Not the least difficult part of Thomas Newcome’s present business was to keep from his son all knowledge of the negotiation2 in which he was engaged on Clive’s behalf. If my gentle reader has had sentimental3 disappointments, he or she is aware that the friends who have given him most sympathy under these calamities4 have been persons who have had dismal5 histories of their own at some time of their lives, and I conclude Colonel Newcome in his early days must have suffered very cruelly in that affair of which we have a slight cognisance, or he would not have felt so very much anxiety about Clive’s condition.
A few chapters back and we described the first attack, and Clive’s manful cure: then we had to indicate the young gentleman’s relapse, and the noisy exclamations6 of the youth under this second outbreak of fever. Calling him back after she had dismissed him, and finding pretext7 after pretext to see him — why did the girl encourage him, as she certainly did? I allow, with Mrs. Grundy and most moralists, that Miss Newcome’s conduct in this matter was highly reprehensible8; that if she did not intend to marry Clive she should have broken with him — altogether; that a virtuous9 young woman of high principle, etc. etc., having once determined10 to reject a suitor, should separate from him utterly11 then and there — never give him again the least chance of a hope, or reillume the extinguished fire in the wretch’s bosom12.
But coquetry, but kindness, but family affection, and a strong, very strong partiality for the rejected lover — are these not to be taken in account, and to plead as excuses for her behaviour to her cousin? The least unworthy part of her conduct, some critics will say, was that desire to see Clive and be well with him: as she felt the greatest regard for him, the showing it was not blameable; and every flutter which she made to escape out of the meshes13 which the world had cast about her was but the natural effort at liberty. It was her prudence14 which was wrong; and her submission15 wherein she was most culpable16. In the early church story, do we not read how young martyrs17 constantly had to disobey worldly papas and mammas, who would have had them silent, and not utter their dangerous opinions? how their parents locked them up, kept them on bread-and-water, whipped and tortured them in order to enforce obedience19? — nevertheless they would declare the truth: they would defy the gods by law established, and deliver themselves up to the lions or the tormentors. Are not there Heathen Idols20 enshrined among us still? Does not the world worship them, and persecute21 those who refuse to kneel? Do not many timid souls sacrifice to them; and other bolder spirits rebel and, with rage at their hearts, bend down their stubborn knees at their altars? See! I began by siding with Mrs. Grundy and the world, and at the next turn of the see-saw have lighted down on Ethel’s side, and am disposed to think that the very best part of her conduct has been those escapades which — which right-minded persons most justly condemn22. At least, that a young beauty should torture a man with alternate liking23 and indifference24; allure25, dismiss, and call him back out of banishment26; practise arts to please upon him, and ignore them when rebuked27 for her coquetry — these are surely occurrences so common in young women’s history as to call for no special censure29; and if on these charges Miss Newcome is guilty, is she, of all her sex, alone in her criminality?
So Ethel and her duenna went away upon their tour of visits to mansions30 so splendid, and among hosts and guests so polite, that the present modest historian does not dare to follow them. Suffice it to say that Duke This and Earl That were, according to their hospitable31 custom, entertaining a brilliant circle of friends at their respective castles, all whose names the Morning Post gave; and among them those of the Dowager Countess of Kew and Miss Newcome.
During her absence, Thomas Newcome grimly awaited the result of his application to Barnes. That Baronet showed his uncle a letter, or rather a postscript32, from Lady Kew, which probably had been dictated33 by Barnes himself, in which the Dowager said she was greatly touched by Colonel Newcome’s noble offer; that though she owned she had very different views for her granddaughter, Miss Newcome’s choice of course lay with herself. Meanwhile, Lady K. and Ethel were engaged in a round of visits to the country, and there would be plenty of time to resume this subject when they came to London for the season. And, lest dear Ethel’s feelings should be needlessly agitated34 by a discussion of the subject, and the Colonel should take a fancy to write to her privately35, Lady Kew gave orders that all letters from London should be despatched under cover to her ladyship, and carefully examined the contents of the packet before Ethel received her share of the correspondence.
To write to her personally on the subject of the marriage, Thomas Newcome had determined was not a proper course for him to pursue. “They consider themselves,” says he, “above us, forsooth, in their rank of life (oh, mercy! what pigmies we are! and don’t angels weep at the brief authority in which we dress ourselves up!) and of course the approaches on our side must be made in regular form, and the parents of the young people must act for them. Clive is too honourable38 a man to wish to conduct the affair in any other way. He might try the influence of his beaux yeux, and run off to Gretna with a girl who had nothing; but the young lady being wealthy, and his relation, sir, we must be on the point of honour; and all the Kews in Christendom shan’t have more pride than we in this matter.”
All this time we are keeping Mr. Clive purposely in the background. His face is so woebegone that we do not care to bring it forward in the family picture. His case is so common that surely its lugubrious39 symptoms need not be described at length. He works away fiercely at his pictures, and in spite of himself improves in his art. He sent a “Combat of Cavalry40,” and a picture of “Sir Brian the Templar carrying off Rebecca,” to the British Institution this year; both of which pieces were praised in other journals besides the Pall41 Mall Gazette. He did not care for the newspaper praises. He was rather surprised when a dealer42 purchased his “Sir Brian the Templar.” He came and went from our house a melancholy43 swain. He was thankful for Laura’s kindness and pity. J. J.‘s studio was his principal resort; and I dare say, as he set up his own easel there, and worked by his friend’s side, he bemoaned44 his lot to his sympathising friend.
Sir Barnes Newcome’s family was absent from London during the winter. His mother, and his brothers and sisters, his wife and his two children, were gone to Newcome for Christmas. Some six weeks after seeing him, Ethel wrote her uncle a kind, merry letter. They had been performing private theatricals45 at the country-house where she and Lady Kew were staying. “Captain Crackthorpe made an admirable Jeremy Diddler in ‘Raising the Wind.’ Lord Farintosh broke down lamentably46 as Fusbos in ‘Bombastes Furioso.’” Miss Ethel had distinguished47 herself in both of these facetious48 little comedies. “I should like Clive to paint me as Miss Plainways,” she wrote. “I wore a powdered front, painted my face all over wrinkles, imitated old Lady Griffin as well as I could, and looked sixty at least.”
Thomas Newcome wrote an answer to his fair niece’s pleasant letter; “Clive,” he said, “would be happy to bargain to paint her, and nobody else but her, all the days of his life; and,” the Colonel was sure, “would admire her at sixty as much as he did now, when she was forty years younger.” But, determined on maintaining his appointed line of conduct respecting Miss Newcome, he carried his letter to Sir Barnes, and desired him to forward it to his sister. Sir Barnes took the note, and promised to despatch36 it. The communications between him and his uncle had been very brief and cold, since the telling of these little fibs concerning old Lady Kew’s visits to London, which the Baronet dismissed from his mind as soon as they were spoken, and which the good Colonel never could forgive. Barnes asked his uncle to dinner once or twice, but the Colonel was engaged. How was Barnes to know the reason of the elder’s refusal? A London man, a banker, and a Member of Parliament, has a thousand things to think of; and no time to wonder that friends refuse his invitations to dinner. Barnes continued to grin and smile most affectionately when he met the Colonel; to press his hand, to congratulate him on the last accounts from India, unconscious of the scorn and distrust with which his senior mentally regarded him. “Old boy is doubtful about the young cub’s love-affair,” the Baronet may have thought. “We’ll ease his old mind on that point some time hence.” No doubt Barnes thought he was conducting the business very smartly and diplomatically.
I heard myself news at this period from the gallant50 Crackthorpe, which, being interested in my young friend’s happiness, filled me with some dismay. “Our friend the painter and glazier has been hankering about our barracks at Knightsbridge” (the noble Life Guards Green had now pitched their tents in that suburb), “and pumping me about la belle51 cousin. I don’t like to break it to him — I don’t really, now. But it’s all up with his chance, I think. Those private theatricals at Fallowfield have done Farintosh’s business. He used to rave52 about the Newcomes to me, as we were riding home from hunting. He gave Bob Henchman the lie, who told a story which Bob got from his man, who had it from Miss Newcome’s lady’s-maid, about — about some journey to Brighton, which the cousins took.” Here Mr. Crackthorpe grinned most facetiously53. “Farintosh swore he’d knock Henchman down; and vows54 he will be the death of — will murder our friend Clive when he comes to town. As for Henchman, he was in a desperate way. He lives on the Marquis, you know, and Farintosh’s anger or his marriage will be the loss of free quarters, and ever so many good dinners a year to him.” I did not deem it necessary to impart Crackthorpe’s story to Clive, or explain to him the reason why Lord Farintosh scowled55 most fiercely upon the young painter, and passed him without any other sign of recognition one day as Clive and I were walking together in Pall Mall. If my lord wanted a quarrel, young Clive was not a man to balk56 him; and would have been a very fierce customer to deal with, in his actual state of mind.
A pauper57 child in London at seven years old knows how to go to market, to fetch the beer, to pawn58 father’s coat, to choose the largest fried fish or the nicest ham-bone, to nurse Mary Jane of three — to conduct a hundred operations of trade or housekeeping, which a little Belgravian does not perhaps acquire in all the days of her life. Poverty and necessity force this precociousness59 on the poor little brat60. There are children who are accomplished61 shoplifters and liars62 almost as soon as they can toddle64 and speak. I dare say little Princes know the laws of etiquette65 as regards themselves, and the respect due to their rank, at a very early period of their royal existence. Every one of us, according to his degree, can point to the Princekins of private life who are flattered and worshipped, and whose little shoes grown men kiss as soon almost as they walk upon ground.
It is a wonder what human nature will support: and that, considering the amount of flattery some people are crammed66 with from their cradles, they do not grow worse and more selfish than they are. Our poor little pauper just mentioned is dosed with Daffy’s Elixir67, and somehow survives the drug. Princekin or lordkin from his earliest days has nurses, dependants68, governesses, little friends, schoolfellows, schoolmasters, fellow-collegians, college tutors, stewards69 and valets, led captains of his suite70, and women innumerable flattering him and doing him honour. The tradesman’s manner, which to you and me is decently respectful, becomes straightway frantically71 servile before Princekin. Honest folks at railway stations whisper to their families, “That’s the Marquis of Farintosh,” and look hard at him as he passes. Landlords cry, “This way, my lord; this room for your lordship.” They say at public schools Princekin is taught the beauties of equality, and thrashed into some kind of subordination. Psha! Toad-eaters in pinafores surround Princekin. Do not respectable people send their children so as to be at the same school with him; don’t they follow him to college, and eat his toads72 through life?
And as for women — oh, my dear friends and brethren in this vale of tears — did you ever see anything so curious, monstrous73, and amazing as the way in which women court Princekin when he is marriageable, and pursue him with their daughters? Who was the British nobleman in old old days who brought his three daughters to the King of Mercia, that His Majesty74 might choose one after inspection75? Mercia was but a petty province, and its king in fact a Princekin. Ever since those extremely ancient and venerable times the custom exists not only in Mercia, but in all the rest of the provinces inhabited by the Angles, and before Princekins the daughters of our nobles are trotted76 out.
There was no day of his life which our young acquaintance, the Marquis of Farintosh, could remember on which he had not been flattered; and no society which did not pay him court. At a private school he could recollect77 the master’s wife stroking his pretty curls and treating him furtively78 to goodies; at college he had the tutor simpering and bowing as he swaggered over the grass-plat; old men at clubs would make way for him and fawn79 on him — not your mere80 pique-assiettes and penniless parasites81, but most respectable toad-eaters, fathers of honest families, gentlemen themselves of good station, who respected this young gentleman as one of the institutions of their country, and the admired wisdom of the nation that set him to legislate82 over us. When Lord Farintosh walked the streets at night, he felt himself like Haroun Alraschid —(that is, he would have felt so had he ever heard of the Arabian potentate)— a monarch83 in disguise affably observing and promenading84 the city. And let us be sure there was a Mesrour in his train to knock at the doors for him and run the errands of this young caliph. Of course he met with scores of men in life who neither flattered him nor would suffer his airs; but he did not like the company of such, or for the sake of truth undergo the ordeal85 of being laughed at; he preferred toadies86, generally speaking. “I like,” says he, “you know, those fellows who are always saying pleasant things, you know, and who would run from here to Hammersmith if I asked ’em — much better than those fellows who are always making fun of me, you know.” A man of his station who likes flatterers need not shut himself up; he can get plenty of society.
As for women, it was his lordship’s opinion that every daughter of Eve was bent87 on marrying him. A Scotch88 marquis, an English earl, of the best blood in the empire, with a handsome person, and a fortune of fifteen thousand a year, how could the poor creatures do otherwise than long for him? He blandly89 received their caresses90; took their coaxing92 and cajolery as matters of course; and surveyed the beauties of his time as the Caliph the moonfaces of his harem. My lord intended to marry certainly. He did not care for money, nor for rank; he expected consummate93 beauty and talent, and some day would fling his handkerchief to the possessor of these, and place her by his side upon the Farintosh throne.
At this time there were but two or three young ladies in society endowed with the necessary qualifications, or who found favour in his eyes. His lordship hesitated in his selection from these beauties. He was not in a hurry, he was not angry at the notion that Lady Kew (and Miss Newcome with her) hunted him. What else should they do but pursue an object so charming? Everybody hunted him. The other young ladies, whom we need not mention, languished94 after him still more longingly95. He had little notes from these; presents of purses worked by them, and cigar-cases embroidered96 with his coronet. They sang to him in cosy97 boudoirs — mamma went out of the room, and sister Ann forgot something in the drawing-room. They ogled98 him as they sang. Trembling they gave him a little foot to mount them, that they might ride on horseback with him. They tripped along by his side from the Hall to the pretty country church on Sundays. They warbled hymns99: sweetly looking at him the while mamma whispered confidentially100 to him, “What an angel Cecilia is!” And so forth101, and so forth — with which chaff102 our noble bird was by no means to be caught. When he had made up his great mind, that the time was come and the woman, he was ready to give a Marchioness of Farintosh to the English nation.
Miss Newcome has been compared ere this to the statue of “Huntress Diana” at the Louvre, whose haughty103 figure and beauty the young lady indeed somewhat resembled. I was not present when Diana and Diana’s grandmother hunted the noble Scottish stag of whom we have just been writing; nor care to know how many times Lord Farintosh escaped, and how at last he was brought to bay and taken by his resolute104 pursuers. Paris, it appears, was the scene of his fall and capture. The news was no doubt well known amongst Lord Farintosh’s brother-dandies, among exasperated105 matrons and virgins106 in Mayfair, and in polite society generally, before it came to simple Tom Newcome and his son. Not a word on the subject had Sir Barnes mentioned to the Colonel: perhaps not choosing to speak till the intelligence was authenticated107; perhaps not wishing to be the bearer of tidings so painful.
Though the Colonel may have read in his Pall Mall Gazette a paragraph which announced an approaching MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE, “between a noble young marquis and an accomplished and beautiful young lady, daughter and sister of a Northern baronet,” he did not know who were the fashionable persons about to be made happy, nor, until he received a letter from an old friend who lived at Paris, was the fact conveyed to him. Here is the letter preserved by him along with all that he ever received from the same hand:—
“Rue St. Dominique, St. Germain,
“Paris, 10 Fev.
“So behold108 you of return, my friend! you quit for ever the sword and those arid109 plains where you have passed so many years of your life, separated from those to whom, at the commencement, you held very nearly. Did it not seem once as if two hands never could unlock, so closely were they enlaced together? Ah, mine are old and feeble now; forty years have passed since the time when you used to say they were young and fair. How well I remember me of every one of those days, though there is a death between me and them, and it is as across a grave I review them! Yet another parting, and tears and regrets are finished. Tenez, I do not believe them when they say there is no meeting for us afterwards, there above. To what good to have seen you, friend, if we are to part here, and in Heaven too? I have not altogether forgotten your language, is it not so? I remember it because it was yours, and that of my happy days. I radote like an old woman as I am. M. de Florac has known my history from the commencement. May I not say that after so many of years I have been faithful to him and to all my promises? When the end comes with its great absolution, I shall not be sorry. One supports the combats of life, but they are long, and one comes from them very wounded; ah, when shall they be over?
“You return and I salute110 you with wishes for parting. How much egotism! I have another project which I please myself to arrange. You know how I am arrived to love Clive as own my child. I very quick surprised his secret, the poor boy, when he was here it is twenty months. He looked so like you as I repeal111 me of you in the old time! He told me he had no hope of his beautiful cousin. I have heard of the fine marriage that one makes her. Paul, my son, has been at the English Ambassade last night and has made his congratulations to M. de Farintosh. Paul says him handsome, young, not too spiritual, rich, and haughty, like all, all noble Montagnards.
“But it is not of M. de Farintosh I write, whose marriage, without doubt, has been announced to you. I have a little project; very foolish, perhaps. You know Mr. the Duke of Ivry has left me guardian112 of his little daughter Antoinette, whose affreuse mother no one sees more. Antoinette is pretty and good, and soft, and with an affectionate heart. I love her already as my infant. I wish to bring her up, and that Clive should marry her. They say you are returned very rich. What follies113 are these I write! In the long evenings of winter, the children escaped it is a long time from the maternal114 nest, a silent old man my only company — I live but of the past; and play with its souvenirs as the detained caress91 little birds, little flowers, in their prisons. I was born for the happiness; my God! I have learned it in knowing you. In losing you I have lost it. It is not against the will of Heaven I oppose myself. It is man, who makes himself so much of this evil and misery115, this slavery, these tears, these crimes, perhaps.
“This marriage of the young Scotch Marquis and the fair Ethel (I love her in spite of all, and shall see her soon and congratulate her, for, do you see, I might have stopped this fine marriage, and did my best and more than my duty for our poor Clive) shall make itself in London next spring, I hear. You shall assist scarcely at the ceremony; he, poor boy, shall not care to be there. Bring him to Paris to make the court to my little Antoinette: bring him to Paris to his good friend, Comtesse de Florac.”
“I read marvels116 of his works in an English journal, which one sends me.”
Clive was not by when this letter reached his father. Clive was in his painting-room, and lest he should meet his son, and in order to devise the best means of breaking the news to the lad, Thomas Newcome retreated out of doors; and from the Oriental he crossed Oxford117 Street, and from Oxford Street he stalked over the roomy pavements of Gloucester Place, and there he bethought him how he had neglected Mrs. Hobson Newcome of late, and the interesting family of Bryanstone Square. So he went to leave his card at Maria’s door: her daughters, as we have said, are quite grown girls. If they have been lectured, and learning, and back-boarded, and practising, and using the globes, and laying in a store of ‘ologies, ever since, what a deal they must know! Colonel Newcome was admitted to see his nieces, and Consummate Virtue118, their parent. Maria was charmed to see her brother-inlaw; she greeted him with reproachful tenderness: “Why, why,” her fine eyes seemed to say, “have you so long neglected us? Do you think because I am wise, and gifted, and good, and you are, it must be confessed, a poor creature with no education, I am not also affable? Come, let the prodigal119 be welcomed by his virtuous relatives: come and lunch with us, Colonel!” He sate120 down accordingly to the family tiffin.
When the meal was over, the mother, who had matter of importance to impart to him, besought121 him to go to the drawing-room, and there poured out such a eulogy122 upon her children’s qualities as fond mothers know how to utter. They knew this and they knew that. They were instructed by the most eminent123 professors; “that wretched Frenchwoman, whom you may remember here, Mademoiselle Lenoir,” Maria remarked parenthetically, “turned out, oh, frightfully! She taught the girls the worst accent, it appears. Her father was not a colonel; he was — oh! never mind! It is a mercy I got rid of that fiendish woman, and before my precious ones knew what she was!” And then followed details of the perfections of the two girls, with occasional side-shots at Lady Anne’s family, just as in the old time. “Why don’t you bring your boy, whom I have always loved as a son, and who avoids me? Why does not Clive know his cousins? They are very different from others of his kinswomen, who think best of the heartless world.”
“I fear, Maria, there is too much truth in what you say,” sighs the Colonel, drumming on a book on the drawing-room table, and looking down sees it is a great, large, square, gilt124 Peerage, open at FARINTOSH, MARQUIS OF. — Fergus Angus Malcolm Mungo Roy, Marquis of Farintosh, Earl of Glenlivat, in the peerage of Scotland; also Earl of Rossmont, in that of the United Kingdom. Son of Angus Fergus Malcolm, Earl of Glenlivat, and grandson and heir of Malcolm Mungo Angus, first Marquis of Farintosh, and twenty-fifth Earl, etc. etc.
“You have heard the news regarding Ethel?” remarks Hobson.
“I have just heard,” says the poor Colonel.
“I have a letter from Anne this morning,” Maria continues. “They are of course delighted with the match. Lord Farintosh is wealthy, handsome; has been a little wild, I hear; is not such a husband as I would choose for my darlings, but poor Brian’s family have been educated to love the world; and Ethel no doubt is flattered by the prospects125 before her. I have heard that some one else was a little epris in that quarter. How does Clive bear the news, my dear Colonel?”
“He has long expected it,” says the Colonel, rising: “and I left him very cheerful at breakfast this morning.”
“Send him to see us, the naughty boy!” cries Maria. “We don’t change; we remember old times, to us he will ever be welcome!” And with this confirmation126 of Madame de Florac’s news, Thomas Newcome walked sadly homewards.
And now Thomas Newcome had to break the news to his son; who received the shot in such a way as caused his friends and confidants to admire his high spirit. He said he had long been expecting some such announcement: it was many months since Ethel had prepared him for it. Under her peculiar127 circumstances he did not see how she could act otherwise than she had done. And he narrated128 to the Colonel the substance of the conversation which the two young people had had together several months before, in Madame de Florac’s garden.
Clive’s father did not tell his son of his own bootless negotiation with Barnes Newcome. There was no need to recall that now; but the Colonel’s wrath129 against his nephew exploded in conversation with me, who was the confidant of father and son in this business. Ever since that luckless day when Barnes thought proper to — to give a wrong address for Lady Kew, Thomas Newcome’s anger had been growing. He smothered130 it yet for a while, sent a letter to Lady Anne Newcome, briefly131 congratulating her on the choice which he had heard Miss Newcome had made; and in acknowledgment of Madame de Florac’s more sentimental epistle he wrote a reply which has not been preserved, but in which he bade her rebuke28 Miss Newcome for not having answered him when he wrote to her, and not having acquainted her old uncle with her projected union.
To this message, Ethel wrote back a brief, hurried reply; it said:—
“I saw Madame de Florac last night at her daughter’s reception, and she gave me my dear uncle’s messages. Yes, the news is true which you have heard from Madame de Florac, and in Bryanstone Square. I did not like to write it to you, because I know one whom I regard as a brother (and a great, great deal better), and to whom I know it will give pain. He knows that I have done my duty, and why I have acted as I have done. God bless him and his dear father!
“What is this about a letter which I never answered? Grandmamma knows nothing about a letter. Mamma has enclosed to me that which you wrote to her, but there has been no letter from T. N. to his sincere and affectionate E. N.
“Rue de Rivoli. Friday.”
This was too much, and the cup of Thomas Newcome’s wrath overflowed132. Barnes had lied about Ethel’s visit to London: Barnes had lied in saying that he delivered the message with which his uncle charged him: Barnes had lied about the letter which he had received, and never sent. With these accusations133 firmly proven in his mind against his nephew, the Colonel went down to confront that sinner.
Wherever he should find Barnes, Thomas Newcome was determined to tell him his mind. Should they meet on the steps of a church, on the flags of ‘Change, or in the newspaper-room at Bays’s, at evening-paper time, when men most do congregate134, Thomas the Colonel was determined upon exposing and chastising135 his father’s grandson. With Ethel’s letter in his pocket, he took his way into the City, penetrated136 into the unsuspecting back-parlour of Hobson’s bank, and was disappointed at first at only finding his half-brother Hobson there engaged over his newspaper. The Colonel signified his wish to see Sir Barnes Newcome. “Sir Barnes was not come in yet. You’ve heard about the marriage,” says Hobson. “Great news for the Barnes’s, ain’t it? The head of the house is as proud as a peacock about it. Said he was going out to Samuels, the diamond merchants; going to make his sister some uncommon137 fine present. Jolly to be uncle to a marquis, ain’t it, Colonel? I’ll have nothing under a duke for my girls. I say, I know whose nose is out of joint138. But young fellows get over these things, and Clive won’t die this time, I dare say.”
While Hobson Newcome made these satiric139 and facetious remarks, his half-brother paced up and down the glass parlour, scowling140 over the panes141 into the bank where the busy young clerks sate before their ledgers142. At last he gave an “Ah!” as of satisfaction. Indeed, he had seen Sir Barnes Newcome enter into the bank.
The Baronet stopped and spoke49 with a clerk, and presently entered, followed by that young gentleman into his private parlour. Barnes tried to grin when he saw his uncle, and held out his hand to greet the Colonel; but the Colonel put both his behind his back — that which carried his faithful bamboo cane143 shook nervously144. Barnes was aware that the Colonel had the news. “I was going to — to write to you this morning, with — with some intelligence that I am — very — very sorry to give.”
“This young gentleman is one of your clerks?” asked Thomas Newcome, blandly.
“Yes; Mr. Boltby, who has your private account. This is Colonel Newcome, Mr. Boltby,” says Sir Barnes, in some wonder.
“Mr. Boltby, brother Hobson, you heard what Sir Barnes Newcome said just now respecting certain intelligence which he grieved to give me?”
At this the three other gentlemen respectively wore looks of amazement145.
“Allow me to say in your presence, that I don’t believe one single word Sir Barnes Newcome says, when he tells me that he is very sorry for some intelligence he has to communicate. He lies, Mr. Boltby; he is very glad. I made up my mind that in whatsoever146 company I met him, and on the very first day I found him — hold your tongue, sir; you shall speak afterwards and tell more lies when I have done — I made up my mind, I say, that on the very first occasion I would tell Sir Barnes Newcome that he was a liar63 and a cheat. He takes charge of letters and keeps them back. Did you break the seal, sir? There was nothing to steal in my letter to Miss Newcome. He tells me people are out of town, when he goes to see in the next street, after leaving my table, and whom I see myself half an hour before he lies to me about their absence.”
“D— n you, go out, and don’t stand staring there, you booby!” screams out Sir Barnes to the clerk. “Stop, Boltby. Colonel Newcome, unless you leave this room I shall — I shall ——”
“You shall call a policeman. Send for the gentleman, and I will tell the Lord Mayor what I think of Sir Barnes Newcome, Baronet. Mr. Boltby, shall we have the constable147 in?”
“Sir, you are an old man, and my father’s brother, or you know very well I would ——”
“You would what, Sir? Upon my word, Barnes Newcome” (here the Colonel’s two hands and the bamboo cane came from the rear and formed in front), “but that you are my father’s grandson, after a menace like that, I would take you out and cane you in the presence of your clerks. I repeat, sir, that I consider you guilty of treachery, falsehood, and knavery148. And if I ever see you at Bays’s Club, I will make the same statement to your acquaintance at the west end of the town. A man of your baseness ought to be known, sir; and it shall be my business to make men of honour aware of your character. Mr. Boltby, will you have the kindness to make out my account? Sir Barnes Newcome, for fear of consequences that I should deplore149, I recommend you to keep a wide berth150 of me, sir.” And the Colonel twirled his mustachios, and waved his cane in an ominous151 manner, and Barnes started back spontaneously out of its dangerous circle.
What Mr. Boltby’s sentiments may have been regarding this extraordinary scene in which his principal cut so sorry a figure; — whether he narrated the conversation to other gentlemen connected with the establishment of Hobson Brothers, or prudently152 kept it to himself, I cannot say, having no means of pursuing Mr. B.‘s subsequent career. He speedily quitted his desk at Hobson Brothers; and let us presume that Barnes thought Mr. B. had old all the other clerks of the avuncular153 quarrel. That conviction will make us imagine Barnes still more comfortable. Hobson Newcome no doubt was rejoiced at Barnes’s discomfiture154; he had been insolent155 and domineering beyond measure of late to his vulgar good-natured uncle, whereas after the above interview with the Colonel he became very humble156 and quiet in his demeanour, and for a long, long time never said a rude word. Nay157, I fear Hobson must have carried an account of the transaction to Mrs. Hobson and the circle in Bryanstone Square; for Sam Newcome, now entered at Cambridge, called the Baronet “Barnes” quite familiarly; asked after Clara and Ethel; and requested a small loan of Barnes.
Of course the story did not get wind at Bays’s; of course Tom Eaves did not know all about it, and say that Sir Barnes had been beaten black-and-blue. Having been treated very ill by the committee in a complaint which he made about the Club cookery, Sir Barnes Newcome never came to Bays’s, and at the end of the year took off his name from the lists of the Club.
Sir Barnes, though a little taken aback in the morning, and not ready with an impromptu158 reply to the Colonel and his cane, could not allow the occurrence to pass without a protest; and indited159 a letter which Thomas Newcome kept along with some others previously160 quoted by the compiler of the present memoirs161.
It is as follows:—
Belgrave St., Feb. 15, 18 —.
“Colonel Newcome, C..B., private.
“SIR— The incredible insolence162 and violence of your behaviour today (inspired by whatever causes or mistakes of your own), cannot be passed without some comment, on my part. I laid before a friend of your own profession, a statement of the words which you applied163 to me in the presence of my partner and one of my clerks this morning; and my adviser164 is of opinion, that considering the relationship unhappily subsisting165 between us, I can take no notice of insults for which you knew when you uttered them, I could not call you to account.”
“There is some truth in that,” said the Colonel. “He couldn’t fight, you know; but then he was such a liar I could not help speaking my mind.”
“I gathered from the brutal166 language which you thought fit to employ towards a disarmed167 man, the ground of one of your monstrous accusations against me, that I deceived you in stating that my relative, Lady Kew, was in the country, when in fact she was at her house in London.
“To this absurd charge I at once plead guilty. The venerable lady in question was passing through London, where she desired to be free from intrusion. At her ladyship’s wish I stated that she was out of town; and would, under the same circumstances, unhesitatingly make the same statement. Your slight acquaintance with the person in question did not warrant that you should force yourself on her privacy, as you would doubtless know were you more familiar with the customs of the society in which she moves.
“I declare upon my honour as a gentleman, that I gave her the message which I promised to deliver from you, and also that I transmitted a letter with which you entrusted168 me; and repel169 with scorn and indignation the charges which you were pleased to bring against me, as I treat with contempt the language and the threats which you thought fit to employ.
“Our books show the amount of xl. xs. xd. to your credit, which you will be good enough to withdraw at your earliest convenience; as of course all intercourse170 must cease henceforth between you and — Yours, etc.
B. Newcome Newcome.”
“I think, sir, he doesn’t make out a bad case,” Mr. Pendennis remarked to the Colonel, who showed him this majestic171 letter.
“It would be a good case if I believed a single word of it, Arthur,” replied my friend, placidly172 twirling the old grey moustache. “If you were to say so-and-so, and say that I had brought false charges against you, I should cry mea culpa and apologise with all my heart. But as I have a perfect conviction that every word this fellow says is a lie, what is the use of arguing any more about the matter? I would not believe him if he brought twenty as witnesses, and if he lied till he was black in the other liars’ face. Give me the walnuts173. I wonder who Sir Barnes’s military friend was.”
Barnes’s military friend was our gallant acquaintance General Sir George Tufto, K.C.B., who a short while afterwards talked over the quarrel with the Colonel, and manfully told him that (in Sir George’s opinion) he was wrong. “The little beggar behaved very well, I thought, in the first business. You bullied174 him so, and in the front of his regiment175, too, that it was almost past bearing; and when he deplored176, with tears in his eyes, almost, the little humbug177! that his relationship prevented him calling you out, ecod, I believed him! It was in the second affair that poor little Barnes showed he was a cocktail178.”
“What second affair?” asked Thomas Newcome.
“Don’t you know? He! he! this is famous!” cries Sir George. “Why, sir, two days after your business, he comes to me with another letter and a face as long as my mare’s, by Jove. And that letter, Newcome, was from your young ’un. Stop, here it is!” and from his padded bosom General Sir George Tufto drew a pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a copy of a letter, inscribed179, “Clive Newcome, Esq., to Sir B. N. Newcome.” “There’s no mistake about your fellow, Colonel. No — — him!” and the man of war fired a volley of oaths as a salute to Clive.
And the Colonel, on horseback, riding by the other cavalry officer’s side read as follows:—
“George Street, Hanover Square, February 16.
“SIR— Colonel Newcome this morning showed me a letter bearing your signature, in which you state — 1. That Colonel Newcome has uttered calumnious180 and insolent charges against you. 2. That Colonel Newcome so spoke, knowing that you could take no notice of his charges of falsehood and treachery, on account of the relationship subsisting between you.
“Your statements would evidently imply that Colonel Newcome has been guilty of ungentlemanlike conduct, and of cowardice181 towards you.
“As there can be no reason why we should not meet in any manner that you desire, I here beg leave to state, on my own part, that I fully37 coincide with Colonel Newcome in his opinion that you have been guilty of falsehood and treachery, and that the charge of cowardice which you dare to make against a gentleman of his tried honour and courage, is another wilful182 and cowardly falsehood on your part.
“And I hope you will refer the bearer of this note, my friend, Mr. George Warrington, of the Upper Temple, to the military gentleman whom you consulted in respect to the just charges of Colonel Newcome. Waiting a prompt reply, believe me, sir — Your obedient servant, Clive Newcome.
“Sir Barnes Newcome Newcome, Bart., M. P., etc.”
“What a blunderhead I am!” cries the Colonel, with delight on his countenance183, spite of his professed184 repentance185. “It never once entered my head that the youngster would take any part in the affair. I showed him his cousin’s letter casually186, just to amuse him, I think, for he has been deuced low lately, about — about a young man’s scrape that he has got into. And he must have gone off and despatched his challenge straightway. I recollect he appeared uncommonly187 brisk at breakfast the next morning. And so you say, General, the Baronet did not like the poulet?”
“By no means; never saw a fellow show such a confounded white feather. At first I congratulated him, thinking your boy’s offer must please him, as it would have pleased any fellow in our time to have a shot. Dammy! but I was mistaken in my man. He entered into some confounded long-winded story about a marriage you wanted to make with that infernal pretty sister of his, who is going to marry young Farintosh, and how you were in a rage because the scheme fell to the ground, and how a family duel188 might occasion unpleasantries to Miss Newcome; though I showed him how this could be most easily avoided, and that the lady’s name need never appear in the transaction. ‘Confound it, Sir Barnes,’ says I, ‘I recollect this boy, when he was a youngster throwing a glass of wine in your face! We’ll put it upon that, and say it’s an old feud189 between you.’ He turned quite pale, and he said your fellow had apologised for the glass of wine.”
“Yes,” said the Colonel, sadly, “my boy apologised for the glass of wine. It is curious how we have disliked that Barnes ever since we set eyes on him.”
“Well, Newcome,” Sir George resumed, as his mettled charger suddenly jumped and curvetted, displaying the padded warrior’s cavalry-seat to perfection. “Quiet, old lady! — easy, my dear! Well, when I found the little beggar turning tail in this way I said to him, ‘Dash me, sir, if you don’t want me, why the dash do you send for me, dash me? Yesterday you talked as if you would bite the Colonel’s head off, and today, when his son offers you every accommodation, by dash, sir, you’re afraid to meet him. It’s my belief you had better send for a policeman. A 22 is your man, Sir Barnes Newcome.’ And with that I turned on my heel and left him. And the fellow went off to Newcome that very night.”
“A poor devil can’t command courage, General,” said the Colonel, quite peaceably, “any more than he can make himself six feet high.”
“Then why the dash did the beggar send for me?” called out General Sir George Tufto, in a loud and resolute voice; and presently the two officers parted company.
When the Colonel reached home, Mr. Warrington and Mr. Pendennis happened to be on a visit to Clive, and all three were in the young fellow’s painting-room. We knew our lad was unhappy, and did our little best to amuse and console him. The Colonel came in. It was in the dark February days: we lighted the gas in the studio. Clive had made a sketch190 from some favourite verses of mine and George’s: those charming lines of Scott’s:—
“He turned his charger as he spake,
Beside the river shore;
He gave his bridle-rein a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
My dear!
Adieu for evermore!”
Thomas Newcome held up a finger at Warrington, and he came up to the picture and looked at it; and George and I trolled out:
“Adieu for evermore,
My dear!
Adieu for evermore!”
From the picture the brave old Colonel turned to the painter, regarding his son with a look of beautiful inexpressible affection. And he laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, and smiled, and stroked Clive’s yellow moustache.
“And — and did Barnes send no answer to that letter you wrote him?” he said, slowly.
Clive broke out into a laugh that was almost a sob18. He took both his father’s hands. “My dear, dear old father!” says he, “what a — what an — old — trump191 you are!” My eyes were so dim I could hardly see the two men as they embraced.
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1
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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2
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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4
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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6
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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7
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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10
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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11
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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14
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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15
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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16
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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17
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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18
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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19
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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21
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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22
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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23
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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25
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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29
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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30
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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32
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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33
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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34
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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36
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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40
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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41
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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42
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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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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44
bemoaned
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的过去式和过去分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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45
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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46
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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47
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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48
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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49
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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50
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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51
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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52
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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53
facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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54
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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55
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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57
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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58
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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59
precociousness
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| n.早熟，早成 | |
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60
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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61
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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62
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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63
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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64
toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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65
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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66
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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67
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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68
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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69
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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70
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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71
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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72
toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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73
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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74
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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75
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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76
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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77
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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78
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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79
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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80
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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81
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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82
legislate
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| vt.制定法律；n.法规，律例；立法 | |
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83
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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84
promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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85
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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86
toadies
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| n.谄媚者，马屁精( toady的名词复数 )v.拍马，谄媚( toady的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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88
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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89
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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90
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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91
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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92
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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93
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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94
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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95
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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96
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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97
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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98
ogled
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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100
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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101
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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102
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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103
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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104
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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105
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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106
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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107
authenticated
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| v.证明是真实的、可靠的或有效的( authenticate的过去式和过去分词 )；鉴定，使生效 | |
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108
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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109
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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110
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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111
repeal
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| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
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112
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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113
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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114
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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115
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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116
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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117
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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118
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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119
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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120
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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121
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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122
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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123
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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124
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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125
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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126
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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127
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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128
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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130
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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131
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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132
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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133
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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134
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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135
chastising
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的现在分词 ) | |
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136
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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137
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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138
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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139
satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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140
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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141
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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142
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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143
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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144
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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145
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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146
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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147
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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148
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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149
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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150
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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151
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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152
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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153
avuncular
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| adj.叔伯般的，慈祥的 | |
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154
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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155
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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156
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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157
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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158
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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159
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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161
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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162
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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163
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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164
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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165
subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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166
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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167
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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168
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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170
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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171
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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172
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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173
walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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174
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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176
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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178
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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179
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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180
calumnious
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| adj.毁谤的，中伤的 | |
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181
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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182
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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183
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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184
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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185
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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186
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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187
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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188
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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189
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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190
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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191
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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