Besides, what dreadful note of warning was this that sounded so ominously21 on Sunday mornings, when she had half an hour later to lie in bed and read over all Colin's back letters—for she kept them religiously? What dreadful note of warning was this that recurred22 so often?—'Miss Howard-Russell, a niece of the old vicar's, and a cousin of Lord Beaminster's, who, I told you, came with me from Paris to Rome in the same carriage'... And then again, 'Miss Howard-Russell, whose name I daresay you remember'—oh, didn't she?—'came into the studio this morning and was full of praise of my figure in the clay from the living model.' And now here once more, in to-day's letter, 'Miss Howard-Russell was at the picnic, looking very pretty,' (oh, Colin, Colin, how could you!) 'and I took her round through a beautiful gallery of oaks' (Italianisai for avenue, already, but uncritical little Minna never spotted23 it) 'to an old Roman archway where Winthrop was painting a clever water-colour. I believe Winthrop admires her very much' (Minna fervently24 hoped his admiration25 would take a practical form:) 'but she doesn't seem at all to notice him.' Why, how closely Colin must have watched her! Minna wasn't by any means satisfied with the habits and manners of this Miss Howard-Russell. And the insolence26 of the woman too! to go and be a cousin to the Earl of Beaminster! Unless you happen to have lived in the western half of Dorsetshire yourself, you can have no idea how exalted27 a personage a cousin of the Earl of Beaminster appeared in the eyes of the Wootton Mande-ville fisherman's daughter.
'Minna Wroe,' Miss Woollacott observed in her tart28 voice, as the little pupil-teacher came down to breakfast on the Sunday morning after the picnic, 'you're nearly seven minutes late—six minutes and forty-nine seconds, to be precisely29 accurate: and I've been all that time sitting here with my hands before me waiting prayers for you. And, Minna Wroe, I've noticed that since that young man you describe as your cousin went to Rome, you've had a letter with a foreign stamp upon it every Sunday. And when those letters arrive I observe that you're almost invariably late for breakfast. Now, Minna Wroe, I should advise you to write to your cousin'—with a strong emphasis of sarcastic30 doubt upon the last word—'asking him to make his communications a little less frequent: or else not to lie in bed quite so late in the morning reading your cousin's weekly effusions. Family affection's an excellent thing in its way, no doubt, but it may go a little too far in the table of affinities31.'
Instead of answering, to Miss Woollacott's great surprise, poor little Minna burst suddenly into an uncontrollable flood of tears.
Now Miss Woollacott wasn't really cruel or ill-natured, but merely desiccated and fossilised, after the fashion of her kind, by the long drying-up process incidental to her unfortunate condition and unhappy calling: and moreover, she shared the common and pardonable inability of all women (I say 'all' this time advisedly) to see another woman crying without immediately kneeling down beside her, and taking her hands in hers, and trying with all her heart to comfort and console her.
So in a few minutes, what with Miss Woollacott saying 'There, there, dear, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings,' and smoothing Minna's hair tenderly with her skinny old fingers (worn to the bone in the hard struggle), and muttering to herself audibly, 'I hadn't the least idea that that was what was really the matter,'—Minna was soon restored to equanimity33 for the present at least, and Miss Woollacott, forgetting even to read prayers in her discomposure ('Which it's the only time, mum,' said Anne the slavey to the landlady34, 'as ever I know'd the ole cat to miss them since fust she come here') went on with the breakfast, beaten all along the line, and trying to pass off 'this unpleasantness' by pretending to talk as unconcernedly as possible about every distracted idea that happened to come uppermost in her poor old scantily-furnished and disconnected cranium. But when breakfast was over, and Minna had positively kissed Miss Woollacott (an unheard-of liberty), and begged her not to trouble herself any more about the matter, for she wasn't really offended, and didn't in the least mind about it she went off upstairs to her own room alone, and sat down, and had a good cry all by herself with Colin's letters, and sent down word by Anne the slavey, that if Miss Woollacott would kindly35 excuse her she didn't feel equal to going to church that morning. 'And the ole cat, she acshally up and says, you'd hardly believe it, mum, says she, “Well, Anne, an' if Miss Wroe doesn't feel equal to it,” says she, “I think as how she'd better lie down a bit and rest herself, poor thing,” says she: and when she said it, mum, you could 'a knocked me down with a feather, a'most, I was that took aback at the ole cat's acshally goin' and sayin' it. Which I do reely think she must be goin' to be took ill or somethin', or else what for should she go an' answer one back so kind and chrischun-like, mum, if she didn't feel her end was a comin'?'
And old Miss Woollacott, putting on her thin-worn thread gloves for Church upon her thin-worn skinny fingers, felt softened36 and saddened, and remembered with a sigh that though she had never positively had a lover herself—not a declared one, that is to say—for who knows how many hearts she may have broken in silence?—she was once young herself, and fancied she might some day have one of her own, just as well as her sister Susan, who married the collector of water-rates; and if so, she was dimly conscious in her own poor old shrivelled feminine heart, much battered37 though it was in its hard struggle for life till it had somewhat hardened itself on the strictest Darwinian principles in adaptation to the environment, that she too under the same circumstances would have acted very much as Minna Wroe did.
But as Minna lay on her bed alone through that Sunday morning, only for a short time disturbed by the obtrusive38 sympathy of Anne the slavey, she began to think to herself that it was really very dangerous after all to let Colin remain at Rome without her; and that she ought to try sooner or later to go over and join him there. And as she turned this all but impossible scheme over in her head (for if even Cohn found it hard to get over to Italy, how could she, poor girl, ever expect to find the money for such a long journey, or subsistence afterwards?), a sudden glorious and brilliant possibility flashed all unexpectedly upon her bewildered mental vision:—
Why not try to go to Rome as a governess?
It was a wild and impossible idea—too impossible to be worth discussing almost—and yet, the more she thought about it, the more feasible did it seem to become to her excited imagination. Not immediately, of course: not all at once and without due preparation. Minna Wroe had learnt the ways of the world in too hard a school of slow self-education not to know already how deep you must lay your plans, and how long you must be prepared to work them, if you hope for success in any difficult earthly speculation39. But she might at least make a beginning and keep her eyes open. The first thing was to get to be a governess; the next was, to look out for openings in the direction of Italy.
It seems easy enough at first sight to be a governess; the occupation is one open to any woman who knows how to spell decently, which is far from being a rare or arduous40 accomplishment41; and yet Minna Wroe felt at once that in her case the difficulties to be got over were practically almost insuperable. If she had only been a man, now, nobody would have asked who she was, or where she came from: they would have been satisfied with looking at her credentials42 and reading over the perfunctory testimonials of her pastors43 and masters to her deserts and merits. But as she was only a woman, they would of course want to inquire all about her; and if once they discovered that she had been in a place as a servant, it would be all up with her chances of employment for ever. The man who rises makes for himself his own position; but the woman who rises has to fight all her life long to keep down the memory of her small beginnings. That is part and parcel of our modern English Christian44 conception of the highest chivalry45.
Little Minna Wroe, however, with her round gipsy face and pretty black eyes, was not the sort of person to be put down in what she proposed to do by any amount of initial difficulty. If the thing was possible, she would stoutly46 fight her way through to it. So the very next morning, during recess48 time, she determined49 to strike while the iron was hot, and went off bravely through the rain to a neighbouring Governesses' Agency. It was one of the wretched places where some lazy hulking agent fellow, assisted by his stout47 wife, makes a handsome living by charging poor helpless girls ten per cent, on their paltry50 pittance51 of a first year's salary, in return for an introduction to patrons too indolent to hunt up a governess for themselves by any more humane52 and considerate method. These are the relatively53 honest and respectable agencies: the dishonest and disreputable ones make a still simpler livelihood54 by charging an entrance-fee beforehand, and never introducing anybody anywhere.
Minna put her name down upon the agent's list, but was wise enough not to be inveigled55 into paying the preliminary two-and-sixpence. The consequence was that the agent, seeing his only chance of making anything out of her lay in the result of getting her a situation, sent her from time to time due notice of persons in want of a nursery governess. Minna applied56 to several of these in rotation57, her idea being, first to get herself started in a place anyhow, and then to look out for another in a family who were going to Italy. But as she made it a matter of principle to tell inquiring employers frankly58 that she had once been out at service, before she went to the North London Birkbeck Girls' School, she generally found that they, one and all, made short shrift of her. Of course it's quite impossible (and in a Christian land, too,) to let one's children be brought up by a young person who has once been a domestic servant.
One day, however, before many weeks, Minna received a note from the agency, asking her whether she could call round at half-past eleven, to see two persons who were in want of nursery governesses. It was recess-hour, luckily, so she buttoned up her neat plain cloth jacket, and put on her simple straw hat, and went round to meet the inquiring employers.
The first inquiry60, the agent said, was from a clergyman—Reverend Walton and wife, now waiting in the ante-room. Reverend Walton, Miss Wroe: Miss Wroe, Reverend Walton and Mrs. Walton.
Minna bowed. The Reverend Walton (as the agent described him with official brevity), without taking the slightest notice of Minna, whispered audibly to his wife: 'This one really looks as if she'd do, Amelia. Dress perfectly respectable. No ribbons and laces and fal-lal tomfoolery. Perfectly presentable, perfectly.'
Minna coloured violently; but the Reverend Walton's wife answered in the same stage aside: 'Quite a proper young woman as far as appearance goes, certainly, Cyril. And fifteen pounds a year, Mr. Coppinger said, would probably suit her.'
Minna coloured still more deeply. It couldn't be called a promising61 beginning. (She had sixteen pounds already, by the way, when she had been a parlour-maid. Such are the prizes of the higher education for women in the scholastic62 profession.)
They whispered together for a little while longer, less audibly, and then Mrs. Walton began closely to cross-question the little pupil-teacher. Minna answered all her questions satisfactorily—she had been baptised, confirmed, was a member of the Church of England, played the piano, could teach elementary French, had an excellent temper, didn't mind dining with the children, would go to early communion, could mend dresses and tuckers, wasn't particular about her food, never read books of an irreligious tendency, and would assist in the housework of the nursery whenever necessary.
'In fact,' Minna said, with as much quiet dignity as she could command, 'I'm not at all afraid of house-work, because (I think I ought to tell you) I was out at service for some years before I went to the Birkbeck Schools.' Reverend Walton lifted his eyebrows63 in subdued64 astonishment65. Mrs. Walton coughed drily. Then they held another whispered confabulation for a few minutes, and at the end of it Mrs. Walton suggested blandly66, in a somewhat altered tone of voice, 'Suppose in that case we were to say fourteen pounds and all found, and were to try to do altogether without the nursemaid?'
Though Minna saw that this was economy with a vengeance—cutting her down another pound, and saving the whole of the nursemaid's wages—she was so anxious to find some chance of rejoining Colin that she answered somewhat reluctantly, 'If you think that would be best, I shouldn't mind trying it.'
'Oh, if it comes to that,' Mrs. Walton said loftily, 'we don't want anybody to come to us by way of a favour. Whoever accepts our post must accept it willingly, thankfully, and in a truly religious spirit, as a door thrown open to them liberally for doing good in.'
Minna bowed faintly. 'I would accept the situation,' she said as well as she was able, though the words stuck in her throat (for was she not taking it as a horrid67 necessity, for Colin's sake only?) 'in just that spirit.'
Mrs. Walton nodded her triumph. 'That'll do then,' she said 'What did she say her name was, Cyril? We'll inquire about you of this Miss Jigamaree.'
Reverend Walton took out a pencil and note-book ostentatiously to put down the address.
'My name is Minna Wroe,' the poor girl said, colouring once more violently.
'Minna!' Reverend Walton said, biting the end of his pencil with a meditative68 frown. 'You must mean Mary. You can't have been christened Minna, you know, can you?'
'Yes, I was,' Minna answered defiantly69.
'I was christened Minna, quite simply. M-I-N-N-A, Minna.'
Reverend Walton entered it in his notebook under protest. 'M-I-N-N-A,' he said, 'Minna; R-O-W-E, Rowe, I suppose.'
'No,' Minna answered, 'not R-O-W-E: W-R-O-E, Wroe.'
Reverend Walton sucked the other end of his pencil in evident hesitation70. 'Never heard of such a name in all my life,' he said, dubitatively. 'Must be some mistake somewhere.
All the Rowes I ever heard of were R-O-W-E's.'
Minna didn't tell him that the names Rowe and Wroe are perfectly distinct in origin and meaning, because she wasn't aware of that interesting fact in the history and etymology71 of English nomenclature: but she did answer stoutly, with some vehemence72, 'My family have always spelt the name as I spell it.'
Reverend Walton sneered73 visibly. 'Probably,' he said, 'your family didn't know any better. Nothing's more common in country parishes than to find that people don't know even how to spell their own names. At any rate, while you remain a member of our household, you'd better arrange to call yourself Mary Bowe, R-O-W-E, spelt in the ordinary proper civilised manner.'
Poor Minna's smothered74 indignation could restrain itself no longer. 'No,' she said firmly, with flashing eyes (in spite of her guaranteed good temper), 'I'll call myself nothing of the sort. I'm not ashamed of my name, and I won't change it.' (A rash promise that, on the part of a young lady.) 'And you needn't take the trouble to apply to Miss Woollacott, thank you, for on further consideration I've come to the conclusion that your place won't suit me. And so good morning to you.'
Reverend Walton and wife conferred together in a loud whisper with one another for a few minutes more, and then with a profound salutation walked with dignity in perfect silence out of the ante-room. 'And I think, Cyril,' Mrs. Walton observed in a stage aside as they held the door ajar behind them, 'we're very lucky indeed to have seen the young woman in one of her exhibitions of temper, for besides her unfortunate antecedents, dear, I'm quite convinced, in my own mind, that she isn't a really Christian person.'
'Won't do, that lot?' the agent said, popping his head in at the door to where Minna stood alone and crimson75; 'ah, I thought not. Too much in this line, aren't they?'—and the agent cleverly drove in an imaginary screw into the back of his left hand with a non-existent screw-driver in his right. 'Well, well, one down, t'other come on. You'll see Reverend O'Donovan, now, miss, won't you?' 'What, another clergyman?' Minna cried a little piteously. 'Oh, no, not now, if you please, Mr. Coppinger. I feel so flurried and frightened and agitated76.'
'Bless your heart, miss,' the agent said, not unkindly, 'you needn't be a bit afraid, you know, of Reverend O'Donovan. He's a widower77, he is—four children—nice old fatherly person—you needn't be a bit afraid of seeing him. Besides, he's waiting for you.' Thus reassured78, Minna consented with some misgivings79 to go through the ordeal80 of a further interview with the Reverend O'Donovan.
In a minute the agent returned, ushering81 into the room a very brutal-looking old gentleman, the most surprising that Minna remembered ever to have seen in the whole course of her experience. In spite of his old-fashioned clerical dress, she could hardly believe that he could really be a clergyman. He seemed to her at first sight the exact model of the Irish villain82 of Mr. Tenniel's most distorted fancy in the 'Punch' cartoons. She couldn't make out all his features at once, she was so much afraid of him; but she saw immediately that what made his face so especially ugly was the fact that he had a broken nose, just like a prizefighter. Minna quite shrank from him as he came in, and felt she should hardly have courage to get through the interview.
But the old clergyman put a chair for her with old-fashioned politeness, and then said in a gentle musical voice which quite astonished her coming from such a person, 'Pray be seated, Miss Wroe; I learned your name from Mr. Coppinger. We may have to talk over matters at a little length—I'm an old man and prosy—so we may as well make ourselves comfortable together beforehand. That's my name, you see, Cornelius O'Donovan; a very Irish one, isn't it? but we don't live in Ireland; in fact I've never been there. We live at a very quiet little country village in the weald of Surrey. Do you like the country?'
There was something so sweet and winning in the old clergyman's cultivated voice, in spite of his repulsive83 appearance, that Minna plucked up heart a little, and answered timidly, 'Oh, yes, I'm a country girl myself, and I'm awfully84 fond of the country, though I've had to live for some years in London. I come from Dorsetshire.'
'From Dorsetshire!' Mr. O'Donovan answered in the same charming gentle accent.
'Why, that's quite delightful85—indeed, almost providential. I was born in Dorsetshire myself, Miss Wroe; my father had a parish there, a sweet little fisher village parish—Moreton Freshwater: do you happen to know it?'
'Moreton!' Minna repeated warmly. 'Moreton! oh yes, of course I do. Why, it's just close to our home. My folks live at Wootton Mandeville.'
'God bless my soul!' exclaimed the old clergyman with a little start. 'This is really providential, quite providential. I knew Wootton Mandeville when I was a boy—every stone in it. Dear me! and so you come from Wootton Mandeville, do you? Ah, well, I'm afraid all the people I knew at Wootton must be dead long ago. There was old Susan who sold apples at the corner by the Buddie, where the coach used to stop to set down passengers; she must have been dead, well, before you were born, I should say, certainly. And old Jack59 Legge that drove the coach; a fine old fellow, he was, with a green patch on the eye that Job Puddicombe blinded; I can remember his giving me a lift, as what we used to call a super—defrauding his employers, I'm sorry to say; but in the West Country, you know, in the old days, people did those things and thought no harm of them. And Ginger86 Radford, the smuggler87; I'm afraid he was a bad lot, poor man, but by Jove, what a fine, hearty88, open, manly89 fellow. Ah yes, capital people, even the worst of them, those good old-fashioned West Country folks.'
The old clergyman paused a moment to wipe his glasses, and looked at Minna pensively90. Minna began to notice now that, though his face was so very dreadful to look at, his eyes were tender and bright and fatherly. Perhaps after all he wasn't really quite so terrible as she at first imagined him.
'Ah,' Mr. O'Donovan went on, replacing his spectacles, 'and there was Dick Churchill and his son Fiddler Sam, too, who used to draw pictures. You might have known Fiddler Sam; though, bless my heart, even Sam must be an old man nowadays, for he was older than I was. And then there was Fisherman Wroe, and his son Geargey; fine young fellow, Geargey, with a powerful deal of life and spirit in him—why.... God bless my soul, they said your name was Miss Wroe, didn't they? If I may venture to ask you, now—excuse me if I'm wrong—you don't happen to be a daughter of George Wroe's of Wootton, do you?'
'Yes,' Minna answered, warming a little towards the old gentleman, in spite of his repulsive countenance91 (it didn't look half so bad already, either, and she noticed that when once you got accustomed to the broken nose, it began to beam with courtesy and benevolence92.) 'I'm George Wroe's daughter.'
Mr. O'Donovan's face lighted up at once with a genial93 smile of friendly recognition. 'George Wroe's daughter!' he cried, with much animation94. 'George Wroe's daughter! Why, this is really most providential, my dear. God bless my soul, we don't need any introduction to one another. I knew your father well: many's the time we've been out fishing for whiting pollock on the Swale Daze95 together; a fine young fellow as ever lived, my dear, your father. When you see him again—he's living, I trust—that's well; I'm glad to hear it—whenever you see him again, my child, just you ask him whether he remembers Con5 O'Donovan (that's my name, you see, Cornelius; fifty years ago they used to call me Con O'Donovan). And just you ask him, too, whether he remembers how we got chased by the revenue cutter from Portland Roads mistaking us for the gig of the French smack96, that brought over brandy (smuggled, I'm sorry to say—ah, dear me, dear me!) to tranship into old Gingery97 Radford's “Lively Sally “; and how we ran, and the cutter chased us, and we put on all sail, and made for Golden Cap, and the cutter went fifteen miles out of her way bearing down upon us, and caught us at last, and overhauled98 us, and found after all we'd nothing aboard but a small cargo99 of lob-worms and launces! Ah, bless my soul, that was a splendid run, that was! Oh, ho, ho! a splendid run, that one!' and Mr. O'Donovan laughed to himself a big, gentle, good-humoured laugh at the recollection of the boisterous100 jokes of fifty years ago, and of the captain of the cutter, who swore at them most terribly, in a varied101 and extensive assortment102 of English profanity, after the fashion of the United Service at the beginning of the present century.
'And now, my dear,' he went on, after another short pause—'I won't call you Miss Wroe any longer, if you're my old friend Geargey's daughter—excuse our plain old Dorsetshire dialect. So you want to be a governess? Well, well, tell me all about it, now. How did it all happen?'
By this time Minna had got so far accustomed to the old gentleman, that she began her whole story from the very beginning, and told it without shame or foolish hesitation. When Mr. O'Donovan had heard it through with profound attention, he looked at the little gipsy face with a look of genuine admiration, and then murmured to himself quite softly, 'God bless my soul, what a very remarkable103 plucky104 young lady! Quite a worthy105 daughter of my dear brave old friend Geargey! Went out to service to begin with; perfectly honourable106 of her; the Wroes were always a fine, manly, honest, courageous107, self-respecting lot, but never above doing a turn of decent work either, whenever it was offered to them. And then turned schoolmistress; and now wants to better herself by being a governess. Most natural, most natural; and very praiseworthy. A most excellent thing, honest domestic service—too many of our girls nowadays turn up their noses at it—but not of course at all suitable for a young lady of your attainments108 and natural refinement109, my dear; oh no, no—far from it, far from it.' 'Well, my dear,' he continued, looking at her gently once more, 'this is just what the matter is. We want a nursery governess for four little ones—girls—the eldest110 nine; motherless—motherless.'
As Mr. O'Donovan repeated that word pathetically, as if to himself, Minna saw that his face would have been quite handsome but for the broken nose which disfigured it for the first twenty minutes of an acquaintance only. 'Are they your daughters, sir?' she ventured to ask, with a sympathetic tinge111 of feeling in her voice.
'No, my dear, no,' Mr. O'Donovan answered, with the tears standing112 in the corners of his bright eyes. 'Granddaughters, granddaughters. I never had but one child, their mother; and she, my dear——' he pointed113 above, and then, turning his hand vaguely114 eastward115, muttered softly, 'India.'
There was a moment's silence, before Minna went on to ask further particulars; and as soon as the old clergyman had answered all her questions to her perfect satisfaction, he asked in a quiet, assured sort of tone, 'Then I may take it for granted, may I, that you'll come to us?'
'Why, certainly,' Minna answered, her heart throbbing116 a little, 'if you'll take me, sir.' 'Take you!' Mr. O'Donovan echoed. 'Take you! God bless my soul, my dear, why, of course we'll be only too glad to get my old friend Geargey's daughter. And when you're writing to your father, my child, just you mention to him that you're going to Con O'Donovan's, and ask him if he remembers——'
But the remainder of Mr. O'Donovan's reminiscence about how that astonishingly big conger-eel bit the late vicar in the hand ('I never laughed so much in my life, my dear, as to see the astonishment and indignation of that pompous117 self-satisfied old fellow—a most exemplary man in every respect, of course, but still, we must admit, an absurdly pompous old fellow ') has no immediate32 connection with the general course of this history.
However, before Minna finally closed with the old rector's offer, she felt it incumbent118 upon her to tell him the possibility of her leaving her situation in the course of time, in order to go to Rome; and the rector's face had now grown so peculiarly mild in her eyes, that Minna even ventured to hint indirectly119 that the proposed visit was not wholly unconnected with the story of her cousin Colin, which story she was thereupon compelled to repeat forthwith to the patient old man with equal minuteness. Mr. O'Donovan smiled at her that placid120 gentle smile, devoid121 of all vulgar innuendo122 or nonsense, with which an old gentleman can sometimes show that he reads the secret of a young girl's bosom123.
'And are you engaged to your cousin Colin, my dear?' he asked at last, quite innocently and simply.
'Not exactly engaged, you know,' Minna answered, blushing, 'but——'
'Ah, yes, quite so, quite so; I know all about it,' Mr. O'Donovan replied with a kindly gesture. 'Well, my dear, I don't see why you shouldn't come and live with us for the present, at least as a stop-gap; and meanwhile, I'll try my best to look out for some family who are going to Rome for you. We might advertise in the Guardian124; capital paper for advertisements of that sort, the Guardian. Anyhow, meanwhile, you'll come and take us as we are; and very providential, too, very providential. To think I should have been lucky enough, quite by accident (as the world says), to hit upon a daughter of my old friend Geargey! And I'm so glad you're not afraid of me, either, because of my misfortune. A great many people are, just at first, especially. But it wears off, it wears off with habituation. A cricket-ball, my dear, that's all—when I was under twenty; off Sam Churchill's bat, too; but no fault of his, of course—I was always absurdly short-sighted. You'll get accustomed to it in time, my child, as I myself have.'
But Minna didn't need time to get accustomed to it, for she could now see already that old Mr. O'Donovan's face was really a very handsome, gentle, and cultivated one; and that even in spite of the broken nose, you felt at once how handsome it was, as soon as it was lighted up by his genial smile and the pleasant flash of his bright old eyes. And in one month from that morning, she was comfortably installed, under Mr. O'Donovan's guidance, in the delightful ivy-covered parsonage of a remote and beautiful little Surrey village.
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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confide
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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hindrances
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miserable
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apparently
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attic
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lodging
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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18
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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19
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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22
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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25
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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26
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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27
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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28
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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29
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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30
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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31
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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32
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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33
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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34
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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35
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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36
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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37
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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38
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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39
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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40
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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41
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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42
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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43
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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44
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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45
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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46
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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48
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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49
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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50
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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51
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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52
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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53
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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54
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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55
inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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57
rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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58
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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59
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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60
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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61
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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62
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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63
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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64
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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66
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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67
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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68
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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69
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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70
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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71
etymology
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| n.语源；字源学 | |
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72
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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73
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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75
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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76
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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77
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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78
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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79
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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80
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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81
ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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82
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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83
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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84
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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85
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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86
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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87
smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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88
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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89
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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90
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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91
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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92
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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93
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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94
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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95
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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96
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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97
gingery
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| adj.姜味的 | |
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98
overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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99
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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100
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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101
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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102
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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103
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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104
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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105
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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106
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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107
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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108
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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109
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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110
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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111
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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112
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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113
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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114
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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115
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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116
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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117
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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118
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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119
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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120
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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121
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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122
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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123
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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124
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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