We will now, with the reader’s kind permission, skip over some months in our narrative1. Frank returned from Courcy Castle to Greshamsbury, and having communicated to his mother — much in the same manner as he had to the countess — the fact that his mission had been unsuccessful, he went up after a day or two to Cambridge. During his short stay at Greshamsbury he did not even catch a glimpse of Mary. He asked for her, of course, and was told that it was not likely that she would be at the house just at present. He called at the doctor’s, but she was denied to him there; ‘she was out,’ Janet said,—‘probably with Miss Oriel.’ He went to the parsonage and found Miss Oriel at home; but Mary had not been seen that morning. He then returned to the house; and, having come to the conclusion that she had not thus vanished into air, otherwise than by preconcerted arrangement, he boldly taxed Beatrice on the subject.
Beatrice looked very demure2; declared that no one in the house had quarrelled with Mary; confessed that it had been thought prudent3 that she should for a while stay away from Greshamsbury; and, of course, ended by telling her brother everything, including all the scenes that had passed between Mary and herself.
‘It is out of the question your thinking of marrying her, Frank,’ said she. ‘You must know that nobody feels it more strongly than poor Mary herself;’ and Beatrice looked the very personification of domestic prudence4.
‘I know nothing of the kind,’ said he, with the headlong imperative5 air that was usual with him in discussing matters with his sisters. ‘I know nothing of the kind. Of course I cannot say what Mary’s feelings may be: a pretty life she must have had of it among you. But you may be sure of this, Beatrice, and so may my mother, that nothing on earth shall make me give her up — nothing.’ And Frank, as he made this protestation, strengthened his own resolution by thinking of all the counsel that Miss Dunstable had given him.
The brother and sister could hardly agree, as Beatrice was dead against the match. Not that she would not have liked Mary Thorne for a sister-inlaw, but that she shared to a certain degree the feeling which was now common to all the Greshams — that Frank must marry money. It seemed, at any rate, to be imperative that he should either do that or not marry at all. Poor Beatrice was not very mercenary in her views: she had no wish to sacrifice her brother to any Miss Dunstable; but yet she felt, as they all felt — Mary Thorne included — that such as a match as that, of the young heir with the doctor’s niece, was not to be thought of;— not to be spoken of as a thing that was in any way possible. Therefore, Beatrice, though she was Mary’s great friend, though she was her brother’s favourite sister, could give Frank no encouragement. Poor Frank! circumstances had made but one bride possible to him: he must marry money.
His mother said nothing to him on the subject: when she learnt that the affair with Miss Dunstable was not to come off, she merely remarked that it would perhaps be best for him to return to Cambridge as soon as possible. Had she spoken her mind out, she would probably have also advised him to remain there as long as possible. The countess had not omitted to write to her when Frank had left Courcy Castle; and the countess’s letter certainly made the anxious mother think that her son’s education had hardly yet been completed. With this secondary object, but with that of keeping him out of the way of Mary Thorne in the first place, Lady Arabella was now quite satisfied that her son should enjoy such advantages as an education completed at the university might give him.
With his father Frank had a long conversation; but, alas8! the gist9 of his father’s conversation was this, that it behoved him, Frank, to marry money. The father, however, did not put it to him in the cold, callous10 way in which his lady-aunt had done, and his lady-mother. He did not bid him go and sell himself to the first female he could find possessed11 of wealth. It was with inward self-reproaches, and true grief of spirit, that the father told the son that it was not possible for him to do as those who may do who are born really rich, or really poor.
‘If you marry a girl without a fortune, Frank, how are you to live?’ the father asked, after having confessed how deep he himself had injured his own heir.
‘I don’t care about money, sir,’ said Frank. ‘I shall be just as happy if Boxall Hill had never been sold. I don’t care a straw about that sort of thing.’
‘Ah! my boy; but you will care: you will soon find that you do care.’
‘Let me go into some profession. Let me go to the Bar. I am sure I could earn my own living. Earn it! of course I could, why not I as well as others? I should like of all things to be a barrister.’
There was much more of the same kind, in which Frank said all that he could think of to lessen12 his father’s regrets. In their conversation not a word was spoken about Mary Thorne. Frank was not aware whether or no his father had been told of the great family danger which was dreaded14 in that quarter. That he had been told, we may surmise15, as Lady Arabella was not wont16 to confine the family dangers to her own bosom17. Moreover, Mary’s presence had, of course, been missed. The truth was, that the squire18 had been told, with great bitterness, of what had come to pass, and all the evil had been laid at his door. He it had been who hand encouraged Mary to be regarded almost as a daughter of the house of Greshamsbury: he it was who taught that odious19 doctor — odious on all but his aptitude20 for good doctoring — to think himself a fit match for the aristocracy of the county. It had been his fault, this great necessity that Frank should marry money; and now it was his fault that Frank was absolutely talking of marrying a pauper21.
By no means in quiescence22 did the squire hear these charges brought against him. The Lady Arabella, in each attack, got quite as much as she gave, and, at last, was driven to retreat in a state of headache, which she declared to be chronic23; and which, so she assured her daughter Augusta, must prevent her from having any more lengthened24 conversations with her lord — at any rate for the next three months. But though the squire may be said to have come off on the whole as the victor in these combats, they did not perhaps have, on that account, the less effect upon him. He knew it was true that he had done much towards ruining his son; and he also could think of no other remedy than matrimony. It was Frank’s doom25, pronounced even by the voice of his father, that he must marry money.
And so, Frank went off again to Cambridge, feeling himself, as he went, to be a much lesser26 man in Greshamsbury estimation than he had been some two months earlier, when his birthday had been celebrated27. Once during his short stay at Greshamsbury he had seen the doctor; but the meeting had been anything but pleasant. He had been afraid to ask after Mary; and the doctor had been too diffident of himself to speak of her. They had met casually28 on the road, and, though each in his heart loved the other, the meeting had been anything but pleasant.
And so Frank went to Cambridge; and, as he did so, he stoutly30 resolved that nothing should make him untrue to Mary Thorne. ‘Beatrice,’ said he, on the morning he went away, when she came into his room to superintend his packing —‘Beatrice, if she ever talks about me —’
‘Oh, Frank, my darling Frank, don’t think of it — it is madness; she knows it is madness.’
‘Never mind; if she ever talks about me, tell her that the last word I said was, that I would never forget her. She can do as she likes.’
Beatrice made no promise, never hinted that she would give the message; but it may be taken for granted that she had not been long in company with Mary Thorne before she did give it.
And then there were other troubles at Greshamsbury. It had been decided31 that Augusta’s marriage was to take place in September; but Mr Moffat had, unfortunately, been obliged to postpone32 the happy day. He himself had told Augusta — not, of course, without protestations as to his regret — and had written to this effect to Mr Gresham, ‘Electioneering matters, and other troubles had,’ he said, ‘made this peculiarly painful postponement33 absolutely necessary.’
Augusta seemed to bear her misfortune with more equanimity34 than is, we believe, usual with young ladies under such circumstances. She spoke6 of it to her mother in a very matter-of-fact way, and seemed almost contented35 at the idea of remaining at Greshamsbury till February; which was the time now named for the marriage. But Lady Arabella was not equally well satisfied, nor was the squire.
‘I half believe that fellow is not honest,’ he had once said out loud before Frank, and this set Frank a-thinking of what dishonesty in the matter it was probable that Mr Moffat might be guilty, and what would be the fitting punishment for such a crime. Nor did he think on the subject in vain; especially after a conference on the matter which he had with his friend Harry37 Baker38. This conference took place during the Christmas vacation.
It should be mentioned, that the time spent by Frank at Courcy Castle had not done much to assist him in his views as to an early degree, and that it had at last been settled that he should stay up at Cambridge another year. When he came home at Christmas he found that the house was not peculiarly lively. Mary was absent on a visit with Miss Oriel. Both these young ladies were staying with Miss Oriel’s aunt, in the neighbourhood of London; and Frank soon learnt that there was no chance that either of them would be home before his return. No message had been left for him by Mary — none at least had been left with Beatrice; and he began in his heart to accuse her of coldness and perfidy;— not, certainly, with much justice, seeing that she had never given him the slightest encouragement.
The absence of Patience Oriel added to the dullness of the place. It was certainly hard upon Frank that all the attraction of the village should be removed to make way and prepare for his return — harder, perhaps, on them; for, to tell the truth, Miss Oriel’s visit had been entirely39 planned to enable her to give Mary a comfortable way of leaving Greshamsbury during the time that Frank should remain at home. Frank thought himself cruelly used. But what did Mr Oriel think when doomed40 to eat his Christmas pudding alone, because the young squire would be unreasonable41 in his love? What did the doctor think, as he sat solitary42 by his deserted43 hearth44 — the doctor, who no longer permitted himself to enjoy the comforts of the Greshamsbury dining-table? Frank hinted and grumbled45; talked to Beatrice of the determined46 constancy of his love, and occasionally consoled himself by a stray smile from some of the neighbouring belles47. The black horse was made perfect; the old grey pony48 was by no means discarded; and much that was satisfactory was done in the sporting line. But still the house was dull, and Frank felt that he was the cause of its being so. Of the doctor he saw but little: he never came to Greshamsbury, unless to see Lady Arabella as doctor, or to be closeted with the squire. There were no special evenings with him; no animated49 confabulations at the doctor’s house; no discourses50 between them, as there was wont to be, about the merits of the different covers, and the capacities of the different hounds. These were dull days on the whole for Frank; and sad enough, we may say, for our friend the doctor.
In February Frank again went back to college; having settled with Harry Baker certain affairs which weighed on his mind. He went back to Cambridge, promising51 to be home on the twentieth of the month, so as to be present at his sister’s wedding. A cold and chilling time had been named for these hymeneal joys, but one not altogether unsuited to the feelings of the happy pair. February is certainly not a warm month; but with the rich it is generally a cosy52, comfortable time. Good fires, winter cheer, groaning53 tables, and warm blankets, make a fictitious54 summer, which, to some tastes, is more delightful55 than the long days and the hot sun. And some marriages are especially winter matches. They depend for their charm on the same substantial attractions: instead of heart beating to heart in sympathetic unison56, purse chinks to purse. The rich new furniture of the new abode57 is looked to instead of the rapture58 of a pure embrace. The new carriage is depended on rather than the new heart’s companion; and the first bright gloss59, prepared by the upholsterer’s hands, stands in lieu of the rosy60 tints61 which young love lends to his true votaries62.
Mr Moffat had not spent his Christmas at Greshamsbury. That eternal election petition, those eternal lawyers, the eternal care of his well-managed wealth, forbade him the enjoyment63 of any such pleasures. He could not come to Greshamsbury for Christmas, nor yet for the festivities of the new year; but now and then he wrote prettily64 worded notes, sending occasionally a silver-gilt pencil-case, or a small brooch, and informed Lady Arabella that he looked forward to the twentieth of February with great satisfaction. But, in the meanwhile, the squire became anxious, and at last went up to London; and Frank, who was at Cambridge, bought the heaviest-cutting whip to be found in that town, and wrote a confidential65 letter to Harry Baker.
Poor Mr Moffat! It is well known that none but the brave deserve the fair; but thou, without much excuse for bravery, had secured for thyself one who, at any rate, was fair enough for thee. Would it not have been well hadst thou looked to thyself to see what real bravery might be in thee, before thou hadst prepared to desert this fair one thou hadst already won? That last achievement, one may say, did require some special courage.
Poor Mr Moffat! It is wonderful that as he sat in that gig, going to Gatherum Castle, planning how he would be off with Miss Gresham and afterwards on with Miss Dunstable, it is wonderful that he should not then have cast his eye behind him, and looked at that stalwart pair of shoulders which were so close to his own back. As he afterwards pondered on his scheme while sipping66 the duke’s claret, it is odd that he should not have observed the fiery67 pride of purpose and power of wrath68 which was so plainly written on that young man’s brow: or, when he matured, and finished, and carried out his purpose, that he did not think of that keen grasp which had already squeezed his own hand with somewhat too warm a vigour69, even in the way of friendship.
Poor Mr Moffat! it is probable that he forgot to think of Frank at all as connected with his promised bride; it is probable that he looked forward only to the squire’s violence and the enmity of the house of Courcy; and that he found from enquiry at his heart’s pulses, that he was man enough to meet these. Could he have guessed what a whip Frank Gresham would have bought at Cambridge — could he have divined what a letter would have been written to Harry Baker — it is probable, nay70, we think we may say certain, that Miss Gresham would have become Mrs Moffat.
Miss Gresham, however, never did become Mrs Moffat. About two days after Frank’s departure for Cambridge — it is just possible that Mr Moffat was so prudent as to make himself aware of the fact — but just two days after Frank’s departure, a very long, elaborate, and clearly explanatory letter was received at Greshamsbury. Mr Moffat was quite sure that Miss Gresham and her very excellent parents would do him the justice to believe that he was not actuated, &c, &c, &c. The long and the short of this was, that Mr Moffat signified his intention of breaking off the match without offering any intelligible71 reason.
Augusta again bore her disappointment well: not, indeed, without sorrow and heartache, and inward, hidden tears; but still well. She neither raved72, nor fainted, nor walked about by moonlight alone. She wrote no poetry, and never once thought of suicide. When, indeed, she remembered the rosy-tinted lining73, the unfathomable softness of that Long-acre carriage, her spirit did for one moment give way; but, on the whole, she bore it as a strong-minded woman and a De Courcy should do.
But both Lady Arabella and the squire were greatly vexed74. The former had made the match, and the latter, having consented to it, had incurred75 deeper responsibilities to enable him to bring it about. The money which was to have been given to Mr Moffat was still to the fore7; but alas! how much, how much that he could ill spare, had been thrown away in bridal preparations! It is, moreover, an unpleasant thing for a gentleman to have his daughter jilted; perhaps peculiarly so to have her jilted by a tailor’s son.
Lady Arabella’s woe76 was really piteous. It seemed to her as though cruel fate were heaping misery77 after misery upon the wretched house of Greshamsbury. A few weeks since things were going so well with her! Frank then was still all but the accepted husband of almost untold78 wealth — so, at least, she was informed by her sister-inlaw — whereas, Augusta, was the accepted wife of wealth, not indeed untold, but of dimensions quite sufficiently79 respectable to cause much joy in the telling. Where now were her golden hopes? Where now the splendid future of her poor duped children? Augusta was left to pine alone; and Frank, in a still worse plight80, insisted on maintaining his love for a bastard81 and a pauper.
For Frank’s affairs she had received some poor consolation82 by laying all the blame on the squire’s shoulders. What she had then said was now repaid to her with interest; for not only had she been the maker83 of Augusta’s match, but she had boasted of the deed with all a mother’s pride.
It was from Beatrice that Frank had obtained his tidings. This last resolve on the part of Mr Moffat had not altogether been unsuspected by some of the Greshams, though altogether unsuspected by the Lady Arabella. Frank had spoken of it as a possibility to Beatrice, and was not quite unprepared when the information reached him. He consequently bought his cutting-whip, and wrote his confidential letter to Harry Baker.
On the following day Frank and Harry might have been seen, with their heads nearly close together, leaning over one of the tables in the large breakfast-room at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. The ominous84 whip, to the handle of which Frank had already made his hand well accustomed, was lying on the table between them; and ever and anon Harry Baker would take it up and feel its weight approvingly. Oh, Mr Moffat! poor Mr Moffat! go not out into the fashionable world today; above all, go not to that club of thine in Pall85 Mall; but, oh! especially go not there, as is thy wont to do, at three o’clock in the afternoon!
With much care did those two young generals lay their plans of attack. Let it not for a moment be thought that it was ever in the minds of either of them that two men should attack one. But it was thought that Mr Moffat might be rather coy in coming out from his seclusion86 to meet the proffered87 hand of his once intended brother-inlaw when he should see that hand armed with a heavy whip. Baker, therefore, was content to act as a decoy duck, and remarked that he might no doubt make himself useful in restraining the public mercy, and, probably, in controlling the interference of policemen.
‘It will be deuced hard if I can’t get five or six shies at him,’ said Frank, again clutching his weapon almost spasmodically. Oh, Mr Moffat! five or six shies with such a whip, and such an arm! For myself, I would sooner join the second Balaclava gallop89 than encounter it.
At ten minutes before four these two heroes might be seen walking up Pall Mall, towards the —— Club. Young Baker walked with an eager disengaged air. Mr Moffat did not know his appearance; he had, therefore, no anxiety to pass along unnoticed. But Frank had in some mysterious way drawn90 his hat very far over his forehead, and had buttoned his shooting-coat up round his chin. Harry had recommended to him a great-coat, in order that he might the better conceal91 his face; but Frank had found the great-coat was an encumbrance92 to his arm. He put it on, and when thus clothed he had tried the whip, he found that he cut the air with much less potency93 than in the lighter94 garment. He contented himself, therefore, with looking down on the pavement as he walked along, letting the long point of the whip stick up from his pocket, and flattering himself that even Mr Moffat would not recognise him at the first glance. Poor Mr Moffat! If he had but had the chance!
And now, having arrived at the front of the club, the two friends for a moment separate: Frank remains95 standing96 on the pavement, under the shade of the high stone area-railing, while Harry jauntily97 skips up three steps at a time, and with a very civil word of inquiry98 of the hall porter, sends his card to Mr Moffat —
‘MR HARRY BAKER’
Mr Moffat, never having heard of such a gentleman in his life, unwittingly comes out into the hall, and Harry, with the sweetest smile, addresses him.
Now the plan of the campaign had been settled in this wise: Baker was to send into the club for Mr Moffat, and invite that gentleman down into the street. It was probable that the invitation might be declined; and it had been calculated in such case the two gentlemen would retire for parley99 into the strangers’ room, which was known to be immediately opposite the hall door. Frank was to keep his eye on the portals, and if he found that Mr Moffat did not appear as readily as might be desired, he also was to ascend100 the steps and hurry into the strangers’ room. Then, whether he met Mr Moffat there or elsewhere, or wherever, he might meet him, he was to greet him with all the friendly vigour in his power, while Harry disposed of the club porters.
But fortune, who ever favours the brave, specially36 favoured Frank Gresham on this occasion. Just as Harry Baker had put his card into the servant’s hand, Mr Moffat, with his hat on, prepared for the street, appeared in the hall; Mr Baker addressed him with his sweetest smile, and begged the pleasure of saying a word or two as they descended101 into the street. Had not Mr Moffat been going thither102 it would have been very improbable that he should have done so at Harry’s instance. But, as it was, he merely looked rather solemn at his visitor — it was his wont to look solemn — and continued the descent of the steps.
Frank, his heart leaping the while, saw his prey103, and retreated two steps behind the area-railing, the dread13 weapon already well poised104 in his hand. Oh! Mr Moffat! Mr Moffat! if there be any goddess to interfere88 in thy favour, let her come forward now without delay; let her now bear thee off on a cloud if there be one to whom thou art sufficiently dear! But there is no such goddess.
Harry smiled blandly105 till they were well on the pavement, saying some nothing, and keeping the victim’s face averted106 from the avenging107 angel; and then, when the raised hand was sufficiently nigh, he withdrew two steps towards the nearest lamp-post. Not for him was the honour of the interview;— unless, indeed, succouring policemen might give occasion for some gleam of glory.
But succouring policemen were no more to be come by than goddesses. Where were ye, men, when that savage108 whip fell about the ears of the poor ex-legislator? In Scotland Yard, sitting dozing109 on your benches, or talking soft nothings to the housemaids round the corner; for ye were not walking on your beats, nor standing at coign of vantage, to watch the tumults110 of the day. Had Sir Richard himself been on the spot Frank Gresham would still, we may say, have had his five shies at that unfortunate one.
When Harry Baker quickly seceded111 from the way, Mr Moffat at once saw the fate before him. His hair doubtless stood on end, and his voice refused to give the loud screech112 with which he sought to invoke113 the club. An ashy paleness suffused114 his cheeks, and his tottering115 steps were unable to bear him away in flight. Once, and twice, the cutting whip came well down across his back. Had he been wise enough to stand still and take his thrashing in that attitude, it would have been well for him. But men so circumstanced have never such prudence. After two blows he made a dash at the steps, thinking to get back into the club; but Harry, who had by no means reclined in idleness against the lamp-post, here stopped him: ‘You had better go back into the street,’ said Harry; ‘indeed you had,’ giving him a shove from off the second step.
Then of course Frank could do no other than hit him anywhere. When a gentleman is dancing about with much energy it is hardly possible to strike him fairly on his back. The blows, therefore, came now on his legs and now on his head; and Frank unfortunately got more than his five or six shies before he was interrupted.
The interruption however came, all too soon for Frank’s idea of justice. Though there be no policeman to take part in a London row, there are always others ready enough to do so; amateur policemen, who generally sympathize with the wrong side, and, in nine cases out of ten, expend116 their generous energy in protecting thieves and pickpockets117. When it was seen with what tremendous ardour that dread weapon fell about the ears of the poor undefended gentleman, interference was at last, in spite of Harry Baker’s best endeavours, and loudest protestations.
‘Do not interrupt them, sir,’ said he; ‘pray do not. It is a family affair, and they will neither of them like it.’
In the teeth, however, of these assurances, rude people did interfere, and after some nine or ten shies Frank found himself encompassed118 by the arms, and encumbered119 by the weight of a very stout29 gentleman, who hung affectionately about his neck and shoulders; whereas, Mr Moffat was already sitting in a state of syncope on the good-natured knees of a fishmonger’s apprentice120.
Frank was thoroughly121 out of breath: nothing came from his lips but half-muttered expletives and unintelligible122 denunciations of the iniquity123 of his foe124. But still he struggled to be at him again. We all know how dangerous is the taste of blood; now cruelly it will become a custom even with the most tender-hearted. Frank felt that he had hardly fleshed his virgin125 lash126: he thought, almost with despair, that he had not yet at all succeeded as became a man and a brother; his memory told him of but one or two of the slightest touches that had gone well home to the offender127. He made a desperate effort to throw off that incubus128 round his neck and rush again to the combat.
‘Harry — Harry; don’t let him go — don’t let him go,’ he barely articulated.
‘Do you want to murder the man, sir; to murder him?’ said the stout gentleman over his shoulder, speaking solemnly into his very ear.
‘I don’t care,’ said Frank, struggling manfully but uselessly. ‘Let me out, I say; I don’t care — don’t let him go, Harry, whatever you do.’
‘He has got it prettily tidily,’ said Harry; ‘I think that will perhaps do for the present.’
By this time there was a considerable concourse. The club steps were crowded with members; among whom there were many of Mr Moffat’s acquaintance. Policemen now flocked up, and the question arose as to what should be done with the originators of the affray. Frank and Harry found that they were to consider themselves under a gentle arrest, and Mr Moffat, in a fainting state, was carried into the interior of the club.
Frank, in his innocence129, had intended to have celebrated this little affair when it was over by a light repast and a bottle of claret with his friend, and then to have gone back to Cambridge by the mail train. He found, however, that his schemes in this respect were frustrated130. He had to get bail131 to attend at Marlborough Street police-office should he be wanted within the next two or three days; and was given to understand that he would be under the eye of the police, at any rate until Mr Moffat should be out of danger.
‘Out of danger!’ said Frank to his friend with a startled look. ‘Why I hardly got at him.’ Nevertheless, they did have their slight repast, and also their bottle of claret.
On the second morning after this occurrence, Frank was again sitting in that public room at the Tavistock, and Harry was again sitting opposite to him. The whip was not now so conspicuously132 produced between them, having been carefully packed up and put away among Frank’s other travelling properties. They were so sitting, rather glum133, when the door swung open, and a heavy quick step was heard advancing towards them. It was the squire; whose arrival there had been momentarily expected.
‘Frank,’ said he —‘Frank, what on earth is all this?’ and as he spoke he stretched out both hands, the right to his son and the left to his friend.
‘He has given a blackguard a licking, that is all,’ said Harry.
Frank felt that his hand was held with a peculiarly warm grasp; and he could not but think that his father’s face, raised though his eyebrows134 were — though there was on it an intended expression of amazement135 and, perhaps, regret — nevertheless he could not but think that his father’s face looked kindly136 at him.
‘God bless my soul, my dear boy! what have you done to the man?’
‘He’s not a ha’porth the worse, sir,’ said Frank, still holding his father’s hand.
‘Oh, isn’t he!’ said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. ‘He must be made of some very strong article then.’
‘But my dear boys, I hope there’s no danger. I hope there’s no danger.’
‘Danger!’ said Frank, who could not yet induce himself to believe that he had been allowed a fair chance with Mr Moffat.
‘Oh, Frank! Frank! how could you be so rash? In the middle of Pall Mall, too. Well! well! well! All the women down at Greshamsbury will have it that you have killed him.’
‘I almost wish I had,’ said Frank.
‘Oh, Frank! Frank! But now tell me —’
And then the father sat well pleased while he heard, chiefly from Harry Baker, the full story of his son’s prowess. And then they did not separate without another slight repast and another bottle of claret.
Mr Moffat retired137 to the country for a while, and then went abroad; having doubtless learnt that the petition was not likely to give him a seat for the city of Barchester. And this was the end of the wooing with Miss Gresham.
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demure
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prudent
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possessed
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lessen
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dread
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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15
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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17
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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19
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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20
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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21
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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22
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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23
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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26
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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27
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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28
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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30
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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31
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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32
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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33
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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34
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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35
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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36
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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37
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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38
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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39
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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40
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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41
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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42
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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43
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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44
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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45
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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46
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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47
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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48
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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49
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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50
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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51
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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52
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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53
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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54
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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55
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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56
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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57
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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58
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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59
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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60
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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61
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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62
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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63
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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64
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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65
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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66
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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67
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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68
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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69
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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70
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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71
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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72
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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73
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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74
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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75
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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76
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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77
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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78
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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79
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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80
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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81
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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82
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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83
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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84
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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85
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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86
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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87
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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89
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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90
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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91
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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92
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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93
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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94
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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95
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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96
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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97
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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98
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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99
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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100
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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101
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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102
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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103
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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104
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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105
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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106
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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107
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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108
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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109
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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110
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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111
seceded
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| v.脱离，退出( secede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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113
invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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114
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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116
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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117
pickpockets
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| n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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118
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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119
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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121
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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122
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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123
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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124
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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125
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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126
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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127
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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128
incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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129
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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130
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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131
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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132
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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133
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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134
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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135
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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136
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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137
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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