The widow might have had another home in a gayer part of the town, but she refused to leave the lowly dwelling4 she had so dearly loved, until Leah or one of her sons had a home, to keep which she was needed. One change in the widow’s household had indeed taken place, for Ruth was in London. Sarah’s excellent conduct had interested Miss Leon not only in herself, but in her family. As they were all comfortably providing for themselves, Miss Leon could find no object for her active benevolence5 but the little Ruth. The poor child had not indeed so many resources as many similarly afflicted6, for though all were desirous, none knew how to teach her. It so happened Miss Leon was peculiarly interested in Ruth, because she had once had a sister who was blind; one whom she had so dearly loved, that she had learned the whole method of tuition for the blind simply for that sister’s sake. She died just when she was of an age to know all that affection had done for her; and Miss Leon now offered to impart all she knew to Ruth, to give her board and lodging8 at her house till she was enabled to earn something for herself, when she herself would send her to her mother.
It was a hard struggle before the widow could consent to part with her darling; but the representations of Leah and Simeon, and Ruth’s own yearnings to be able to do something for herself, overcame all selfish considerations. She could not feel Miss Leon a stranger, for her kindness to Sarah had made her name never spoken without a blessing10, and Sarah would always be near Ruth to watch over and write of her; and so with tears of thankfulness the widow consented. Leah was often permitted to take her work to the widow’s cottage and pursue it there; and the little Christian11 girl, to whom Ruth and Sarah had been so kind, was delighted to come and do any cleaning or scouring12 in the house, or sit with the widow and work and read for her, to prove how grateful she was.
And where was Reuben Perez all this while? Were his mother’s prayers for him still unanswered? Alas13! farther and farther did they seem from fulfilment. He had left Liverpool to accept, in conjunction with his father-in-law, the management of a bank, in one of the smaller towns of Yorkshire, and, of course, even his casual visits were discontinued. Not that they were of much avail, going as he did; but still his mother had hoped, against her better reason, that while near her he would never entirely14 take himself away. Now that hope was at an end. He was thrown entirely amongst Gentiles, and Sabbaths and holidays seemed wholly given up. He did not often write home, but when he did, always affectionately; and his mother’s allowance was regularly paid. She yearned16 to see and bless him once again, but months, above a year passed, and his foot had never passed her threshold.
With regard to Sarah, a very few months’ association with her, though only in the relative positions of mistress and servant, had completely conquered Mrs. Corea’s prejudices; and the very indolence and foolishness, which had originally been so difficult to overcome, was now as likely to ruin as they formerly17 had been to oppose. But fortunately Sarah was not one for indulgence and confidence to spoil; indeed she often regretted her mistress’s indolence, from the responsibility it devolved on her. Mrs. Corea had repeatedly allowed herself to be cheated and deceived, because it was too much trouble to find fault. She often permitted the most serious annoyances18 in her establishment—keys and even money repeatedly lying about, her children neglected, their clothes often thrown aside long before they were worn out. In a very few months Sarah’s ready mind discovered this state of things. One only she had the power of herself to remedy—the neglect of her charge; and so admirably did she do her duty by them, that Miss Leon felt herself amply rewarded. Finding it was of no use to entreat20 Mrs. Corea to have more regard to her own interest, and not allow herself so repeatedly to be deceived, Sarah in distress21 appealed to Miss Leon, who quietly smiled, and assured her she would soon settle matters entirely to Mrs. Corea’s satisfaction. She did so, by giving to Sarah’s care almost the entire charge of the housekeeping, with strict injunctions to take care of her mistress’s keys and purse, whenever she saw them lying about. Sarah at first painfully shrunk from the responsibility, knowing well it would expose her yet more to the dislike of her fellow-servants, who, as a Jewess, already regarded her with prejudice. Mrs. Corea was charmed that such a vast amount of trouble was spared her; telling everybody Sarah was a treasure, and she only wondered there were not more Jewish servants.
But our readers must not imagine that Sarah’s situation was all delightful22. She had many painful prejudices to bear with, many slights and unkindness in her fellow-servants to forgive and forget, many jests at her peculiar7 religion, and ridicule23 at its forms—much that, to a character less gently firm and forbearing, would have led to such domestic bickering24 and misery25, that she would have been compelled to leave her place, or perhaps have been induced weakly to hide, if it did not shake her reverence26 for, the observance of her ancient faith. But Sarah had not read her Bible in vain. She had not now to learn that such prejudice and scorn were of God, not of man. That He permitted these things, in His wisdom, to teach His people, though they were still His own, still His beloved, their sins had demanded chastisement27, and thus received it. That the very prejudice in which by the ignorant they were held, was proof of the Bible’s truth—proof that they were His chosen and His firstborn; and more consolatory28 still, that as the threatenings were thus fulfilled, so, in His own good time, would be His promises. Sarah never wavered in the line of duty which she had marked out for herself—to make manifest that her faith was of God by actions, not by words; and she so far succeeded, that after a while peace was established between her and her fellow-servants. They began to think, even if she were a heathen, she was a very harmless and often a very kind one, and there was not so much difference between them as at first they had fancied.
These are but trifling29 things to mention; but we most particularly wish our readers to understand that though good conduct will inevitably30 find reward even on earth, it is not to be expected that it will have no trials. Virtue31 and religion will not exempt32 us from suffering, but they teach us so to bear them, that we can derive33 consolation34 and unfailing hope even in the darkest hours; and, instead of raising a barrier between us and our God, they draw us nearer and nearer to Him, till we can realize His immeasurable love towards us; and tracing every suffering from His hand sent for our good, to love Him more and more, and in that very love find comfort. Do not then let us practise religion and virtue because we think they have power to shield us from all trial and sorrow, but simply for the love of Him who bids us practise them, and who has promised, if we seek Him, He will heal our sorrows and heighten our joys.
One unspeakable source of comfort Sarah had: it was that her influence with her father rather increased than lessened35 with him. Once every month she spent the Sabbath evening with him, and she felt that indeed he loved her. Old Esther told her, even that when she was absent he was an altered man. He sought employment, and after some difficulty found it, though it was of a kind so humble36, that before Sarah came to town he would have spurned37 it as so derogatory to his pride, he would rather starve than have it; but now it was welcome, because he would not be a burden on his Sarah. His Sarah!—every dormant38 virtue seemed to spring into life with those dear precious words. The very interjections of that sacred name of God, which had been once ever on his lips, were now constantly checked. “She does not like it, my angel Sarah, and I will not say it,” Esther heard him mutter when the accustomed phrase broke from him; and many other evil habits, that thought—“my angel Sarah”—had equal power to remove. The bad man seemed fast breaking from his sins, and it was from the influence of his gentle pious39 child. The father was at work within him, and God blessed him through that feeling, and through his daughter’s unceasing prayers. Every time Sarah visited him she saw more to hope, more for which with grateful tears to bless her God; and each time to love him more, and feel she was yet more beloved.
On Sarah’s returning home one afternoon, after a brief visit to old Esther, who was not quite well, she was informed a young man had called to see her, and stayed some time; but as she did not come as soon as they expected, he had gone away, promising40 to return in the course of the evening. He had not left his name, they added; but he seemed a gentleman, quite a gentleman, though one of her own nation, and was in the deepest mourning. Sarah was not one given to speculation41 or curiosity, though she did wonder who this gentleman could be, but quietly continued her usual employments. She had just finished dressing42 her young ladies to go with their mother to the theatre, and ran down to see them safely in the carriage, when the footman called out—
“Sarah, the gentleman has come again; he is waiting for you in the housekeeper’s room.”
She went accordingly; but her self-possession almost deserted43 her when, on looking up in the face of the stranger as she entered, she recognised at once her cousin Reuben—pale, thin, and worn indeed, but still himself, and it required a powerful effort, even in that strong and simple mind, to evince no feeling but surprise and welcome.
Few words, however, at the first moment passed between them. Reuben sprang forward as she entered, and clasped both her hands in his, which were cold and trembling; and she saw his lip quiver painfully, and, to her grief and almost terror, as she spoke9 to him he gradually let go her hands, and, sinking on the nearest chair, covered his face with his handkerchief, and wept like a child.
“I terrify you, dear cousin, do forgive me,” he said at length, as he heard the gentle voice which sought to soothe44 him falter45 in spite of herself. “Sarah, dear Sarah, I do not know why your kind voice should affect me thus. I cannot tell you why I have come to grieve you with my grief, except that when I least desired it, you were always kind and good and feeling, and gave me comfort when I could not console myself; and my heart has so yearned to you now—now, when your own word has come to pass, to tell you you were right. In prosperity I might be happy, though God knows it was but a strange unnatural46 happiness; but in affliction—Sarah, do you remember your own words?”
She did remember them; but she had no voice to repeat them then, and her quivering lip alone gave answer. Her cousin continued, almost choked with many emotions—
“‘If affliction, if death—may you never repent47 your engagement then,’ These were the words you said; and oh, how often the last few months have they returned to me. Affliction has come, my own cousin; affliction, oh, such affliction that God alone could send—death, even death!” The word was almost inaudible.
“Death!” repeated Sarah, startled at once into perfect consciousness. She looked at his dress—the deepest mourning—and the words more fell from her than were spoken. “Not Jeanie, your own Jeanie—tell me, it is not she?” Then, as she read his answer in the tighter pressure of his hand, the convulsive movement of his lips, she threw her arms round him, and faintly exclaiming, “Reuben, my poor Reuben, may God grant you His comfort!” burst into tears.
Nothing is so true a balm to the afflicted as unaffected sympathy; and Reuben roused himself from his own sorrow, to bless his cousin for her tears, yet bid her not weep for him.
“It is better thus, my gentle cousin. The God of my parents has revealed Himself to their sinful offspring, even in His chastening. I cannot tell you all now, dear Sarah; how, even when life seemed all prosperous around me, there was still a void within—I was not happy. I had returned to virtue, turned aside from all irregular and sinful pursuits, kept steady to business, and in doing kind acts towards men; and more still, I had a gentle being who so loved me, that she forced me into loving her more than when I first sought her; for then, then—Sarah, do not hate me—I did but seek her, because I thought a union with a Christian would put a final barrier between me and the race I had taught myself to hate—would mark me no more a Jew; and so for this, this dreadful sin, I banished50 feelings which had once been mine. Sarah, do not ask me what they were. Yet still, still, even when I did love my fair and gentle wife, when she lavished51 on me such affection it ought to have brought but joy, I was not happy. I was away from all who knew my birth and race; the once hated name, a Jew, no longer hurt my ears; courted, flattered, admired, Sarah, Sarah, was it not strange there was still that gnawing52 void?”
She looked up with streaming eyes. “It was a void no man could fill, dear cousin. You thought its cause was of earth, and sought with earth to fill it; but now, oh, let us thank God, His image fills it now.”
“You have guessed aright, my Sarah, as you always do; but, oh, you know not all I endured before it was so filled. I tried to believe with my Jeanie and her father, but I could not. I attended their church at times, I listened to their doctrines53, I read their books; but no, no, God’s finger was upon me. I could not believe in any Saviour54, any Redeemer, but Himself; and then that holy name, that sacred subject, which should be the dearest link between those that love, never found voice. We dared not read each other’s thoughts. When we married, you know Jeanie thought little of those things; but she became acquainted with a good and holy man, a pious minister of her own faith, and he made her think more seriously: and what followed? She loved me more and more, but she knew I did not believe in that Saviour whose recognition she deemed necessary for my salvation56, and so she drooped57 and drooped at the very time when nature demanded greater sustenance58 and support. In a few months I was a father. O God, the agony of that hour which should have been all bliss59! Then I felt in all its fulness there was a God, and I had neglected Him. My innocent babe might be snatched from me, as David’s was, for its father’s sin; and how was I to avert60 this misery—how devote it to its God, as its mother believed? I shuddered61. From that hour my Jeanie sunk, even though they said she had recovered all effects of her confinement62. Month after month I watched over her. I heard her clinging to a faith, a Saviour, which to me was mockery. I heard her call aloud for help and mercy from Jesus, not from God. Sarah, it is in vain, I cannot tell you what those hours were. You can tell their anguish63, for you warned me such might be.” He paused, every limb trembling with his emotion; and Sarah, almost as much affected48, entreated64 him not to harrow his feelings by such recollections any more.
“Bear with me, dear cousin; I shall be better, happier when all is told. I saw her look on our infant (thank God, it was a girl!), with the big tear stealing down her pale face, and I knew of what she thought; yet I could not, I dared not give her the only promise that might be her comfort, and her love for me was so strong, so intense, she had no voice to ask it. At length, one evening, after Mr. Vaughan, the clergyman, had been urging on her the necessity of her child receiving baptism, she called me to her, and, laying her head on my bosom65, conjured67 me to grant her last request, the only one, she said, she had ever feared to ask me. Her voice was faint from weakness, yet it thrilled so on my heart, that it was a struggle to reply, and conjure66 her not to say more. I knew what she would ask, but she interrupted me by sinking on her knees before me, and wildly reiterating68 her prayer, ‘My child, my child! let her be made pure—let me feel I shall look upon her again. Reuben, my husband, have mercy on us all!’ Sarah, had that moment been all my punishment, it would have been enough. Why could I not feel then, as I had so often declared before, that all faiths were the same in the sight of God? Why could I not make this promise to the dying and beloved? I know not, I know not now, save that I felt myself a father, and the immortal69 spirit of my child was of more value than my own had ever been. I raised her: I solemnly vowed71 that I would study both faiths—I would read with and listen to Mr. Vaughan, and if I could believe, my child should be reared a Christian, and be baptized with myself. She raised her sweet face to mine with such a smile. ‘Bless you, bless you, my own husband! we shall all meet again, then. Oh, you have made me so happy! Jesus will save—will bring us all to—’ Her sweet voice sunk, and her head drooped down on my bosom; and thinking she was exhausted72, I clasped her closer to me, and kissed her again and again. Nearly half an hour passed, and I felt no movement, heard no breath. It was quite dark, and with sudden terror I called aloud for lights. They were brought: I lifted the bright curls from her dear face, and raised her head. It was vain, vain.”
He ceased abruptly73, and there was silence, for Sarah could not speak. Reuben hastily paced the room; then, reseating himself by his cousin, continued more calmly; but, limited as we are for space, we are forbidden to continue the conversation, though it deepened in interest, even as it subsided74 in emotion. Reuben told how he had faithfully kept his promise—how, for two months, he had remained with his father-in-law, studying the word of God, and listening to all the instructions of Mr. Vaughan, whose very kindness and true piety75 in spirit made his arguments more difficult to resist, than had they been harshly and determinately enforced. A year was the period Reuben had promised to devote to the fulfilment of his vow70; and if, at the end of that time, he could believe in Jesus, he and his child would, of course, be made Christians76; but if his studies had a contrary effect, no more, either by Mr. Wilson or the clergyman, would be said to him on the subject.
“Sarah, my dear cousin, do not fear for me. My God did not forsake77 me, even when I forsook78 Him. He will not then forsake me now that I seek Him, and night and day implore79 Him to reveal that path, that faith, which is most acceptable to Him. I have already read and felt enough to glory in the faith I once despised—to feel it is a privilege, aye, and a proud one, to be a Jew: for the rest, let us trust in Him.”
“And your child, dear Reuben—where is she?”
“With Mrs. Vaughan at present. At the conclusion of the year, God willing, and my mother is spared, she shall be cared for by the same tender love which her erring80 father only now knows how to value and return.”
“And does my aunt know this?”
“No, Sarah, no. I cannot tell her. I feel as if I had no right to go to her again, until I have indeed returned with heart and soul to the faith in which all her gentle counsels had not power to retain me. No, no, no; I cannot, cannot claim the solace81 of her love till I am worthy82 to be called her son in faith as well as love.”
The cousins were long together, and much, much was spoken between them, which we would fain repeat as likely to be useful to our readers, but we are warned to desist: enough to know that Sarah prevailed on Reuben to write to his mother and tell her all, even if the story of his inward life were otherwise kept secret.
Reuben said he had given up his place in the bank, and intended, for the remainder of the year, to endeavour to obtain a situation in some Jewish counting-house as clerk, for some hours in the day, and thus allow him evenings, Sabbaths, and holidays for his sacred purpose. It was with this intention he had come up to London, as, though he might have procured83 employment in Liverpool or Manchester, he shrunk from all remark, even kindness, from his own nation, until he had in truth returned to them. He had brought with him letters of high recommendation, which had obtained a capital situation in a thriving house of his own nation; a branch of which resided in Birmingham, to which place it was likely he should go.
“It is not that I fear the temptations of this large city, dearest Sarah, that I would rather live elsewhere. No, I shrink from all scenes of pleasure now with sensation of loathing84; but I feel as if it would be better for me to be alone, even away from those I most love, till this one year is passed. Sarah, will you think of me, pray for me?” he took both her hands, and looked pleadingly in her face. “It would be a comfort, such a comfort to come to you for sympathy, for counsel; for you it was, when we watched together by my sick mother’s bed, who first made me feel that were all like you, the name ‘a Jew’ would cease to be reproached; but no, no, it is better for me—perhaps too, for your character, dear girl—that we should not meet yet awhile. I threw away happiness once when it might perchance have been mine; and now—but it is better thus.”
He had spoken incoherently, and he broke off abruptly. Sarah only answered by the simple assurance that she never ceased to pray for his happiness, nor would she now; and soon after they separated affectionately, confidingly85, as in long past years, perchance yet more so; for then a barrier was between them, now there was none; their rock of refuge, the shield of their salvation, was the same.
To define Sarah’s feelings, as she prostrated86 herself before her God in prayer that night, is indeed impossible; nor is there need—surely the coldest, the most callous87, can imagine them, and give her sympathy. Not indeed that hope was dawning for her long-tried, long-hidden affection; for Reuben never dreamed he was so loved. It was simply thanksgiving, the purest, most heartfelt, that her prayers were heard—the beloved one of her heart brought back to his God.
Yet many were the secret tears she shed, as she pictured her cousin’s anguish. She gave not one single thought to those words, which a less guileless heart might have believed related to herself. She never thought of the consequences which Reuben’s return to his faith might bring to her individually. It was enough of happiness to feel he had sought her in his sorrow, had felt her as his friend.
But sorrow was at hand, as unexpected as terrible. About four or five months after her interview with Reuben, old Esther came to her one day in such extremity88 of grief and horror, that even her little share of discretion89 vanished before it, and she imparted her tidings to Sarah so suddenly, that the poor girl stood stunned90 and paralyzed, preserved only by a strong though almost unconscious effort from fainting. Levison had been taken up and carried to Newgate as an accomplice91 in an act of burglary and robbery, which, attended by circumstances of unusual notoriety, had been lately committed in the neighbourhood of Epping. Levison had loudly and fiercely asserted his innocence92; but of course his asseverations had been disregarded.
“But he has said it—he has said it! He has declared he is innocent, and he is—he is!” reiterated93 poor Sarah, with a violent burst of tears, which restored sense and energy. Esther, however, seemed to derive no comfort from the assertion.
“Yes, dear, yes; I do believe he is not guilty—bad as some of us are, we do not do such things. Who ever heard of a Jew being a housebreaker or a thief? But who will believe him? Who will take his word, his oath? Oh, what will become of us?” and the old woman rocked herself to and fro, in the misery of the thought. Sarah was in no state to offer the usual comfort; but stunned, bewildered as she was, her thought formed itself into unconscious prayer for help and strength. Her plan of action was decided95 on the instant; she would, she must go to him. In vain Esther bade her think of the consequences; what would her mistress say, if she knew that Sarah was any way related to Levison, the reputed housebreaker, much less that she was his daughter.
“Would you then advise me, if this misery come to her knowledge, deny my father, now that he may need me more than ever? Oh, Esther, I cannot do this,” replied Sarah mournfully, though firmly. “My mistress need not know my errand now perhaps, and this terrible trial may be permitted to pass away before it comes to the worst. But should it indeed reach her ears, I cannot deny him; he has only me, and if it cause me the loss of my situation, of my character in the opinion of my fellow-creatures, my God will love me, care for me still. I cannot desert my father.”
And while she seeks him we must inform our readers, briefly96 as may be, how the matter really stood. Levison had been seen and recognised talking to a party of men the evening previous to the night’s robbery. No one could swear to his person as accessory to the act by having seen him in the house, but in such earnest conversation with those who were taken in the fact, that he was, in consequence, committed as one of the gang, for the apprehension97 of whom a large reward had been offered. It was true none of the stolen property had been found on his person, or in his dwelling; but these facts were little heeded98 in his favour.
He was a Jew—a man who had been noted99 for his dishonest practices in business, and consequently there was no one to come forward with such report of his former character as could be taken in his favour.
He persisted that he was innocent; that though he had been talking to the men as was alleged100, he knew nothing of their real character or intentions; that he had been acquainted with them formerly, but only in the way of business; that they knew he had separated from them, at seven o’clock that evening, to proceed several miles in a contrary direction, to the burial-ground of his people, where he had been engaged to watch beside the grave of one that day interred101; the person who had been engaged to do so having been suddenly taken ill, and asked him, Levison, to watch in his stead. How could he prove this? he was asked.
The unhappy man groaned102 aloud for answer—he had no proof. Some one, a gentleman, had indeed visited the grave at break of day, had demanded who he was, and why he was there instead of the person engaged; and he answered, giving his full name. The gentleman had thrown him money, and hastily departed; but who or what he was, except a Jew, as himself, Levison did not know.
Of course, such a tale, and from such a person, was not to be believed, and he was committed to Newgate, with his supposed accomplices103, to take his trial.
It was with great difficulty Sarah gained admittance to his cell; but it was not till in his presence, till the door was closed upon her for a specified104 time, that the energy which supported her throughout gave way.
She could but throw herself on her knees before him, but fling her arms round him, and sob105 forth106, “Father!” the convulsions of agony and fear which shook her every limb depriving her at once of power and of voice.
The effect of her presence on Levison was terrible. He gave vent107 to a wild, shrill108 cry, then catching109 her to his bosom, gasped110 forth, “My daughter! oh, my daughter! the God of wrath111 and justice will withdraw His hand, if you are near,” and then sunk back in a strong convulsive fit. Perhaps it was as well that the poor girl was thus compelled to exertion112. Terrified as she was, she knew to call for help was useless, for who could hear her? But by unloosening his collar, and the application of cold water, which happened to be in the room, after a few minutes of intense terror, she saw the convulsive struggles gradually give way, and he lay sensible but exhausted. It was then she saw the ravages113 either illness or imprisonment114 had made; it seemed as if even death itself was upon him. He had never quite recovered the illness which had originally called her to London, and the last few days seemed to have brought it back with increase of suffering and complete prostration115 of physical power. His black hair had whitened, and his form was bent116, as if a burden of many years had descended117 upon him; his features were contracted, and wan15 as death.
“Sarah, Sarah, I thought God had forsaken118 me; but I see you, and I know He has not. Miserable119 and guilty as I am—guilty of many sins, as I know, I feel now—but not of this: no, no, no; my child, my child, I am innocent of this. I turned away from vice120 and sin for your sake. I made a vow to try and become worthy of such an angel child; and see, see what has come upon me! I have been deceiving and dishonest in former days, but even then I never, never turned aside to steal—to join a gang of thieves. Sarah, Sarah, I thought to make you happy at last; and I shall be but your curse, your misery. Perhaps you too will not believe me, but I am innocent of this crime; my child, my child, I am indeed!”
It was long ere Sarah’s gentle soothings and earnest assurances of her firm belief in his perfect innocence could calm the fearful agitation121 of her unhappy father. Still her presence, the pressure of her hand was such comfort, that a light appeared to have gleamed on the darkness of his despair, and he poured forth his agonizing122 thoughts, his terrors, alike of life and death and eternity123, as if his child were indeed the ministering angel of hope and faith and comfort which his deep love believed her.
“Had I not you, my daughter, oh, there would be no hope, no mercy for one like me. I have disobeyed and profaned124 my God, and taken His holy name in vain, and called down on me His wrath, His vengeance125; and how can I, how dare I hope for mercy? I cannot repent—I cannot seek righteousness now; it is too late, too late! Yet God has given me you; and is He then all wrath, all punishment? Tell me, tell me, there is mercy for the sinner, even now.”
“Father, dear father, there is! Has He not said it? Yes, and reiterated it in His holy book, till the most doubting of us must believe. ‘He hath no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live;’ bidding us repent and believe, and that in the day we did so our guilt94 should not be remembered—should not appear against us; telling us but to confess our sin, to throw ourselves on His mercy, that mercy all perfect to purify, redeem55, and save—that He is merciful and gracious, long-suffering, abundant in mercy and love—showing mercy unto thousands! My father, oh, my father, there is no sin so infinite as His mercy—no sin for which repentance126 and love and faith in Him will not in His sight atone127.”
“But I can make no atonement, my child. I can do nothing to prove repentance—that I would serve and love Him now—nothing to make reparation for past sin: too late, too late!” and he groaned aloud.
“He does not ask works, my father, when He knows they cannot be performed. Have you not sought Him this last year, in penitence128 and prayer, and amendment129 of your ways? and does not He record this, though man may not? and now, oh, do but believe in Him, in His will and power to forgive and save—do but call upon Him with the faith and repentance of a sorrowing child. Oh, my father, God asks no more than we can do. His sacrifices are a broken heart and a contrite130 spirit, which we all have power to bestow131. He has told us this blessed truth, through the lips of one who had the power to do and give much more in atonement for his sin, that we, who can do nothing but believe and repent, may be comforted. Father, my own dear father, if indeed you repent, and love, and believe, oh, God is near you, will save you still!”
Much, much more did Sarah say, as she sat on the straw pallet where her unhappy father half reclined, her dark, truthful132 eyes, often swelling133 in large tears, fixed134 on his face as she spoke. It was impossible for one whom her influence the last twelvemonth had already, through God’s mercy, changed in heart, to listen to her healing words, and look on her sweet pleading face, and yet retain the doubts and terrors of despair. It seemed to Levison that if such a being could love and pity him, and cling to him thus even in a prison cell, he could not be cut off from all of heavenly hope—the all-pitying love and consoling promises of God appeared to him through her as if by a voice from heaven. They could not deceive, and even in the depth of repentant135 agony—for it was true repentance—there was comfort. Sarah was summoned away only too soon, but she promised to visit him often again. The piece of gold which she had slid into the turnkey’s hand, she knew, would be her passport; but to do this unknown to her mistress was an act of injustice136 towards her, which her pure mind rejected.
Yet how to tell her? The determination was made, but on the manner of fulfilling it poor Sarah thought some time. Perhaps it was fortunate she was roused to exertion. On entering the kitchen for something she wanted, she saw her fellow-servants congregated137 in a knot together, the footman reading aloud the account of the robbery, and the committal of the gang, from the newspapers. He stopped as she entered, and every eye turned on her. Her cheek grew white as ashes, and her lip quivered, so as to be remarked by all. The footman seemed about to speak, but the housemaid laid her hand on his arm, with an imploring138 look to forbear. It was enough. Sarah felt she could better leave her mistress than encounter the questions or suspicions of her fellow-servants, and that instant she sought the parlour. Miss Leon was with her sister. The ghastly paleness and agonized139 expression of the poor girl’s face struck her at once, and with accents of earnest kindness she inquired what was the matter. Bursting into tears, Sarah almost inarticulately related the heavy trial which had befallen her, and her intention to give up her situation. Confidential140, happy as it was to devote herself to her unfortunate father, feeling that the child of one suspected as he was could bring but disreputableness to a respectable family, Sarah felt her story was incoherent; but that it was understood was visible in its effects. Mrs. Corea, selfish and weak as her wont141, thought only of the trouble and annoyance19 Sarah’s resignation of her situation would bring her; and overwhelmed her with reproaches, as ungrateful and capricious. Miss Leon spoke calmly and reasonably. There was no need for any decisive parting. Sarah might leave them for a time, if she were desirous of doing so, though she did not think it wise; that if Mrs. Corea valued her so much, she could have no objection to her returning. “What! the daughter of a pickpocket142, a housebreaker! No, no, if Sarah were fool enough to say she were the daughter of such a person, she would have nothing more to do with her; but there was no need for her to do so. What was to prevent her disclaiming143 all relationship; and what good could she do him or herself by going to him? It was all folly144. There were plenty of Levisons in the world. Nobody need know this Levison was Sarah’s father, if the girl herself were not such a fool as to betray it.”
“And can you advise this, Miss Leon?” implored145 Sarah, turning towards her. “Oh, do not, do not say so. I would not displease146 one so kind and good as you are. I would do anything, everything to show you I am grateful; but I cannot, oh, I cannot deny my father! I should never know a happy day again.”
Miss Leon was not at all a person to evince useless emotion, but there was certainly something rising in her throat, which made her voice husky ere she replied. Reasonable and feeling, however, as her arguments were, that, without actually denying or deserting her father, she need not ruin her own reputation for ever, by proclaiming it was to visit him in person, she left her place. Sarah could at that moment only feel; her future was bound up in her father’s.
We have not, however, space to dilate147 on all Miss Leon urged or Sarah felt. Suffice it, that the next morning Sarah turned away from the house which for nearly two years had been a happy home. She knew not if she should ever be welcome there again. Miss Leon was indeed still her friend; but how could even she aid her now? She returned to that dilapidated dwelling where old Esther still lived, feeling that heavy as she had thought her trial when she had first entered those doors, it was light, it was joy to that which was hers now.
Day after day, in the brief period intervening before Levison’s final trial, did his devoted148 daughter visit his cell, and not in vain. The terror, the anguish which had possessed149 him were passing from his soul. He did believe in the saving power of his God. He did approach his throne with a broken and contrite heart; and it was the prayers, the faith, the forbearing devotion of his child, which brought him there. Sarah had told all his story to Miss Leon, who had listened attentively150, though she herself feared that to remedy this and prove him innocent was, even to her energetic benevolence, impossible.
The morning of the trial came, the court was crowded; for the extensive robberies traced home to this gang occasioned unusual excitement. The trembling heart of the daughter felt that to wait to hear of its termination, and her father’s sentence, was impossible, the very effort would drive her mad. In vain old Esther remonstrated151; offered, infirm as she was, to go herself, if Sarah would but remain quietly at home. Sarah insisted on accompanying her, muffled152 up so as not to be recognised. They mingled153 with the thronging154 crowds, were jostled, pushed, and otherwise annoyed, yet Sarah knew it not—seemed conscious of nothing till her eyes rested on her misguided father. What was it she hoped? She knew not, except a strange undefined belief that even now, in the eleventh hour, his innocence would be made evident. Alas, poor girl! the summary proceedings155 of a court of justice on a gang of noted criminals allowed no saving clause. He was sworn to as having been seen with them, and that was sufficient. All he said was unheeded, perhaps unheard; and sentence of transportation for life was pronounced on every man by name, Isaac Levison included.
Sarah did not scream; she thought she did not faint, for the words rung in her ears as repeated by a hundred echoes, each one louder than the other; but, except this power of hearing, every other sense seemed suddenly stilled. She did not know whose arm led her from that terrible scene—who was conducting her hastily yet tenderly towards home. She walked on quick, quicker still, as if the rapidity of movement should hush156 that mocking sound. It would not, it could not; and when she was at home, she sunk down powerless, conscious only of misery that even faith might not remove.
“Sarah, my own Sarah! look up, speak to me, this silence is terrible!” exclaimed a voice which roused her as with an electric shock. Reuben Perez was beside her, his arm around her; the ice of misery, the restraint of long-hidden feelings, were broken by the power of that voice, and laying her head on his shoulder, she sobbed157 in uncontrollable agony. He told her how he had seen the name of Levison in the papers, and his defence, and how he had trembled lest it should be her father; how anxiously he had wished to come up at once to London, but was unavoidably prevented leaving Birmingham till the previous night. How he had proceeded to the court; at once recognised Levison, and at the same moment, guided by some strange instinct, looked for and found Sarah, muffled as she was.
He had gradually and with difficulty made his way through the crowd towards her, and reached her just as the sentence was pronounced. Old Esther had begged him to take care of Sarah home, as she could follow more slowly. He tried to speak comfort respecting her father; but in this he failed. Shudderingly158, she reiterated the sentence. “Transportation, and for life—to be sent away to work, to die, untended, unloved,” and then, as with sudden thought, she started up—
“No, no, no!” she exclaimed, a hectic159 glow tinging160 her pallid161 cheek. “Why cannot I go too? not with him, they will not let me do that; but there are ships enough taking out emigrants162, and I can meet him there—be with him again. They shall not separate the father from his child; and he is innocent! My father, my poor father, your Sarah will not forsake you even now!” and she wept again, but less painfully than before. Startled as he was, Reuben could yet feel this was scarcely a resolution to be kept, and with argument and persuasion163 sought to turn her from her purpose. Her father could not need such sacrifice; how could she aid him in his far distant dwelling.
“He has but me—he has but me!” she reiterated; “who is there that has claim enough to keep me from him? I have thought a former trial heavy to be borne; but had it not been for that, my poor father might have died in sin, for perhaps I could not have come to him as I did when free. No, no, I was destined164 to be the instrument, in the hands of mercy, in bringing him back to the God he had offended, and I may do so still. Reuben, Reuben, who is there has such claim upon me, as my poor, poor father? Others love me, and oh, God only knows how I love them! but they are happy and prosperous, they do not need me.”
“Sarah,” answered Reuben, his voice choked with emotion, “Sarah, you spoke of a former heavy trial, one hard to bear. Oh, answer me, speak to me! Was not I its cause? I deceived myself when I thought I had not injured your peace when I wrecked165 my own.”
“It matters little now,” replied Sarah, turning from his look, while her cheek again blanched166 to marble; “my path is marked out for me. I may not leave it, even to think of what has been or might be: it cannot, must not matter now.”
“It must—it shall!” exclaimed Reuben, with more than wonted impetuosity. “Sarah, Sarah, you ask me who needs you as your father does—to whom you can be as you are to him? I answer, there is one, one to whom, as to your father, you have been a guardian167 angel, winning him back even by your memory, when far separated, to the God he had forsaken. I trampled168 on the love I bore you—my own feelings as well as yours—to unite myself with a strange race, to bid all who knew me cease to regard me as a Jew. I sought to believe I had nothing to reproach myself with, as I had not caused you grief, and yet—conscience, conscience! Oh, Sarah, my poor Jeanie’s very love was constant agony, for I could not return it. I never loved her as I loved you, even though she wound herself about my very heart, and her death seemed misery. I looked to the end of this twelvemonth to feel myself worthy to tell you all my sin, my misery, and, if you could forgive me, to conjure you to become mine. Oh, do not sentence me to increase of trial! I looked to you to train up my motherless Jeanie, as indeed a child of God, according to your own pure belief; and to bind169 me to Him by links I could never, even in the strongest temptation, turn aside. And now, now, when my heart tells me I was deceived, and I had injured you—for you did love me, you do love me—oh, will you leave me—for a doubtful duty, part from me for ever? I care not how long I serve to win you. Sarah, Sarah, only tell me you can still love me, you will be mine.”
“Too late, too late, oh, it is all too late!” replied Sarah, firmly, though her voice was choked with tears.
“Reuben, dear Reuben, why have you spoken thus, and at this moment? It were a weak and idle folly to deny that to be your wife would be the dearest happiness which could be mine; that I have loved you, long before I knew what love could mean; and prayed for you, wept for you—but I must not think of these things now. Months ago, such words from you would have been all joy; but now—do not speak them, dearest Reuben—they increase my trial, but cannot change my purpose. My poor father is innocent, condemned170 unjustly. Were he guilty, I might decide otherwise; for perhaps it were then less a positive duty to tend him to the last.”
And in vain did Reuben combat this determination. In vain, rendered more eloquent171 from his conviction that he was beloved, did he speak and urge, and speak again. He desisted at length; not from lack of argument, but because he saw it only increased the anguish of her feelings.
“If it must be so, dearest—yet indeed, indeed, it is a mistaken duty; do not look on me so beseechingly172, I will urge no more. For myself I know I did not merit the joy I had dared to picture; yet still, still to resign it thus, to know you love me spite of all—Sarah, how may I struggle on, with every hope and promise blighted173?”
“Do not say so, Reuben. Our Father will not leave you lonely. Seek Him, love Him, and He will fill up all the void which my absence may create; and do not think we part for ever. Oh, Reuben, the love borne in my heart so long can know no cloud or change, and though years may pass on—my first duty be accomplished—yet when it is, and my poor father’s weary course is ended, if you be still free, may I not return to you, all, all your own?”
She lifted up her pale face to his with such a look of confidence and love, that Reuben’s only answer was to fold her to his heart and bid God bless her for such words.
Days passed on, and though all who heard her resolution were against it, though she had to encounter even Miss Leon’s arguments and entreaties174 that she would forego a purpose as uncalled for as misguided, Sarah never for one moment wavered. Vainly Miss Leon sketched175 the miseries176 that would await her in a foreign land; the little chance there was of her even being permitted to be near her father; the little she could do for him, even if they were together. She reasoned well and strongly and even feelingly, but there are times and duties when the heart hears only its own impulses, its own feelings, and must follow them. Had she wavered before she again met her father after his condemnation177, which, however, she did not, her first interview would have strengthened her yet more. There was a wild and haggard look about him, a hollow tone and wandering words, that made her at the first moment tremble for his reason.
“Sarah, my daughter! they have banished me from my God! they have sentenced me to return to sin. Better, better had they said I was to die, for then I should have gone direct from you to judgment178, and your prayers, your angel words, had turned me from my sin; but they will send me from you, and I shall sin again. I shall fall away from all the good you taught me. With you, with you only I am safe—my daughter, oh, my daughter!”
“And I will not leave you, father—I go with you, not in the same ship, but I will meet you in a strange land. We shall be together there as here. I will not leave you while you need me. Do not look so, father, I have sworn it to my God.”
She threw herself upon his neck, and the sinful but repentant man wept as an infant on her shoulder; and from that hour her dread49 that his reason was departing never tormented179 her again.
The evening before Levison’s removal with his fellow-convicts to Portsmouth—the ship awaiting them there—the influence of a larger bribe180 than usual from Reuben to the turnkey had secured to Sarah a few uninterrupted hours with her father in a separate cell. There was something strange in Levison’s countenance181 which rather alarmed him when he joined them; it was flushed and excited, and as he walked across the cell his limbs seemed to totter182 beneath him.
They had not much longer to be together, when an unusual number of footsteps crowded along the passage; and, soon after, the turnkey, a sheriff, and a gentleman whom neither Sarah nor Reuben knew, though he was evidently of their own nation, entered the cell. There was still quite daylight sufficient to distinguish persons and features, and the very instant Levison’s eye caught the stranger, he started with a shrill cry to his feet, endeavoured to spring forward, but failed, and would have fallen had not Reuben caught him in his arms, where he remained in a fit of trembling, which almost seemed convulsion. “Now be quiet, my good fellow, you will do well enough,” whispered the turnkey, as he stepped forward to assist in supporting Levison upon his feet. “Here is this here gemman come to swear to your person, as having seen you in the burial-ground, just as how you said, that there night; proving an alibi183, d’ye see. They’ll let you go even now—who’d ha’ thought it?”
“You, said, sir, that you saw and spoke to a man named Isaac Levison, of the Jewish nation, in the burial-ground of your people, on the morning of Wednesday, the 14th of May, exactly as the clock of Mile End Church chimed three,” deliberately184 began the pompous185 sheriff, on whose blunted sensibilities the various attitudes of agonized suspense186, hope and terror delineated in the group before him excited no emotion whatever. “I have troubled you to come here to see this man, who calls himself by that name, and tells the same tale, seeing, that if you can swear to his person, he must be detained from accompanying the rest of the gang, and undergo a second trial, that your assertion in the court may publicly prove it.”
“I do not see much use in that,” interrupted the gentleman, who, no lawyer, did not quite comprehend technicalities; “I should think my oath as to his person quite enough to free him. I did not appear on his trial, simply because I was abroad, and only heard of it through a friend sending me a newspaper and the particulars of the case—a friend of his wishing the man’s innocence to be proved. He wrote to me, knowing that either I or some one belonging to me had employed a watcher that night, and vague as the tale was, I might help to clear it; this, however, is nothing to the purpose. If the robbery you speak of was committed at Epping on the 14th of May, just about three o’clock in the morning, that man, Isaac Levison, is as innocent as I am; for I can take my oath as to seeing and speaking with him that very morning, at that very hour, in the burial-ground of our people at Mile End. I particularly remarked him, as he was not the person I had engaged. There is no justice in England if you do not let him go—he is innocent!”
“Innocent—innocent—innocent! My child, you are right; there is a God, and a God of love! Blessed—blessed—forgiven!” He bounded from the detaining arms of Reuben and the turnkey, clasped Sarah to his heart with strange unnatural strength, and fell back a corpse187!
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收听单词发音
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1
riveting
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| adj.动听的，令人着迷的，完全吸引某人注意力的；n.铆接（法） | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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8
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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9
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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10
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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12
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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13
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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14
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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15
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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18
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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19
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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20
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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22
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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24
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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25
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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27
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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28
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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30
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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31
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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32
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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33
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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34
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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35
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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36
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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37
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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39
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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40
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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41
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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42
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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43
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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44
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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45
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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46
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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47
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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48
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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49
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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50
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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53
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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54
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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55
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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56
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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57
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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59
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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60
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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61
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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62
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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63
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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64
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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66
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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67
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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68
reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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69
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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70
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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71
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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72
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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73
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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74
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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75
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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76
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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77
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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78
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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79
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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80
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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81
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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82
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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83
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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84
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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85
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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86
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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87
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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88
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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89
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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90
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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91
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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92
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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93
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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95
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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96
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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97
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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98
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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100
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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101
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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103
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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104
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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105
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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106
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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107
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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108
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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109
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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110
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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111
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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112
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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113
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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114
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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115
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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116
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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117
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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118
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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119
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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120
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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121
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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122
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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123
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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124
profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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125
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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126
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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127
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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128
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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129
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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130
contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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131
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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132
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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133
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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134
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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135
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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136
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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137
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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139
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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140
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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141
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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142
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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143
disclaiming
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| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
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144
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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145
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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147
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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148
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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149
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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150
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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151
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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152
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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153
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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154
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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155
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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156
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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157
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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158
shudderingly
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159
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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160
tinging
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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161
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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162
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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163
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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164
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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165
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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166
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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167
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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168
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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169
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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170
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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171
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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172
beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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173
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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174
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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175
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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176
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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177
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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178
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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179
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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180
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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181
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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182
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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183
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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184
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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185
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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186
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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187
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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