke.
“Rawdon, don’t be naughty!” his aunt exclaimed.
“Well, his father’s a City man—immensely rich, they say. Hang those City fellows, they must bleed; and I’ve not done with him yet, I can tell you. Haw, haw!”
“Fie, Captain Crawley; I shall warn Amelia. A gambling150 husband!”
“Horrid, ain’t he, hey?” the Captain said with great solemnity; and then added, a sudden thought having struck him: “Gad, I say, ma’am, we’ll have him here.”
“Is he a presentable sort of a person?” the aunt inquired.
“Presentable?—oh, very well. You wouldn’t see any difference,” Captain Crawley answered. “Do let’s have him, when you begin to see a few people; and his whatdyecallem—his inamorato—eh, Miss Sharp; that’s what you call it—comes. Gad, I’ll write him a note, and have him; and I’ll try if he can play piquet as well as billiards. Where does he live, Miss Sharp?”
Miss Sharp told Crawley the Lieutenant’s town address; and a few days after this conversation, Lieutenant Osborne received a letter, in Captain Rawdon’s schoolboy hand, and enclosing a note of invitation from Miss Crawley.
Rebecca despatched also an invitation to her darling Amelia, who, you may be sure, was ready enough to accept it when she heard that George was to be of the party. It was arranged that Amelia was to spend the morning with the ladies of Park Lane, where all were very kind to her. Rebecca patronised her with calm superiority: she was so much the cleverer of the two, and her friend so gentle and unassuming, that she always yielded when anybody chose to command, and so took Rebecca’s orders with perfect meekness152 and good humour. Miss Crawley’s graciousness was also remarkable153. She continued her raptures154 about little Amelia, talked about her before her face as if she were a doll, or a servant, or a picture, and admired her with the most benevolent155 wonder possible. I admire that admiration which the genteel world sometimes extends to the commonalty. There is no more agreeable object in life than to see Mayfair folks condescending156. Miss Crawley’s prodigious benevolence rather fatigued157 poor little Amelia, and I am not sure that of the three ladies in Park Lane she did not find honest Miss Briggs the most agreeable. She sympathised with Briggs as with all neglected or gentle people: she wasn’t what you call a woman of spirit.
George came to dinner—a repast en gar?on with Captain Crawley.
The great family coach of the Osbornes transported him to Park Lane from Russell Square; where the young ladies, who were not themselves invited, and professed158 the greatest indifference159 at that slight, nevertheless looked at Sir Pitt Crawley’s name in the baronetage; and learned everything which that work had to teach about the Crawley family and their pedigree, and the Binkies, their relatives, &c., &c. Rawdon Crawley received George Osborne with great frankness and graciousness: praised his play at billiards: asked him when he would have his revenge: was interested about Osborne’s regiment: and would have proposed piquet to him that very evening, but Miss Crawley absolutely forbade any gambling in her house; so that the young Lieutenant’s purse was not lightened by his gallant160 patron, for that day at least. However, they made an engagement for the next, somewhere: to look at a horse that Crawley had to sell, and to try him in the Park; and to dine together, and to pass the evening with some jolly fellows. “That is, if you’re not on duty to that pretty Miss Sedley,” Crawley said, with a knowing wink161. “Monstrous nice girl, ’pon my honour, though, Osborne,” he was good enough to add. “Lots of tin, I suppose, eh?”
Osborne wasn’t on duty; he would join Crawley with pleasure: and the latter, when they met the next day, praised his new friend’s horsemanship—as he might with perfect honesty—and introduced him to three or four young men of the first fashion, whose acquaintance immensely elated the simple young officer.
“How’s little Miss Sharp, by-the-bye?” Osborne inquired of his friend over their wine, with a dandified air. “Good-natured little girl that. Does she suit you well at Queen’s Crawley? Miss Sedley liked her a good deal last year.”
Captain Crawley looked savagely162 at the Lieutenant out of his little blue eyes, and watched him when he went up to resume his acquaintance with the fair governess. Her conduct must have relieved Crawley if there was any jealousy in the bosom of that life-guardsman.
When the young men went upstairs, and after Osborne’s introduction to Miss Crawley, he walked up to Rebecca with a patronising, easy swagger. He was going to be kind to her and protect her. He would even shake hands with her, as a friend of Amelia’s; and saying, “Ah, Miss Sharp! how-dy-doo?” held out his left hand towards her, expecting that she would be quite confounded at the honour.
Miss Sharp put out her right forefinger164, and gave him a little nod, so cool and killing165, that Rawdon Crawley, watching the operations from the other room, could hardly restrain his laughter as he saw the Lieutenant’s entire discomfiture166; the start he gave, the pause, and the perfect clumsiness with which he at length condescended167 to take the finger which was offered for his embrace.
“She’d beat the devil, by Jove!” the Captain said, in a rapture; and the Lieutenant, by way of beginning the conversation, agreeably asked Rebecca how she liked her new place.
“My place?” said Miss Sharp, coolly, “how kind of you to remind me of it! It’s a tolerably good place: the wages are pretty good—not so good as Miss Wirt’s, I believe, with your sisters in Russell Square. How are those young ladies?—not that I ought to ask.”
“Why not?” Mr. Osborne said, amazed.
“Why, they never condescended to speak to me, or to ask me into their house, whilst I was staying with Amelia; but we poor governesses, you know, are used to slights of this sort.”
“My dear Miss Sharp!” Osborne ejaculated.
“At least in some families,” Rebecca continued. “You can’t think what a difference there is though. We are not so wealthy in Hampshire as you lucky folks of the City. But then I am in a gentleman’s family—good old English stock. I suppose you know Sir Pitt’s father refused a peerage. And you see how I am treated. I am pretty comfortable. Indeed it is rather a good place. But how very good of you to inquire!”
Osborne was quite savage163. The little governess patronised him and persiffléd him until this young British Lion felt quite uneasy; nor could he muster168 sufficient presence of mind to find a pretext169 for backing out of this most delectable170 conversation.
“I thought you liked the City families pretty well,” he said, haughtily171.
“Last year you mean, when I was fresh from that horrid vulgar school? Of course I did. Doesn’t every girl like to come home for the holidays? And how was I to know any better? But oh, Mr. Osborne, what a difference eighteen months’ experience makes! eighteen months spent, pardon me for saying so, with gentlemen. As for dear Amelia, she, I grant you, is a pearl, and would be charming anywhere. There now, I see you are beginning to be in a good humour; but oh these queer odd City people! And Mr. Jos—how is that wonderful Mr. Joseph?”
“It seems to me you didn’t dislike that wonderful Mr. Joseph last year,” Osborne said kindly.
“How severe of you! Well, entre nous, I didn’t break my heart about him; yet if he had asked me to do what you mean by your looks (and very expressive172 and kind they are, too), I wouldn’t have said no.”
Mr. Osborne gave a look as much as to say, “Indeed, how very obliging!”
“What an honour to have had you for a brother-in-law, you are thinking? To be sister-in-law to George Osborne, Esquire, son of John Osborne, Esquire, son of— what was your grandpapa, Mr. Osborne? Well, don’t be angry. You can’t help your pedigree, and I quite agree with you that I would have married Mr. Joe Sedley; for could a poor penniless girl do better? Now you know the whole secret. I’m frank and open; considering all things, it was very kind of you to allude110 to the circumstance—very kind and polite. Amelia dear, Mr. Osborne and I were talking about your poor brother Joseph. How is he?”
Thus was George utterly173 routed. Not that Rebecca was in the right; but she had managed most successfully to put him in the wrong. And he now shamefully174 fled, feeling, if he stayed another minute, that he would have been made to look foolish in the presence of Amelia.
Though Rebecca had had the better of him, George was above the meanness of talebearing or revenge upon a lady—only he could not help cleverly confiding175 to Captain Crawley, next day, some notions of his regarding Miss Rebecca—that she was a sharp one, a dangerous one, a desperate flirt176, &c.; in all of which opinions Crawley agreed laughingly, and with every one of which Miss Rebecca was made acquainted before twenty-four hours were over. They added to her original regard for Mr. Osborne. Her woman’s instinct had told her that it was George who had interrupted the success of her first love-passage, and she esteemed177 him accordingly.
“I only just warn you,” he said to Rawdon Crawley, with a knowing look—he had bought the horse, and lost some score of guineas after dinner, “I just warn you—I know women, and counsel you to be on the look-out.”
“Thank you, my boy,” said Crawley, with a look of peculiar178 gratitude. “You’re wide awake, I see.” And George went off, thinking Crawley was quite right.
He told Amelia of what he had done, and how he had counselled Rawdon Crawley—a devilish good, straightforward179 fellow—to be on his guard against that little sly, scheming Rebecca.
“Against whom?” Amelia cried. “Your friend the governess.—Don’t look so astonished.” “O George, what have you done?” Amelia said. For her woman’s eyes, which Love had made sharp-sighted, had in one instant discovered a secret which was invisible to Miss Crawley, to poor virgin180 Briggs, and above all, to the stupid peepers of that young whiskered prig, Lieutenant Osborne. For as Rebecca was shawling her in an upper apartment, where these two friends had an opportunity for a little of that secret talking and conspiring181 which form the delight of female life, Amelia, coming up to Rebecca, and taking her two little hands in hers, said, “Rebecca, I see it all.”
Rebecca kissed her. And regarding this delightful182 secret, not one syllable183 more was said by either of the young women. But it was destined184 to come out before long. Some short period after the above events, and Miss Rebecca Sharp still remaining at her patroness’s house in Park Lane, one more hatchment might have been seen in Great Gaunt Street, figuring amongst the many which usually ornament185 that dismal186 quarter. It was over Sir Pitt Crawley’s house; but it did not indicate the worthy baronet’s demise. It was a feminine hatchment, and indeed a few years back had served as a funeral compliment to Sir Pitt’s old mother, the late dowager Lady Crawley. Its period of service over, the hatchment had come down from the front of the house, and lived in retirement187 somewhere in the back premises188 of Sir Pitt’s mansion189. It reappeared now for poor Rose Dawson. Sir Pitt was a widower190 again. The arms quartered on the shield along with his own were not, to be sure, poor Rose’s. She had no arms. But the cherubs191 painted on the scutcheon answered as well for her as for Sir Pitt’s mother, and Resurgam was written under the coat, flanked by the Crawley Dove and Serpent. Arms and Hatchments, Resurgam.—Here is an opportunity for moralising! Mr. Crawley had tended that otherwise friendless bedside. She went out of the world strengthened by such words and comfort as he could give her. For many years his was the only kindness she ever knew; the only friendship that solaced192 in any way that feeble, lonely soul. Her heart was dead long before her body. She had sold it to become Sir Pitt Crawley’s wife. Mothers and daughters are making the same bargain every day in Vanity Fair. When the demise took place, her husband was in London attending to some of his innumerable schemes, and busy with his endless lawyers. He had found time, nevertheless, to call often in Park Lane, and to despatch151 many notes to Rebecca, entreating her, enjoining193 her, commanding her to return to her young pupils in the country, who were now utterly without companionship during their mother’s illness. But Miss Crawley would not hear of her departure; for though there was no lady of fashion in London who would desert her friends more complacently194 as soon as she was tired of their society, and though few tired of them sooner, yet as long as her engo?ment lasted her attachment was prodigious, and she clung still with the greatest energy to Rebecca.
The news of Lady Crawley’s death provoked no more grief or comment than might have been expected in Miss Crawley’s family circle. “I suppose I must put off my party for the 3rd,” Miss Crawley said; and added, after a pause, “I hope my brother will have the decency195 not to marry again.” “What a confounded rage Pitt will be in if he does,” Rawdon remarked, with his usual regard for his elder brother. Rebecca said nothing. She seemed by far the gravest and most impressed of the family. She left the room before Rawdon went away that day; but they met by chance below, as he was going away after taking leave, and had a parley196 together. On the morrow, as Rebecca was gazing from the window, she startled Miss Crawley, who was placidly197 occupied with a French novel, by crying out in an alarmed tone, “Here’s Sir Pitt, Ma’am!” and the Baronet’s knock followed this announcement. “My dear, I can’t see him. I won’t see him. Tell Bowls not at home, or go downstairs and say I’m too ill to receive any one. My nerves really won’t bear my brother at this moment,” cried out Miss Crawley, and resumed the novel. “She’s too ill to see you, sir,” Rebecca said, tripping down to Sir Pitt, who was preparing to ascend198. “So much the better,” Sir Pitt answered. “I want to see YOU, Miss Becky. Come along a me into the parlour,” and they entered that apartment together. “I wawnt you back at Queen’s Crawley, Miss,” the baronet said, fixing his eyes upon her, and taking off his black gloves and his hat with its great crape hat-band. His eyes had such a strange look, and fixed199 upon her so steadfastly200, that Rebecca Sharp began almost to tremble. “I hope to come soon,” she said in a low voice, “as soon as Miss Crawley is better—and return to—to the dear children.” “You’ve said so these three months, Becky,” replied Sir Pitt, “and still you go hanging on to my sister, who’ll fling you off like an old shoe, when she’s wore you out. I tell you I want you. I’m going back to the Vuneral. Will you come back? Yes or no?”
“I daren’t—I don’t think—it would be right—to be alone—with you, sir,” Becky said, seemingly in great agitation201. “I say agin, I want you,” Sir Pitt said, thumping202 the table. “I can’t git on without you. I didn’t see what it was till you went away. The house all goes wrong. It’s not the same place. All my accounts has got muddled203 agin. You must come back. Do come back. Dear Becky, do come.” “Come—as what, sir?” Rebecca gasped out. “Come as Lady Crawley, if you like,” the Baronet said, grasping his crape hat. “There! will that zatusfy you? Come back and be my wife. Your vit vor’t. Birth be hanged. You’re as good a lady as ever I see. You’ve got more brains in your little vinger than any baronet’s wife in the county. Will you come? Yes or no?” “Oh, Sir Pitt!” Rebecca said, very much moved. “Say yes, Becky,” Sir Pitt continued. “I’m an old man, but a good’n. I’m good for twenty years. I’ll make you happy, zee if I don’t. You shall do what you like; spend what you like; and ’ave it all your own way. I’ll make you a zettlement. I’ll do everything reglar. Look year!” and the old man fell down on his knees and leered at her like a satyr. Rebecca started back a picture of consternation204. In the course of this history we have never seen her lose her presence of mind; but she did now, and wept some of the most genuine tears that ever fell from her eyes. “Oh, Sir Pitt!” she said. “Oh, sir—I—I’m married already.”
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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condiment
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| n.调味品 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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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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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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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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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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51
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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58
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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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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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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hyena
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| n.土狼，鬣狗 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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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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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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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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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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87
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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88
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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89
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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90
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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91
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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92
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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93
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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94
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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95
compassionating
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| v.同情（compassionate的现在分词形式） | |
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96
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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97
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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98
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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99
waggish
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| adj.诙谐的，滑稽的 | |
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100
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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101
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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102
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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103
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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104
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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105
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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106
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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107
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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108
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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109
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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111
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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112
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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113
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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114
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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115
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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116
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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117
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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118
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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119
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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120
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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121
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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122
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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123
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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124
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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125
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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126
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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127
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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129
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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130
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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131
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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132
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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133
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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134
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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135
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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136
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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137
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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138
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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139
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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140
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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141
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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142
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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143
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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144
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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145
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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146
lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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147
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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148
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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149
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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150
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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151
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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152
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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153
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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154
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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155
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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156
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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157
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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158
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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159
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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160
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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161
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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162
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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163
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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164
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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165
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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166
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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167
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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168
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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169
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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170
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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171
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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172
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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173
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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174
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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175
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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176
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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177
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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178
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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179
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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180
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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181
conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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182
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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183
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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184
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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185
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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186
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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187
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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188
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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189
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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190
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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191
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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192
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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193
enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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194
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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195
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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196
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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197
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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198
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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199
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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200
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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201
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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202
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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203
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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204
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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