At first there came a telegram to him from the country, desiring him to go down at once to Clavering, but not giving him any reason. Added to the message were these words,—"We are all well at the parsonage;"—words evidently added in thoughtfulness. But before he had left the office there came to him there a young man from the bank at which his cousin Hugh kept his account, telling him the tidings to which the telegram no doubt referred. Jack7 Stuart's boat had been lost, and his two cousins had gone to their graves beneath the sea! The master of the boat, and Stuart himself, with a boy, had been saved. The other sailors whom they had with them, and the ship's steward8, had perished with the Claverings. Stuart, it seemed, had caused tidings of the accident to be sent to the rector of Clavering and to Sir Hugh's bankers. At the bank they had ascertained9 that their late customer's cousin was in town, and their messenger had thereupon been sent, first to Bloomsbury Square, and from thence to the Adelphi.
Harry had never loved his cousins. The elder he had greatly disliked, and the younger he would have disliked had he not despised him. But not the less on that account was he inexpressibly shocked when he first heard what had happened. The lad said that there could, as he imagined, be no mistake. The message had come, as he believed, from Holland, but of that he was not certain. There could, however, be no doubt about the fact. It distinctly stated that both brothers had perished. Harry had known when he received the message from home, that no train would take him till three in the afternoon, and had therefore remained at the office; but he could not remain now. His head was confused, and he could hardly bring himself to think how this matter would affect himself. When he attempted to explain his absence to an old serious clerk there, he spoke10 of his own return to the office as certain. He should be back, he supposed, in a week at the furthest. He was thinking then of his promises to Theodore Burton, and had not begun to realize the fact that his whole destiny in life would be changed. He said something, with a long face, of the terrible misfortune which had occurred, but gave no hint that that misfortune would be important in its consequences to himself. It was not till he had reached his lodgings11 in Bloomsbury Square that he remembered that his own father was now the baronet, and that he was his father's heir. And then for a moment he thought about the property. He believed that it was entailed12, but even of that he was not certain. But if it were unentailed, to whom could his cousin have left it? He endeavoured, however, to expel such thoughts from his mind, as though there was something ungenerous in entertaining them. He tried to think of the widow, but even in doing that he could not tell himself that there was much ground for genuine sorrow. No wife had ever had less joy from her husband's society than Lady Clavering had had from that of Sir Hugh. There was no child to mourn the loss,—no brother, no unmarried sister. Sir Hugh had had friends,—as friendship goes with such men; but Harry could not but doubt whether among them all there would be one who would feel anything like true grief for his loss. And it was the same with Archie. Who in the world would miss Archie Clavering? What man or woman would find the world to be less bright because Archie Clavering was sleeping beneath the waves? Some score of men at his club would talk of poor Clavvy for a few days,—would do so without any pretence13 at the tenderness of sorrow; and then even of Archie's memory there would be an end. Thinking of all this as he was carried down to Clavering, Harry could not but acknowledge that the loss to the world had not been great; but, even while telling himself this, he would not allow himself to take comfort in the prospect of his heirship14. Once, perhaps, he did speculate how Florence should bear her honours as Lady Clavering; but this idea he swept away from his thoughts as quickly as he was able.
The tidings had reached the parsonage very late on the previous night; so late that the rector had been disturbed in his bed to receive them. It was his duty to make known to Lady Clavering the fact that she was a widow, but this he could not do till the next morning. But there was little sleep that night for him or for his wife! He knew well enough that the property was entailed. He felt with sufficient strength what it was to become a baronet at a sudden blow, and to become also the owner of the whole Clavering property. He was not slow to think of the removal to the great house, of the altered prospects15 of his son, and of the mode of life which would be fitting for himself in future. Before the morning came he had meditated16 who should be the future rector of Clavering, and had made some calculations as to the expediency17 of resuming his hunting. Not that he was a heartless man,—or that he rejoiced at what had happened. But a man's ideas of generosity18 change as he advances in age, and the rector was old enough to tell himself boldly that this thing that had happened could not be to him a cause of much grief. He had never loved his cousins, or pretended to love them. His cousin's wife he did love, after a fashion, but in speaking to his own wife of the way in which this tragedy would affect Hermione, he did not scruple19 to speak of her widowhood as a period of coming happiness.
"She will be cut to pieces," said Mrs. Clavering. "She was attached to him as earnestly as though he had treated her always well."
"I believe it; but not the less will she feel her release, unconsciously; and her life, which has been very wretched, will gradually become easy to her."
Even Mrs. Clavering could not deny that this would be so, and then they reverted20 to matters which more closely concerned themselves. "I suppose Harry will marry at once now," said the mother.
"No doubt;—it is almost a pity; is it not?" The rector,—as we will still call him,—was thinking that Florence was hardly a fitting wife for his son with his altered prospects. Ah, what a grand thing it would have been if the Clavering property and Lady Ongar's jointure could have gone together!
"Not a pity at all," said Mrs. Clavering. "You will find that Florence will make him a very happy man."
"I dare say;—I dare say. Only he would hardly have taken her had this sad accident happened before he saw her. But if she will make him happy that is everything. I have never thought much about money myself. If I find any comfort in these tidings it is for his sake, not for my own. I would sooner remain as I am." This was not altogether untrue, and yet he was thinking of the big house and the hunting.
"What will be done about the living?" It was early in the morning when Mrs. Clavering asked this question. She had thought much about the living during the night. And so had the rector;—but his thoughts had not run in the same direction as hers. He made no immediate21 answer, and then she went on with her question. "Do you think that you will keep it in your own hands?"
"Well,—no; why should I? I am too idle about it as it is. I should be more so under these altered circumstances."
"I am sure you would do your duty if you resolved to keep it, but I don't see why you should do so."
"Clavering is a great deal better than Humbleton," said the rector. Humbleton was the name of the parish held by Mr. Fielding, his son-in-law.
But the idea here put forward did not suit the idea which was running in Mrs. Clavering's mind. "Edward and Mary are very well off," she said. "His own property is considerable, and I don't think they want anything. Besides, he would hardly like to give up a family living."
"I might ask him at any rate."
"I was thinking of Mr. Saul," said Mrs. Clavering boldly.
"Of Mr. Saul!" The image of Mr. Saul, as rector of Clavering, perplexed22 the new baronet egregiously23.
"Well;—yes. He is an excellent; clergyman. No one can deny that." Then there was silence between them for a few moments. "In that case he and Fanny would of course marry. It is no good concealing24 the fact that she is very fond of him."
"Upon my word I can't understand it," said the rector.
"It is so,—and as to the excellence25 of his character there can be no doubt." To this the rector made no answer, but went away into his dressing-room, that he might prepare himself for his walk across the park to the great house. While they were discussing who should be the future incumbent26 of the living, Lady Clavering was still sleeping in unconsciousness of her fate. Mr. Clavering greatly dreaded27 the task which was before him, and had made a little attempt to induce his wife to take the office upon herself; but she had explained to him that it would be more seemly that he should be the bearer of the tidings. "It would seem that you were wanting in affection for her if you do not go yourself," his wife had said to him. That the rector of Clavering was master of himself and of his own actions, no one who knew the family ever denied, but the instances in which he declined to follow his wife's advice were not many.
It was about eight o'clock when he went across the park. He had already sent a messenger with a note to beg that Lady Clavering would be up to receive him. As he would come very early, he had said, perhaps she would see him in her own room. The poor lady had, of course, been greatly frightened by this announcement; but this fear had been good for her, as they had well understood at the rectory; the blow, dreadfully sudden as it must still be, would be somewhat less sudden under this preparation. When Mr. Clavering reached the house the servant was in waiting to show him upstairs to the sitting-room28 which Lady Clavering usually occupied when alone. She had been there waiting for him for the last half-hour.
"Mr. Clavering, what is it?" she exclaimed, as he entered with tidings of death written on his visage. "In the name of heaven, what is it? You have something to tell me of Hugh."
"Dear Hermione," he said, taking her by the hand.
"What is it? Tell me at once. Is he still alive?"
The rector still held her by the hand, but spoke no word. He had been trying as he came across the park to arrange the words in which he should tell his tale, but now it was told without any speech on his part.
"He is dead. Why do you not speak? Why are you so cruel?"
"Dearest Hermione, what am I to say to comfort you?"
What he might say after this was of little moment, for she had fainted. He rang the bell, and then, when the servants were there,—the old housekeeper29 and Lady Clavering's maid,—he told to them, rather than to her, what had been their master's fate.
"And Captain Archie?" asked the housekeeper.
The rector shook his head, and the housekeeper knew that the rector was now the baronet. Then they took the poor widow to her own room,—should I not rather call her, as I may venture to speak the truth, the enfranchised30 slave than the poor widow?—and the rector, taking up his hat, promised that he would send his wife across to their mistress. His morning's task had been painful, but it had been easily accomplished31. As he walked home among the oaks of Clavering Park, he told himself, no doubt, that they were now all his own.
That day at the rectory was very sombre, if it was not actually sad. The greater part of the morning Mrs. Clavering passed with the widow, and sitting near her sofa she wrote sundry32 letters to those who were connected with the family. The longest of these was to Lady Ongar, who was now at Tenby; and in that there was a pressing request from Hermione that her sister would come to her at Clavering Park. "Tell her," said Lady Clavering, "that all her anger must be over now." But Mrs. Clavering said nothing of Julia's anger. She merely urged the request that Julia would come to her sister. "She will be sure to come," said Mrs. Clavering. "You need have no fear on that head."
"But how can I invite her here, when the house is not my own?"
"Pray do not talk in that way, Hermione. The house will be your own for any time that you may want it. Your husband's relations are your dear friends; are they not?" But this allusion33 to her husband brought her to another fit of hysterical34 tears. "Both of them gone," she said. "Both of them gone!" Mrs. Clavering knew well that she was not alluding35 to the two brothers, but to her husband and to her baby. Of poor Archie no one had said a word,—beyond that one word spoken by the housekeeper. For her, it had been necessary that she should know who was now the master of Clavering Park.
Twice in the day Mrs. Clavering went over to the big house, and on her second return, late in the evening, she found her son. When she arrived, there had already been some few words on the subject between him and his father.
"You have heard of it, Harry?"
"Yes; a clerk came to me from the banker's."
"Dreadful; is it not? Quite terrible to think of!"
"Indeed it is, sir. I was never so shocked in my life."
"He would go in that cursed boat, though I know that he was advised against it," said the father, holding up his hands and shaking his head. "And now both of them gone;—both gone at once!"
"How does she bear it?"
"Your mother is with her now. When I went in the morning,—I had written a line, and she expected bad news,—she fainted. Of course, I could do nothing. I can hardly say that I told her. She asked the question, and then saw by my face that her fears were well-founded. Upon my word, I was glad when she did faint;—it was the best thing for her."
"It must have been very painful for you."
"Terrible;—terrible;" and the rector shook his head. "It will make a great difference in your prospects, Harry."
"And in your life, sir! So to say, you are as young a man as myself."
"Am I? I believe I was about as young when you were born. But I don't think at all about myself in this matter. I am too old to care to change my manner of living. It won't affect me very much. Indeed, I hardly know yet how it may affect me. Your mother thinks I ought to give up the living. If you were in orders, Harry—"
"I'm very glad, sir, that I am not."
"I suppose so. And there is no need; certainly, there is no need. You will be able to do pretty nearly what you like about the property. I shall not care to interfere36."
"Yes, you will, sir. It feels strange now, but you will soon get used to it. I wonder whether he left a will."
"It can't make any difference to you, you know. Every acre of the property is entailed. She has her settlement. Eight hundred a year, I think it is. She'll not be a rich woman like her sister. I wonder where she'll live. As far as that goes, she might stay at the house, if she likes it. I'm sure your mother wouldn't object."
Harry on this occasion asked no question about the living, but he also had thought of that. He knew well that his mother would befriend Mr. Saul, and he knew also that his father would ultimately take his mother's advice. As regarded himself he had no personal objection to Mr. Saul, though he could not understand how his sister should feel any strong regard for such a man.
Edward Fielding would make a better neighbour at the parsonage, and then he thought whether an exchange might not be made. After that, and before his mother's return from the great house, he took a stroll through the park with Fanny. Fanny altogether declined to discuss any of the family prospects, as they were affected37 by the accident which had happened. To her mind the tragedy was so terrible that she could only feel its tragic38 element. No doubt she had her own thoughts about Mr. Saul as connected with it. "What would he think of this sudden death of the two brothers? How would he feel it? If she could be allowed to talk to him on the matter, what would he say of their fate here and hereafter? Would he go to the great house to offer the consolations39 of religion to the widow?" Of all this she thought much; but no picture of Mr. Saul as rector of Clavering, or of herself as mistress in her mother's house, presented itself to her mind. Harry found her to be a dull companion, and he, perhaps, consoled himself with some personal attention to the oak trees. The trees loomed40 larger upon him now than they had ever done before.
On the third day the rector went up to London, leaving Harry at the parsonage. It was necessary that lawyers should be visited, and that such facts as to the loss should be proved as were capable of proof. There was no doubt at all as to the fate of Sir Hugh and his brother. The escape of Mr. Stuart and of two of those employed by him prevented the possibility of a doubt. The vessel41 had been caught in a gale42 off Heligoland, and had foundered43. They had all striven to get into the yacht's boat, but those who had succeeded in doing so had gone down. The master of the yacht had seen the two brothers perish. Those who were saved had been picked up off the spars to which they had attached themselves. There was no doubt in the way of the new baronet, and no difficulty.
Nor was there any will made either by Sir Hugh or his brother. Poor Archie had nothing to leave, and that he should have left no will was not remarkable44. But neither had there been much in the power of Sir Hugh to bequeath, nor was there any great cause for a will on his part. Had he left a son, his son would have inherited everything. He had, however, died childless, and his wife was provided for by her settlement. On his marriage he had made the amount settled as small as his wife's friends would accept, and no one who knew the man expected that he would increase the amount after his death. Having been in town for three days the rector returned,—being then in full possession of the title; but this he did not assume till after the second Sunday from the date of the telegram which brought the news.
In the meantime Harry had written to Florence, to whom the tidings were as important as to any one concerned. She had left London very triumphant,—quite confident that she had nothing now to fear from Lady Ongar or from any other living woman, having not only forgiven Harry his sins, but having succeeded also in persuading herself that there had been no sins to forgive,—having quarrelled with her brother half-a-dozen times in that he would not accept her arguments on this matter. He too would forgive Harry,—had forgiven him; was quite ready to omit all further remark on the matter; but could not bring himself when urged by Florence to admit that her Apollo had been altogether godlike. Florence had thus left London in triumph, but she had gone with a conviction that she and Harry must remain apart for some indefinite time, which probably must be measured by years. "Let us see at the end of two years," she had said; and Harry had been forced to be content. But how would it be with her now?
Harry of course began his letter by telling her of the catastrophe45, with the usual amount of epithets46. It was very terrible, awful, shocking,—the saddest thing that had ever happened! The poor widow was in a desperate state, and all the Claverings were nearly beside themselves. But when this had been duly said, he allowed himself to go into their own home question. "I cannot fail," he wrote, "to think of this chiefly as it concerns you,—or rather, as it concerns myself in reference to you. I suppose I shall leave the business now. Indeed, my father seems to think that my remaining there would be absurd, and my mother agrees with him. As I am the only son, the property will enable me to live easily without a profession. When I say 'me,' of course you will understand what 'me' means. The better part of 'me' is so prudent47, that I know she will not accept this view of things without ever so much consideration, and, therefore, she must come to Clavering to hear it discussed by the elders. For myself, I cannot bear to think that I should take delight in the results of this dreadful misfortune; but how am I to keep myself from being made happy by the feeling that we may now be married without further delay? After all that has passed, nothing will make me happy or even permanently48 comfortable till I can call you fairly my own. My mother has already said that she hopes you will come here in about a fortnight,—that is, as soon as we shall have fallen tolerably into our places again; but she will write herself before that time. I have written a line to your brother addressed to the office, which I suppose will find him. I have written also to Cecilia. Your brother, no doubt, will hear the news first through the French newspapers." Then he said a little, but a very little, as to their future modes of life, just intimating to her, and no more, that her destiny might probably call upon her to be the mother of a future baronet.
The news had reached Clavering on a Saturday. On the following Sunday every one in the parish had no doubt heard of it, but nothing on the subject was said in church on that day. The rector remained at home during the morning, and the whole service was performed by Mr. Saul. But on the second Sunday Mr. Fielding had come over from Humbleton, and he preached a sermon on the loss which the parish had sustained in the sudden death of the two brothers. It is, perhaps, well that such sermons should be preached. The inhabitants of Clavering would have felt that their late lords had been treated like dogs, had no word been said of them in the house of God. The nature of their fate had forbidden even the common ceremony of a burial service. It is well that some respect should be maintained from the low in station towards those who are high, even when no respect has been deserved. And, for the widow's sake, it was well that some notice should be taken in Clavering of this death of the head of the Claverings. But I should not myself have liked the duty of preaching an eulogistic49 sermon on the lives and death of Hugh Clavering and his brother Archie. What had either of them ever done to merit a good word from any man, or to earn the love of any woman? That Sir Hugh had been loved by his wife had come from the nature of the woman, not at all from the qualities of the man. Both of the brothers had lived on the unexpressed theory of consuming, for the benefit of their own backs and their own bellies50, the greatest possible amount of those good things which fortune might put in their way. I doubt whether either of them had ever contributed anything willingly to the comfort or happiness of any human being. Hugh, being powerful by nature and having a strong will, had tyrannized over all those who were subject to him. Archie, not gifted as was his brother, had been milder, softer, and less actively51 hateful; but his principle of action had been the same. Everything for himself! Was it not well that two such men should be consigned52 to the fishes, and that the world,—especially the Clavering world, and that poor widow, who now felt herself to be so inexpressibly wretched when her period of comfort was in truth only commencing,—was it not well that the world and Clavering should be well quit of them? That idea is the one which one would naturally have felt inclined to put into one's sermon on such an occasion; and then to sing some song of rejoicing;—either to do that, or to leave the matter alone.
But not so are such sermons preached; and not after that fashion did the young clergyman who had married the first-cousin of these Claverings buckle53 himself to the subject. He indeed had, I think, but little difficulty, either inwardly with his conscience, or outwardly with his subject. He possessed54 the power of a pleasant, easy flow of words, and of producing tears, if not from other eyes, at any rate from his own. He drew a picture of the little ship amidst the storm, and of God's hand as it moved in its anger upon the waters; but of the cause of that divine wrath55 and its direction he said nothing. Then, of the suddenness of death and its awfulness he said much, not insisting as he did so on the necessity of repentance56 for salvation57, as far as those two poor sinners were concerned. No, indeed;—how could any preacher have done that? But he improved the occasion by telling those around him that they should so live as to be ever ready for the hand of death. If that were possible, where then indeed would be the victory of the grave? And at last he came to the master and lord whom they had lost. Even here there was no difficulty for him. The heir had gone first, and then the father and his brother. Who among them would not pity the bereaved58 mother and the widow? Who among them would not remember with affection the babe whom they had seen at that font, and with respect the landlord under whose rule they had lived? How pleasant it must be to ask those questions which no one can rise to answer! Farmer Gubbins as he sat by, listening with what power of attention had been vouchsafed59 to him, felt himself to be somewhat moved, but soon released himself from the task, and allowed his mind to run away into other ideas. The rector was a kindly60 man and a generous. The rector would allow him to enclose that little bit of common land, that was to be taken in, without adding anything to his rent. The rector would be there on audit61 days, and things would be very pleasant. Farmer Gubbins, when the slight murmuring gurgle of the preacher's tears was heard, shook his own head by way of a responsive wail62; but at that moment he was congratulating himself on the coming comfort of the new reign63. Mr. Fielding, however, got great credit for his sermon; and it did, probably, more good than harm,—unless, indeed, we should take into our calculation, in giving our award on this subject, the permanent utility of all truth, and the permanent injury of all falsehood.
Mr. Fielding remained at the parsonage during the greater part of the following week, and then there took place a great deal of family conversation respecting the future incumbent of the living. At these family conclaves64, however, Fanny was not asked to be present. Mrs. Clavering, who knew well how to do such work, was gradually bringing her husband round to endure the name of Mr. Saul. Twenty times had he asserted that he could not understand it; but, whether or no such understanding might ever be possible, he was beginning to recognize it as true that the thing not understood was a fact. His daughter Fanny was positively65 in love with Mr. Saul, and that to such an extent that her mother believed her happiness to be involved in it. "I can't understand it;—upon my word I can't," said the rector for the last time, and then he gave way. There was now the means of giving an ample provision for the lovers, and that provision was to be given.
Mr. Fielding shook his head,—not in this instance as to Fanny's predilection66 for Mr. Saul; though in discussing that matter with his own wife he had shaken his head very often; but he shook it now with reference to the proposed change. He was very well where he was. And although Clavering was better than Humbleton, it was not so much better as to induce him to throw his own family over by proposing to send Mr. Saul among them. Mr. Saul was an excellent clergyman, but perhaps his uncle, who had given him his living, might not like Mr. Saul. Thus it was decided67 in these conclaves that Mr. Saul was to be the future rector of Clavering.
In the meantime poor Fanny moped,—wretched in her solitude68, anticipating no such glorious joys as her mother was preparing for her; and Mr. Saul was preparing with energy for his departure into foreign parts.
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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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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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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heirship
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| n.继承权 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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egregiously
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| adv.过份地，卓越地 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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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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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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enfranchised
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| v.给予选举权( enfranchise的过去式和过去分词 )；（从奴隶制中）解放 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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eulogistic
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| adj.颂扬的，颂词的 | |
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bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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audit
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| v.审计；查帐；核对；旁听 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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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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conclaves
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| n.秘密会议，教皇选举会议，红衣主教团( conclave的名词复数 ) | |
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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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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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