The inmates1 of Fairoaks were drowsily2 pursuing this humdrum3 existence, while the great house upon the hill, on the other side of the River Brawl4, was shaking off the slumber5 in which it had lain during the lives of two generations of masters, and giving extraordinary signs of renewed liveliness.
Just about the time of Pen’s little mishap6, and when he was so absorbed in the grief occasioned by that calamity7 as to take no notice of events which befell persons less interesting to himself than Arthur Pendennis, an announcement appeared in the provincial8 journals which caused no small sensation in the county at least, and in all the towns, villages, halls and mansions9, and parsonages for many miles round Clavering Park. At Clavering Market; at Cackleby Fair; at Chatteris Sessions; on Gooseberry Green, as the squire’s carriage met the vicar’s one-horse contrivance, and the inmates of both vehicles stopped on the road to talk; at Tinkleton Church gate, as the bell was tolling11 in the sunshine, and the white smocks and scarlet12 cloaks came trooping over the green common, to Sunday worship; in a hundred societies round about — the word was, that Clavering Park was to be inhabited again.
Some five years before, the county papers had advertised the marriage at Florence, at the British Legation, of Francis Clavering, Esq., only son of Sir Francis Clavering, Bart., of Clavering Park, with Jemima Augusta, daughter of Samuel Snell, of Calcutta, Esq., and widow of the late J. Amory, Esq. At that time the legend in the county was that Clavering, who had been ruined for many a year, had married a widow from India with some money. Some of the county folks caught a sight of the newly-married pair. The Kickleburys, travelling in Italy, had seen them. Clavering occupied the Poggi Palace at Florence, gave parties, and lived comfortably — but could never come to England. Another year — young Peregrine, of Cackleby, making a Long Vacation tour, had fallen in with the Claverings occupying Schloss Schinkenstein, on the Mummel See. At Rome, at Lucca, at Nice, at the baths and gambling13 places of the Rhine and Belgium, this worthy14 couple might occasionally be heard of by the curious, and rumours16 of them came, as it were by gusts18, to Clavering’s ancestral place.
Their last place of abode19 was Paris, where they appear to have lived in great fashion and splendour after the news of the death of Samuel Snell, Esq., of Calcutta, reached his orphan20 daughter in Europe.
Of Sir Francis Clavering’s antecedents little can be said that would be advantageous21 to that respected baronet. The son of an outlaw22, living in a dismal23 old chateau24 near Bruges, this gentleman had made a feeble attempt to start in life with a commission in a dragoon regiment26, and had broken down almost at the outset. Transactions at the gambling-table had speedily effected his ruin; after a couple of years in the army he had been forced to sell out, had passed some time in Her Majesty’s prison of the Fleet, and had then shipped over to Ostend to join the gouty exile, his father. And in Belgium, France and Germany, for some years, this decayed and abortive28 prodigal29 might be seen lurking30 about billiard-rooms and watering-places, punting at gambling-houses, dancing at boarding-house balls, and riding steeple-chases on other folks’ horses.
It was at a boarding-house at Lausanne that Francis Clavering made what he called the lucky coup15 of marrying the widow Amory, very lately returned from Calcutta. His father died soon after, by consequence of whose demise31 his wife became Lady Clavering. The title so delighted Mr. Snell of Calcutta, that he doubled his daughter’s allowance; and dying himself soon after, left a fortune to her and her children the amount of which was, if not magnified by rumour17, something very splendid indeed.
Before this time there had been, not rumours unfavourable to Lady Clavering’s reputation, but unpleasant impressions regarding her ladyship. The best English people abroad were shy of making her acquaintance; her manners were not the most refined; her origin was lamentably32 low and doubtful. The retired33 East Indians, who are to be found in considerable force in most of the continental34 towns frequented by English, spoke35 with much scorn of the disreputable old lawyer and indigo-smuggler her father, and of Amory, her first husband, who had been mate of the Indiaman in which Miss Snell came out to join her father at Calcutta. Neither father nor daughter were in society at Calcutta, or had ever been heard of at Government House. Old Sir Jasper Rogers, who had been Chief Justice of Calcutta, had once said to his wife, that he could tell a queer story about Lady Clavering’s first husband; but greatly to Lady Rogers’s disappointment, and that of the young ladies his daughters, the old Judge could never be got to reveal that mystery.
They were all, however, glad enough to go to Lady Clavering’s parties, when her ladyship took the Hotel Bouilli in the Rue37 Grenelle at Paris, and blazed out in the polite world there in the winter of 183 —. The Faubourg St. Germain took her up. Viscount Bagwig, our excellent ambassador, paid her marked attention. The princes of the family frequented her salons40. The most rigid42 and noted43 of the English ladies resident in the French capital acknowledged and countenanced44 her; the virtuous46 Lady Elderbury, the severe Lady Rockminster, the venerable Countess of Southdown — people, in a word, renowned47 for austerity, and of quite a dazzling moral purity:— so great and beneficent an influence had the possession of ten (some said twenty) thousand a year exercised upon Lady Clavering’s character and reputation. And her munificence48 and good-will were unbounded. Anybody (in society) who had a scheme of charity was sure to find her purse open. The French ladies of piety49 got money from her to support their schools and convents; she subscribed50 indifferently for the Armenian patriarch; for Father Barbarossa, who came to Europe to collect funds for his monastery51 on Mount Athos; for the Baptist Mission to Quashyboo, and the Orthodox Settlement in Feefawfoo, the largest and most savage52 of the Cannibal Islands. And it is on record of her, that, on the same day on which Madame de Cricri got five Napoleons from her in support of the poor persecuted53 Jesuits, who were at that time in very bad odour in France, Lady Budelight put her down in her subscription-list for the Rev36. J. Ramshorn, who had had a vision which ordered him to convert the Pope of Rome. And more than this, and for the benefit of the worldly, her ladyship gave the best dinners, and the grandest balls and suppers, which were known at Paris during that season.
And it was during this time, that the good-natured lady must have arranged matters with her husband’s creditors54 in England, for Sir Francis reappeared in his native country, without fear of arrest; was announced in the Morning Post, and the county paper, as having taken up his residence at Mivart’s Hotel; and one day the anxious old housekeeper55 at Clavering House beheld56 a carriage and four horses drive up the long avenue, and stop before the moss-grown steps in front of the vast melancholy57 portico58.
Three gentlemen were in the carriage — an open one. On the back seat was our old acquaintance, Mr. Tatham of Chatteris, whilst in the places of honour sate59 a handsome and portly gentleman enveloped60 in mustachios, whiskers, fur collars, and braiding, and by him a pale languid man who descended61 feebly from the carriage, when the little lawyer, and the gentleman in fur, nimbly jumped out of it.
They walked up the great moss-grown steps to the hall-door, and a foreign attendant, with earrings63 and a gold-laced cap, pulled strenuously64 at the great bell-handle at the cracked and sculptured gate. The bell was heard clanging loudly through the vast gloomy mansion10. Steps resounded65 presently upon the marble pavement of the hall within; and the doors opened, and finally Mrs. Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, Polly, her aide-de-camp, and Smart, the keeper, appeared bowing humbly66.
Smart, the keeper, pulled the wisp of hay-coloured hair which adorned67 his sunburnt forehead, kicked out his left heel as if there were a dog biting at his calves68, and brought down his head to a bow. Old Mrs Blenkinsop dropped a curtsey. Little Polly, her aide-de-camp, made a curtsey and several rapid bows likewise; and Mrs. Blenkinsop, with a great deal of emotion, quavered out, “Welcome to Clavering, Sir Francis. It du my poor eyes good to see one of the family once more.”
The speech and the greetings were all addressed to the grand gentleman in fur and braiding, who wore his hat so magnificently on one side, and twirled his mustachios so royally. But he burst out laughing, and said, “You’ve saddled the wrong horse, old lady — I’m not Sir Francis Clavering what’s come to revisit the halls of my ancestors. Friends and vassals69! behold70 your rightful lord!”
And he pointed71 his hand towards the pale, languid gentleman who said, “Don’t be an ass27, Ned”
“Yes, Mrs. Blenkinsop, I’m Sir Francis Clavering; I recollect72 you quite well. Forgot me, I suppose?— How dy do?” and he took the old lady’s trembling hand; and nodded in her astonished face, in a not unkind manner.
Mrs. Blenkinsop declared upon her conscience that she would have known Sir Francis anywhere, that he was the very image of Sir Francis, his father, and of Sir John who had gone before.
“O yes — thanky — of course — very much obliged — and that sort of thing,” Sir Francis said, looking vacantly about the hall “Dismal old place, ain’t it, Ned? Never saw it but once, when my governor quarrelled with gwandfather in the year twenty-thwee.
“Dismal?— beautiful!— the Castle of Otranto!— the Mysteries of Udolpho, by Jove!” said the individual addressed as Ned. “What a fireplace! You might roast an elephant in it. Splendid carved gallery! Inigo Jones, by Jove! I’d lay five to two it’s Inigo Jones.”
“The upper part by Inigo Jones; the lower was altered by the eminent73 Dutch architect, Vanderputty, in George the First his time, by Sir Richard, fourth baronet,” said the housekeeper.
“O indeed,” said the Baronet “Gad74, Ned, you know everything.”
“I know a few things, Frank,” Ned answered. “I know that’s not a Snyders over the mantelpiece — bet you three to one it’s a copy. We’ll restore it, my boy. A lick of varnish75, and it will come out wonderfully, sir. That old fellow in the red gown, I suppose, is Sir Richard.”
“Sheriff of the county, and sate in parliament in the reign62 of Queen Anne,” said the housekeeper, wondering at the stranger’s knowledge; “that on the right is Theodosia, wife of Harbottle, second baronet, by Lely, represented in the character of Venus, the Goddess of Beauty,— her son Gregory, the third baronet, by her side, as Cupid, God of Love, with a bow and arrows; that on the next panel is Sir Rupert, made a knight76 banneret by Charles the First, and whose property was confuscated by Oliver Cromwell.”
“Thank you — needn’t go on, Mrs. Blenkinsop,” said the Baronet, “We’ll walk about the place ourselves. Frosch, give me a cigar. Have a cigar, Mr. Tatham?”
Little Mr. Tatham tried a cigar which Sir Francis’s courier handed to him, and over which the lawyer spluttered fearfully. “Needn’t come with us, Mrs. Blenkinsop. What’s — his — name — you — Smart — feed the horses and wash their mouths. Shan’t stay long. Come along, Strong,— I know the way: I was here in twenty-thwee, at the end of my gwandfather’s time.” And Sir Francis and Captain Strong, for such was the style and title of Sir Francis’s friend, passed out of the hall into the reception-rooms, leaving the discomfited77 Mrs. Blenkinsop to disappear by a side-door which led to her apartments, now the only habitable rooms in the long-uninhabited mansion.
It was a place so big that no tenant78 could afford to live in it; and Sir Francis and his friend walked through room after room, admiring their vastness and dreary79 and deserted80 grandeur81. On the right of the hall-door were the saloons and drawing-rooms, and on the other side the oak room, the parlour, the grand dining-room, the library, where Pen had found books in old days. Round three sides of the hall ran a gallery, by which, and corresponding passages, the chief bedrooms were approached, and of which many were of stately proportions and exhibited marks of splendour. On the second story was a labyrinth82 of little discomfortable garrets, destined83 for the attendants of the great folks who inhabited the mansion in the days when it was first built: and I do not know any more cheering mark of the increased philanthropy of our own times, than to contrast our domestic architecture with that of our ancestors, and to see how much better servants and poor are cared for now, than in times when my lord and my lady slept under gold canopies84, and their servants lay above them in quarters not so airy or so clean as stables are now.
Up and down the house the two gentlemen wandered, the owner of the mansion being very silent and resigned about the pleasure of possessing it; whereas the Captain, his friend, examined the premises85 with so much interest and eagerness that you would have thought he was the master, and the other the indifferent spectator of the place. “I see capabilities86 in it — capabilities in it, sir,” cried the Captain. “Gad, sir, leave it to me, and I’ll make it the pride of the country, at a small expense. What a theatre we can have in the library here, the curtains between the columns which divide the room! What a famous room for a galop!— it will hold the whole shire. We’ll hang the morning parlour with the tapestry87 in your second salon41 in the Rue de Grenelle, and furnish the oak room with the Moyen-age cabinets and the armour88. Armour looks splendid against black oak, and there’s a Venice glass in the Quai Voltaire, which will suit that high mantelpiece to an inch, sir. The long saloon, white and crimson89 of course; the drawing-room yellow satin; and the little drawing-room light blue, with lace over — hay?”
“I recollect my old governor caning90 me in that little room,” Sir Francis said sententiously; “he always hated me, my old governor.”
“Chintz is the dodge91, I suppose, for my lady’s rooms — the suite92 in the landing, to the south, the bedroom, the sitting-room93, and the dressing-room. We’ll throw a conservatory94 out, over the balcony. Where will you have your rooms?”
“Put mine in the north wing,” said the Baronet, with a yawn, “and out of the reach of Miss Amory’s confounded piano. I can’t bear it. She’s scweeching from morning till night.”
The Captain burst out laughing. He settled the whole further arrangements of the house in the course of their walk through it; and, the promenade95 ended, they went into the steward’s room, now inhabited by Mrs. Blenkinsop, and where Mr. Tatham was sitting poring over a plan of the estate, and the old housekeeper had prepared a collation96 in honour of her lord and master.
Then they inspected the kitchen and stables, about both of which Sir Francis was rather interested, and Captain Strong was for examining the gardens; but the Baronet said, “D—— the gardens, and that sort of thing!” and finally he drove away from the house as unconcernedly as he had entered it; and that night the people of Clavering learned that Sir Francis Clavering had paid a visit to the Park, and was coming to live in the county.
When this fact came to be known at Chatteris, all the folks in the place were set in commotion97: High Church and Low Church, half-pay captains and old maids and dowagers, sporting squireens of the viciniage, farmers, tradesmen, and factory people — all the population in and round about the little place. The news was brought to Fairoaks, and received by the ladies there, and by Mr. Pen, with some excitement. “Mrs. Pybus says there is a very pretty girl in the family, Arthur,” Laura said, who was as kind and thoughtful upon this point as women generally are: “a Miss Amory, Lady Clavering’s daughter by her first marriage. Of course, you will fall in love with her as soon as she arrives.”
Helen cried out, “Don’t talk nonsense, Laura.” Pen laughed, and said, “Well, there is the young Sir Francis for you.”
“He is but four years old,” Miss Laura replied. “But I shall console myself with that handsome officer, Sir Francis’s friend. He was at church last Sunday, in the Clavering pew, and his mustachios were beautiful.”
Indeed the number of Sir Francis’s family (whereof the members have all been mentioned in the above paragraphs) was pretty soon known in his town, and everything else, as nearly as human industry and ingenuity98 could calculate, regarding his household. The Park avenue and grounds were dotted now with town folks of the summer evenings, who made their way up to the great house, peered about the premises, and criticised the improvements which were taking place there. Loads upon loads of furniture arrived in numberless vans from Chatteris and London; and numerous as the vans are, there was not one but Captain Glanders knew what it contained, and escorted the baggage up to the Park House.
He and Captain Edward Strong had formed an intimate acquaintance by this time. The younger Captain occupied those very lodgings99 at Clavering, which the peaceful Smirke had previously100 tenanted, and was deep in the good graces of Madame Fribsby, his landlady101; and of the whole town, indeed. The Captain was splendid in person and raiment; fresh-coloured, blue-eyed, black-whiskered, broad-chested, athletic102 — a slight tendency to fulness did not take away from the comeliness103 of his jolly figure — a braver soldier never presented a broader chest to the enemy. As he strode down Clavering High Street, his hat on one side, his cane104 clanking on the pavement, or waving round him in the execution of military cuts and soldatesque manoeuvres — his jolly laughter ringing through the otherwise silent street — he was as welcome as sunshine to the place, and a comfort to every inhabitant in it.
On the first market-day he knew every pretty girl in the market: he joked with all the women: had a word with the farmers about their stock, and dined at the Agricultural Ordinary at the Clavering Arms, where he set them all dying with laughing by his fun and jokes. “Tu be sure he be a vine veller, tu be sure that he be,” was the universal opinion of the gentlemen in top-boots. He shook hands with a score of them, as they rode out of the inn-yard on their old nags105, waving his hat to them splendidly as he smoked his cigar in the inn-gate. In the course of the evening he was free of the landlady’s bar, knew what rent the landlord paid, how many acres he farmed, how much malt he put in his strong beer; and whether he ever ran in a little brandy unexcised by kings from Baymouth, or the fishing villages along the coast.
He had tried to live at the great house first; but it was so dull he couldn’t stand it. “I am a creature born for society,” he told Captain Glanders. “I’m down here to see Clavering’s house set in order; for between ourselves, Frank has no energy, sir, no energy; he’s not the chest for it, sir (and he threw out his own trunk as he spoke); but I must have social intercourse106. Old Mrs. Blenkinsop goes to bed at seven, and takes Polly with her. There was nobody but me and the Ghost for the first two nights at the great house, and I own it, sir, I like company. Most old soldiers do.”
Glanders asked Strong where he had served? Captain Strong curled his mustache, and said with a laugh, that the other might almost ask where he had not served. “I began, sir, as cadet of Hungarian Uhlans, and when the war of Greek independence broke out, quitted that service in consequence of a quarrel with my governor, and was one of seven who escaped from Missolonghi, and was blown up in one of Botzaris’s fireships, at the age of seventeen. I’ll show you my Cross of the Redeemer, if you’ll come over to my lodgings and take a glass of grog with me, Captain, this evening. I’ve a few of those baubles107 in my desk. I’ve the White Eagle of Poland; Skrzynecki gave it me” (he pronounced Skrzynecki’s name with wonderful accuracy and gusto) “upon the field of Ostrolenka. I was a lieutenant108 of the fourth regiment, sir, and we marched through Diebitsch’s lines — bang thro’ ’em into Prussia, sir, without firing a shot. Ah, Captain, that was a mismanaged business. I received this wound by the side of the King before Oporto,— where he would have pounded the stock-jobbing Pedroites, had Bourmont followed my advice; and I served in Spain with the King’s troops, until the death of my dear friend, Zumalacarreguy, when I saw the game was over, and hung up my toasting iron, Captain. Alava offered me a regiment, the Queen’s Muleteros; but I couldn’t — damme, I couldn’t — and now, sir, you know Ned Strong — the Chevalier Strong they call me abroad — as well as he knows himself.”
In this way almost everybody in Clavering came to know Ned Strong. He told Madame Fribsby, he told the landlord of the George, he told Baker109 at the reading-rooms, he told Mrs. Glanders, and the young ones, at dinner: and, finally, he told Mr. Arthur Pendennis, who, yawning into Clavering one day, found the Chevalier Strong in company with Captain Glanders; and who was delighted with his new acquaintance.
Before many days were over, Captain Strong was as much at home in Helen’s drawing-room as he was in Madame Fribsby’s first floor; and made the lonely house very gay with his good-humour and ceaseless flow of talk. The two women had never before seen such a man. He had a thousand stories about battles and dangers to interest them — about Greek captives, Polish beauties, and Spanish nuns110. He could sing scores of songs, in half a dozen languages, and would sit down to the piano and troll them off in a rich manly111 voice. Both the ladies pronounced him to be delightful112 — and so he was; though, indeed, they had not had much choice of man’s society as yet, having seen in the course of their lives but few persons, except old Portman and the Major, and Mr. Pen, who was a genius, to be sure; but then your geniuses are somewhat flat and moody113 at home.
And Captain Strong acquainted his new friends at Fairoaks, not only with his own biography, but with the whole history of the family now coming to Clavering. It was he who had made the marriage between his friend Frank and the widow Amory. She wanted rank, and he wanted money. What match could be more suitable? He organised it; he made those two people happy. There was no particular romantic attachment114 between them; the widow was not of an age or a person for romance, and Sir Francis, if he had his game at billiards115, and his dinner, cared for little besides. But they were as happy as people could be. Clavering would return to his native place and country, his wife’s fortune would pay his encumbrances116 off, and his son and heir would be one of the first men in the county.
“And Miss Amory?” Laura asked. Laura was uncommonly118 curious about Miss Amory.
Strong laughed. “Oh, Miss Amory is a muse119 — Miss Amory is a mystery — Miss Amory is a femme incomprise.” “What is that?” asked simple Mrs. Pendennis — but the Chevalier gave her no answer: perhaps could not give her one. “Miss Amory paints, Miss Amory writes poems, Miss Amory composes music, Miss Amory rides like Diana Vernon. Miss Amory is a paragon120, in a word.”
“I hate clever women,” said Pen.
“Thank you,” said Laura. For her part she was sure she should be charmed with Miss Amory, and quite longed to have such a friend. And with this she looked Pen full in the face, as if every word the little hypocrite said was Gospel truth.
Thus, an intimacy121 was arranged and prepared beforehand between the Fairoaks family and their wealthy neighbours at the Park; and Pen and Laura were to the full as eager for their arrival, as even the most curious of the Clavering folks. A Londoner, who sees fresh faces and yawns at them every day may smile at the eagerness with which country people expect a visitor. A cockney comes amongst them, and is remembered by his rural entertainers for years after he has left them, and forgotten them very likely — floated far away from them on the vast London sea. But the islanders remember long after the mariner122 has sailed away, and can tell you what he said and what he wore, and how he looked and how he laughed. In fine, a new arrival is an event in the country not to be understood by us, who don’t, and had rather not, know who lives next door.
When the painters and upholsterers had done their work in the house, and so beautified it, under Captain Strong’s superintendence, that he might well be proud of his taste, that gentleman announced that he should go to London, where the whole family had arrived by this time, and should speedily return to establish them in their renovated123 mansion.
Detachments of domestics preceded them. Carriages came down by sea, and were brought over from Baymouth by horses which had previously arrived under the care of grooms124 and coachmen. One day the ‘Alacrity’ coach brought down on its roof two large and melancholy men, who were dropped at the Park lodge125 with their trunks, and who were Messieurs Frederic and James, metropolitan126 footmen, who had no objection to the country, and brought with them state and other suits of the Clavering uniform.
On another day, the mail deposited at the gate a foreign gentleman, adorned with many ringlets and chains. He made a great riot at the lodge-gate to the keeper’s wife (who, being a West-country woman, did not understand his English or his Gascon French), because there was no carriage in waiting to drive him to the house, a mile off, and because he could not walk entire leagues in his fatigued127 state and varnished128 boots. This was Monsieur Alcide Mirobolant, formerly129 Chef of his Highness the Duc de Borodino, of H. Eminence130 Cardinal131 Beccafico, and at present Chef of the bouche of Sir Clavering, Baronet:— Monsieur Mirobolant’s library, pictures, and piano had arrived previously in charge of the intelligent young Englishman, his aide-de-camp. He was, moreover, aided by a professed132 female cook, likewise from London, who had inferior females under her orders.
He did not dine in the steward’s room, but took his nutriment in solitude133 in his own apartments, where a female servant was affected134 to his private use. It was a grand sight to behold him in his dressing-gown composing a menu. He always sate down and played the piano for some time before that. If interrupted, he remonstrated135 pathetically with his little maid. Every great artist, he said, had need of solitude to perfectionate his works.
But we are advancing matters in the fulness of our love and respect for Monsieur Mirobolant, and bringing him prematurely136 on the stage.
The Chevalier Strong had a hand in the engagement of all the London domestics, and, indeed, seemed to be the master of the house. There were those among them who said he was the house-steward, only he dined with the family. Howbeit, he knew how to make himself respected, and two of by no means the least comfortable rooms of the house were assigned to his particular use.
He was walking upon the terrace finally upon the eventful day when, amidst an immense jangling of bells from Clavering Church, where the flag was flying, an open carriage and one of those travelling chariots or family arks, which only English philoprogenitiveness could invent drove rapidly with foaming137 horses through the Park gates, and up to the steps of the Hall. The two battans of the sculptured door flew open. The superior officers in black, the large and melancholy gentlemen, now in livery with their hair in powder, the country menials engaged to aid them, were in waiting in the hall, and bowed like elms when autumn winds wail138 in the park. Through this avenue passed Sir Francis Clavering with a most unmoved face: Lady Clavering, with a pair of bright black eyes, and a good-humoured countenance45, which waggled and nodded very graciously: Master Francis Clavering, who was holding his mamma’s skirt (and who stopped the procession to look at the largest footman, whose appearance seemed to strike the young gentleman), and Miss Blandy, governess to Master Francis, and Miss Amory, her ladyship’s daughter, giving her arm to Captain Strong. It was summer, but fires of welcome were crackling in the great hall chimney, and in the rooms which the family were to occupy.
Monsieur Mirobolant had looked at the procession from one of the lime-trees in the avenue. “Elle est la,” he said, laying his jewelled hand on his richly-embroidered velvet139 glass buttons, “Je t’ai vue, je te benis, O ma sylphide, O mon ange!” and he dived into the thicket140, and made his way back to his furnaces and saucepans.
The next Sunday the same party which had just made its appearance at Clavering Park, came and publicly took possession of the ancient pew in the church, where so many of the Baronet’s ancestors had prayed, and were now kneeling in effigy141. There was such a run to see the new folks, that the Low Church was deserted, to the disgust of its pastor142; and as the state barouche, with the greys and coachman in silver wig38, and solemn footmen, drew up at the old churchyard-gate, there was such a crowd assembled there as had not been seen for many a long day. Captain Strong knew everybody, and saluted143 for all the company — the country people vowed144 my lady was not handsome, to be sure, but pronounced her to be uncommon117 fine dressed, as indeed she was — with the finest of shawls, the finest of pelisses, the brilliantest of bonnets146 and wreaths, and a power of rings, cameos, brooches, chains, bangles, and other nameless gimcracks; and ribbons of every breadth and colour of the rainbow flaming on her person. Miss Amory appeared meek147 in dove-colour, like a vestal virgin148 — while Master Francis was in the costume, then prevalent, of Rob Roy Macgregor, a celebrated149 Highland150 outlaw. The Baronet was not more animated151 than ordinarily — there was a happy vacuity152 about him which enabled him to face a dinner, a death, a church, a marriage, with the same indifferent ease.
A pew for the Clavering servants was filled by these domestics, and the enraptured153 congregation saw the gentlemen from London with “vlower on their heeds,” and the miraculous154 coachman with his silver wig, take their places in that pew so soon as his horses were put up at the Clavering Arms.
In the course of the service, Master Francis began to make such a yelling in the pew, that Frederic, the tallest of the footmen, was beckoned155 by his master, and rose and went and carried out Master Francis, who roared and beat him on the head, so that the powder flew round about, like clouds of incense156. Nor was he pacified157 until placed on the box of the carriage, where he played at horses with John’s whip.
“You see the little beggar’s never been to church before, Miss Bell,” the Baronet drawled out to a young lady who was visiting him; “no wonder he should make a row: I don’t go in town neither, but I think it’s right in the country to give a good example — and that sort of thing.”
Miss Bell laughed and said, “The little boy had not given a particularly good example.”
“Gad, I don’t know, and that sort of thing,” said the Baronet. “It ain’t so bad neither. Whenever he wants a thing, Frank always cwies, and whenever he cwies he gets it.”
Here the child in question began to howl for a dish of sweetmeats on the luncheon-table, and making a lunge across the table-cloth, upset a glass of wine over the best waistcoat of one of the guests present, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, who was greatly annoyed at being made to look foolish, and at having his spotless cambric shirt front blotched with wine.
“We do spoil him so,” said Lady Clavering to Mrs. Pendennis, finally gazing at the cherub158, whose hands and face were now frothed over with the species of lather159 which is inserted in the confection called meringues a la creme.
“It is very wrong,” said Mrs. Pendennis, as if she had never done such a thing herself as spoil a child.
“Mamma says she spoils my brother,— do you think anything could, Miss Bell? Look at him,— isn’t he like a little angel?”
“Gad, I was quite wight,” said the Baronet. “He has cwied, and he has got it, you see. Go it, Fwank, old boy.”
“Sir Francis is a very judicious160 parent,” Miss Amory whispered. Don’t you think so, Miss Bell? I shan’t call you Miss Bell — I shall call you Laura. I admired you so at church. Your robe was not well made, nor your bonnet145 very fresh. But you have such beautiful grey eyes, and such a lovely tint161.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Bell, laughing.
“Your cousin is handsome, and thinks so. He is uneasy de sa personne. He has not seen the world yet. Has he genius? Has he suffered? A lady, a little woman in a rumpled162 satin and velvet shoes — a Miss Pybus — came here, and said he has suffered. I, too, have suffered,— and you, Laura, has your heart ever been touched?”
Laura said “No!” but perhaps blushed a little at the idea or the question, so that the other said,—
“Ah Laura! I see it all. It is the beau cousin. Tell me everything. I already love you as a sister.”
“You are very kind,” said Miss Bell, smiling, “and — and it must be owned that it is a very sudden attachment.”
“All attachments163 are so. It is electricity — spontaneity. It is instantaneous. I knew I should love you from the moment I saw you. Do you not feel it yourself?”
“Not yet,” said Laura; “but — I daresay I shall if I try.”
“Call me by my name, then.”
“But I don’t know it,” Laura cried out.
“My name is Blanche — isn’t it a pretty name? Call me by it.”
“Blanche — it is very pretty, indeed.”
“And while mamma talks with that kind-looking lady — what relation is she to you? She must have been pretty once, but is rather passee; she is not well gantee, but she has a pretty hand — and while mamma talks to her, come with me to my own room,— my own, own room. It’s a darling room, though that horrid164 creature, Captain Strong, did arrange it. Are you eprise of him? He says you are, but I know better; it is the beau cousin. Yes — il a de beaux yeux. Je n’aime pas les blonds, ordinairement. Car je suis blonde moi — je suis Blanche et blonde,”— and she looked at her face and made a moue in the glass; and never stopped for Laura’s answer to the questions which she had put.
Blanche was fair, and like a sylph. She had fair hair, with green reflections in it. But she had dark eyebrows165. She had long black eyelashes, which veiled beautiful brown eyes. She had such a slim waist, that it was a wonder to behold; and such a slim little feet, that you would have thought the grass would hardly bend under them. Her lips were of the colour of faint rosebuds166, and her voice warbled limpidly167 over a set of the sweetest little pearly teeth ever seen. She showed them very often, for they were very pretty. She was very good-natured, and a smile not only showed her teeth wonderfully, but likewise exhibited two lovely little pink dimples, that nestled in either cheek.
She showed Laura her drawings, which the other thought charming. She played her some of her waltzes, with a rapid and brilliant finger, and Laura was still more charmed. And she then read her some poems, in French and English, likewise of her own composition, and which she kept locked in her own book — her own dear little book; it was bound in blue velvet, with a gilt168 lock, and on it was printed in gold the title of ‘Mes Larmes.’
“Mes Larmes!— isn’t it a pretty name?” the young lady continued, who was pleased with everything that she did, and did everything very well. Laura owned that it was. She had never seen anything like it before; anything so lovely, so accomplished169, so fragile and pretty; warbling so prettily170, and tripping about such a pretty room, with such a number of pretty books, pictures, flowers, round about her. The honest and generous country girl forgot even jealousy171 in her admiration172. “Indeed, Blanche,” she said, “everything in the room is pretty; and you are the prettiest of all.” The other smiled, looked in the glass, went up and took both of Laura’s hands, and kissed them, and sat down to the piano, and shook out a little song, as if she had been a nightingale.
This was the first visit paid by Fairoaks to Clavering Park, in return for Clavering Park’s visit to Fairoaks, in reply to Fairoaks’s cards left a few days after the arrival of Sir Francis’s family. The intimacy between the young ladies sprang up like Jack’s Bean-stalk to the skies in a single night. The large footmen were perpetually walking with little rose-coloured pink notes to Fairoaks; where there was a pretty house-maid in the kitchen, who might possibly tempt25 those gentlemen to so humble173 a place. Miss Amory sent music, or Miss Amory sent a new novel, or a picture from the ‘Journal des Modes,’ to Laura; or my lady’s compliments arrived with flowers and fruit; or Miss Amory begged and prayed Miss Bell to come to dinner; and dear Mrs. Pendennis, if she was strong enough; and Mr. Arthur, if a humdrum party were not too stupid for him; and would send a pony-carriage for Mrs. Pendennis; and would take no denial.
Neither Arthur nor Laura wished to refuse. And Helen, who was, indeed, somewhat ailing174, was glad that the two should have their pleasure; and would look at them fondly as they set forth175, and ask in her heart that she might not be called away until those two beings whom she loved best in the world should be joined together. As they went out and crossed over the bridge, she remembered summer evenings five-and-twenty years ago, when she, too, had bloomed in her brief prime of love and happiness. It was all over now. The moon was looking from the purpling sky, and the stars glittering there, just as they used in the early, well-remembered evenings. He was lying dead far away, with the billows rolling between them. Good God! how well she remembered the last look of his face as they parted. It looked out at her through the vista176 of long years, as sad and as clear as then.
So Mr. Pen and Miss Laura found the society at Clavering Park an uncommonly agreeable resort of summer evenings. Blanche vowed that she raffoled of Laura; and, very likely, Mr. Pen was pleased with Blanche. His spirits came back: he laughed and rattled177 till Laura wondered to hear him. It was not the same Pen, yawning in a shooting jacket, in the Fairoaks parlour, who appeared alert and brisk, and smiling and well dressed, in Lady Clavering’s drawing-room. Sometimes they had music. Laura had a sweet contralto voice, and sang with Blanche, who had had the best continental instruction, and was charmed to be her friend’s mistress. Sometimes Mr. Pen joined in these concerts, or oftener looked sweet upon Miss Blanche as she sang. Sometimes they had glees, when Captain Strong’s chest was of vast service, and he boomed out in a prodigious178 bass39, of which he was not a little proud.
“Good fellow, Strong — ain’t he, Miss Bell?” Sir Francis would say to her. “Plays at ecarte with Lady Clavering — plays anything, pitch-and-toss, pianoforty, cwibbage if you like. How long do you think he’s been staying with me? He came for a week with a carpet-bag, and Gad, he’s been staying here thwee years. Good fellow, ain’t he? Don’t know how he gets a shillin’ though, begad I don’t, Miss Lauwa.”
And yet the Chevalier, if he lost his money to Lady Clavering, always paid it; and if he lived with his friend for three years, paid for that too — in good-humour, in kindness and joviality179, in a thousand little services by which he made himself agreeable. What gentleman could want a better friend than a man who was always in spirits, never in the way or out of it, and was ready to execute any commission for his patron, whether it was to sing a song or meet a lawyer, to fight a duel180 or to carve a capon?
Although Laura and Pen commonly went to Clavering Park together, yet sometimes Mr. Pen took walks there unattended by her, and about which he did not tell her. He took to fishing the Brawl, which runs through the Park, and passes not very far from the garden-wall. And by the oddest coincidence, Miss Amory would walk out (having been to look at her flowers), and would be quite surprised to see Mr. Pendennis fishing.
I wonder what trout181 Pen caught while the young lady was looking on? or whether Miss Blanche was the pretty little fish which played round his fly, and which Mr. Pen was endeavouring to hook? It must be owned, he became very fond of that healthful and invigorating pursuit of angling, and was whipping the Brawl continually with his fly.
As for Miss Blanche she had a kind heart; and having, as she owned, herself “suffered” a good deal in the course of her brief life and experience — why, she could compassionate182 other susceptible184 beings like Pen, who had suffered too. Her love for Laura and that dear Mrs. Pendennis redoubled: if they were not at the Park, she was not easy unless she herself was at Fairoaks. She played with Laura; she read French and German with Laura; and Mr. Pen read French and German along with them. He turned sentimental185 ballads186 of Schiller and Goethe into English verse for the ladies, and Blanche unlocked ‘Mes Larmes’ for him, and imparted to him some of the plaintive187 outpourings of her own tender Muse.
It appeared from these poems that this young creature had indeed suffered prodigiously188. She was familiar with the idea of suicide. Death she repeatedly longed for. A faded rose inspired her with such grief that you would have thought she must die in pain of it. It was a wonder how a young creature (who had had a snug189 home or been at a comfortable boarding-school, and had no outward grief or hardship to complain of) should have suffered so much — should have found the means of getting at such an ocean of despair and passion (as a runaway190 boy who will get to sea), and having embarked191 on it should survive it. What a talent she must have had for weeping to be able to pour out so many of Mes Larmes!
They were not particularly briny192, Miss Blanche’s tears, that is the truth; but Pen, who read her verses, thought them very well for a lady — and wrote some verses himself for her. His were very violent and passionate183, very hot, sweet and strong: and he not only wrote verses; but — O the villain193! O, the deceiver! he altered and adapted former poems in his possession, and which had been composed for a certain Emily Fotheringay, for the use and to the Christian194 name of Miss Blanche Amory.
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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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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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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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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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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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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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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84
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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87
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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88
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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89
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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90
caning
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| n.鞭打 | |
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91
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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92
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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93
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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94
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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95
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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96
collation
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| n.便餐；整理 | |
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97
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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98
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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99
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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100
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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101
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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102
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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103
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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104
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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105
nags
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| n.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的名词复数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的第三人称单数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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106
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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107
baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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108
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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109
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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110
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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111
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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112
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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113
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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114
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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115
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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116
encumbrances
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| n.负担( encumbrance的名词复数 )；累赘；妨碍；阻碍 | |
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117
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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118
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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119
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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120
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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121
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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122
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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123
renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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126
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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127
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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128
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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129
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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130
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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131
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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132
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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133
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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134
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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135
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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136
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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137
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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138
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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139
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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140
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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141
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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142
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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143
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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144
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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145
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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146
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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147
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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148
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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149
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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150
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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151
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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152
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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153
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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155
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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157
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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158
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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159
lather
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| n.(肥皂水的)泡沫，激动 | |
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160
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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161
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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162
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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164
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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165
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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166
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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167
limpidly
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| adv.清澈地，透明地 | |
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168
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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169
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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170
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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171
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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172
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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173
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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174
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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175
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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176
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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177
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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178
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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179
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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180
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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181
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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182
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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183
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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184
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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185
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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186
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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187
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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188
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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189
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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190
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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191
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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192
briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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193
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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194
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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