Illustrative of the convivial1 Sentiment, that the bestof Friends must sometimes part.
The pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying allday in the heat, and the twain Saracens’ heads guardingthe entrance to the hostelry of whose name and sign theyare the duplicate presentments, looked—or seemed, in the eyes ofjaded and footsore passers-by, to look—more vicious than usual,after blistering2 and scorching3 in the sun, when, in one of the inn’ssmallest sitting-rooms, through whose open window there rose, ina palpable steam, wholesome4 exhalations from reeking5 coach-horses, the usual furniture of a tea-table was displayed in neat andinviting order, flanked by large joints6 of roast and boiled, a tongue,a pigeon pie, a cold fowl7, a tankard of ale, and other little mattersof the like kind, which, in degenerate8 towns and cities, aregenerally understood to belong more particularly to solid lunches,stage-coach dinners, or unusually substantial breakfasts.
Mr John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hoveredrestlessly about these delicacies9, stopping occasionally to whiskthe flies out of the sugar-basin with his wife’s pocket-handkerchief, or to dip a teaspoon10 in the milk-pot and carry it tohis mouth, or to cut off a little knob of crust, and a little corner ofmeat, and swallow them at two gulps11 like a couple of pills. Afterevery one of these flirtations with the eatables, he pulled out hiswatch, and declared with an earnestness quite pathetic that hecouldn’t undertake to hold out two minutes longer.
‘Tilly!’ said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake andhalf asleep upon a sofa.
‘Well, John!’
‘Well, John!’ retorted her husband, impatiently. ‘Dost thou feelhoongry, lass?’
‘Not very,’ said Mrs Browdie.
‘Not vary!’ repeated John, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Hearher say not vary, and us dining at three, and loonching off pasthrythot aggravates12 a mon ’stead of pacifying13 him! Not vary!’
‘Here’s a gen’l’man for you, sir,’ said the waiter, looking in.
‘A wa’at for me?’ cried John, as though he thought it must be aletter, or a parcel.
‘A gen’l’man, sir.’
‘Stars and garthers, chap!’ said John, ‘wa’at dost thou coom andsay thot for? In wi’ ’un.’
‘Are you at home, sir?’
‘At whoam!’ cried John, ‘I wish I wur; I’d ha tea’d two hour ago.
Why, I told t’oother chap to look sharp ootside door, and tell ’und’rectly he coom, thot we war faint wi’ hoonger. In wi’ ’un. Aha!
Thee hond, Misther Nickleby. This is nigh to be the proodest dayo’ my life, sir. Hoo be all wi’ ye? Ding! But, I’m glod o’ this!’
Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness14 of hissalutation, John Browdie shook Nicholas by the hand again andagain, slapping his palm with great violence between each shake,to add warmth to the reception.
‘Ah! there she be,’ said John, observing the look which Nicholasdirected towards his wife. ‘There she be—we shan’t quarrel abouther noo—eh? Ecod, when I think o’ thot—but thou want’st soom’atto eat. Fall to, mun, fall to, and for wa’at we’re aboot to receive—’
No doubt the grace was properly finished, but nothing morewas heard, for John had already begun to play such a knife andfork, that his speech was, for the time, gone.
‘I shall take the usual licence, Mr Browdie,’ said Nicholas, as heplaced a chair for the bride.
‘Tak’ whatever thou like’st,’ said John, ‘and when a’s gane, ca’
for more.’
Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed the blushing MrsBrowdie, and handed her to her seat.
‘I say,’ said John, rather astounded15 for the moment, ‘mak’
theeself quite at whoam, will ’ee?’
‘You may depend upon that,’ replied Nicholas; ‘on onecondition.’
‘And wa’at may thot be?’ asked John.
‘That you make me a godfather the very first time you haveoccasion for one.’
‘Eh! d’ye hear thot?’ cried John, laying down his knife and fork.
‘A godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha! Tilly—hear till ’un—a godfeyther!
Divn’t say a word more, ye’ll never beat thot. Occasion for ’un—agodfeyther! Ha! ha! ha!’
Never was man so tickled16 with a respectable old joke, as JohnBrowdie was with this. He chuckled17, roared, half suffocatedhimself by laughing large pieces of beef into his windpipe, roaredagain, persisted in eating at the same time, got red in the face andblack in the forehead, coughed, cried, got better, went off againlaughing inwardly, got worse, choked, had his back thumped,stamped about, frightened his wife, and at last recovered in a stateof the last exhaustion18 and with the water streaming from his eyes,but still faintly ejaculating, ‘A godfeyther—a godfeyther, Tilly!’ in a tone bespeaking19 an exquisite20 relish21 of the sally, which no sufferingcould diminish.
‘You remember the night of our first tea-drinking?’ saidNicholas.
‘Shall I e’er forget it, mun?’ replied John Browdie.
‘He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, MrsBrowdie?’ said Nicholas. ‘Quite a monster!’
‘If you had only heard him as we were going home, MrNickleby, you’d have said so indeed,’ returned the bride. ‘I neverwas so frightened in all my life.’
‘Coom, coom,’ said John, with a broad grin; ‘thou know’stbetther than thot, Tilly.’
‘So I was,’ replied Mrs Browdie. ‘I almost made up my mindnever to speak to you again.’
‘A’most!’ said John, with a broader grin than the last. ‘A’mostmade up her mind! And she wur coaxin’, and coaxin’, andwheedlin’, and wheedlin’ a’ the blessed wa’. “Wa’at didst thou letyon chap mak’ oop tiv’ee for?” says I. “I deedn’t, John,” says she, asqueedgin my arm. “You deedn’t?” says I. “Noa,” says she, asqueedgin of me agean.’
‘Lor, John!’ interposed his pretty wife, colouring very much.
‘How can you talk such nonsense? As if I should have dreamt ofsuch a thing!’
‘I dinnot know whether thou’d ever dreamt of it, though I thinkthat’s loike eneaf, mind,’ retorted John; ‘but thou didst it. “Ye’re afeeckle, changeable weathercock, lass,” says I. “Not feeckle, John,”
says she. “Yes,” says I, “feeckle, dom’d feeckle. Dinnot tell me thoubean’t, efther yon chap at schoolmeasther’s,” says I. “Him!” saysshe, quite screeching22. “Ah! him!” says I. “Why, John,” says she— and she coom a deal closer and squeedged a deal harder thanshe’d deane afore—“dost thou think it’s nat’ral noo, that havingsuch a proper mun as thou to keep company wi’, I’d ever tak’ oppwi’ such a leetle scanty23 whipper-snapper as yon?” she says. Ha!
ha! ha! She said whipper-snapper! “Ecod!” I says, “efther thot,neame the day, and let’s have it ower!” Ha! ha! ha!’
Nicholas laughed very heartily24 at this story, both on account ofits telling against himself, and his being desirous to spare theblushes of Mrs Browdie, whose protestations were drowned inpeals of laughter from her husband. His good-nature soon put herat her ease; and although she still denied the charge, she laughedso heartily at it, that Nicholas had the satisfaction of feelingassured that in all essential respects it was strictly26 true.
‘This is the second time,’ said Nicholas, ‘that we have evertaken a meal together, and only third I have ever seen you; and yetit really seems to me as if I were among old friends.’
‘Weel!’ observed the Yorkshireman, ‘so I say.’
‘And I am sure I do,’ added his young wife.
‘I have the best reason to be impressed with the feeling, mind,’
said Nicholas; ‘for if it had not been for your kindness of heart, mygood friend, when I had no right or reason to expect it, I know notwhat might have become of me or what plight27 I should have beenin by this time.’
‘Talk aboot soom’at else,’ replied John, gruffly, ‘and dinnotbother.’
‘It must be a new song to the same tune28 then,’ said Nicholas,smiling. ‘I told you in my letter that I deeply felt and admired yoursympathy with that poor lad, whom you released at the risk ofinvolving yourself in trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell you how greateful he and I, and others whom you don’t know, are toyou for taking pity on him.’
‘Ecod!’ rejoined John Browdie, drawing up his chair; ‘and I cannever tell you hoo gratful soom folks that we do know would beloikewise, if they know’d I had takken pity on him.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs Browdie, ‘what a state I was in that night!’
‘Were they at all disposed to give you credit for assisting in theescape?’ inquired Nicholas of John Browdie.
‘Not a bit,’ replied the Yorkshireman, extending his mouth fromear to ear. ‘There I lay, snoog in schoolmeasther’s bed long eftherit was dark, and nobody coom nigh the pleace. “Weel!” thinks I,“he’s got a pretty good start, and if he bean’t whoam by noo, henever will be; so you may coom as quick as you loike, and foind usreddy”—that is, you know, schoolmeasther might coom.’
‘I understand,’ said Nicholas.
‘Presently,’ resumed John, ‘he did coom. I heerd door shutdoonstairs, and him a warking, oop in the daark. “Slow andsteddy,’ I says to myself, “tak’ your time, sir—no hurry.” He coomsto the door, turns the key—turns the key when there warn’tnothing to hoold the lock—and ca’s oot ‘Hallo, there!”—“Yes,”
thinks I, “you may do thot agean, and not wakken anybody, sir.”
“Hallo, there,” he says, and then he stops. “Thou’d betther notaggravate me,” says schoolmeasther, efther a little time. “I’ll brak’
every boan in your boddy, Smike,” he says, efther another littletime. Then all of a soodden, he sings oot for a loight, and when itcooms—ecod, such a hoorly-boorly! “Wa’at’s the matter?” says I.
“He’s gane,” says he,—stark mad wi’ vengeance29. “Have you heerdnought?” “Ees,” says I, “I heerd street-door shut, no time at a’ ago.
I heerd a person run doon there” (pointing t’other wa’—eh?) “Help!” he cries. “I’ll help you,” says I; and off we set—the wrongwa’! Ho! ho! ho!’
‘Did you go far?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Far!’ replied John; ‘I run him clean off his legs in quarther ofan hoor. To see old schoolmeasther wi’out his hat, skimming alongoop to his knees in mud and wather, tumbling over fences, androwling into ditches, and bawling31 oot like mad, wi’ his one eyelooking sharp out for the lad, and his coat-tails flying out behind,and him spattered wi’ mud all ower, face and all! I tho’t I shouldha’ dropped doon, and killed myself wi’ laughing.’
John laughed so heartily at the mere32 recollection, that hecommunicated the contagion33 to both his hearers, and all threeburst into peals25 of laughter, which were renewed again and again,until they could laugh no longer.
‘He’s a bad ’un,’ said John, wiping his eyes; ‘a very bad ’un, isschoolmeasther.’
‘I can’t bear the sight of him, John,’ said his wife.
‘Coom,’ retorted John, ‘thot’s tidy in you, thot is. If it wa’ntalong o’ you, we shouldn’t know nought30 aboot ’un. Thou know’d’un first, Tilly, didn’t thou?’
‘I couldn’t help knowing Fanny Squeers, John,’ returned hiswife; ‘she was an old playmate of mine, you know.’
‘Weel,’ replied John, ‘dean’t I say so, lass? It’s best to beneighbourly, and keep up old acquaintance loike; and what I sayis, dean’t quarrel if ’ee can help it. Dinnot think so, Mr Nickleby?’
‘Certainly,’ returned Nicholas; ‘and you acted upon thatprinciple when I meet you on horseback on the road, after ourmemorable evening.’
‘Sure-ly,’ said John. ‘Wa’at I say, I stick by.’
‘And that’s a fine thing to do, and manly34 too,’ said Nicholas,‘though it’s not exactly what we understand by “coming Yorkshireover us” in London. Miss Squeers is stopping with you, you said inyour note.’
‘Yes,’ replied John, ‘Tilly’s bridesmaid; and a queer bridesmaidshe be, too. She wean’t be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.’
‘For shame, John,’ said Mrs Browdie; with an acute perceptionof the joke though, being a bride herself.
‘The groom35 will be a blessed mun,’ said John, his eyes twinklingat the idea. ‘He’ll be in luck, he will.’
‘You see, Mr Nickleby,’ said his wife, ‘that it was inconsequence of her being here, that John wrote to you and fixedtonight, because we thought that it wouldn’t be pleasant for you tomeet, after what has passed.’
‘Unquestionably. You were quite right in that,’ said Nicholas,interrupting.
‘Especially,’ observed Mrs Browdie, looking very sly, ‘after whatwe know about past and gone love matters.’
‘We know, indeed!’ said Nicholas, shaking his head. ‘Youbehaved rather wickedly there, I suspect.’
‘O’ course she did,’ said John Browdie, passing his hugeforefinger through one of his wife’s pretty ringlets, and lookingvery proud of her. ‘She wur always as skittish37 and full o’ tricks asa—’
‘Well, as a what?’ said his wife.
‘As a woman,’ returned John. ‘Ding! But I dinnot know oughtelse that cooms near it.’
‘You were speaking about Miss Squeers,’ said Nicholas, withthe view of stopping some slight connubialities which had begun to pass between Mr and Mrs Browdie, and which rendered theposition of a third party in some degree embarrassing, asoccasioning him to feel rather in the way than otherwise.
‘Oh yes,’ rejoined Mrs Browdie. ‘John ha’ done. John fixedtonight, because she had settled that she would go and drink teawith her father. And to make quite sure of there being nothingamiss, and of your being quite alone with us, he settled to go outthere and fetch her home.’
‘That was a very good arrangement,’ said Nicholas, ‘though Iam sorry to be the occasion of so much trouble.’
‘Not the least in the world,’ returned Mrs Browdie; ‘for we havelooked forward to see you—John and I have—with the greatestpossible pleasure. Do you know, Mr Nickleby,’ said Mrs Browdie,with her archest smile, ‘that I really think Fanny Squeers was veryfond of you?’
‘I am very much obliged to her,’ said Nicholas; ‘but upon myword, I never aspired38 to making any impression upon her virginheart.’
‘How you talk!’ tittered Mrs Browdie. ‘No, but do you know thatreally—seriously now and without any joking—I was given tounderstand by Fanny herself, that you had made an offer to her,and that you two were going to be engaged quite solemn andregular.’
‘Was you, ma’am—was you?’ cried a shrill39 female voice, ‘wasyou given to understand that I—I—was going to be engaged to anassassinating thief that shed the gore40 of my pa? Do you—do youthink, ma’am—that I was very fond of such dirt beneath my feet,as I couldn’t condescend41 to touch with kitchen tongs42, withoutblacking and crocking myself by the contract? Do you, ma’am—do you? Oh! base and degrading ’Tilda!’
With these reproaches Miss Squeers flung the door wide open,and disclosed to the eyes of the astonished Browdies and Nicholas,not only her own symmetrical form, arrayed in the chaste43 whitegarments before described (a little dirtier), but the form of herbrother and father, the pair of Wackfords.
‘This is the hend, is it?’ continued Miss Squeers, who, beingexcited, aspirated her h’s strongly; ‘this is the hend, is it, of all myforbearance and friendship for that double-faced thing—thatviper, that—that—mermaid?’ (Miss Squeers hesitated a long timefor this last epithet44, and brought it out triumphantly45 as last, as if itquite clinched46 the business.) ‘This is the hend, is it, of all mybearing with her deceitfulness, her lowness, her falseness, herlaying herself out to catch the admiration47 of vulgar minds, in a waywhich made me blush for my—for my—’
‘Gender,’ suggested Mr Squeers, regarding the spectators witha malevolent48 eye—literally A malevolent eye.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Squeers; ‘but I thank my stars that my ma is ofthe same—’
‘Hear, hear!’ remarked Mr Squeers; ‘and I wish she was here tohave a scratch at this company.’
‘This is the hend, is it,’ said Miss Squeers, tossing her head, andlooking contemptuously at the floor, ‘of my taking notice of thatrubbishing creature, and demeaning myself to patronise her?’
‘Oh, come,’ rejoined Mrs Browdie, disregarding all theendeavours of her spouse49 to restrain her, and forcing herself into afront row, ‘don’t talk such nonsense as that.’
‘Have I not patronised you, ma’am?’ demanded Miss Squeers.
‘No,’ returned Mrs Browdie.
‘I will not look for blushes in such a quarter,’ said Miss Squeers,haughtily, ‘for that countenance50 is a stranger to everything buthignominiousness and red-faced boldness.’
‘I say,’ interposed John Browdie, nettled51 by these accumulatedattacks on his wife, ‘dra’ it mild, dra’ it mild.’
‘You, Mr Browdie,’ said Miss Squeers, taking him up veryquickly, ‘I pity. I have no feeling for you, sir, but one ofunliquidated pity.’
‘Oh!’ said John.
‘No,’ said Miss Squeers, looking sideways at her parent,‘although I am a queer bridesmaid, and shan’t be a bride in ahurry, and although my husband will be in luck, I entertain nosentiments towards you, sir, but sentiments of pity.’
Here Miss Squeers looked sideways at her father again, wholooked sideways at her, as much as to say, ‘There you had him.’
‘I know what you’ve got to go through,’ said Miss Squeers,shaking her curls violently. ‘I know what life is before you, and ifyou was my bitterest and deadliest enemy, I could wish younothing worse.’
‘Couldn’t you wish to be married to him yourself, if that was thecase?’ inquired Mrs Browdie, with great suavity52 of manner.
‘Oh, ma’am, how witty53 you are,’ retorted Miss Squeers with alow curtsy, ‘almost as witty, ma’am, as you are clever. How veryclever it was in you, ma’am, to choose a time when I had gone totea with my pa, and was sure not to come back without beingfetched! What a pity you never thought that other people might beas clever as yourself and spoil your plans!’
‘You won’t vex54 me, child, with such airs as these,’ said the lateMiss Price, assuming the matron.
‘Don’t Missis me, ma’am, if you please,’ returned Miss Squeers,sharply. ‘I’ll not bear it. Is this the hend—’
‘Dang it a’,’ cried John Browdie, impatiently. ‘Say thee say out,Fanny, and mak’ sure it’s the end, and dinnot ask nobody whetherit is or not.’
‘Thanking you for your advice which was not required, MrBrowdie,’ returned Miss Squeers, with laborious55 politeness, ‘havethe goodness not to presume to meddle56 with my Christian57 name.
Even my pity shall never make me forget what’s due to myself, MrBrowdie. ’Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, with such a sudden accessionof violence that John started in his boots, ‘I throw you off for ever,miss. I abandon you. I renounce58 you. I wouldn’t,’ cried MissSqueers in a solemn voice, ‘have a child named ’Tilda, not to saveit from its grave.’
‘As for the matther o’ that,’ observed John, ‘it’ll be time eneaf tothink aboot neaming of it when it cooms.’
‘John!’ interposed his wife, ‘don’t tease her.’
‘Oh! Tease, indeed!’ cried Miss Squeers, bridling59 up. ‘Tease,indeed! He, he! Tease, too! No, don’t tease her. Consider herfeelings, pray!’
‘If it’s fated that listeners are never to hear any good ofthemselves,’ said Mrs Browdie, ‘I can’t help it, and I am very sorryfor it. But I will say, Fanny, that times out of number I havespoken so kindly60 of you behind your back, that even you couldhave found no fault with what I said.’
‘Oh, I dare say not, ma’am!’ cried Miss Squeers, with anothercurtsy. ‘Best thanks to you for your goodness, and begging andpraying you not to be hard upon me another time!’
‘I don’t know,’ resumed Mrs Browdie, ‘that I have said anything very bad of you, even now. At all events, what I did say was quitetrue; but if I have, I am very sorry for it, and I beg your pardon.
You have said much worse of me, scores of times, Fanny; but Ihave never borne any malice61 to you, and I hope you’ll not bear anyto me.’
Miss Squeers made no more direct reply than surveying herformer friend from top to toe, and elevating her nose in the airwith ineffable62 disdain63. But some indistinct allusions64 to a ‘puss,’
and a ‘minx,’ and a ‘contemptible creature,’ escaped her; and this,together with a severe biting of the lips, great difficulty inswallowing, and very frequent comings and goings of breath,seemed to imply that feelings were swelling65 in Miss Squeers’sbosom too great for utterance66.
While the foregoing conversation was proceeding67, MasterWackford, finding himself unnoticed, and feeling hispreponderating inclinations68 strong upon him, had by little andlittle sidled up to the table and attacked the food with such slightskirmishing as drawing his fingers round and round the inside ofthe plates, and afterwards sucking them with infinite relish;picking the bread, and dragging the pieces over the surface of thebutter; pocketing lumps of sugar, pretending all the time to beabsorbed in thought; and so forth69. Finding that no interferencewas attempted with these small liberties, he gradually mounted togreater, and, after helping70 himself to a moderately good coldcollation, was, by this time, deep in the pie.
Nothing of this had been unobserved by Mr Squeers, who, solong as the attention of the company was fixed36 upon other objects,hugged himself to think that his son and heir should be fatteningat the enemy’s expense. But there being now an appearance of a temporary calm, in which the proceedings71 of little Wackford couldscarcely fail to be observed, he feigned72 to be aware of thecircumstance for the first time, and inflicted73 upon the face of thatyoung gentleman a slap that made the very tea-cups ring.
‘Eating!’ cried Mr Squeers, ‘of what his father’s enemies hasleft! It’s fit to go and poison you, you unnat’ral boy.’
‘It wean’t hurt him,’ said John, apparently74 very much relievedby the prospect75 of having a man in the quarrel; ‘let ’un eat. I wishthe whole school was here. I’d give ’em soom’at to stay theirunfort’nate stomachs wi’, if I spent the last penny I had!’
Squeers scowled76 at him with the worst and most maliciousexpression of which his face was capable—it was a face ofremarkable capability77, too, in that way—and shook his fiststealthily.
‘Coom, coom, schoolmeasther,’ said John, ‘dinnot make a fool o’
thyself; for if I was to sheake mine—only once—thou’d fa’ doon wi’
the wind o’ it.’
‘It was you, was it,’ returned Squeers, ‘that helped off myrunaway boy? It was you, was it?’
‘Me!’ returned John, in a loud tone. ‘Yes, it wa’ me, coom; wa’ato’ that? It wa’ me. Noo then!’
‘You hear him say he did it, my child!’ said Squeers, appealingto his daughter. ‘You hear him say he did it!’
‘Did it!’ cried John. ‘I’ll tell ’ee more; hear this, too. If thou’d gotanother roonaway boy, I’d do it agean. If thou’d got twontyroonaway boys, I’d do it twonty times ower, and twonty more tothot; and I tell thee more,’ said John, ‘noo my blood is oop, thatthou’rt an old ra’ascal; and that it’s weel for thou, thou be’est anold ’un, or I’d ha’ poonded thee to flour when thou told an honest mun hoo thou’d licked that poor chap in t’ coorch.’
‘An honest man!’ cried Squeers, with a sneer78.
‘Ah! an honest man,’ replied John; ‘honest in ought but everputting legs under seame table wi’ such as thou.’
‘Scandal!’ said Squeers, exultingly79. ‘Two witnesses to it;Wackford knows the nature of an oath, he does; we shall have youthere, sir. Rascal80, eh?’ Mr Squeers took out his pocketbook andmade a note of it. ‘Very good. I should say that was worth fulltwenty pound at the next assizes, without the honesty, sir.’
‘’Soizes,’ cried John, ‘thou’d betther not talk to me o’ ’Soizes.
Yorkshire schools have been shown up at ’Soizes afore noo, mun,and it’s a ticklish81 soobjact to revive, I can tell ye.’
Mr Squeers shook his head in a threatening manner, lookingvery white with passion; and taking his daughter’s arm, anddragging little Wackford by the hand, retreated towards the door.
‘As for you,’ said Squeers, turning round and addressingNicholas, who, as he had caused him to smart pretty soundly on aformer occasion, purposely abstained82 from taking any part in thediscussion, ‘see if I ain’t down upon you before long. You’ll go akidnapping of boys, will you? Take care their fathers don’t turnup—mark that—take care their fathers don’t turn up, and send’em back to me to do as I like with, in spite of you.’
‘I am not afraid of that,’ replied Nicholas, shrugging hisshoulders contemptuously, and turning away.
‘Ain’t you!’ retorted Squeers, with a diabolical83 look. ‘Now then,come along.’
‘I leave such society, with my pa, for Hever,’ said Miss Squeers,looking contemptuously and loftily round. ‘I am defiled84 bybreathing the air with such creatures. Poor Mr Browdie! He! he!
he! I do pity him, that I do; he’s so deluded85. He! he! he!—Artfuland designing ’Tilda!’
With this sudden relapse into the sternest and most majesticwrath, Miss Squeers swept from the room; and having sustainedher dignity until the last possible moment, was heard to sob86 andscream and struggle in the passage.
John Browdie remained standing87 behind the table, lookingfrom his wife to Nicholas, and back again, with his mouth wideopen, until his hand accidentally fell upon the tankard of ale, whenhe took it up, and having obscured his features therewith for sometime, drew a long breath, handed it over to Nicholas, and rang thebell.
‘Here, waither,’ said John, briskly. ‘Look alive here. Tak’ thesethings awa’, and let’s have soomat broiled88 for sooper—varycomfortable and plenty o’ it—at ten o’clock. Bring soom brandyand soom wather, and a pair o’ slippers—the largest pair in thehouse—and be quick aboot it. Dash ma wig89!’ said John, rubbinghis hands, ‘there’s no ganging oot to neeght, noo, to fetch anybodywhoam, and ecod, we’ll begin to spend the evening in airnest.’
收听单词发音 |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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teaspoon
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| n.茶匙 | |
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gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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aggravates
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| 使恶化( aggravate的第三人称单数 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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pacifying
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的现在分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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bespeaking
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| v.预定( bespeak的现在分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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22
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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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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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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58
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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66
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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71
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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75
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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76
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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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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78
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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79
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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80
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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81
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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83
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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84
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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85
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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87
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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88
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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89
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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