The funeral was over. The carriages rolled away through the soft mud, and only the poor remained. They approached to the newly-dug shaft1 and looked their last at the coffin2, now almost hidden beneath the spadefuls of clay. It was their moment. Most of them were women from the dead woman's district, to whom black garments had been served out by Mr. Wilcox's orders. Pure curiosity had brought others. They thrilled with the excitement of a death, and of a rapid death, and stood in groups or moved between the graves, like drops of ink. The son of one of them, a wood-cutter, was perched high above their heads, pollarding one of the churchyard elms. From where he sat he could see the village of Hilton, strung upon the North Road, with its accreting3 suburbs; the sunset beyond, scarlet4 and orange, winking5 at him beneath brows of grey; the church; the plantations6; and behind him an unspoilt country of fields and farms. But he, too, was rolling the event luxuriously7 in his mouth. He tried to tell his mother down below all that he had felt when he saw the coffin approaching: how he could not leave his work, and yet did not like to go on with it; how he had almost slipped out of the tree, he was so upset; the rooks had cawed, and no wonder--it was as if rooks knew too. His mother claimed the prophetic power herself--she had seen a strange look about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London had done the mischief8, said others. She had been a kind lady; her grandmother had been kind, too--a plainer person, but very kind. Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox, he was a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic again and again, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of a rich person was to them what the funeral of Alcestis or Ophelia is to the educated. It was Art; though remote from life, it enhanced life's values, and they witnessed it avidly9.
The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent of disapproval--they disliked Charles; it was not a moment to speak of such things, but they did not like Charles Wilcox--the grave-diggers finished their work and piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton: the grey brows of the evening flushed a little, and were cleft10 with one scarlet frown. Chattering11 sadly to each other, the mourners passed through the lych-gate and traversed the chestnut12 avenues that led down to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed a little longer, poised13 above the silence and swaying rhythmically14. At last the bough15 fell beneath his saw. With a grunt16, he descended17, his thoughts dwelling18 no longer on death, but on love, for he was mating. He stopped as he passed the new grave; a sheaf of tawny19 chrysanthemums21 had caught his eye. "They didn't ought to have coloured flowers at buryings," he reflected. Trudging22 on a few steps, he stopped again, looked furtively23 at the dusk, turned back, wrenched24 a chrysanthemum20 from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket.
After him came silence absolute. The cottage that abutted25 on the churchyard was empty, and no other house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds drifted over it from the west; or the church may have been a ship, high-prowed, steering26 with all its company towards infinity27. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above the prostrate28 dead. The wood-cutter, returning after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it's a pity I didn't take them all."
Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in spasms29, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel30 untasted.
He remembered his wife's even goodness during thirty years. Not anything in detail--not courtship or early raptures--but just the unvarying virtue31, that seemed to him a woman's noblest quality. So many women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity32. Not so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence33! The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--"Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of politics--"I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet, there would be no more wars." Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his family, formerly34 Dissenters35, were now members of the Church of England. The rector's sermons had at first repelled36 her, and she had expressed a desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed.
She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. "Why didn't you tell me you knew of it?" he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered: "I didn't want to, Henry--I might have been wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully37 explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years.
He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the letters, and he could meet no one's eye. Ah yes--she had been a good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately38. To him steadiness included all praise.
He himself, gazing at the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son's, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness and goodfellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was like Charles's. High and straight, brown and polished, merging39 abruptly40 into temples and skull41, it has the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years.
"The post's come, Father," said Evie awkwardly.
"Thanks. Put it down."
"Has the breakfast been all right?"
"Yes, thanks."
The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint42. She did not know what to do.
"Charles says do you want the TIMES?"
"No, I'll read it later."
"Ring if you want anything, Father, won't you?"
"I've all I want."
Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the dining-room.
"Father's eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows behind the tea-urn--
Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened the door, and said: "Look here, Father, you must eat, you know"; and having paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He's going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." Then he took up the TIMES, and for some time there was no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of knife on plate.
Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions, terrified at the course of events, and a little bored. She was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word from her husband had plunged43 her into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have died before the marriage, for then less would have been expected of her. Crumbling44 her toast, and too nervous to ask for the butter, she remained almost motionless, thankful only for this, that her father-in-law was having his breakfast upstairs.
At last Charles spoke45. "They had no business to be pollarding those elms yesterday," he said to his sister.
"No indeed."
"I must make a note of that," he continued. "I am surprised that the rector allowed it."
"Perhaps it may not be the rector's affair."
"Whose else could it be?"
"Impossible."
"Butter, Dolly?"
"Thank you, Evie dear. Charles--"
"Yes, dear?"
"I didn't know one could pollard elms. I thought one only pollarded willows47."
"Oh no, one can pollard elms."
"Then why oughtn't the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?"
Charles frowned a little, and turned again to his sister. "Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley."
"Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley.
"It's no good him saying he is not responsible for those men. He is responsible."
"Yes, rather."
Brother and sister were not callous48. They spoke thus, partly because they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the mark--a healthy desire in its way--partly because they avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. It did not seem to them of supreme49 importance. Or it may be as Helen supposed: they realized its importance, but were afraid of it. Panic and emptiness, could one glance behind. They were not callous, and they left the breakfast-table with aching hearts. Their mother never had come in to breakfast. It was in the other rooms, and especially in the garden, that they felt her loss most. As Charles went out to the garage, he was reminded at every step of the woman who had loved him and whom he could never replace. What battles he had fought against her gentle conservatism! How she had disliked improvements, yet how loyally she had accepted them when made! He and his father--what trouble they had had to get this very garage! With what difficulty had they persuaded her to yield them to the paddock for it--the paddock that she loved more dearly than the garden itself! The vine--she had got her way about the vine. It still encumbered50 the south wall with its unproductive branches. And so with Evie, as she stood talking to the cook. Though she could take up her mother's work inside the house, just as the man could take it up without, she felt that something unique had fallen out of her life. Their grief, though less poignant51 than their father's, grew from deeper roots, for a wife may be replaced; a mother never.
Charles would go back to the office. There was little to do at Howards End. The contents of his mother's will had been long known to them. There were no legacies52, no annuities53, none of the posthumous54 bustle55 with which some of the dead prolong their activities. Trusting her husband, she had left him everything without reserve. She was quite a poor woman--the house had been all her dowry, and the house would come to Charles in time. Her water-colours Mr. Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery and lace. How easily she slipped out of life! Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend to adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen in it an almost culpable56 indifference57 to earthly fame. Cynicism--not the superficial cynicism that snarls58 and sneers59, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and tenderness--that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox's will. She wanted not to vex60 people. That accomplished61, the earth might freeze over her for ever.
No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could not go on with his honeymoon62, so he would go up to London and work--he felt too miserable63 hanging about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He could also keep an eye on his own little house, which was being painted and decorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch in his new motor, and the town servants, who had come down for the funeral, would go up by train.
He found his father's chauffeur64 in the garage, said, "Morning" without looking at the man's face, and, bending over the car, continued: "Hullo! my new car's been driven!"
"Has it, sir?"
"Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoever's driven it hasn't cleaned it properly, for there's mud on the axle. Take it off."
The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly as sin--not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm in a man rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with whom they had started.
"Charles--" His bride was tripping after him over the hoar-frost, a dainty black column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof.
"One minute, I'm busy. Well, Crane, who's been driving it, do you suppose?"
"Don't know, I'm sure, sir. No one's driven it since I've been back, but, of course, there's the fortnight I've been away with the other car in Yorkshire."
The mud came off easily.
"Charles, your father's down. Something's happened. He wants you in the house at once. Oh, Charles!"
"Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key to the garage while you were away, Crane?"
"The gardener, sir."
"Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?"
"No, sir; no one's had the motor out, sir."
"Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?"
"I can't, of course, say for the time I've been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, sir."
Charles was vexed65. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel.
"Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?"
When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End."
"Howards End? Now, Crane, just don't forget to put on the Stepney wheel."
"No, sir."
"Now, mind you don't forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were out of the chauffeur's sight he put his arm around her waist and pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what he granted her throughout their happy married life.
"But you haven't listened, Charles--"
"What's wrong?"
"I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegels got it."
"Got what?" asked Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you talking about?"
"Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--"
"Look here, I'm in no mood for foolery. It's no morning for it either."
"I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she's got it--your mother's left it to her--and you've all got to move out!"
"HOWARDS END?"
"HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking66 him, and as she did so Evie came dashing out of the shrubbery.
"Dolly, go back at once! My father's much annoyed with you. Charles"--she hit herself wildly--"come in at once to Father. He's had a letter that's too awful."
Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the gravel67 path. There the house was--the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete chaos68, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her."
"Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert69. "Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?"
"Oh, Mr. Wilcox--"
"I told you not to go out to the garage. I've heard you all shouting in the garden. I won't have it. Come in."
He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand.
"Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can't discuss private matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you make."
Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End."
"I suppose we're going to have a talk about this?" he remarked, ominously70 calm.
"Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--"
"Well, let's sit down."
"Come, Evie, don't waste time, sit down."
In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday--indeed, of this morning--suddenly receded71 into a past so remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother's handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside: 'I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.' No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the question is--"
Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn't legal. Houses ought to be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely."
Her husband worked his jaw72 severely73. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and at once exclaimed: "Why, it's only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts."
"We know that it is not legally binding74, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from out of his fortress75. "We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified76 in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere77 with what you do not understand."
Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth78. "The question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly--" He stopped.
"I don't think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son's
"Don't think what?"
"That she would have--that it is a case of undue79 influence. No, to my mind the question is the--the invalid's condition at the time she wrote."
"My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don't admit it is my mother's writing."
"Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly.
"Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue."
The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling80 like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. Calligraphy81 was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demur82, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging83 emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimized, and all went forward smoothly84. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily85 solid, fell like trenches86 of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie's fox terrier, who had passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. He was discredited87, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close.
To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator88 should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the dead woman's intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step farther in these mists--may they not have decided89 even better than they supposed? Is it credible90 that the possessions of the spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed. The problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem. No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear the note up and throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist may acquit91 them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may acquit them--almost. For one hard fact remains92. They did neglect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did say to them, "Do this," and they answered, "We will not."
The incident made a most painful impression on them. Grief mounted into the brain and worked there disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented93: "She was a dear mother, a true wife: in our absence she neglected her health and died." Today they thought: "She was not as true, as dear, as we supposed." The desire for a more inward light had found expression at last, the unseen had impacted on the seen, and all that they could say was "Treachery." Mrs. Wilcox had been treacherous94 to the family, to the laws of property, to her own written word. How did she expect Howards End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her husband, to whom it legally belonged, to make it over to her as a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have a life interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there to be no compensation for the garage and other improvements that they had made under the assumption that all would be theirs some day? Treacherous! treacherous and absurd! When we think the dead both treacherous and absurd, we have gone far towards reconciling ourselves to their departure. That note, scribbled95 in pencil, sent through the matron, was unbusinesslike as well as cruel, and decreased at once the value of the woman who had written it.
"Ah, well!" said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. "I shouldn't have thought it possible."
"Mother couldn't have meant it," said Evie, still frowning.
"No, my girl, of course not."
"Mother believed so in ancestors too--it isn't like her to leave anything to an outsider, who'd never appreciate. "
"The whole thing is unlike her," he announced. "If Miss Schlegel had been poor, if she had wanted a house, I could understand it a little. But she has a house of her own. Why should she want another? She wouldn't have any use of Howards End."
"That time may prove," murmured Charles.
"How?" asked his sister.
"Presumably she knows--mother will have told her. She got twice or three times into the nursing home. Presumably she is awaiting developments."
"What a horrid96 woman!" And Dolly, who had recovered, cried, "Why, she may be coming down to turn us out now!"
Charles put her right. "I wish she would," he said ominously. "I could then deal with her."
"So could I," echoed his father, who was feeling rather in the cold. Charles had been kind in undertaking97 the funeral arrangements and in telling him to eat his breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little dictatorial98, and assumed the post of chairman too readily. "I could deal with her, if she comes, but she won't come. You're all a bit hard on Miss Schlegel."
"That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though."
"I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I said at the time, and besides, it is quite apart from this business. Margaret Schlegel has been officious and tiresome99 during this terrible week, and we have all suffered under her, but upon my soul she's honest. She's not in collusion with the matron. I'm absolutely certain of it. Nor was she with the doctor. I'm equally certain of that. She did not hide anything from us, for up to that very afternoon she was as ignorant as we are. She, like ourselves, was a dupe--" He stopped for a moment. "You see, Charles, in her terrible pain your poor mother put us all in false positions. Paul would not have left England, you would not have gone to Italy, nor Evie and I into Yorkshire, if only we had known. Well, Miss Schlegel's position has been equally false. Take all in all, she has not come out of it badly."
Evie said: "But those chrysanthemums--"
"Or coming down to the funeral at all--" echoed Dolly.
"Why shouldn't she come down? She had the right to, and she stood far back among the Hilton women. The flowers--certainly we should not have sent such flowers, but they may have seemed the right thing to her, Evie, and for all you know they may be the custom in Germany. "
"Oh, I forget she isn't really English," cried Evie. "That would explain a lot."
"She's a cosmopolitan100," said Charles, looking at his watch. "I admit I'm rather down on cosmopolitans101. My fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, and a German cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that's about all, isn't it? I want to run down and see Chalkeley. A bicycle will do. And, by the way, I wish you'd speak to Crane some time. I'm certain he's had my new car out."
"Has he done it any harm?"
"No."
"In that case I shall let it pass. It's not worth while having a row."
Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they always parted with an increased regard for one another, and each desired no doughtier comrade when it was necessary to voyage for a little past the emotions. So the sailors of Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first stopped one another's ears with wool.
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shaft
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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accreting
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| v.共生( accrete的现在分词 )；合生；使依附；使连接 | |
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scarlet
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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plantations
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luxuriously
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mischief
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avidly
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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chestnut
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poised
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rhythmically
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bough
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grunt
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descended
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dwelling
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tawny
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chrysanthemum
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| n.菊，菊花 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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trudging
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furtively
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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abutted
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| v.（与…）邻接( abut的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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39
merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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41
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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annuities
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| n.养老金；年金( annuity的名词复数 )；（每年的）养老金；年金保险；年金保险投资 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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snarls
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| n.（动物的）龇牙低吼( snarl的名词复数 )；愤怒叫嚷（声）；咆哮（声）；疼痛叫声v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的第三人称单数 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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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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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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77
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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80
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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81
calligraphy
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| n.书法 | |
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82
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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83
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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85
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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86
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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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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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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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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98
dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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99
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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100
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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101
cosmopolitans
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| 世界性的( cosmopolitan的名词复数 )； 全球各国的； 有各国人的； 受各国文化影响的 | |
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