The demise1 of Lady Kew of course put a stop for a while to the matrimonial projects so interesting to the house of Newcome. Hymen blew his torch out, put it into the cupboard for use on a future day, and exchanged his garish2 saffron-coloured robe for decent temporary mourning. Charles Honeyman improved the occasion at Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel3 hard by; and “Death at the Festival” was one of his most thrilling sermons; reprinted at the request of some of the congregation. There were those of his flock, especially a pair whose quarter of the fold was the organ-loft, who were always charmed with the piping of that melodious4 pastor5.
Shall we too, while the coffin6 yet rests on the earth’s outer surface, enter the chapel whither these void remains7 of our dear sister departed are borne by the smug undertaker’s gentlemen, and pronounce an elegy8 over that bedizened box of corruption9? When the young are stricken down, and their roses nipped in an hour by the destroying blight10, even the stranger can sympathise, who counts the scant11 years on the gravestone, or reads the notice in the newspaper corner. The contrast forces itself on you. A fair young creature, bright and blooming yesterday, distributing smiles, levying12 homage13, inspiring desire, conscious of her power to charm, and gay with the natural enjoyment14 of her conquests — who in his walk through the world has not looked on many such a one; and, at the notion of her sudden call away from beauty, triumph, pleasure; her helpless outcries during her short pain; her vain pleas for a little respite15; her sentence, and its execution; has not felt a shock of pity? When the days of a long life come to its close, and a white head sinks to rise no more, we bow our own with respect as the mourning train passes, and salute17 the heraldry and devices of yonder pomp, as symbols of age, wisdom, deserved respect and merited honour; long experience of suffering and action. The wealth he may have achieved is the harvest which he sowed; the titles on his hearse, fruits of the field he bravely and laboriously18 wrought19 in. But to live to fourscore years, and be found dancing among the idle virgins20! to have had near a century of allotted21 time, and then be called away from the giddy notes of a Mayfair fiddle22! To have to yield your roses too, and then drop out of the bony clutch of your old fingers a wreath that came from a Parisian bandbox! One fancies around some graves unseen troops of mourners waiting; many and many a poor pensioner23 trooping to the place; many weeping charities; many kind actions; many dear friends beloved and deplored24, rising up at the toll25 of that bell to follow the honoured hearse; dead parents waiting above, and calling, “Come, daughter!” lost children, heaven’s fondlings, hovering26 round like cherubim, and whispering, “Welcome, mother!” Here is one who reposes27 after a long feast where no love has been; after girlhood without kindly28 maternal29 nurture30; marriage without affection; matronhood without its precious griefs and joys; after fourscore years of lonely vanity. Let us take off our hats to that procession too as it passes, admiring the different lots awarded to the children of men, and the various usages to which Heaven puts its creatures.
Leave we yonder velvet-palled box, spangled with fantastic heraldry, and containing within the aged31 slough32 and envelope of a soul gone to render its account. Look rather at the living audience standing33 round the shell; — the deep grief on Barnes Newcome’s fine countenance34; the sadness depicted35 in the face of the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh; the sympathy of her ladyship’s medical man (who came in the third mourning carriage); better than these, the awe36, and reverence37, and emotion, exhibited in the kind face of one of the witnesses of this scene, as he listens to those words which the priest rehearses over our dead. What magnificent words! what a burning faith, what a glorious triumph; what a heroic life, death, hope, they record! They are read over all of us alike; as the sun shines on just and unjust. We have all of us heard them; and I have fancied, for my part, that they fell and smote38 like the sods on the coffin.
The ceremony over, the undertaker’s gentlemen clamber on the roof of the vacant hearse, into which palls39, tressels, trays of feathers, are inserted, and the horses break out into a trot40, and the empty carriages, expressing the deep grief of the deceased lady’s friends, depart homeward. It is remarked that Lord Kew hardly has any communication with his cousin, Sir Barnes Newcome. His lordship jumps into a cab, and goes to the railroad. Issuing from the cemetery41, the Marquis of Farintosh hastily orders that thing to be taken off his hat, and returns to town in his brougham, smoking a cigar. Sir Barnes Newcome rides in the brougham beside Lord Farintosh as far as Oxford42 Street, where he gets a cab, and goes to the City. For business is business, and must be attended to, though grief be ever so severe.
A very short time previous to her demise, Mr. Rood (that was Mr. Rood — that other little gentleman in black, who shared the third mourning coach along with her ladyship’s medical man) had executed a will by which almost all the Countess’s property was devised to her granddaughter, Ethel Newcome. Lady Kew’s decease of course delayed the marriage projects for a while. The young heiress returned to her mother’s house in Park Lane. I dare say the deep mourning habiliments in which the domestics of that establishment appeared, were purchased out of the funds left in his hands, which Ethel’s banker and brother had at her disposal.
Sir Barnes Newcome, who was one of the trustees of his sister’s property, grumbled43 no doubt because his grandmother had bequeathed to him but a paltry44 recompense of five hundred pounds for his pains and trouble of trusteeship; but his manner to Ethel was extremely bland45 and respectful: an heiress now, and to be a marchioness in a few months, Sir Barnes treated her with a very different regard to that which he was accustomed to show to other members of his family. For while this worthy46 Baronet would contradict his mother at every word she uttered, and take no pains to disguise his opinion that Lady Anne’s intellect was of the very poorest order, he would listen deferentially47 to Ethel’s smallest observations, exert himself to amuse her under her grief, which he chose to take for granted was very severe, visit her constantly, and show the most charming solicitude48 for her general comfort and welfare.
During this time my wife received constant notes from Ethel Newcome, and the intimacy49 between the two ladies much increased. Laura was so unlike the women of Ethel’s circle, the young lady was pleased to say, that to be with her was Ethel’s greatest comfort. Miss Newcome was now her own mistress, had her carriage, and would drive day after day to our cottage at Richmond. The frigid50 society of Lord Farintosh’s sisters, the conversation of his mother, did not amuse Ethel, and she escaped from both with her usual impatience51 of control. She was at home every day dutifully to receive my lord’s visits; but though she did not open her mind to Laura as freely regarding the young gentleman as she did when the character and disposition52 of her future mother and sisters-inlaw was the subject of their talk, I could see, from the grave look of commiseration53 which my wife’s face bore after her young friend’s visits, that Mrs. Pendennis augured54 rather ill of the future happiness of this betrothed55 pair. Once, at Miss Newcome’s special request, I took my wife to see her in Park Lane, where the Marquis of Farintosh found us. His lordship and I had already a half-acquaintance, which was not, however, improved after my regular presentation to him by Miss Newcome: he scowled56 at me with a countenance indicative of anything but welcome, and did not seem in the least more pleased when Ethel entreated57 her friend Laura not to take her bonnet58, not to think of going away so soon. She came to see us the very next day, stayed much longer with us than usual, and returned to town quite late in the evening, in spite of the entreaties59 of the inhospitable Laura, who would have had her leave us long before. “I am sure,” says clear-sighted Mrs. Laura, “she is come out of bravado60, and after we went away yesterday that there were words between her and Lord Farintosh on our account.”
“Confound the young man,” breaks out Mr. Pendennis in a fume61; “what does he mean by his insolent62 airs?”
“He may think we are partisans63 de l’autre,” says Mrs. Pendennis, with a smile first, and a sigh afterwards, as she said “poor Clive!”
“Do you ever talk about Clive?” asks the husband.
“Never. Once, twice, perhaps, in the most natural manner in the world we mentioned where he is; but nothing further passes. The subject is a sealed one between us. She often looks at his drawings in my album (Clive had drawn64 our baby there and its mother in a great variety of attitudes), and gazes at his sketch65 of his dear old father: but of him she never says a word.”
“So it is best,” says Mr. Pendennis.
“Yes — best,” echoes Laura, with a sigh.
“You think, Laura,” continues the husband, “you think she ——”
“She what?” What did Mr. Pendennis mean? Laura his wife certainly understood him, though upon my conscience the sentence went no further — for she answered at once:
“Yes — I think she certainly did, poor boy! But that, of course, is over now: and Ethel, though she cannot help being a worldly woman, has such firmness and resolution of character, that if she has once determined66 to conquer any inclination67 of that sort I am sure she will master it, and make Lord Farintosh a very good wife.”
“Since the Colonel’s quarrel with Sir Barnes,” cries Mr. Pendennis, adverting68 by a natural transition from Ethel to her amiable69 brother, “our banking70 friend does not invite us any more: Lady Clara sends you no cards. I have a great mind to withdraw my account.”
Laura, who understands nothing about accounts, did not perceive the fine irony71 of this remark: but her face straightway put on the severe expression which it chose to assume whenever Sir Barnes’s family was mentioned, and she said, “My dear, I am very glad indeed that Lady Clara sends us no more of her invitations. You know very well why I disliked them.”
“Why?”
“I hear baby crying,” says Laura. Oh, Laura, Laura! how could you tell your husband such a fib? — and she quits the room without deigning72 to give any answer to that “Why?”
Let us pay a brief visit to Newcome in the north of England, and there we may get some answer to the question of which Mr. Pendennis had just in vain asked a reply from his wife. My design does not include a description of that great and flourishing town of Newcome, and of the manufactures which caused its prosperity; but only admits of the introduction of those Newcomites who are concerned in the affairs of the family which has given its respectable name to these volumes.
Thus in previous pages we have said nothing about the Mayor and Corporation of Newcome the magnificent bankers and manufacturers who had their places of business in the town, and their splendid villas73 outside its smoky precincts; people who would give their thousand guineas for a picture or a statue, and write you off a cheque for ten times the amount any day; people who, if there was a talk of a statue to the Queen or the Duke, would come down to the Town All and subscribe74 their one, two, three undred apiece (especially if in the neighbouring city of SLOWCOME they were putting up a statue to the Duke or the Queen)— not of such men have I spoken, the magnates of the place; but of the humble75 Sarah Mason in Jubilee76 Row — of the Reverend Dr. Bulders the Vicar, Mr. Vidler the apothecary77, Mr. Puff78 the baker79 — of Tom Potts, the jolly reporter of the Newcome Independent, and ——— Batters80, Esq., the proprietor81 of that journal — persons with whom our friends have had already, or will be found presently to have, some connexion. And it is from these that we shall arrive at some particulars regarding the Newcome family, which will show us that they have a skeleton or two in their closets, as well as their neighbours.
Now, how will you have the story? Worthy mammas of families — if you do not like to have your daughters told that bad husbands will make bad wives; that marriages begun in indifference82 make homes unhappy; that men whom girls are brought to swear to love and honour are sometimes false, selfish, and cruel; and that women forget the oaths which they have been made to swear — if you will not hear of this, ladies, close the book, and send for some other. Banish83 the newspaper out of your houses, and shut your eyes to the truth, the awful truth, of life and sin. Is the world made of Jennies and Jessamies; and passion the play of schoolboys and schoolgirls, scribbling84 valentines and interchanging lollipops85? Is life all over when Jenny and Jessamy are married; and are there no subsequent trials, griefs, wars, bitter heart-pangs, dreadful temptations, defeats, remorses, sufferings to bear, and dangers to overcome? As you and I, friend, kneel with our children round about us, prostrate86 before the Father of us all, and asking mercy for miserable87 sinners, are the young ones to suppose the words are mere88 form, and don’t apply to us? — to some outcasts in the free seats probably, or those naughty boys playing in the churchyard? Are they not to know that we err89 too, and pray with all our hearts to be rescued from temptation? If such a knowledge is wrong for them, send them to church apart. Go you and worship in private; or if not too proud, kneel humbly90 in the midst of them, owning your wrong, and praying Heaven to be merciful to you a sinner.
When Barnes Newcome became the reigning91 Prince of the Newcome family, and after the first agonies of grief for his father’s death had subsided92, he made strong attempts to conciliate the principal persons in the neighbourhood, and to render himself popular in the borough93. He gave handsome entertainments to the townsfolk and to the county gentry94; he tried even to bring those two warring classes together. He endeavoured to be civil to the Newcome Independent, the Opposition95 paper, as well as to the Newcome Sentinel that true old Uncompromising Blue. He asked the Dissenting96 clergyman to dinner, and the Low Church clergyman, as well as the orthodox Doctor Bulders and his curates. He gave a lecture at the Newcome Athenaeum, which everybody said was very amusing, and which Sentinel and Independent both agreed in praising. Of course he subscribed97 to that statue which the Newcomites were raising; to the philanthropic missions which Reverend Low Church gentlemen were engaged in; to the (for the young Newcomite manufacturers are as sporting as any gents in the North), to the hospital, the People’s Library, the restoration of the rood-screen and the great painted window in Newcome Old Church (Rev. J. Bulders), and he had to pay in fine a most awful price for his privilege of sitting in Parliament as representative of his native place — as he called it in his speeches “the cradle of his forefathers98, the home of his race,” etc., though Barnes was in fact born at Clapham.
Lady Clara could not in the least help this young statesman in his designs upon Newcome and the Newcomites. After she came into Barnes’s hands, a dreadful weight fell upon her. She would smile and simper, and talk kindly and gaily99 enough at first, during Sir Brian’s life; and among women, when Barnes was not present. But as soon as he joined the company, it was remarked that his wife became silent, and looked eagerly towards him whenever he ventured to speak. She blundered, her eyes filled with tears; the little wit she had left her in her husband’s presence: he grew angry, and tried to hide his anger with a sneer100, or broke out with gibe101 and an oath, when he lost patience, and Clara, whimpering, would leave the room. Everybody at Newcome knew that Barnes bullied102 his wife.
People had worse charges against Barnes than wife-bullying. Do you suppose that little interruption which occurred at Barnes’s marriage was not known in Newcome? His victim had been a Newcome girl, the man to whom she was betrothed was in a Newcome factory. When Barnes was a young man, and in his occasional visits to Newcome, lived along with those dashing young blades Sam Jollyman (Jollyman Brothers and Bowcher), Bob Homer, Cross Country Bill, Al Rackner (for whom his father had to pay eighteen thousand pounds after the Leger, the year Toggery won it) and that wild lot, all sorts of stories were told of them, and of Barnes especially. Most of them were settled, and steady business men by this time. Al, it was known had become very serious, besides making his fortune in cotton. Bob Homer managed the Bank; and as for S. Jollyman, Mrs. S. J. took uncommon103 good care that he didn’t break out of bounds any more; why, he was not even allowed to play a game at billiards104; or to dine out without her —— I could go on giving you interesting particulars of a hundred members of the Newcome aristocracy, were not our attention especially directed to one respectable family.
All Barnes’s endeavours at popularity were vain, partly from his own fault, and partly from the nature of mankind, and of the Newcome folks especially, whom no single person could possibly conciliate. Thus, suppose he gave the advertisements to the Independent; the old Blue paper the Sentinel was very angry: suppose he asked Mr. Hunch105, the Dissenting minister, to bless the tablecloth106 after dinner, as he had begged Dr. Bulders to utter a benediction107 on the first course, Hunch and Bulders were both angry. He subscribed to the races — what heathenism! to the missionaries108 — what sanctimonious109 humbug110! And the worst was that Barnes being young at that time, and not able to keep his tongue in order, could not help saying not to but of such and such a man, that he was an infernal ass16, or a confounded old idiot, and so forth111 — peevish112 phrases, which undid113 in a moment the work of a dozen dinners, countless114 compliments, and months of grinning good-humour.
Now he is wiser. He is very proud of being Newcome of Newcome, and quite believes that the place is his hereditary115 principality. But still, he says, his father was a fool for ever representing the borough. “Dammy, sir,” cries Sir Barnes, “never sit for a place that lies at your park-gates, and above all never try to conciliate ’em. Curse ’em! Hate ’em well, sir! Take a line, and flog the fellows on the other side. Since I have sate116 in Parliament for another place, I have saved myself I don’t know how much a year. I never go to High Church or Low; don’t give a shillin’ to the confounded races, or the infernal souptickets, or to the miserable missionaries; and at last live in quiet.”
So, in spite of all his subscriptions117, and his coaxing118 of the various orders of Newcomites, Sir Barnes Newcome was not popular among them; and while he had enemies on all sides, had sturdy friends not even on his own. Scarce a man but felt Barnes was laughing at him; Bulders in his pulpit, Holder119 who seconded him in his election, the Newcome society; and the ladies, even more than the men, were uneasy under his ominous120 familiarity, and recovered their good-humour when he left them. People felt as if it was a truce121 only, and not an alliance with him, and always speculated on the possibility of war: when he turned his back on them in the market, men felt relieved, and, as they passed his gate, looked with no friendly glances over his park-wall.
What happened within was perfectly122 familiar to many persons. Our friend was insolent to all his servants; and of course very well served, but very much disliked, in consequence. The butler was familiar with Taplow — the housekeeper123 had a friend at Newcome; Mrs Taplow, in fact, of the King’s Arms — one of the grooms124 at Newcome Park kept company with Mrs. Bulder’s maid: the incomings and outgoings, the quarrels and tears, the company from London, and all the doings of the folks at Newcome Park were thus known to the neighbourhood round about. The apothecary brought an awful story back from Newcome. He had been called to Lady Clara in strong hysterical125 fits. He found her ladyship with a bruise126 on her face. When Sir Barnes approached her (he would not allow the medical man to see her except in his presence) she screamed and bade him not come near her. These things did Mr. Vidler weakly impart to Mrs. Vidler: these, under solemn vows127 of secrecy128, Mrs. Vidler told to one or two friends. Sir Barnes and Lady Clara were seen shopping together very graciously in Newcome a short time afterwards; persons who dined at the Park said the Baronet and his wife seemed on very good terms; but — but that story of the bruised129 cheek remained in the minds of certain people, and lay by at compound interest as such stories will.
Now, say people quarrel and make it up; or don’t make it up, but wear a smirking130 face to society, and call each other “my dear” and “my love,” and smooth over their countenances131 before John, who enters with the coals as they are barking and biting, or who announces the dinner as they are tearing each other’s eyes out? Suppose a woman is ever so miserable, and yet smiles, and doesn’t show her grief? “Quite right,” say her prudent132 friends, and her husband’s relations above all. “My dear, you have too much propriety133 to exhibit your grief before the world, or above all, before the darling children.” So to lie is your duty, to lie to your friends, to yourself if you can, to your children.
Does this discipline of hypocrisy134 improve any mortal woman? Say she learns to smile after a blow, do you suppose in this matter alone she will be a hypocrite? Poor Lady Clara! I fancy a better lot for you than that to which fate handed you over. I fancy there need have been no deceit in your fond simple little heart, could it but have been given into other keeping. But you were consigned135 to a master, whose scorn and cruelty terrified you; under whose sardonic136 glances your scared eyes were afraid to look up, and before whose gloomy coldness you dared not be happy. Suppose a little plant, very frail137 and delicate from the first, but that might have bloomed sweetly and borne fair flowers, had it received warm shelter and kindly nurture; suppose a young creature taken out of her home, and given over to a hard master whose caresses138 are as insulting as his neglect; consigned to cruel usage; to weary loneliness; to bitter, bitter recollections of the past; suppose her schooled into hypocrisy by tyranny — and then, quick, let us hire an advocate to roar out to a British jury the wrongs of her injured husband, to paint the agonies of his bleeding heart (if Mr. Advocate gets plaintiff’s brief in time, and before defendant’s attorney has retained him), and to show Society injured through him. Let us console that martyr139, I say, with thumping140 damages; and as for the woman — the guilty wretch141! — let us lead her out and stone her.
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1
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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levying
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| 征（兵）( levy的现在分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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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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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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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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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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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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toll
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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reposes
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kindly
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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palls
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| n.柩衣( pall的名词复数 )；墓衣；棺罩；深色或厚重的覆盖物v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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41
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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42
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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43
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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44
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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45
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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46
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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47
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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48
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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49
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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50
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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51
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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52
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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53
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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54
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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55
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
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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57
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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59
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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60
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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61
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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62
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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63
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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64
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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65
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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66
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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67
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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68
adverting
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| 引起注意（advert的现在分词形式） | |
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69
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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70
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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71
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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72
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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73
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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74
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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75
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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76
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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77
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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78
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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79
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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80
batters
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| n.面糊（煎料）( batter的名词复数 )；面糊（用于做糕饼）；（ 棒球） 正在击球的球员；击球员v.连续猛击( batter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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82
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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83
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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84
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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85
lollipops
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| n.棒糖，棒棒糖( lollipop的名词复数 )；（用交通指挥牌让车辆暂停以便儿童安全通过马路的）交通纠察 | |
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86
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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87
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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88
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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89
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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90
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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91
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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92
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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93
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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94
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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95
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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96
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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97
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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98
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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99
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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100
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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101
gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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102
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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103
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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104
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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105
hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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106
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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107
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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108
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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109
sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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110
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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111
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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112
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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113
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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114
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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115
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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116
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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117
subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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118
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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119
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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120
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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121
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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122
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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123
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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124
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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125
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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126
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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127
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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128
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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129
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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130
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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131
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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132
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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133
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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134
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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135
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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136
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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137
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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138
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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139
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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140
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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141
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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