These easy confessions14 were uttered by a gentleman who was nearly forty years of age, and who had indeed played the part of a young man in Paris and the great European world so long, that he knew or chose to perform no other. He did not want for abilities; had the best temper in the world; was well bred and gentlemanlike always; and was gay even after Moscow. His courage was known, and his character for bravery and another kind of gallantry probably exaggerated by his bad reputation. Had his mother not been alive, perhaps he would have believed in the virtue15 of no woman. But this one he worshipped, and spoke16 with tenderness and enthusiasm of her constant love and patience and goodness. “See her miniature!” he said, “I never separate myself from it — oh, never! It saved my life in an affair about — about a woman who was not worth the powder which poor Jules and I burned for her. His ball struck me here, upon the waistcoat, bruising17 my rib18 and sending me to my bed, which I never should have left alive but for this picture. Oh, she is an angel, my mother! I am sure that Heaven has nothing to deny that saint, and that her tears wash out my sins.”
Olive smiled. “I think Madame de Florac must weep a good deal,” he said.
“Enormement, my friend! My faith! I do not deny it! I give her cause, night and evening. I am possessed19 by demons20! This little Affenthaler wine of this country has a little smack21 which is most agreeable. The passions tear me, my young friend! Play is fatal, but play is not so fatal as woman. Pass me the ecrevisses, they are most succulent. Take warning by me, and avoid both. I saw you roder round the green tables, and marked your eyes as they glistened22 over the heaps of gold, and looked at some of our beauties of Baden. Beware of such sirens, young man! and take me for your Mentor23; avoiding what I have done — that understands itself. You have not played as yet? Do not do so; above all avoid a martingale, if you do. Play ought not to be an affair of calculation, but of inspiration. I have calculated infallibly, and what has been the effect? Gousset empty, tiroirs empty, necessaire parted for Strasbourg! Where is my fur pelisse, Frederic?”
“Parbleu, vous le savez bien, Monsieur le Vicomte,” says Frederic, the domestic, who was waiting on Clive and his friend.
“A pelisse lined with true sable24, and, worth three thousand francs, that I won of a little Russian at billiards25. That pelisse at Strasbourg (where the infamous26 worms of the Mount of Piety27 are actually gnawing28 her). Two hundred francs and this reconnaissance, which Frederic receive, are all that now represent the pelisse. How many chemises have I, Frederic?”
“Eh, parbleu, Monsieur le Vicomte sait bien que nous avons toujours vingt-quatre chemises,” says Frederic, grumbling29.
Monsieur le Vicomte springs up shrieking31 from the dinner-table. “Twenty-four shirts,” says he, “and I have been a week without a louis in my pocket! Belitre! Nigaud!” He flings open one drawer after another, but there are no signs of that — superfluity of linen of which the domestic spoke, whose countenance32 now changes from a grim frown to a grim smile.
“Ah, my faithful Frederic, I pardon thee! Mr. Newcome will understand my harmless supercherie. Frederic was in my company of the Guard, and remains33 with me since. He is Caleb Balderstone and I am Ravenswood. Yes, I am Edgard. Let us have coffee and a cigar, Balderstone.”
“Plait-il, Monsieur le Vicomte?” says the French Caleb.
“Thou comprehendest not English. Thou readest not Valtare Scott, thou!” cries the master. “I was recounting to Monsieur Newcome thy history and my misfortunes. Go seek coffee for us, nigaud.” And as the two gentlemen partake of that exhilarating liquor, the elder confides36 gaily37 to his guest the reason why he prefers taking coffee at the hotel to the coffee at the great Cafe of the Redoute, with a duris urgens in rebus38 egestass! pronounced in the true French manner.
Clive was greatly amused by the gaiety of the Viscount after his misfortunes and his Moscow; and thought that one of Mr. Baines’s circular notes might not be ill laid out in succouring this hero. It may have been to this end that Florac’s confessions tended; though, to do him justice, the incorrigible39 young fellow would confide12 his adventures to any one who would listen; and the exact state of his wardrobe, and the story of his pawned40 pelisse, dressing41-case, rings and watches, were known to all Baden.
“You tell me to marry and range myself,” said Clive (to whom the Viscount was expatiating42 upon the charms of the superbe young Anglaise with whom he had seen Clive walking on the promenade43). “Why do you not marry and range yourself too?”
“Eh, my dear! I am married already. You do not know it? I am married since the Revolution of July. Yes. We were poor in those days, as poor we remain. My cousins the Duc d’Ivry’s sons and his grandson were still alive. Seeing no other resource and pursued by the Arabs, I espoused44 the Vicomtesse de Florac. I gave her my name, you comprehend, in exchange for her own odious45 one. She was Miss Higg. Do you know the family Higg of Manchesterre in the comte of Lancastre? She was then a person of a ripe age. The Vicomtesse is now — ah! it is fifteen years since, and she dies not. Our union was not happy, my friend — Madame Paul de Florac is of the reformed religion — not of the Anglican Church, you understand — but a dissident I know not of what sort. We inhabited the Hotel de Florac for a while after our union, which was all of convenience, you understand. She filled her salon46 with ministers to make you die. She assaulted my poor father in his garden-chair, whence he could not escape her. She told my sainted mother that she was an idolatress — she who only idolatrises her children! She called us other poor Catholics who follow the rites47 of our fathers, des Romishes; and Rome, Babylon; and the Holy Father — a scarlet48 — eh! a scarlet abomination. She outraged49 my mother, that angel; essayed to convert the antechamber and the office; put little books in the Abbe’s bedroom. Eh, my friend! what a good king was Charles IX., and his mother what a wise sovereign! I lament52 that Madame de Florac should have escaped the St. Barthelemi, when no doubt she was spared on account of her tender age. We have been separated for many years; her income was greatly exaggerated. Beyond the payment of my debts I owe her nothing. I wish I could say as much of all the rest of the world. Shall we take a turn of promenade? Mauvais sujet! I see you are longing53 to be at the green table.”
Clive was not longing to be at the green table: but his companion was never easy at it or away from it. Next to winning, losing, M. de Florac said, was the best sport — next to losing, looking on. So he and Clive went down to the Redoute, where Lord Kew was playing with a crowd of awestruck amateurs and breathless punters admiring his valour and fortune; and Clive, saying that he knew nothing about the game, took out five Napoleons from his purse, and besought54 Florac to invest them in the most profitable manner at roulette. The other made some faint attempts at a scruple55: but the money was speedily laid on the table, where it increased and multiplied amazingly too; so that in a quarter of an hour Florac brought quite a handful of gold pieces to his principal. Then Clive, I dare say blushing as he made the proposal, offered half the handful of Napoleons to M. de Florac, to be repaid when he thought fit. And fortune must have been very favourable56 to the husband of Miss Higg that night; for in the course of an hour he insisted on paying back Clive’s loan; and two days afterwards appeared with his shirt-studs (of course with his shirts also), released from captivity57, his watch, rings, and chains, on the parade; and was observed to wear his celebrated58 fur pelisse as he drove back in a britzska from Strasbourg. “As for myself,” wrote Clive, “I put back into my purse the five Napoleons with which I had begun; and laid down the whole mass of winnings on the table, where it was doubled and then quadrupled, and then swept up by the croupiers, greatly to my ease of mind. And then Lord Kew asked me to supper and we had a merry night.”
This was Mr. Clive’s first and last appearance as a gambler. J. J. looked very grave when he heard of these transactions. Clive’s French friend did not please his English companion at all, nor the friends of Clive’s French friend, the Russians, the Spaniards, the Italians, of sounding titles and glittering decorations, and the ladies who belonged to their society. He saw by chance Ethel, escorted by her cousin Lord Kew, passing through a crowd of this company one day. There was not one woman there who was not the heroine of some discreditable story. It was the Comtesse Calypso who had been jilted by the Duc Ulysse. It was the Marquise Ariane to whom the Prince Thesee had behaved so shamefully59, and who had taken to Bacchus as a consolation61. It was Madame Medee, who had absolutely killed her old father by her conduct regarding Jason: she had done everything for Jason: she had got him the toison d’or from the Queen Mother, and now had to meet him every day with his little blonde bride on his arm! J. J. compared Ethel, moving in the midst of these folks, to the Lady amidst the rout62 of Comus. There they were the Fauns and Satyrs: there they were, the merry Pagans: drinking and dancing, dicing63 and sporting; laughing out jests that never should be spoken; whispering rendezvous64 to be written in midnight calendars; jeering65 at honest people who passed under their palace windows — jolly rebels and repealers of the law. Ah, if Mrs. Brown, whose children are gone to bed at the hotel, knew but the history of that calm dignified-looking gentleman who sits under her, and over whose patient back she frantically66 advances and withdraws her two-franc piece, whilst his own columns of louis d’or are offering battle to fortune — how she would shrink away from the shoulder which she pushes! That man so calm and well bred, with a string of orders on his breast, so well dressed, with such white hands, has stabbed trusting hearts; severed67 family ties; written lying vows68; signed false oaths; torn up pitilessly tender appeals for redress69, and tossed away into the fire supplications blistered70 with tears; packed cards and cogged dice71; or used pistol or sword as calmly and dexterously73 as he now ranges his battalions74 of gold pieces.
Ridley shrank away from such lawless people with the delicacy75 belonging to his timid and retiring nature, but it must be owned that Mr. Clive was by no means so squeamish. He did not know, in the first place, the mystery of their iniquities76; and his sunny kindly77 spirit, undimmed by any of the cares which clouded it subsequently, was disposed to shine upon all people alike. The world was welcome to him: the day a pleasure: all nature a gay feast: scarce any dispositions78 discordant79 with his own (for pretension80 only made him laugh, and hypocrisy81 he will never be able to understand if he lives to be a hundred years old): the night brought him a long sleep, and the morning a glad waking. To those privileges of youth what enjoyments82 of age are comparable? what achievements of ambition? what rewards of money and fame? Clive’s happy friendly nature shone out of his face; and almost all who beheld83 it felt kindly towards him. As those guileless virgins84 of romance and ballad86, who walk smiling through dark forests charming off dragons and confronting lions, the young man as yet went through the world harmless; no giant waylaid87 him as yet; no robbing ogre fed on him: and (greatest danger of all for one of his ardent88 nature) no winning enchantress or artful siren coaxed89 him to her cave, or lured90 him into her waters — haunts into which we know so many young simpletons are drawn91, where their silly bones are picked and their tender flesh devoured92.
The time was short which Clive spent at Baden, for it has been said the winter was approaching, and the destination of our young artists was Rome; but he may have passed some score of days here, to which he and another person in that pretty watering-place possibly looked back afterwards, as not the unhappiest period of their lives. Among Colonel Newcome’s papers to which the family biographer has had subsequent access, there are a couple of letters from Clive, dated Baden, at this time, and full of happiness, gaiety, and affection. Letter No. 1 says, “Ethel is the prettiest girl here. At the assemblies all the princes, counts, dukes, Parthians, Medes, and Elamites, are dying to dance with her. She sends her dearest love to her uncle.” By the side of the words “prettiest girl,” was written in a frank female hand the monosyllable “Stuff;” and as a note to the expression “dearest love,” with a star to mark the text and the note, are squeezed, in the same feminine characters, at the bottom of Clive’s page, the words, “That I do. E. N.”
In letter No. 2, the first two pages are closely written in Clive’s handwriting, describing his pursuits and studies, and giving amusing details of the life at Baden, and the company whom he met there — narrating93 his rencontre with their Paris friend, M. de Florac, and the arrival of the Duchesse d’Ivry, Florac’s cousin, whose titles the Vicomte will probably inherit. Not a word about Florac’s gambling94 propensities95 are mentioned in the letter; but Clive honestly confesses that he has staked five Napoleons, doubled them, quadrupled them, won ever so much, lost it all back again, and come away from the table with his original five pounds in his pocket — proposing never to play any more. “Ethel,” he concluded, “is looking over my shoulder. She thinks me such a delightful96 creature that she is never easy without me. She bids me to say that I am the best of sons and cousins, and am, in a word, a darling du —” The rest of this important word is not given, but goose is added in the female hand. In the faded ink, on the yellow paper that may have crossed and recrossed oceans, that has lain locked in chests for years, and buried under piles of family archives, while your friends have been dying and your head has grown white — who has not disinterred mementos97 like these — from which the past smiles at you so sadly, shimmering98 out of Hades an instant but to sink back again into the cold shades, perhaps with a faint, faint sound as of a remembered tone — a ghostly echo of a once familiar laughter? I was looking of late at a wall in the Naples Museum, whereon a boy of Herculaneum eighteen hundred years ago had scratched with a nail the figure of a soldier. I could fancy the child turning round and smiling on me after having done his etching. Which of us that is thirty years old has not had his Pompeii? Deep under ashes lies the Life of Youth — the careless Sport, the Pleasure and Passion, the darling Joy. You open an old letter-box and look at your own childish scrawls99, or your mother’s letters to you when you were at school; and excavate100 your heart. Oh me, for the day when the whole city shall be bare and the chambers101 unroofed — and every cranny visible to the Light above, from the Forum102 to the Lupanar!
Ethel takes up the pen. “My dear uncle,” she says, “while Clive is sketching103 out of window, let me write you a line or two on his paper, though I know you like to hear no one speak but him. I wish I could draw him for you as he stands yonder, looking the picture of good health, good spirits, and good humour. Everybody likes him. He is quite unaffected; always gay; always pleased. He draws more and more beautifully every day; and his affection for young Mr. Ridley, who is really a most excellent and astonishing young man, and actually a better artist than Clive himself, is most romantic, and does your son the greatest credit. You will order Clive not to sell his pictures, won’t you? I know it is not wrong, but your son might look higher than to be an artist. It is a rise for Mr. Ridley, but a fall for him. An artist, an organist, a pianist, all these are very good people, but you know not de notre monde, and Clive ought to belong to it.
“We met him at Bonn on our way to a great family gathering104 here; where, I must tell you, we are assembled for what I call the Congress of Baden! The chief of the house of Kew is here, and what time he does not devote to skittles, to smoking cigars, to the jeu in the evenings, to Madame d’Ivry, to Madame de Cruchecassee, and the foreign people (of whom there are a host here of the worst kind, as usual), he graciously bestows105 on me. Lord and Lady Dorking are here, with their meek106 little daughter, Clara Pulleyn; and Barnes is coming. Uncle Hobson has returned to Lombard Street to relieve guard. I think you will hear before very long of Lady Clara Newcome. Grandmamma, who was to have presided at the Congress of Baden, and still, you know, reigns107 over the house of Kew, has been stopped at Kissingen with an attack of rheumatism108; I pity poor Aunt Julia, who can never leave her. Here are all our news. I declare I have filled the whole page; men write closer than we do. I wear the dear brooch you gave me, often and often; I think of you always, dear, kind uncle, as your affectionate Ethel.”
Besides roulette and trente-et-quarante, a number of amusing games are played at Baden, which are not performed, so to speak, sur table. These little diversions and jeux de societe can go on anywhere; in an alley109 in the park; in a picnic to this old schloss, or that pretty hunting-lodge; at a tea-table in a lodging-house or hotel; in a ball at the Redoute; in the play-rooms behind the backs of the gamblers, whose eyes are only cast upon rakes and rouleaux, and red and black; or on the broad walk in front of the conversation rooms, where thousands of people are drinking and chattering110, lounging and smoking, whilst the Austrian brass111 band, in the little music pavilion, plays the most delightful mazurkas and waltzes. Here the widow plays her black suit and sets her bright eyes against the rich bachelor, elderly or young as may be. Here the artful practitioner112, who has dealt in a thousand such games, engages the young simpleton with more money than wit; and knowing his weakness and her skill, we may safely take the odds113, and back rouge114 et couleur to win. Here mamma, not having money, perhaps, but metal more attractive, stakes her virgin85 daughter against Count Fettacker’s forests and meadows; or Lord Lackland plays his coronet, of which the jewels have long since been in pawn, against Miss Bags’ three-per-cents. And so two or three funny little games were going on at Baden amongst our immediate115 acquaintance; besides that vulgar sport round the green table, at which the mob, with whom we have little to do, was elbowing each other. A hint of these domestic prolusions has been given to the reader in the foregoing extract from Miss Ethel Newcome’s letter: likewise some passions have been in play, of which a modest young English maiden116 could not be aware. Do not, however, let us be too prematurely117 proud of our virtue. That tariff118 of British virtue is wonderfully organised. Heaven help the society which made its laws! Gnats119 are shut out of its ports, or not admitted without scrutiny120 and repugnance121, whilst herds122 of camels are let in. The law professes123 to exclude some goods (or bads shall we call them?)— well, some articles of baggage, which are yet smuggled124 openly under the eyes of winking125 officers, and worn every day without shame. Shame! What is shame? Virtue is very often shameful60 according to the English social constitution, and shame honourable126. Truth, if yours happens to differ from your neighbour’s, provokes your friend’s coldness, your mother’s tears, the world’s persecution127. Love is not to be dealt in, save under restrictions128 which kill its sweet, healthy, free commerce. Sin in man is so light, that scarce the fine of a penny is imposed; while for woman it is so heavy that no repentance can wash it out. Ah! yes; all stories are old. You proud matrons in your Mayfair markets, have you never seen a virgin sold, or sold one? Have you never heard of a poor wayfarer129 fallen among robbers, and not a Pharisee to help him? of a poor woman fallen more sadly yet, abject130 in repentance and tears, and a crowd to stone her? I pace this broad Baden walk as the sunset is gilding131 the hills round about, as the orchestra blows its merry tunes35, as the happy children laugh and sport in the alleys132, as the lamps of the gambling-palace are lighted up, as the throngs133 of pleasure-hunters stroll, and smoke, and flirt134, and hum: and wonder sometimes, is it the sinners who are the most sinful? Is it poor Prodigal yonder amongst the bad company, calling black and red and tossing the champagne135; or brother Straitlace that grudges136 his repentance? Is it downcast Hagar that slinks away with poor little Ishmael in her hand; or bitter old virtuous137 Sarah, who scowls138 at her from my demure139 Lord Abraham’s arm?
One day of the previous May, when of course everybody went to visit the Water-colour Exhibitions, Ethel Newcome was taken to see the pictures by her grandmother, that rigorous old Lady Kew, who still proposed to reign51 over all her family. The girl had high spirit, and very likely hot words had passed between the elder and the younger lady; such as I am given to understand will be uttered in the most polite families. They came to a piece by Mr. Hunt, representing one of those figures which he knows how to paint with such consummate140 truth and pathos141 — a friendless young girl cowering142 in a doorway143, evidently without home or shelter. The exquisite144 fidelity145 of the details, and the plaintive146 beauty of the expression of the child, attracted old Lady Kew’s admiration147, who was an excellent judge of works of art; and she stood for some time looking at the drawing, with Ethel by her side. Nothing, in truth, could be more simple or pathetic; Ethel laughed, and her grandmother looking up from her stick on which she hobbled about, saw a very sarcastic148 expression in the girl’s eyes.
“You have no taste for pictures, only for painters, I suppose,” said Lady Kew.
“I was not looking at the picture,” said Ethel, still with a smile, “but at the little green ticket in the corner.”
“Sold,” said Lady Kew. “Of course it is sold; all Mr. Hunt’s pictures are sold. There is not one of them here on which you won’t see the green ticket. He is a most admirable artist. I don’t know whether his comedy or tragedy are the most excellent.”
“I think, grandmamma,” Ethel said, “we young ladies in the world, when we are exhibiting, ought to have little green tickets pinned on our backs, with ‘Sold’ written on them; it would prevent trouble and any future haggling149, you know. Then at the end of the season the owner would come to carry us home.”
Grandmamma only said, “Ethel, you are a fool,” and hobbled on to Mr. Cattermole’s picture hard by. “What splendid colour; what a romantic gloom; what a flowing pencil and dexterous72 hand!” Lady Kew could delight in pictures, applaud good poetry, and squeeze out a tear over a good novel too. That afternoon, young Dawkins, the rising water-colour artist, who used to come daily to the gallery and stand delighted before his own piece, was aghast to perceive that there was no green ticket in the corner of his frame, and he pointed150 out the deficiency to the keeper of the pictures. His landscape, however, was sold and paid for, so no great mischief151 occurred. On that same evening, when the Newcome family assembled at dinner in Park Lane, Ethel appeared with a bright green ticket pinned in the front of her white muslin frock, and when asked what this queer fancy meant, she made Lady Kew a curtsey, looking her full in the face, and turning round to her father, said, “I am a tableau-vivant, papa. I am Number 46 in the Exhibition of the Gallery of Painters in Water-colours.”
“My love, what do you mean?” says mamma; and Lady Kew, jumping up on her crooked152 stick with immense agility153, tore the card out of Ethel’s bosom154, and very likely would have boxed her ears, but that her parents were present and Lord Kew announced.
Ethel talked about pictures the whole evening, and would talk of nothing else. Grandmamma went away furious. “She told Barnes, and when everybody was gone there was a pretty row in the building,” said Madam Ethel, with an arch look, when she narrated155 the story. “Barnes was ready to kill me and eat me; but I never was afraid of Barnes.” And the biographer gathers from this little anecdote156, narrated to him, never mind by whom, at a long subsequent period, that there had been great disputes in Sir Brian Newcome’s establishment, fierce drawing-room battles, whereof certain pictures of a certain painter might have furnished the cause, and in which Miss Newcome had the whole of the family forces against her. That such battles take place in other domestic establishments, who shall say or shall not say? Who, when he goes out to dinner, and is received by a bland157 host with a gay shake of the hand, and a pretty hostess with a gracious smile of welcome, dares to think that Mr. Johnson upstairs, half an hour before, was swearing out of his dressing-room at Mrs. Johnson, for having ordered a turbot instead of a salmon158, or that Mrs. Johnson now talking to Lady Jones so nicely about their mutual159 darling children, was crying her eyes out as her maid was fastening her gown, as the carriages were actually driving up? The servants know these things, but not we in the dining-room. Hark with what a respectful tone Johnson begs the clergyman present to say grace!
Whatever these family quarrels may have been, let bygones be bygones, and let us be perfectly160 sure, that to whatever purpose Miss Ethel Newcome, for good or for evil, might make her mind up, she had quite spirit enough to hold her own. She chose to be Countess of Kew because she chose to be Countess of Kew; had she set her heart on marrying Mr. Kuhn, she would have had her way, and made the family adopt it, and called him dear Fritz, as by his godfathers and godmothers, in his baptism, Mr. Kuhn was called. Clive was but a fancy, if he had even been so much as that, not a passion, and she fancied a pretty four-pronged coronet still more.
So that the diatribe161 wherein we lately indulged, about the selling of virgins, by no means applies to Lady Anne Newcome, who signed the address to Mrs Stowe, the other day, along with thousands more virtuous British matrons; but should the reader haply say, “Is thy fable162, O Poet, narrated concerning Tancred Pulleyn, Earl of Dorking, and Sigismunda, his wife?” the reluctant moralist is obliged to own that the cap does fit those noble personages, of whose lofty society you will, however, see but little.
For though I would like to go into an Indian Brahmin’s house, and see the punkahs, and the purdahs and tattys, and the pretty brown maidens163 with great eyes, and great nose-rings, and painted foreheads, and slim waists cased in Cashmir shawls, Kincob scarfs, curly slippers164, gilt165 trousers, precious anklets and bangles; and have the mystery of Eastern existence revealed to me (as who would not who has read the Arabian Nights in his youth?), yet I would not choose the moment when the Brahmin of the house was dead, his women howling, his priests doctoring his child of a widow, now frightening her with sermons, now drugging her with bang, so as to push her on his funeral pile at last, and into the arms of that carcase, stupefied, but obedient and decorous. And though I like to walk, even in fancy, in an earl’s house, splendid, well ordered, where there are feasts and fine pictures and fair ladies and endless books and good company; yet there are times when the visit is not pleasant; and when the parents in that fine house are getting ready their daughter for sale, and frightening away her tears with threats, and stupefying her grief with narcotics166, praying her and imploring167 her, and dramming her and coaxing168 her, and blessing169 her, and cursing her perhaps, till they have brought her into such a state as shall fit the poor young thing for that deadly couch upon which they are about to thrust her. When my lord and lady are so engaged I prefer not to call at their mansion170, Number 1000 in Grosvenor Square, but to partake of a dinner of herbs rather than of that stalled ox which their cook is roasting whole. There are some people who are not so squeamish. The family comes, of course; the Most Reverend the Lord Arch-Brahmin of Benares will attend the ceremony; there will be flowers and lights and white favours; and quite a string of carriages up to the pagoda171; and such a breakfast afterwards; and music in the street and little parish boys hurrahing172; and no end of speeches within and tears shed (no doubt), and His Grace the Arch-Brahmin will make a highly appropriate speech, just with a faint scent173 of incense174 about it as such a speech ought to have; and the young person will slip away unperceived, and take off her veils, wreaths, orange-flowers, bangles and finery, and will put on a plain dress more suited for the occasion, and the house-door will open — and there comes the SUTTEE in company of the body: yonder the pile is waiting on four wheels with four horses, the crowd hurrahs and the deed is done.
This ceremony amongst us is so stale and common that to be sure there is no need to describe its rites, and as women sell themselves for what you call an establishment every day; to the applause of themselves, their parents, and the world, why on earth should a man ape at originality175 and pretend to pity them? Never mind about the lies at the altar, the blasphemy176 against the godlike name of love, the sordid177 surrender, the smiling dishonour178. What the deuce does a mariage de convenance mean but all this, and are not such sober Hymeneal torches more satisfactory often than the most brilliant love matches that ever flamed and burnt out? Of course. Let us not weep when everybody else is laughing: let us pity the agonised duchess when her daughter, Lady Atalanta, runs away with the doctor — of course, that’s respectable; let us pity Lady Iphigenia’s father when that venerable chief is obliged to offer up his darling child; but it is over her part of the business that a decorous painter would throw the veil now. Her ladyship’s sacrifice is performed, and the less said about it the better.
Such was the case regarding an affair which appeared in due subsequence in the newspapers not long afterwards under the fascinating title of “Marriage in High Life,” and which was in truth the occasion of the little family Congress of Baden which we are now chronicling. We all know — everybody at least who has the slightest acquaintance with the army list — that, at the commencement of their life, my Lord Kew, my Lord Viscount Rooster, the Earl of Dorking’s eldest179 son, and the Honourable Charles Belsize, familiarly called Jack180 Belsize, were subaltern officers in one of His Majesty’s regiments181 of cuirassier guards. They heard the chimes at midnight like other young men, they enjoyed their fun and frolics as gentlemen of spirit will do; sowing their wild oats plentifully182, and scattering183 them with boyish profusion184. Lady Kew’s luck had blessed him with more sacks of oats than fell to the lot of his noble young companions. Lord Dorking’s house is known to have been long impoverished185; an excellent informant, Major Pendennis, has entertained me with many edifying186 accounts of the exploits of Lord Rooster’s grandfather “with the wild Prince and Poins,” of his feats187 in the hunting-field, over the bottle, over the dice-box. He played two nights and two days at a sitting with Charles Fox, when they both lost sums awful to reckon. He played often with Lord Steyne, and came away, as all men did, dreadful sufferers from those midnight encounters. His descendants incurred188 the penalties of the progenitor’s imprudence, and Chanticlere, though one of the finest castles in England, is splendid but for a month in the year. The estate is mortgaged up to the very castle windows. “Dorking cannot cut a stick or kill a buck189 in his own park,” the good old Major used to tell with tragic190 accents, “he lives by his cabbages, grapes, and pineapples, and the fees which people give for seeing the place and gardens, which are still the show of the county, and among the most splendid in the island. When Dorking is at Chanticlere, Ballard, who married his sister, lends him the plate and sends three men with it. Four cooks inside, and four maids and six footmen on the roof, with a butler driving, come down from London in a trap, and wait the month. And as the last carriage of the company drives away, the servants’ coach is packed, and they all bowl back to town again. It’s pitiable, sir, pitiable.”
In Lord Kew’s youth, the names of himself and his two noble friends appeared on innumerable slips of stamped paper, conveying pecuniary191 assurances of a promissory nature; all of which promises, my Lord Kew singly and most honourably192 discharged. Neither of his two companions-inarms had the means of meeting these engagements. Ballard, Rooster’s uncle, was said to make his lordship some allowance. As for Jack Belsize: how he lived; how he laughed; how he dressed himself so well, and looked so fat and handsome; how he got a shilling to pay for a cab or a cigar; what ravens34 fed him; was a wonder to all. The young men claimed kinsmanship with one another, which those who are learned in the peerage may unravel193.
When Lord Dorking’s eldest daughter married the Honourable and Venerable Dennis Gallowglass, Archdeacon of Bullintubber (and at present Viscount Gallowglass and Killbrogue, and Lord Bishop8 of Ballyshannon), great festivities took place at Chanticlere, whither the relatives of the high contracting parties were invited. Among them came poor Jack Belsize, and hence the tears which are dropping at Baden at this present period of our history. Clara Pulleyn was then a pretty little maiden of sixteen, and Jack a handsome guardsman of six or seven and twenty. As she had been especially warned against Jack as a wicked young rogue194, whose antecedents were wofully against him; as she was never allowed to sit near him at dinner, or to walk with him, or to play at billiards with him, or to waltz with him; as she was scolded if he spoke a word to her, or if he picked up her glove, or touched her hand in a round game, or caught him when they were playing at blindman’s-buff; as they neither of them had a penny in the world, and were both very good-looking, of course Clara was always catching195 Jack at blindman’s-buff; constantly lighting196 upon him in the shrubberies or corridors, etc. etc. etc. She fell in love (she was not the first) with Jack’s broad chest and thin waist; she thought his whiskers as indeed they were, the handsomest pair in all His Majesty’s Brigade of Cuirassiers.
We know not what tears were shed in the vast and silent halls of Chanticlere, when the company were gone, and the four cooks, and four maids, six footmen, and temporary butler had driven back in their private trap to the metropolis197, which is not forty miles distant from that splendid castle. How can we tell? The guests departed, the lodge-gates shut; all is mystery:— darkness with one pair of wax candles blinking dismally198 in a solitary199 chamber50; all the rest dreary200 vistas201 of brown hollands, rolled Turkey carpets, gaunt ancestors on the walls scowling202 out of the twilight203 blank. The imagination is at liberty to depict204 his lordship, with one candle, over his dreadful endless tapes and papers; her ladyship with the other, and an old, old novel, wherein perhaps, Mrs. Radcliffe describes a castle as dreary as her own; and poor little Clara sighing and crying in the midst of these funereal205 splendours, as lonely and heart-sick as Oriana in her moated grange:— poor little Clara!
Lord Kew’s drag took the young men to London; his lordship driving, and the servants sitting inside. Jack sat behind with the two grooms206, and tooted on a cornet-a-piston in the most melancholy207 manner. He partook of no refreshment208 on the road. His silence at his clubs was remarked: smoking, billiards, military duties, and this and that, roused him a little, and presently Jack was alive again. But then came the season, Lady Clara Pulleyn’s first season in London, and Jack was more alive than ever. There was no ball he did not go to; no opera (that is to say, no opera of certain operas) which he did not frequent. It was easy to see by his face, two minutes after entering a room, whether the person he sought was there or absent; not difficult for those who were in the secret to watch in another pair of eyes the bright kindling209 signals which answered Jack’s fiery210 glances. Ah! how beautiful he looked on his charger on the birthday, all in a blaze of scarlet, and bullion211, and steel. O Jack! tear her out of yon carriage, from the side of yonder livid, feathered, painted, bony dowager! place her behind you on the black charger; cut down the policeman, and away with you! The carriage rolls in through St. James’s Park; Jack sits alone with his sword dropped to the ground, or only atra cura on the crupper behind him; and Snip212, the tailor, in the crowd, thinks it is for fear of him Jack’s head droops213. Lady Clara Pulleyn is presented by her mother, the Countess of Dorking; and Jack is arrested that night as he is going out of White’s to meet her at the Opera.
Jack’s little exploits are known in the Insolvent214 Court, where he made his appearances as Charles Belsize, commonly called the Honourable Charles Belsize, whose dealings were smartly chronicled by the indignant moralists of the press of those days. The Scourge215 flogged him heartily216. The Whip (of which the accomplished217 editor was himself in Whitecross Street prison) was especially virtuous regarding him; and the Penny Voice of Freedom gave him an awful dressing. I am not here to scourge sinners; I am true to my party; it is the other side this humble218 pen attacks; let us keep to the virtuous and respectable, for as for poor sinners they get the whipping-post every day. One person was faithful to poor Jack through all his blunders and follies219 and extravagance and misfortunes, and that was the pretty young girl of Chanticlere, round whose young affections his luxuriant whiskers had curled. And the world may cry out at Lord Kew for sending his brougham to the Queen’s Bench prison, and giving a great feast at Grignon’s to Jack on the day of his liberation, but I for one will not quarrel with his lordship. He and many other sinners had a jolly night. They said Kew made a fine speech, in hearing and acknowledging which Jack Belsize wept copiously220. Barnes Newcome was in a rage at Jack’s manumission, and sincerely hoped Mr. Commissioner221 would give him a couple of years longer; and cursed and swore with a great liberality on hearing of his liberty.
That this poor prodigal should marry Clara Pulleyn, and by way of a dowry lay his schedule at her feet, was out of the question. His noble father, Lord Highgate, was furious against him; his eldest brother would not see him; he had given up all hopes of winning his darling prize long ago, and one day there came to him a great packet bearing the seal of Chanticlere, containing a wretched little letter signed C. P., and a dozen sheets of Jack’s own clumsy writing, delivered who knows how, in what crush-rooms, quadrilles, bouquets222, balls, and in which were scrawled223 Jack’s love and passion and ardour. How many a time had he looked into the dictionary at White’s, to see whether eternal was spelt with an e, and adore with one a or two! There they were, the incoherent utterances224 of his brave longing heart; and those two wretched, wretched lines signed C., begging that C.‘s little letters might too be returned or destroyed. To do him justice, he burnt them loyally every one along with his own waste paper. He kept not one single little token which she had given him or let him take. The rose, the glove, the little handkerchief which she had dropped to him, how he cried over them! The ringlet of golden hair — he burnt them all, all in his own fire in the prison, save a little, little bit of the hair, which might be any one’s, which was the colour of his sister’s. Kew saw the deed done; perhaps he hurried away when Jack came to the very last part of the sacrifice, and flung the hair into the fire, where he would have liked to fling his heart and his life too.
So Clara was free, and the year when Jack came out of prison and went abroad, she passed the season in London dancing about night after night, and everybody said she was well out of that silly affair with Jack Belsize. It was then that Barnes Newcome, Esq., a partner of the wealthy banking225 firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome, son and heir of Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome, Bart., and M. P., descended226 in right line from Bryan de Newcomyn, slain227 at Hastings, and barber-surgeon to Edward the Confessor, etc. etc., cast the eyes of regard on the Lady Clara Pulleyn, who was a little pale and languid certainly, but had blue eyes, a delicate skin, and a pretty person, and knowing her previous history as well as you who have just perused228 it, deigned229 to entertain matrimonial intentions towards her ladyship.
Not one of the members of these most respectable families, excepting poor little Clara perhaps, poor little fish (as if she had any call but to do her duty, or to ask a quelle sauce elle serait mangee), protested against this little affair of traffic; Lady Dorking had a brood of little chickens to succeed Clara. There was little Hennie, who was sixteen, and Biddy, who was fourteen, and Adelaide, and who knows how many more? How could she refuse a young man, not very agreeable it is true, nor particularly amiable230, nor of good birth, at least on his father’s side, but otherwise eligible231, and heir to so many thousands a year? The Newcomes, on their side, think it a desirable match. Barnes, it must be confessed, is growing rather selfish, and has some bachelor ways which a wife will reform. Lady Kew is strongly for the match. With her own family interest, Lord Steyne and Lord Kew, her nephews, and Barnes’s own father-inlaw, Lord Dorking, in the Peers, why shall not the Newcomes sit there too, and resume the old seat which all the world knows they had in the time of Richard III.? Barnes and his father had got up quite a belief about a Newcome killed at Bosworth, along with King Richard, and hated Henry VII. as an enemy of their noble race. So all the parties were pretty well agreed. Lady Anne wrote rather a pretty little poem about welcoming the white Fawn232 to the Newcome bowers233, and “Clara” was made to rhyme with “fairer,” and “timid does and antlered deer to dot the glades234 of Chanticlere,” quite in a picturesque235 way. Lady Kew pronounced that the poem was very pretty indeed.
The year after Jack Belsize made his foreign tour he returned to London for the season. Lady Clara did not happen to be there; her health was a little delicate, and her kind parents took her abroad; so all things went on very smoothly236 and comfortably indeed.
Yes, but when things were so quiet and comfortable, when the ladies of the two families had met at the Congress of Baden, and liked each other so much, when Barnes and his papa the Baronet, recovered from his illness, were actually on their journey from Aix-la-Chapelle, and Lady Kew in motion from Kissingen to the Congress of Baden, why on earth should Jack Belsize, haggard, wild, having been winning great sums, it was said, at Hombourg, forsake237 his luck there, and run over frantically to Baden? He wore a great thick beard, a great slouched hat — he looked like nothing more or less than a painter or an Italian brigand238. Unsuspecting Clive, remembering the jolly dinner which Jack had procured239 for him at the Guards’ mess in St. James’s, whither Jack himself came from the Horse Guards — simple Clive, seeing Jack enter the town, hailed him cordially, and invited him to dinner, and Jack accepted, and Clive told him all the news he had of the place; how Kew was there, and Lady Anne Newcome, and Ethel; and Barnes was coming. “I am not very fond of him either,” says Clive, smiling, when Belsize mentioned his name. So Barnes was coming to marry that pretty little Lady Clara Pulleyn. The knowing youth! I dare say he was rather pleased with his knowledge of the fashionable world, and the idea that Jack Belsize would think he, too, was somebody.
Jack drank an immense quantity of champagne, and the dinner over, as they could hear the band playing from Clive’s open windows in the snug240 clean little Hotel de France, Jack proposed they should go on the promenade. M. de Florac was of the party; he had been exceedingly jocular when Lord Kew’s name was mentioned, and said, “Ce petit Kiou! M. le Duc d’Ivry, mon oncle, l’honore d’une amitie toute particuliere.” These three gentlemen walked out; the promenade was crowded, the was band playing “Home, sweet Home” very sweetly, and the very first persons they met on the walk were the Lords of Kew and Dorking, on the arm of which latter venerable peer his daughter Lady Clara was hanging.
Jack Belsize, in a velvet241 coat, with a sombrero slouched over his face, with a beard reaching to his waist, was, no doubt, not recognised at first by the noble lord of Dorking, for he was greeting the other two gentlemen with his usual politeness and affability; when, of a sudden, Lady Clara looking up, gave a little shriek30 and fell down lifeless on the gravel242 walk. Then the old earl recognised Mr. Belsize, and Clive heard him say, “You villain243, how dare you come here?”
Belsize had flung himself down to lift up Clara, calling her frantically by her name, when old Dorking sprang to seize him.
“Hands off, my lord,” said the other, shaking the old man from his back. “Confound you, Jack, hold your tongue,” roars out Kew. Clive runs for a chair, and a dozen were forthcoming. Florac skips back with a glass of water. Belsize runs towards the awakening244 girl: and the father, for an instant losing all patience and self-command, trembling in every limb, lifts his stick, and says again, “Leave her, you ruffian.” “Lady Clara has fainted again, sir,” says Captain Belsize. “I am staying at the Hotel de France. If you touch me, old man” (this in a very low voice), “by Heaven I shall kill you. I wish you good morning;” and taking a last long look at the lifeless girl, he lifts his hat and walks away. Lord Dorking mechanically takes his hat off, and stands stupidly gazing after him. He beckoned245 Clive to follow him, and a crowd of the frequenters of the place are by this time closed round the fainting young lady.
Here was a pretty incident in the Congress of Baden!
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1
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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6
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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8
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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11
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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12
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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13
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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14
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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15
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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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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bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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19
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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21
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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22
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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27
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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28
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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30
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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31
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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35
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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36
confides
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的第三人称单数 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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rebus
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| n.谜,画谜 | |
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39
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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40
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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41
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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42
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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43
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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44
espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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46
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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47
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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48
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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49
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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50
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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51
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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52
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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53
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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54
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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55
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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56
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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57
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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58
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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59
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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60
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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61
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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62
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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63
dicing
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| n.掷骰子，（皮革上的）菱形装饰v.将…切成小方块，切成丁（ dice的现在分词 ） | |
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64
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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65
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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66
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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67
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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68
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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69
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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70
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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71
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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72
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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73
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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74
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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75
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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76
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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77
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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78
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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79
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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80
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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81
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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82
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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83
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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84
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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85
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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86
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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87
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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89
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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90
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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91
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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92
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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93
narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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94
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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95
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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96
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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97
mementos
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| 纪念品，令人回忆的东西( memento的名词复数 ) | |
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98
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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99
scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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100
excavate
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| vt.挖掘，挖出 | |
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101
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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102
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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103
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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104
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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105
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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107
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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108
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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109
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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110
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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111
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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112
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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113
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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114
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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115
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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116
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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117
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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118
tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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119
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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120
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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121
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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122
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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123
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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124
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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125
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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126
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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127
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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128
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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129
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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130
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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131
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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132
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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133
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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135
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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136
grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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137
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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138
scowls
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| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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139
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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140
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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141
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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142
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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143
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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144
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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145
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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146
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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147
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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148
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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149
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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150
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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151
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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152
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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153
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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154
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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155
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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157
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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158
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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159
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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160
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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161
diatribe
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| n.抨击，抨击性演说 | |
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162
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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163
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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164
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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165
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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166
narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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167
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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168
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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169
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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170
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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171
pagoda
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| n.宝塔（尤指印度和远东的多层宝塔），（印度教或佛教的）塔式庙宇 | |
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172
hurrahing
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| v.好哇( hurrah的现在分词 ) | |
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173
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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174
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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175
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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176
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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177
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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178
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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179
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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180
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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181
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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182
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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183
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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184
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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185
impoverished
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|
| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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186
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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187
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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188
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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189
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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190
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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191
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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192
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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193
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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194
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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195
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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196
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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197
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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198
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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199
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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200
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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201
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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202
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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203
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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204
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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205
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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206
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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207
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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208
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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209
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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210
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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211
bullion
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| n.金条，银条 | |
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212
snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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213
droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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214
insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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215
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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216
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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217
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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218
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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219
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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220
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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221
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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222
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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223
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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224
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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225
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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226
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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227
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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228
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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229
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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230
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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231
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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232
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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233
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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234
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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235
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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236
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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237
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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238
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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239
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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240
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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241
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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242
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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243
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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244
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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245
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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