Mrs. Postwhistle had reached with her chair the centre of Rolls Court in course of following the sun. The little shop, over the lintel of which ran: “Timothy Postwhistle, Grocer and Provision Merchant,” she had left behind her in the shadow. Old inhabitants of St. Dunstan-in-the-West retained recollection of a gentlemanly figure, always in a very gorgeous waistcoat, with Dundreary whiskers, to be seen occasionally there behind the counter. All customers it would refer, with the air of a Lord High Chamberlain introducing débutantes, to Mrs. Postwhistle, evidently regarding itself purely9 as ornamental10. For the last ten years, however, no one had noticed it there, and Mrs. Postwhistle had a facility amounting almost to genius for ignoring or misunderstanding questions it was not to her taste to answer. Most things were suspected, nothing known. St. Dunstan-in-the-West had turned to other problems.
“If I wasn’t wanting to see ’im,” remarked to herself Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting with one eye upon the shop, “’e’d a been ’ere ’fore I’d ’ad time to clear the dinner things away; certain to ’ave been. It’s a strange world.”
Mrs. Postwhistle was desirous for the arrival of a gentleman not usually awaited with impatience12 by the ladies of Rolls Court—to wit, one William Clodd, rent-collector, whose day for St. Dunstan-in-the-West was Tuesday.
“At last,” said Mrs. Postwhistle, though without hope that Mr. Clodd, who had just appeared at the other end of the court, could possibly hear her. “Was beginning to be afraid as you’d tumbled over yerself in your ’urry and ’urt yerself.”
Mr. Clodd, perceiving Mrs. Postwhistle, decided to abandon method and take No. 7 first.
Mr. Clodd was a short, thick-set, bullet-headed young man, with ways that were bustling14, and eyes that, though kind, suggested trickiness15.
“Ah!” said Mr. Clodd admiringly, as he pocketed the six half-crowns that the lady handed up to him. “If only they were all like you, Mrs. Postwhistle!”
“It’s an irony17 of fate, my being a rent-collector, when you come to think of it,” remarked Mr. Clodd, writing out the receipt. “If I had my way, I’d put an end to landlordism, root and branch. Curse of the country.”
“Ah! don’t pay, don’t he? You just hand him over to me. I’ll soon have it out of him.”
“It’s not that,” explained Mrs. Postwhistle. “If a Saturday morning ’appened to come round as ’e didn’t pay up without me asking, I should know I’d made a mistake—that it must be Friday. If I don’t ’appen to be in at ’alf-past ten, ’e puts it in an envelope and leaves it on the table.”
“Wonder if his mother has got any more like him?” mused20 Mr. Clodd. “Could do with a few about this neighbourhood. What is it you want to say about him, then? Merely to brag21 about him?”
“I wanted to ask you,” continued Mrs. Postwhistle, “’ow I could get rid of ’im. It was rather a curious agreement.”
“Why do you want to get rid of him? Too noisy?”
“Noisy! Why, the cat makes more noise about the ’ouse than ’e does. ’E’d make ’is fortune as a burglar.”
“Come home late?”
“Gives you too much trouble then?”
“I can’t say that of ’im. Never know whether ’e’s in the ’ouse or isn’t, without going upstairs and knocking at the door.”
“Here, you tell it your own way,” suggested the bewildered Clodd. “If it was anyone else but you, I should say you didn’t know your own business.”
“’E gets on my nerves,” said Mrs. Postwhistle. “You ain’t in a ’urry for five minutes?”
Mr. Clodd was always in a hurry. “But I can forget it talking to you,” added the gallant23 Mr. Clodd.
Mrs. Postwhistle led the way into the little parlour.
“Just the name of it,” consented Mr. Clodd. “Cheerfulness combined with temperance; that’s the ideal.”
“I’ll tell you what ’appened only last night,” commenced Mrs. Postwhistle, seating herself the opposite side of the loo-table. “A letter came for ’im by the seven o’clock post. I’d seen ’im go out two hours before, and though I’d been sitting in the shop the whole blessed time, I never saw or ’eard ’im pass through. E’s like that. It’s like ’aving a ghost for a lodger. I opened ’is door without knocking and went in. If you’ll believe me, ’e was clinging with ’is arms and legs to the top of the bedstead—it’s one of those old-fashioned, four-post things—’is ’ead touching24 the ceiling. ’E ’adn’t got too much clothes on, and was cracking nuts with ’is teeth and eating ’em. ’E threw a ’andful of shells at me, and making the most awful faces at me, started off gibbering softly to himself.”
“It will go on for a week, that will,” continued Mrs. Postwhistle—“’e fancying ’imself a monkey. Last week he was a tortoise, and was crawling about on his stomach with a tea-tray tied on to ’is back. ’E’s as sensible as most men, if that’s saying much, the moment ’e’s outside the front door; but in the ’ouse—well, I suppose the fact is that ’e’s a lunatic.”
“Don’t seem no hiding anything from you,” Mrs. Postwhistle remarked Mr. Clodd in tones of admiration26. “Does he ever get violent?”
“Don’t know what ’e would be like if ’e ’appened to fancy ’imself something really dangerous,” answered Mrs. Postwhistle. “I am a bit nervous of this new monkey game, I don’t mind confessing to you—the things that they do according to the picture-books. Up to now, except for imagining ’imself a mole27, and taking all his meals underneath28 the carpet, it’s been mostly birds and cats and ’armless sort o’ things I ’aven’t seemed to mind so much.”
Few are the ways of the West Central district that have changed less within the last half-century than Nevill’s Court, leading from Great New Street into Fetter29 Lane. Its north side still consists of the same quaint30 row of small low shops that stood there—doing perhaps a little brisker business—when George the Fourth was King; its southern side of the same three substantial houses each behind a strip of garden, pleasant by contrast with surrounding grimness, built long ago—some say before Queen Anne was dead.
Out of the largest of these, passing through the garden, then well cared for, came one sunny Sunday morning, some fifteen years before the commencement proper of this story, one Solomon Appleyard, pushing in front of him a perambulator. At the brick wall surmounted31 by wooden railings that divides the garden from the court, Solomon paused, hearing behind him the voice of Mrs. Appleyard speaking from the doorstep.
“If I don’t see you again until dinner-time, I’ll try and get on without you, understand. Don’t think of nothing but your pipe and forget the child. And be careful of the crossings.”
Mrs. Appleyard retired into the darkness. Solomon, steering32 the perambulator carefully, emerged from Nevill’s Court without accident. The quiet streets drew Solomon westward34. A vacant seat beneath the shade overlooking the Long Water in Kensington Gardens invited to rest.
“Piper?” suggested a small boy to Solomon. “Sunday Times, ’Server?”
“My boy,” said Mr. Appleyard, speaking slowly, “when you’ve been mewed up with newspapers eighteen hours a day for six days a week, you can do without ’em for a morning. Take ’em away. I want to forget the smell of ’em.”
Solomon, having assured himself that the party in the perambulator was still breathing, crossed his legs and lit his pipe.
“Hezekiah!”
The exclamation35 had been wrung36 from Solomon Appleyard by the approach of a stout37, short man clad in a remarkably38 ill-fitting broad-cloth suit.
“What, Sol, my boy?”
“It looked like you,” said Solomon. “And then I said to myself: ‘No; surely it can’t be Hezekiah; he’ll be at chapel39.’”
“You run about,” said Hezekiah, addressing a youth of some four summers he had been leading by the hand. “Don’t you go out of my sight; and whatever you do, don’t you do injury to those new clothes of yours, or you’ll wish you’d never been put into them. The truth is,” continued Hezekiah to his friend, his sole surviving son and heir being out of earshot, “the morning tempted40 me. ’Tain’t often I get a bit of fresh air.”
“Doing well?”
“The business,” replied Hezekiah, “is going up by leaps and bounds—leaps and bounds. But, of course, all that means harder work for me. It’s from six in the morning till twelve o’clock at night.”
“There’s nothing I know of,” returned Solomon, who was something of a pessimist41, “that’s given away free gratis42 for nothing except misfortune.”
“Keeping yourself up to the mark ain’t too easy,” continued Hezekiah; “and when it comes to other folks! play’s all they think of. Talk religion to them—why, they laugh at you! What the world’s coming to, I don’t know. How’s the printing business doing?”
“The printing business,” responded the other, removing his pipe and speaking somewhat sadly, “the printing business looks like being a big thing. Capital, of course, is what hampers44 me—or, rather, the want of it. But Janet, she’s careful; she don’t waste much, Janet don’t.”
“Now, with Anne,” replied Hezekiah, “it’s all the other way—pleasure, gaiety, a day at Rosherville or the Crystal Palace—anything to waste money.”
“Ah! she was always fond of her bit of fun,” remembered Solomon.
“Fun!” retorted Hezekiah. “I like a bit of fun myself. But not if you’ve got to pay for it. Where’s the fun in that?”
“What I ask myself sometimes,” said Solomon, looking straight in front of him, “is what do we do it for?”
“What do we do what for?”
“Work like blessed slaves, depriving ourselves of all enjoyments46. What’s the sense of it? What—”
A voice from the perambulator beside him broke the thread of Solomon Appleyard’s discourse47. The sole surviving son of Hezekiah Grindley, seeking distraction48 and finding none, had crept back unperceived. A perambulator! A thing his experience told him out of which excitement in some form or another could generally be obtained. You worried it and took your chance. Either it howled, in which case you had to run for your life, followed—and, unfortunately, overtaken nine times out of ten—by a whirlwind of vengeance49; or it gurgled: in which case the heavens smiled and halos descended50 on your head. In either event you escaped the deadly ennui51 that is the result of continuous virtue52. Master Grindley, his star having pointed out to him a peacock’s feather lying on the ground, had, with one eye upon his unobservant parent, removed the complicated coverings sheltering Miss Helvetia Appleyard from the world, and anticipating by a quarter of a century the prime enjoyment45 of British youth, had set to work to tickle53 that lady on the nose. Miss Helvetia Appleyard awakened54, did precisely55 what the tickled56 British maiden57 of to-day may be relied upon to do under corresponding circumstances: she first of all took swift and comprehensive survey of the male thing behind the feather. Had he been displeasing58 in her eyes, she would, one may rely upon it, have anteceded the behaviour in similar case of her descendant of to-day—that is to say, have expressed resentment59 in no uncertain terms. Master Nathaniel Grindley proving, however, to her taste, that which might have been considered impertinence became accepted as a fit and proper form of introduction. Miss Appleyard smiled graciously—nay, further, intimated desire for more.
“She’s the only one,” replied Solomon, speaking in tones less pessimistic.
Miss Appleyard had with the help of Grindley junior wriggled61 herself into a sitting posture62. Grindley junior continued his attentions, the lady indicating by signs the various points at which she was most susceptible63.
“Pretty picture they make together, eh?” suggested Hezekiah in a whisper to his friend.
“Never saw her take to anyone like that before,” returned Solomon, likewise in a whisper.
A neighbouring church clock chimed twelve. Solomon Appleyard, knocking the ashes from his pipe, arose.
“Don’t know any reason myself why we shouldn’t see a little more of one another than we do,” suggested Grindley senior, shaking hands.
“Give us a look-up one Sunday afternoon,” suggested Solomon. “Bring the youngster with you.”
Solomon Appleyard and Hezekiah Grindley had started life within a few months of one another some five-and-thirty years before. Likewise within a few hundred yards of one another, Solomon at his father’s bookselling and printing establishment on the east side of the High Street of a small Yorkshire town; Hezekiah at his father’s grocery shop upon the west side, opposite. Both had married farmers’ daughters. Solomon’s natural bent64 towards gaiety Fate had corrected by directing his affections to a partner instinct with Yorkshire shrewdness; and with shrewdness go other qualities that make for success rather than for happiness. Hezekiah, had circumstances been equal, might have been his friend’s rival for Janet’s capable and saving hand, had not sweet-tempered, laughing Annie Glossop—directed by Providence65 to her moral welfare, one must presume—fallen in love with him. Between Jane’s virtues66 and Annie’s three hundred golden sovereigns Hezekiah had not hesitated a moment. Golden sovereigns were solid facts; wifely virtues, by a serious-minded and strong-willed husband, could be instilled—at all events, light-heartedness suppressed. The two men, Hezekiah urged by his own ambition, Solomon by his wife’s, had arrived in London within a year of one another: Hezekiah to open a grocer’s shop in Kensington, which those who should have known assured him was a hopeless neighbourhood. But Hezekiah had the instinct of the money-maker. Solomon, after looking about him, had fixed67 upon the roomy, substantial house in Nevill’s Court as a promising68 foundation for a printer’s business.
That was ten years ago. The two friends, scorning delights, living laborious69 days, had seen but little of one another. Light-hearted Annie had borne to her dour70 partner two children who had died. Nathaniel George, with the luck supposed to wait on number three, had lived on, and, inheriting fortunately the temperament71 of his mother, had brought sunshine into the gloomy rooms above the shop in High Street, Kensington. Mrs. Grindley, grown weak and fretful, had rested from her labours.
Mrs. Appleyard’s guardian72 angel, prudent73 like his protégé, had waited till Solomon’s business was well established before despatching the stork75 to Nevill’s Court, with a little girl. Later had sent a boy, who, not finding the close air of St. Dunstan to his liking76, had found his way back again; thus passing out of this story and all others. And there remained to carry on the legend of the Grindleys and the Appleyards only Nathaniel George, now aged77 five, and Janet Helvetia, quite a beginner, who took lift seriously.
There are no such things as facts. Narrow-minded folk—surveyors, auctioneers, and such like—would have insisted that the garden between the old Georgian house and Nevill’s Court was a strip of land one hundred and eighteen feet by ninety-two, containing a laburnum tree, six laurel bushes, and a dwarf78 deodora. To Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia it was the land of Thule, “the furthest boundaries of which no man has reached.” On rainy Sunday afternoons they played in the great, gloomy pressroom, where silent ogres, standing11 motionless, stretched out iron arms to seize them as they ran. Then just when Nathaniel George was eight, and Janet Helvetia four and a half, Hezekiah launched the celebrated79 “Grindley’s Sauce.” It added a relish80 to chops and steaks, transformed cold mutton into a luxury, and swelled81 the head of Hezekiah Grindley—which was big enough in all conscience as it was—and shrivelled up his little hard heart. The Grindleys and the Appleyards visited no more. As a sensible fellow ought to have seen for himself, so thought Hezekiah, the Sauce had altered all things. The possibility of a marriage between their children, things having remained equal, might have been a pretty fancy; but the son of the great Grindley, whose name in three-foot letters faced the world from every hoarding82, would have to look higher than a printer’s daughter. Solomon, a sudden and vehement83 convert to the principles of mediæval feudalism, would rather see his only child, granddaughter of the author of The History of Kettlewell and other works, dead and buried than married to a grocer’s son, even though he might inherit a fortune made out of poisoning the public with a mixture of mustard and sour beer. It was many years before Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia met one another again, and when they did they had forgotten one another.
Hezekiah S. Grindley, a short, stout, and pompous84 gentleman, sat under a palm in the gorgeously furnished drawing-room of his big house at Notting Hill. Mrs. Grindley, a thin, faded woman, the despair of her dressmaker, sat as near to the fire as its massive and imposing85 copper86 outworks would permit, and shivered. Grindley junior, a fair-haired, well-shaped youth, with eyes that the other sex found attractive, leant with his hands in his pockets against a scrupulously87 robed statue of Diana, and appeared uncomfortable.
“I’m making the money—making it hand over fist. All you’ll have to do will be to spend it,” Grindley senior was explaining to his son and heir.
“I’ll do that all right, dad.”
“I’m not so sure of it,” was his father’s opinion. “You’ve got to prove yourself worthy88 to spend it. Don’t you think I shall be content to have slaved all these years merely to provide a brainless young idiot with the means of self-indulgence. I leave my money to somebody worthy of me. Understand, sir?—somebody worthy of me.”
Mrs. Grindley commenced a sentence; Mr. Grindley turned his small eyes upon her. The sentence remained unfinished.
“You were about to say something,” her husband reminded her.
Mrs. Grindley said it was nothing.
“If it is anything worth hearing—if it is anything that will assist the discussion, let’s have it.” Mr. Grindley waited. “If not, if you yourself do not consider it worth finishing, why have begun it?”
Mr. Grindley returned to his son and heir. “You haven’t done too well at school—in fact, your school career has disappointed me.”
“I know I’m not clever,” Grindley junior offered as an excuse.
“Why not? Why aren’t you clever?”
His son and heir was unable to explain.
“You are my son—why aren’t you clever? It’s laziness, sir; sheer laziness!”
“You had better,” advised him his father; “because I warn you, your whole future depends upon it. You know me. You’ve got to be a credit to me, to be worthy of the name of Grindley—or the name, my boy, is all you’ll have.”
Old Grindley meant it, and his son knew that he meant it. The old Puritan principles and instincts were strong in the old gentleman—formed, perhaps, the better part of him. Idleness was an abomination to him; devotion to pleasure, other than the pleasure of money-making, a grievous sin in his eyes. Grindley junior fully33 intended to do well at Oxford, and might have succeeded. In accusing himself of lack of cleverness, he did himself an injustice90. He had brains, he had energy, he had character. Our virtues can be our stumbling-blocks as well as our vices91. Young Grindley had one admirable virtue that needs, above all others, careful controlling: he was amiability92 itself. Before the charm and sweetness of it, Oxford snobbishness93 went down. The Sauce, against the earnest counsel of its own advertisement, was forgotten; the pickles94 passed by. To escape the natural result of his popularity would have needed a stronger will than young Grindley possessed95. For a time the true state of affairs was hidden from the eye of Grindley senior. To “slack” it this term, with the full determination of “swotting” it the next, is always easy; the difficulty beginning only with the new term. Possibly with luck young Grindley might have retrieved96 his position and covered up the traces of his folly97, but for an unfortunate accident. Returning to college with some other choice spirits at two o’clock in the morning, it occurred to young Grindley that trouble might be saved all round by cutting out a pane98 of glass with a diamond ring and entering his rooms, which were on the ground-floor, by the window. That, in mistake for his own, he should have selected the bedroom of the College Rector was a misfortune that might have occurred to anyone who had commenced the evening on champagne99 and finished it on whisky. Young Grindley, having been warned already twice before, was “sent down.” And then, of course, the whole history of the three wasted years came out. Old Grindley in his study chair having talked for half an hour at the top of his voice, chose, partly by reason of physical necessity, partly by reason of dormant100 dramatic instinct, to speak quietly and slowly.
“I’ll give you one chance more, my boy, and one only. I’ve tried you as a gentleman—perhaps that was my mistake. Now I’ll try you as a grocer.”
“As a what?”
“As a grocer, sir—g-r-o-c-e-r—grocer, a man who stands behind a counter in a white apron101 and his shirt-sleeves; who sells tea and sugar and candied peel and such-like things to customers—old ladies, little girls; who rises at six in the morning, takes down the shutters, sweeps out the shop, cleans the windows; who has half an hour for his dinner of corned beef and bread; who puts up the shutters at ten o’clock at night, tidies up the shop, has his supper, and goes to bed, feeling his day has not been wasted. I meant to spare you. I was wrong. You shall go through the mill as I went through it. If at the end of two years you’ve done well with your time, learned something—learned to be a man, at all events—you can come to me and thank me.”
“I’m afraid, sir,” suggested Grindley junior, whose handsome face during the last few minutes had grown very white, “I might not make a very satisfactory grocer. You see, sir, I’ve had no experience.”
“I am glad you have some sense,” returned his father drily. “You are quite right. Even a grocer’s business requires learning. It will cost me a little money; but it will be the last I shall ever spend upon you. For the first year you will have to be apprenticed102, and I shall allow you something to live on. It shall be more than I had at your age—we’ll say a pound a week. After that I shall expect you to keep yourself.”
Grindley senior rose. “You need not give me your answer till the evening. You are of age. I have no control over you unless you are willing to agree. You can go my way, or you can go your own.”
Young Grindley, who had inherited a good deal of his father’s grit104, felt very much inclined to go his own; but, hampered105 on the other hand by the sweetness of disposition106 he had inherited from his mother, was unable to withstand the argument of that lady’s tears, so that evening accepted old Grindley’s terms, asking only as a favour that the scene of his probation107 might be in some out-of-the-way neighbourhood where there would be little chance of his being met by old friends.
“I have thought of all that,” answered his father. “My object isn’t to humiliate108 you more than is necessary for your good. The shop I have already selected, on the assumption that you would submit, is as quiet and out-of-the-way as you could wish. It is in a turning off Fetter Lane, where you’ll see few other people than printers and caretakers. You’ll lodge18 with a woman, a Mrs. Postwhistle, who seems a very sensible person. She’ll board you and lodge you, and every Saturday you’ll receive a post-office order for six shillings, out of which you’ll find yourself in clothes. You can take with you sufficient to last you for the first six months, but no more. At the end of the year you can change if you like and go to another shop, or make your own arrangements with Mrs. Postwhistle. If all is settled, you go there to-morrow. You go out of this house to-morrow in any event.”
Mrs. Postwhistle was a large, placid lady of philosophic110 temperament. Hitherto the little grocer’s shop in Rolls Court, Fetter Lane, had been easy of management by her own unaided efforts; but the neighbourhood was rapidly changing. Other grocers’ shops were disappearing one by one, making way for huge blocks of buildings, where hundreds of iron presses, singing day and night, spread to the earth the song of the Mighty111 Pen. There were hours when the little shop could hardly accommodate its crowd of customers. Mrs. Postwhistle, of a bulk not to be moved quickly, had, after mature consideration, conquering a natural disinclination to change, decided to seek assistance.
Young Grindley, alighting from a four-wheeled cab in Fetter Lane, marched up the court, followed by a weak-kneed wastrel112 staggering under the weight of a small box. In the doorway113 of the little shop, young Grindley paused and raised his hat.
“Mrs. Postwhistle?”
The lady, from her chair behind the counter, rose slowly.
“I am Mr. Nathaniel Grindley, the new assistant.”
The weak-kneed wastrel let fall the box with a thud upon the floor. Mrs. Postwhistle looked her new assistant up and down.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Postwhistle. “Well, I shouldn’t ’ave felt instinctively114 it must be you, not if I’d ’ad to pick you out of a crowd. But if you tell me so, why, I suppose you are. Come in.”
The weak-kneed wastrel, receiving to his astonishment115 a shilling, departed.
Grindley senior had selected wisely. Mrs. Postwhistle’s theory was that although very few people in this world understood their own business, they understood it better than anyone else could understand it for them. If handsome, well-educated young gentlemen, who gave shillings to wastrels116, felt they wanted to become smart and capable grocers’ assistants, that was their affair. Her business was to teach them their work, and, for her own sake, to see that they did it. A month went by. Mrs. Postwhistle found her new assistant hard-working, willing, somewhat clumsy, but with a smile and a laugh that transformed mistakes, for which another would have been soundly rated, into welcome variations of the day’s monotony.
“If you were the sort of woman that cared to make your fortune,” said one William Clodd, an old friend of Mrs. Postwhistle’s, young Grindley having descended into the cellar to grind coffee, “I’d tell you what to do. Take a bun-shop somewhere in the neighbourhood of a girls’ school, and put that assistant of yours in the window. You’d do a roaring business.”
“There’s a mystery about ’im,” said Mrs. Postwhistle.
“Know what it is?”
“If I knew what it was, I shouldn’t be calling it a mystery,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle, who was a stylist in her way.
“Jones, the agent, sent ’im to me all in a ’urry. An assistant is what I really wanted, not an apprentice103; but the premium118 was good, and the references everything one could desire.”
“Grindley, Grindley,” murmured Clodd. “Any relation to the Sauce, I wonder?”
The question of a post office to meet its growing need had long been under discussion by the neighbourhood. Mrs. Postwhistle was approached upon the subject. Grindley junior, eager for anything that might bring variety into his new, cramped120 existence, undertook to qualify himself.
Within two months the arrangements were complete. Grindley junior divided his time between dispensing121 groceries and despatching telegrams and letters, and was grateful for the change.
Grindley junior’s mind was fixed upon the fashioning of a cornucopia122 to receive a quarter of a pound of moist. The customer, an extremely young lady, was seeking to hasten his operations by tapping incessantly123 with a penny on the counter. It did not hurry him; it only worried him. Grindley junior had not acquired facility in the fashioning of cornucopias—the vertex would invariably become unrolled at the last moment, allowing the contents to dribble124 out on to the floor or counter. Grindley junior was sweet-tempered as a rule, but when engaged upon the fashioning of a cornucopia, was irritable125.
“Hurry up, old man!” urged the extremely young lady. “I’ve got another appointment in less than half an hour.”
“Oh, damn the thing!” said Grindley junior, as the paper for the fourth time reverted126 to its original shape.
An older lady, standing behind the extremely young lady and holding a telegram-form in her hand, looked indignant.
“Temper, temper,” remarked the extremely young lady in reproving tone.
The fifth time was more successful. The extremely young lady went out, commenting upon the waste of time always resulting when boys were employed to do the work of men. The older lady, a haughty127 person, handed across her telegram with the request that it should be sent off at once.
Grindley junior took his pencil from his pocket and commenced to count.
“Digniori, not digniorus,” commented Grindley junior, correcting the word, “datur digniori, dative singular.” Grindley junior, still irritable from the struggle with the cornucopia, spoke128 sharply.
The haughty lady withdrew her eyes from a spot some ten miles beyond the back of the shop, where hitherto they had been resting, and fixed them for the first time upon Grindley junior.
“Thank you,” said the haughty lady.
Grindley junior looked up and immediately, to his annoyance129, felt that he was blushing. Grindley junior blushed easily—it annoyed him very much.
The haughty young lady also blushed. She did not often blush; when she did, she felt angry with herself.
“A shilling and a penny,” demanded Grindley junior.
The haughty young lady counted out the money and departed. Grindley junior, peeping from behind a tin of Abernethy biscuits, noticed that as she passed the window she turned and looked back. She was a very pretty, haughty lady. Grindley junior rather admired dark, level brows and finely cut, tremulous lips, especially when combined with a mass of soft, brown hair, and a rich olive complexion130 that flushed and paled as one looked at it.
“Might send that telegram off if you’ve nothing else to do, and there’s no particular reason for keeping it back,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle.
“It’s only just been handed in,” explained Grindley junior, somewhat hurt.
“You’ve been looking at it for the last five minutes by the clock,” said Mrs. Postwhistle.
Grindley junior sat down to the machine. The name and address of the sender was Helvetia Appleyard, Nevill’s Court.
Three days passed—singularly empty days they appeared to Grindley junior. On the fourth, Helvetia Appleyard had occasion to despatch74 another telegram—this time entirely131 in English.
“One-and-fourpence,” sighed Grindley junior.
“How did you come to know Latin?” inquired Miss Appleyard in quite a casual tone.
“I picked up a little at school. It was a phrase I happened to remember,” confessed Grindley junior, wondering why he should be feeling ashamed of himself.
“I am always sorry,” said Miss Appleyard, “when I see anyone content with the lower life whose talents might, perhaps, fit him for the higher.” Something about the tone and manner of Miss Appleyard reminded Grindley junior of his former Rector. Each seemed to have arrived by different roads at the same philosophical133 aloofness134 from the world, tempered by chastened interest in human phenomena135. “Would you like to try to raise yourself—to improve yourself—to educate yourself?”
An unseen little rogue136, who was enjoying himself immensely, whispered to Grindley junior to say nothing but “Yes,” he should.
“Will you let me help you?” asked Miss Appleyard. And the simple and heartfelt gratitude137 with which Grindley junior closed upon the offer proved to Miss Appleyard how true it is that to do good to others is the highest joy.
Miss Appleyard had come prepared for possible acceptance. “You had better begin with this,” thought Miss Appleyard. “I have marked the passages that you should learn by heart. Make a note of anything you do not understand, and I will explain it to you when—when next I happen to be passing.”
Grindley junior took the book—Bell’s Introduction to the Study of the Classics, for Use of Beginners—and held it between both hands. Its price was ninepence, but Grindley junior appeared to regard it as a volume of great value.
“It will be hard work at first,” Miss Appleyard warned him; “but you must persevere138. I have taken an interest in you; you must try not to disappoint me.”
And Miss Appleyard, feeling all the sensations of a Hypatia, departed, taking light with her and forgetting to pay for the telegram. Miss Appleyard belonged to the class that young ladies who pride themselves on being tiresomely139 ignorant and foolish sneer140 at as “blue-stockings”; that is to say, possessing brains, she had felt the necessity of using them. Solomon Appleyard, widower141, a sensible old gentleman, prospering142 in the printing business, and seeing no necessity for a woman regarding herself as nothing but a doll, a somewhat uninteresting plaything the newness once worn off, thankfully encouraged her. Miss Appleyard had returned from Girton wise in many things, but not in knowledge of the world, which knowledge, too early acquired, does not always make for good in young man or woman. A serious little virgin143, Miss Appleyard’s ambition was to help the human race. What more useful work could have come to her hand than the raising of this poor but intelligent young grocer’s assistant unto the knowledge and the love of higher things. That Grindley junior happened to be an exceedingly good-looking and charming young grocer’s assistant had nothing to do with the matter, so Miss Appleyard would have informed you. In her own reasoning she was convinced that her interest in him would have been the same had he been the least attractive of his sex. That there could be danger in such relationship never occurred to her.
Miss Appleyard, a convinced Radical144, could not conceive the possibility of a grocer’s assistant regarding the daughter of a well-to-do printer in any other light than that of a graciously condescending145 patron. That there could be danger to herself! you would have been sorry you had suggested the idea. The expression of lofty scorn would have made you feel yourself contemptible146.
Miss Appleyard’s judgment147 of mankind was justified148; no more promising pupil could have been selected. It was really marvellous the progress made by Grindley junior, under the tutelage of Helvetia Appleyard. His earnestness, his enthusiasm, it quite touched the heart of Helvetia Appleyard. There were many points, it is true, that puzzled Grindley junior. Each time the list of them grew longer. But when Helvetia Appleyard explained them, all became clear. She marvelled149 herself at her own wisdom, that in a moment made darkness luminous150 to this young man; his rapt attention while she talked, it was most encouraging. The boy must surely be a genius. To think that but for her intuition he might have remained wasted in a grocer’s shop! To rescue such a gem109 from oblivion, to polish it, was surely the duty of a conscientious151 Hypatia. Two visits—three visits a week to the little shop in Rolls Court were quite inadequate152, so many passages there were requiring elucidation153. London in early morning became their classroom: the great, wide, empty, silent streets; the mist-curtained parks, the silence broken only by the blackbirds’ amorous154 whistle, the thrushes’ invitation to delight; the old gardens, hidden behind narrow ways. Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia would rest upon a seat, no living creature within sight, save perhaps a passing policeman or some dissipated cat. Janet Helvetia would expound155. Nathaniel George, his fine eyes fixed on hers, seemed never to tire of drinking in her wisdom.
There were times when Janet Helvetia, to reassure156 herself as to the maidenly157 correctness of her behaviour, had to recall quite forcibly the fact that she was the daughter of Solomon Appleyard, owner of the big printing establishment; and he a simple grocer. One day, raised a little in the social scale, thanks to her, Nathaniel George would marry someone in his own rank of life. Reflecting upon the future of Nathaniel George, Janet Helvetia could not escape a shade of sadness. It was difficult to imagine precisely the wife she would have chosen for Nathaniel George. She hoped he would do nothing foolish. Rising young men so often marry wives that hamper43 rather than help them.
One Sunday morning in late autumn, they walked and talked in the shady garden of Lincoln’s Inn. Greek they thought it was they had been talking; as a matter of fact, a much older language. A young gardener was watering flowers, and as they passed him he grinned. It was not an offensive grin, rather a sympathetic grin; but Miss Appleyard didn’t like being grinned at. What was there to grin at? Her personal appearance? some gaucherie in her dress? Impossible. No lady in all St. Dunstan was ever more precise. She glanced at her companion: a clean-looking, well-groomed, well-dressed youth. Suddenly it occurred to Miss Appleyard that she and Grindley junior were holding each other’s hand. Miss Appleyard was justly indignant.
“How dare you!” said Miss Appleyard. “I am exceedingly angry with you. How dare you!”
“Leave me this minute!” commanded Miss Appleyard.
Instead of which, Grindley junior seized both her hands.
“I love you! I adore you! I worship you!” poured forth young Grindley, forgetful of all Miss Appleyard had ever told him concerning the folly of tautology159.
“You had no right,” said Miss Appleyard.
“I couldn’t help it,” pleaded young Grindley. “And that isn’t the worst.”
Miss Appleyard paled visibly. For a grocer’s assistant to dare to fall in love with her, especially after all the trouble she had taken with him! What could be worse?
“I’m not a grocer,” continued young Grindley, deeply conscious of crime. “I mean, not a real grocer.”
And Grindley junior then and there made a clean breast of the whole sad, terrible tale of shameless deceit, practised by the greatest villain160 the world had ever produced, upon the noblest and most beautiful maiden that ever turned grim London town into a fairy city of enchanted161 ways.
Not at first could Miss Appleyard entirely grasp it; not till hours later, when she sat alone in her own room, where, fortunately for himself, Grindley junior was not, did the whole force and meaning of the thing come home to her. It was a large room, taking up half of the top story of the big Georgian house in Nevill’s Court; but even as it was, Miss Appleyard felt cramped.
“For a year—for nearly a whole year,” said Miss Appleyard, addressing the bust13 of William Shakespeare, “have I been slaving my life out, teaching him elementary Latin and the first five books of Euclid!”
As it has been remarked, it was fortunate for Grindley junior he was out of reach. The bust of William Shakespeare maintained its irritating aspect of benign162 philosophy.
“I suppose I should,” mused Miss Appleyard, “if he had told me at first—as he ought to have told me—of course I should naturally have had nothing more to do with him. I suppose,” mused Miss Appleyard, “a man in love, if he is really in love, doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. I suppose one ought to make allowances. But, oh! when I think of it—”
And then Grindley junior’s guardian angel must surely have slipped into the room, for Miss Appleyard, irritated beyond endurance at the philosophical indifference163 of the bust of William Shakespeare, turned away from it, and as she did so, caught sight of herself in the looking-glass. Miss Appleyard approached the glass a little nearer. A woman’s hair is never quite as it should be. Miss Appleyard, standing before the glass, began, she knew not why, to find reasons excusing Grindley junior. After all, was not forgiveness an excellent thing in woman? None of us are quite perfect. The guardian angel of Grindley junior seized the opportunity.
That evening Solomon Appleyard sat upright in his chair, feeling confused. So far as he could understand it, a certain young man, a grocer’s assistant, but not a grocer’s assistant—but that, of course, was not his fault, his father being an old brute—had behaved most abominably164; but not, on reflection, as badly as he might have done, and had acted on the whole very honourably165, taking into consideration the fact that one supposed he could hardly help it. Helvetia was, of course, very indignant with him, but on the other hand, did not quite see what else she could have done, she being not at all sure whether she really cared for him or whether she didn’t; that everything had been quite proper and would not have happened if she had known it; that everything was her fault, except most things, which weren’t; but that of the two she blamed herself entirely, seeing that she could not have guessed anything of the kind. And did he, Solomon Appleyard, think that she ought to be very angry and never marry anybody else, or was she justified in overlooking it and engaging herself to the only man she felt she could ever love?
“You mustn’t think, Dad, that I meant to deceive you. I should have told you at the beginning—you know I would—if it hadn’t all happened so suddenly.”
“Let me see,” said Solomon Appleyard, “did you tell me his name, or didn’t you?”
“Nathaniel,” said Miss Appleyard. “Didn’t I mention it?”
“Don’t happen to know his surname, do you,” inquired her father.
“Grindley,” explained Miss Appleyard—“the son of Grindley, the Sauce man.”
Miss Appleyard experienced one of the surprises of her life. Never before to her recollection had her father thwarted166 a single wish of her life. A widower for the last twelve years, his chief delight had been to humour her. His voice, as he passionately167 swore that never with his consent should his daughter marry the son of Hezekiah Grindley, sounded strange to her. Pleadings, even tears, for the first time in her life proved fruitless.
Here was a pretty kettle of fish! That Grindley junior should defy his own parent, risk possibly the loss of his inheritance, had seemed to both a not improper168 proceeding169. When Nathaniel George had said with fine enthusiasm: “Let him keep his money if he will; I’ll make my own way; there isn’t enough money in the world to pay for losing you!” Janet Helvetia, though she had expressed disapproval170 of such unfilial attitude, had in secret sympathised. But for her to disregard the wishes of her own doting171 father was not to be thought of. What was to be done?
Perhaps one Peter Hope, residing in Gough Square hard by, might help young folks in sore dilemma172 with wise counsel. Peter Hope, editor and part proprietor173 of Good Humour, one penny weekly, was much esteemed174 by Solomon Appleyard, printer and publisher of aforesaid paper.
“A good fellow, old Hope,” Solomon would often impress upon his managing clerk. “Don’t worry him more than you can help; things will improve. We can trust him.”
Peter Hope sat at his desk, facing Miss Appleyard. Grindley junior sat on the cushioned seat beneath the middle window. Good Humour’s sub-editor stood before the fire, her hands behind her back.
The case appeared to Peter Hope to be one of exceeding difficulty.
“Of course,” explained Miss Appleyard, “I shall never marry without my father’s consent.”
Peter Hope thought the resolution most proper.
“On the other hand,” continued Miss Appleyard, “nothing shall induce me to marry a man I do not love.” Miss Appleyard thought the probabilities were that she would end by becoming a female missionary175.
Peter Hope’s experience had led him to the conclusion that young people sometimes changed their mind.
The opinion of the House, clearly though silently expressed, was that Peter Hope’s experience, as regarded this particular case, counted for nothing.
“I shall go straight to the Governor,” explained Grindley junior, “and tell him that I consider myself engaged for life to Miss Appleyard. I know what will happen—I know the sort of idea he has got into his head. He will disown me, and I shall go off to Africa.”
Peter Hope was unable to see how Grindley junior’s disappearance176 into the wilds of Africa was going to assist the matter under discussion.
Grindley junior’s view was that the wilds of Africa would afford a fitting background to the passing away of a blighted177 existence.
Peter Hope had a suspicion that Grindley junior had for the moment parted company with that sweet reasonableness that otherwise, so Peter Hope felt sure, was Grindley junior’s guiding star.
“I mean it, sir,” reasserted Grindley junior. “I am—” Grindley junior was about to add “well educated”; but divining that education was a topic not pleasing at the moment to the ears of Helvetia Appleyard, had tact178 enough to substitute “not a fool. I can earn my own living; and I should like to get away.”
“It seems to me—” said the sub-editor.
“Now, Tommy—I mean Jane,” warned her Peter Hope. He always called her Jane in company, unless he was excited. “I know what you are going to say. I won’t have it.”
“I was only going to say—” urged the sub-editor in tone of one suffering injustice.
“I quite know what you were going to say,” retorted Peter hotly. “I can see it by your chin. You are going to take their part—and suggest their acting179 undutifully towards their parents.”
“I wasn’t,” returned the sub-editor. “I was only—”
“You were,” persisted Peter. “I ought not to have allowed you to be present. I might have known you would interfere180.”
“—going to say we are in want of some help in the office. You know we are. And that if Mr. Grindley would be content with a small salary—”
“—there would be no need for his going to Africa.”
“And how would that help us?” demanded Peter. “Even if the boy were so—so headstrong, so unfilial as to defy his father, who has worked for him all these years, how would that remove the obstacle of Mr. Appleyard’s refusal?”
“Why, don’t you see—” explained the sub-editor.
“No, I don’t,” snapped Peter.
“If, on his declaring to his father that nothing will ever induce him to marry any other woman but Miss Appleyard, his father disowns him, as he thinks it likely—”
“A dead cert!” was Grindley junior’s conviction.
“Very well; he is no longer old Grindley’s son, and what possible objection can Mr. Appleyard have to him then?”
Peter Hope arose and expounded182 at length and in suitable language the folly and uselessness of the scheme.
But what chance had ever the wisdom of Age against the enthusiasm of Youth, reaching for its object. Poor Peter, expostulating, was swept into the conspiracy183. Grindley junior the next morning stood before his father in the private office in High Holborn.
“I am sorry, sir,” said Grindley junior, “if I have proved a disappointment to you.”
“Damn your sympathy!” said Grindley senior. “Keep it till you are asked for it.”
“I hope we part friends, sir,” said Grindley junior, holding out his hand.
“Why do you irate184 me?” asked Grindley senior. “I have thought of nothing but you these five-and-twenty years.”
“I don’t, sir,” answered Grindley junior. “I can’t say I love you. It did not seem to me you—you wanted it. But I like you, sir, and I respect you. And—and I’m sorry to have to hurt you, sir.”
“And you are determined185 to give up all your prospects186, all the money, for the sake of this—this girl?”
“It doesn’t seem like giving up anything, sir,” replied Grindley junior, simply.
“It isn’t so much as I thought it was going to be,” said the old man, after a pause. “Perhaps it is for the best. I might have been more obstinate187 if things had been going all right. The Lord has chastened me.”
“Isn’t the business doing well, Dad?” asked the young man, with sorrow in his voice.
“What’s it got to do with you?” snapped his father. “You’ve cut yourself adrift from it. You leave me now I am going down.”
Grindley junior, not knowing what to say, put his arms round the little old man.
And in this way Tommy’s brilliant scheme fell through and came to naught188. Instead, old Grindley visited once again the big house in Nevill’s Court, and remained long closeted with old Solomon in the office on the second floor. It was late in the evening when Solomon opened the door and called upstairs to Janet Helvetia to come down.
“I used to know you long ago,” said Hezekiah Grindley, rising. “You were quite a little girl then.”
Later, the troublesome Sauce disappeared entirely, cut out by newer flavours. Grindley junior studied the printing business. It almost seemed as if old Appleyard had been waiting but for this. Some six months later they found him dead in his counting-house. Grindley junior became the printer and publisher of Good Humour.
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1
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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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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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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trickiness
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| n.欺骗；狡猾；棘手；微妙 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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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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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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50
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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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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53
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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54
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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55
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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58
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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61
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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62
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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63
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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64
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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65
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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66
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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67
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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68
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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69
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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70
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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71
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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72
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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73
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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74
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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75
stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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76
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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77
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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78
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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79
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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80
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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81
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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82
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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83
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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84
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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85
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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86
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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87
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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88
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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89
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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90
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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91
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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92
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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93
snobbishness
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| 势利； 势利眼 | |
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94
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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95
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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96
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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97
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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98
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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99
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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100
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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101
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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102
apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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104
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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105
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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107
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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108
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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109
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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110
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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111
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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112
wastrel
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| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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113
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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114
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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115
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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116
wastrels
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| n.无用的人，废物( wastrel的名词复数 )；浪子 | |
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117
raffle
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| n.废物，垃圾，抽奖售卖；v.以抽彩出售 | |
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118
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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119
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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120
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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121
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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122
cornucopia
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| n.象征丰收的羊角 | |
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123
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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124
dribble
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| v.点滴留下，流口水；n.口水 | |
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125
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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126
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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127
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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128
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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129
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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130
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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131
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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132
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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133
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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134
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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135
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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136
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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137
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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138
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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139
tiresomely
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| adj. 令人厌倦的，讨厌的 | |
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140
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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141
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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142
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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143
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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144
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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145
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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146
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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147
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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148
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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149
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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151
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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152
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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153
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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154
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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155
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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156
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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157
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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158
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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159
tautology
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| n.无谓的重复；恒真命题 | |
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160
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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161
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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162
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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163
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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164
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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165
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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166
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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167
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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168
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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169
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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170
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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171
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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172
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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173
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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174
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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175
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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176
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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177
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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178
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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179
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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180
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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181
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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182
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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184
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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185
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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186
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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187
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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188
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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