Extracts from a letter, with an American stamp, which Mr. Scawthorne read as he waited for his breakfast. It was the end of October, and cool enough to make the crackling fire grateful. Having mused4 over the epistle, our friend took up his morning paper and glanced at the report of criminal trials. Whilst he was so engaged his landlady5 entered, carrying a tray of appetising appearance.
‘Good-morning, Mrs. Byass,’ he said, with much friendliness6. Then, in a lower voice, ‘There’s a fuller report here than there was in the evening paper. Perhaps you looked at it?’
‘Well, yes, sir; I thought you wouldn’t mind,’ replied Bessie, arranging the table.
‘She’ll be taken care of or three years, at all events.’
‘If you’d seen her that day she came here after Miss Snowdon, you’d understand how glad I feel that she’s out of the way. I’m sure I’ve been uneasy ever since. If ever there comes a rather loud knock at — there I begin to tremble; I do indeed. I don’t think I shall ever get over it.’
‘I dare say Miss Snowdon will be easier in mind?’
‘I shouldn’t wonder. But she won’t say anything about it. She feels the disgrace so much, and I know it’s almost more than she can do to go to work, just because she thinks they talk about her.’
‘Oh, that’ll very soon pass over. There’s always something new happening, and people quickly forget a case like this.’
Bessie withdrew, and her lodger7 addressed himself to his breakfast.
He had occupied the rooms on the first floor for about a year and a half. Joseph Snowdon’s proposal to make him acquainted with Jane had not been carried out, Scawthorne deeming it impracticable; but when a year had gone by, and Scawthorne, as Joseph’s confidential8 correspondent, had still to report that Jane maintained herself in independence, he one day presented himself in Hanover Street, as a total stranger, and made inquiry9 about the rooms which a card told him were to let. His improved position allowed him to live somewhat more reputably than in the Chelsea lodging10, and Hanover Street would suit him well enough until he obtained the promised partnership. Admitted as a friend to Mr. Percival’s house in Highbury, he had by this time made the acquaintance of Miss Lant, whom, by the exercise of his agreeable qualities, he one day led to speak of Jane Snowdon. Miss Lant continued to see Jane, at long intervals11, and was fervent12 in her praise as well as in compassionating13 the trials through which she had gone. His position in Mr. Percival’s office of course made it natural that Scawthorne should have a knowledge of the girl’s story. When he had established himself in Mrs. Byass’s rooms, he mentioned the fact casually14 to his friends, making it appear that, in seeking lodgings15, he had come upon these by haphazard16.
He could not but feel something of genuine interest in a girl who, for whatever reason, declined a sufficient allowance and chose to work for her living. The grounds upon which Jane took this decision were altogether unknown to him until an explanation came from her father. Joseph, when news of the matter reached him, was disposed to entertain suspicions; with every care not to betray his own whereabouts, he wrote to Jane, and in due time received a reply, in which Jane told him truly her reasons for refusing the money. These Joseph communicated to Scawthorne, and the latter’s interest was still more strongly awakened17.
He was now on terms of personal acquaintance, almost of friendship, with Jane. Miss Lant, he was convinced, did not speak of her too praisingly. Not exactly a pretty girl, though far from displeasing18 in countenance19; very quiet, very gentle, with much natural refinement20. Her air of sadness — by no means forced upon the vulgar eye, but unmistakable when you studied her — was indicative of faithful sensibilities. Scawthorne had altogether lost sight of Sidney Kirkwood and of the Hewetts; he knew they were all gone to a remote part of London, and more than this he had no longer any care to discover. On excellent terms with his landlady, he skilfully21 elicited22 from her now and then a confidential remark with regard to Jane; of late, indeed, he had established something like a sentimental23 understanding with the good Bessie, so that, whenever he mentioned Jane, she fell into a pleasant little flutter, feeling that she understood what was in progress. . . . Why not? — he kept asking himself. Joseph Snowdon (who addressed his letters to Hanover Street in a feigned24 hand) seemed to have an undeniable affection for the girl, and was constant in his promises of providing a handsome dowry. The latter was not a point of such importance as a few years ago, but the dollars would be acceptable. And then, the truth was, Scawthorne felt himself more and more inclined to put a certain question to Jane, dowry or none.
Yes, she felt it as a disgrace, poor girl! When she saw the name ‘Snowdon’ in the newspaper, in such a shameful25 and horrible connection, her impulse was to flee, to hide herself. It was dreadful to go to her work and hear the girls talking of this attempted murder. The new misery27 came upon her just as she was regaining28 something of her natural spirits, after long sorrow and depression which had affected29 her health. But circumstances, now as ever, seemed to plot that at a critical moment of her own experience she should be called out of herself and constrained30 to become the consoler of others.
For some months the domestic peace of Mr. and Mrs. Byass had been gravely disturbed. Unlike the household at Crouch31 End, it was to prosperity that Sam and his wife owed their troubles. Year after year Sam’s position had improved; he was now in receipt of a salary which made — or ought to have made — things at home very comfortable. Though his children were now four in number, he could supply their wants. He could buy Bessie a new gown without very grave consideration, and could regard his own shiny top-hat, when he donned it in the place of one that was really respectable enough, without twinges of conscience.
But Sam was not remarkable32 for wisdom; indeed, had he been anything more than a foolish calculating-machine, he would scarcely have thriven as he did in the City. When he had grown accustomed to rattling33 loose silver in his pocket, the next thing, as a matter of course, was that he accustomed himself to pay far too frequent visits to City bars. On certain days in the week he invariably came home with a very red face and a titubating walk; when Bessie received him angrily, he defended himself on the great plea of business necessities. As a town traveller there was no possibility, he alleged34, of declining invitations to refresh himself; just as incumbent35 upon him was it to extend casual hospitality to those with whom he had business.
‘Business! Fiddle37!’ cried Bessie. ‘All you City fellows are the same. You encourage each other in drink, drink, drinking whenever you have a chance, and then you say it’s all a matter of business. I won’t have you coming home in that state, so there! I won’t have a husband as drinks! Why, you can’t stand straight.’
‘Can’t stand straight!’ echoed Sam, with vast scorn. ‘Look here!’
And he shouldered the poker38, with the result that one of the globes on the chandelier came in shivers about his head. This was too much. Bessie fumed39, and for a couple of hours the quarrel was unappeasable.
Worse was to come. Sam occasionally stayed out very late at night, and on his return alleged a ‘business appointment.’ Bessie at length refused to accept these excuses; she couldn’t and wouldn’t believe them.
‘Then don’t!’ shouted Sam. ‘And understand that I shall come home just when I like. If you make a bother I won’t come home at all, so there you have it!’
‘You’re a bad husband and a beast!’ was Bessie’s retort.
Shortly after that Bessie received information of such grave misconduct on her husband’s part that she all but resolved to forsake40 the house, and with the children seek refuge under her parents’ roof at Woolwich. Sam had been seen in indescribable company; no permissible41 words would characterise the individuals with whom he had roamed shamelessly on the pavement of Oxford42 Street. When he next met her, quite sober and with exasperatingly43 innocent expression, Bessie refused to open her lips. Neither that evening nor the next would she utter a word to him — and the effort it cost her was tremendous. The result was, that on the third evening Sam did not appear.
It was a week after Clem’s trial. Jane had been keeping to herself as much as possible, but, having occasion to go down into the kitchen late at night, she found Bessie in tears, utterly44 miserable45.
‘Don’t bother about me!’ was the reply to her sympathetic question. ‘You’ve got your own upsets to think of. You might have come to speak to me before this — but never mind. It’s nothing to you.’
It needed much coaxing46 to persuade her to detail Sam’s enormities, but she found much relief when she had done so, and wept more copiously47 than ever.
‘It’s nearly twelve o’clock, and there’s no sign of him, Perhaps he won’t come at all. He’s in bad company, and if he stays away all night I’ll never speak to him again as long as I live. Oh, he’s a beast of a husband, is Sam!’
Sam came not. All through that night did Jane keep her friend company, for Sam came not. In the morning a letter, addressed in his well-known commercial hand. Bessie read it and screamed. Sam wrote to her that he had accepted a position as country traveller, and perhaps he might be able to look in at his home on that day month.
Jane could not go to work. The case had become very serious indeed; Bessie was in hysterics; the four children made the roof ring with their lamentations. At this juncture48 Jane put forth49 all her beneficent energy. It happened that Bessie was just now servantless. There was Mr. Scawthorne’s breakfast only half prepared; Jane had to see to it herself, and herself take it upstairs. Then Bessie must go to bed, or assuredly she would be so ill that unheard-of calamities50 would befall the infants. Jane would have an eye to everything; only let Jane be trusted.
The miserable day passed; after trying in vain to sleep, Bessie walked about her sitting-room51 with tear-swollen face and rumpled52 gown, always thinking it possible that Sam had only played a trick, and that he would come. But he came not, and again it was night.
At eight o’clock Mr. Scawthorne’s bell rang. Impossible for Bessie to present herself; Jane would go. She ascended53 to the room which had once — ah! once! — been her own parlour, knocked and entered.
‘I— I wished to speak to Mrs. Byass,’ said Scawthorne, appearing for some reason or other embarrassed by Jane’s presenting herself.
‘Mrs. Byass is not at all well, sir. But I’ll let her know —’
‘No, no; on no account.’
‘Can’t I get you anything, sir?’
‘Miss Snowdon — might I speak with you for a few moments?’
Jane feared it might be a complaint. In a perfectly54 natural way she walked forward. Scawthorne came in her direction, and — closed the door.
The interview lasted ten minutes, then Jane came forth and with a light, quick step ran up to the floor above. She did not enter the room, however, but stood with her hand on the door, in the darkness. A minute or two, and with the same light, hurried step, she descended55 the stairs, sprang past the ledger’s room, sped down to the kitchen. Under other circumstances Bessie must surely have noticed a strangeness in her look, in her manner; but to-night Bessie had thought for nothing but her own calamities.
Another day, and no further news from Sam. The next morning, instead of going to work (the loss of wages was most serious, but it couldn’t be helped), Jane privately56 betook herself to Sam’s house of business. Mrs. Byass was ill; would they let her know Mr. Byass’s address, that he might immediately be communicated with? The information was readily supplied; Mr. Byass was no farther away, at present, than St. Albans. Forth into the street again, and in search of a policeman. ‘Will you please to tell me what station I have to go to for St. Albans?’ Why, Moorgate Street would do; only a few minutes’ walk away. On she hastened. ‘What is the cost of a return ticket to St. Albans, please?’ Three-and-sevenpence. Back into the street again; she must now look for a certain sign, indicating a certain place of business. With some little trouble it is found; she enters a dark passage, and comes before a counter, upon which she lays — a watch, her grandfather’s old watch. ‘How much?’ ‘Four shillings, please.’ She deposits a halfpenny, and receives four shillings, together with a ticket. Now for St. Albans.
Sam! Sam! Ay, well might he turn red and stutter and look generally foolish when that quiet little girl stood before him in his ‘stock-room’ at the hotel. Her words were as quiet as her look. ‘I’ll write her a letter,’ he cries. ‘Stop; you shall take it back. I can’t give up the job at once, but you may tell her I’m up to no harm. Where’s the pen? Where’s the cursed ink?’ And she takes the letter.
‘Why, you’ve lost a day’s work, Jane! She gave you the money for the journey, I suppose?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘Tell her she’s not to make a fool of herself in future.’
‘No, I shan’t say that, Mr. Byass. But I’m half-tempted to say it to someone else!’
It was the old, happy smile, come back for a moment; the voice that had often made peace so merrily. The return journey seemed short, and with glad heart-beating she hastened from the City to Hanover Street.
Well, well; of course it would all begin over again; Jane herself knew it. But is not all life a struggle onward57 from compromise to compromise, until the day of final pacification58?
Through that winter she lived with a strange secret in her mind, a secret which was the source of singularly varied59 feelings — of astonishment60, of pain, of encouragement, of apprehension61, of grief. To no one could she speak of it; no one could divine its existence — no one save the person to whom she owed this surprising novelty in her experience. She would have given much to be rid of it; and yet, again, might she not legitimately62 accept that pleasure which at times came of the thought? — the thought that, as a woman, her qualities were of some account in the world.
She did her best to keep it out of her consciousness, and in truth had so many other things to think about that it was seldom she really had trouble with it. Life was not altogether easy; regular work was not always to be kept; there was much need of planning and pinching, that her independence might suffer no wound, Bessie Byass was always in arms against that same independent spirit; she scoffed63 at it, assailed64 it with treacherous65 blandishment, made direct attacks upon it.
‘I must live in my own way, Mrs. Byass. I don’t want to have to leave you.’
And if ever life seemed a little too hard, if the image of the past grew too mournfully persistent66, she knew where to go for consolation67. Let us follow her, one Saturday afternoon early in the year.
In a poor street in Clerkenwell was a certain poor little shop — built out as an afterthought from an irregular lump of houses; a shop with a room behind it and a cellar below; no more. Here was sold second-hand68 clothing, women’s and children’s. No name over the front, but neighbours would have told you that it was kept by one Mrs. Todd, a young widow with several children. Mrs. Todd, not long ago, used to have only a stall in the street; but a lady named Miss Lant helped her to start in a more regular way of business.
‘And does she carry it on quite by herself?’
No; with her lived another young woman, also a widow, who had one child. Mrs. Hewett, her name. She did sewing in the room behind, or attended to the shop when Mrs. Todd was away making purchases.
There Jane Snowdon entered. The clothing that hung in the window made it very dark inside; she had to peer a little before she could distinguish the person who sat behind the counter. ‘Is Pennyloaf in, Mrs. Todd?’
‘Yes, Miss. Will you walk through?’
The room behind is lighted from the ceiling. It is heaped with the most miscellaneous clothing. It contains two beds, some shelves with crockery, a table, some chairs — but it would have taken you a long time to note all these details, so huddled69 together was everything. Part of the general huddling70 were five children, of various ages; and among them, very busy, sat Pennyloaf.
‘Everything going on well?’ was Jane’s first question.
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Then I know it isn’t. Whenever you call me “Miss,” there’s something wrong; I’ve learnt that.’
Pennyloaf smiled, sadly but with affection in her eyes. ‘Well, I have been a bit low, an’ that’s the truth. It takes me sometimes, you know. I’ve been thinkin’, when I’d oughtn’t.’
‘Same with me, Pennyloaf. We can’t help thinking, can we? What a good thing if we’d nothing more to think about than these children! Where’s little Bob? Why, Bob, I thought you were old clothes; I did, really! You may well laugh!’
The laughter was merry, and Jane encouraged it, inventing all sorts of foolish jokes. ‘Pennyloaf, I wish you’d ask me to stay to tea.’
‘Then that I will, Miss Jane, an’ gladly. Would you like it soon?’
‘No; in an hour will do, won’t it? Give me something that wants sewing, a really hard bit, something that’ll break needles. Yes, that’ll do. Where’s Mrs. Todd’s thimble? Now we’re all going to be comfortable, and we’ll have a good talk.’
Pennyloaf found the dark thoughts slip away insensibly. And she talked, she talked — where was there such a talker as Pennyloaf nowadays, when she once began?
Mr. Byass was not very willing, after all, to give up his country travelling. That his departure on that business befell at a moment of domestic quarrel was merely chance; secretly he had made the arrangement with his firm some weeks before. The penitence71 which affected him upon Jane’s appeal could not be of abiding72 result; for, like all married men at a certain point of their lives, he felt heartily73 tired of home and wished to see the world a little. Hanover Street heard endless discussions of the point between Sam and Bessie, between Bessie and Jane, between Jane and Sam, between all three together. And the upshot was that Mr. Byass gained his point. For a time he would go on country journeys. Bessie assented74 sullenly75, but, strange to say, she had never been in better spirits than on the day after this decision had been arrived at.
On that day, however — it was early in March — an annoying incident happened. Mr. Scawthorne, who always dined in town and seldom returned to his lodgings till late in the evening, rang his bell about eight o’clock and sent a message by the servant that he wished to see Mrs. Byass. Bessie having come up, he announced to her with gravity that his tenancy of the rooms would be at an end in a fortnight. Various considerations necessitated76 his livin in a different part of London. Bessie frankly77 lamented78; she would never again find such an estimable lodger. But, to be sure, Mr. Scawthorne had prepared her for this, three months ago. Well, what must be, must be.
‘Is Miss Snowdon in the house, Mrs. Byass?’ Scawthorne went on to inquire.
‘Miss Snowdon? Yes.’
‘This letter from America, which I found on coming in, contains news she must hear — disagreeable news, I’m sorry to say.’
‘About her father?’ Bessie inquired anxiously.
Scawthorne nodded a grave and confidential affirmative. He had never given Mrs. Byass reason to suppose that he knew anything of Joseph’s whereabouts, but Bessie’s thoughts naturally turned in that direction.
‘The news comes to me by chance,’ he continued. ‘I think I ought to communicate it to Miss Snowdon privately, and leave her to let you know what it is, as doubtless she will. Would it be inconvenient79 to you to let me have the use of your parlour for five minutes?’
‘I’ll go and light the gas at once, and toil80 Miss Snowdon.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Byass.’
He was nervous, a most unusual thing with him. Till Bessie’s return he p aced81 the room irregularly, chewing the ends of his moustache. When it was announced to him that the parlour was ready he went down, the letter in his hand. At the half-open door came a soft knock. Jane entered.
She showed signs of painful agitation82.
‘Will you sit down, Miss Snowdon? It happens that I have a correspondent in the United States, who has lately had — had business relations with Mr. Joseph Snowdon, your father. On returning this evening I found a letter from my friend, in which there is news of a distressing83 kind.’
He paused. What he was about to say was — for once — the truth. The letter, however, came from a stranger, a lawyer in Chicago.
‘Your father, I understand, has lately been engaged in-in commercial speculation84 on a great scale. His enterprises have proved unfortunate. One of those financial crashes which are common in America caused his total ruin.’
Jane drew a deep breath.
‘I am sorry to say that is not all. The excitement of the days when his fate was hanging in the balance led to illness — fatal illness. He died on the sixth of February.’
Jane, with her eyes bent36 down, was motionless. After a pause, Scawthorne continued:
‘I will speak of this with Mr. Percival tomorrow, and every inquiry shall be made — on your behalf.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
She rose, very pale, but with more self-command than on entering the room. The latter part of his communication seemed to have affected her as a relief.
‘Miss Snowdon — if you would allow me to say a few more words. You will remember I mentioned to you that there was a prospect85 of my becoming a partner in the firm which I have hitherto served as clerk. A certain examination had to be passed that I might be admitted a solicitor86. That is over; in a few days my position as a member of the firm will be assured.’
Jane waited, her eyes still east down.
‘I feel that it may seem to you an ill-chosen time; but the very fact that I have just been the bearer of such sad news impels87 me to speak. I cannot keep the promise that I would never revive the subject on which I spoke88 to you not long ago. Forgive me; I must ask you again if you cannot think of me as I wish? Miss Snowdon, will you let me devote myself to making your life happy? It has always seemed to me that if I could attain89 a position such as I now have, there would be little else to ask for. I began life poor and half-educated, and you cannot imagine the difficulties I have overcome. But if I go away from this house, and leave you so lonely, living such a hard life, there will be very little satisfaction for me in my success. Let me try to make for you a happiness such as you merit. It may seem as if we were very slightly acquainted, but I know you well enough to esteem90 you more highly than any women I ever met, and if you could but think of me —’
He was sincere. Jane had brought out the best in him. With the death of Snowdon all his disreputable past seemed swept away, and he had no thought of anything but a decent rectitude, a cleanly enjoyment91 of existence, for the future, but Jane was answering:
‘I can’t change what I said before, Mr. Scawthorne. I am very content to live as I do now. I have friends I am very fond of. Thank you for your kindness — but I can’t change.’
Without intending it, she ceased upon a word which to her hearer conveyed a twofold meaning. He understood; offer what he might, it could not tempt26 her to forget the love which had been the best part of her life. She was faithful to the past, and unchanging.
Mrs. Byass never suspected the second purpose for which her lodger had desired to speak with Jane this evening. Scawthorne in due time took his departure, with many expressions of goodwill92, many assurances that nothing could please him better than to be of service to Bessie and her husband.
‘He wished me to say good-bye to you for him,’ said Bessie, when Jane came back from her work.
So the romance in her life was over. Michael Snowdon’s wealth had melted away; with it was gone for ever the hope of realising his high projects. All passed into the world of memory, of dream — all save the spirit which had ennobled him, the generous purpose bequeathed to those two hearts, which had loved him best.
To his memory all days were sacred; but one, that of his burial, marked itself for Jane as the point in each year to which her life was directed, the saddest, yet bringing with it her supreme93 solace94.
A day in early spring, cloudy, cold. She left the workroom in the dinner-hour, and did net return. But instead of going to Hanover Street, she walked past Islington Green, all along Essex Road, northward95 thence to Stoke Newington, and so came to Abney Park Cemetery96; a long way, but it did not weary her.
In the cemetery she turned her steps to a grave with a plain headstone. Before leaving England, Joseph Snowdon had discharged this duty. The inscription97 was simply a name, with dates of birth and death.
And, as she stood there, other footsteps approached the spot. She looked up, with no surprise, and gave her hand for a moment. On the first anniversary the meeting had been unanticipated; the same thought led her and Sidney to the cemetery at the same hour. This was the third year, and they met as if by understanding, though neither had spoken of it.
When they had stood in silence for a while, Jane told of her father’s death and its circumstances. She told him, too, of Pennyloaf’s humble98 security.
‘You have kept well all the year?’ he asked.
‘And you too, I hope?’
Then they bade each other good-bye . . . .
In each life little for congratulation. He with the ambitions of his youth frustrated99; neither an artist, nor a leader of men in the battle for justice. She, no saviour100 of society by the force of a superb example; no daughter of the people, holding wealth in trust for the people’s needs. Yet to both was their work given. Unmarked, unencouraged save by their love of uprightness and mercy, they stood by the side of those more hapless, brought some comfort to hearts less courageous101 than their own. Where they abode102 it was not all dark. Sorrow certainly awaited them, perchance defeat in even the humble aims that they had set themselves; but at least their lives would remain a protest against those brute103 forces of society which fill with wreck104 the abysses of the nether105 world.
The End
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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friendliness
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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inquiry
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lodging
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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fervent
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compassionating
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| v.同情（compassionate的现在分词形式） | |
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casually
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lodgings
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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awakened
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displeasing
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countenance
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refinement
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skilfully
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elicited
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sentimental
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feigned
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shameful
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tempt
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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28
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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31
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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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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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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exasperatingly
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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52
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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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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pacification
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| n. 讲和，绥靖，平定 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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80
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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81
aced
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| vt.发球得分（ace的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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83
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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84
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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85
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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86
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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87
impels
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
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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89
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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90
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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91
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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92
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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93
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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94
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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95
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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96
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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97
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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98
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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99
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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100
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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101
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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102
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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103
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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104
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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105
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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