We took no bridal trip; our modesty12, screened by the peaceful obscurity of our station, and the pleasant isolation13 of our circumstances, did not exact that additional precaution. We repaired at once to a small house I had taken in the faubourg nearest to that part of the city where the scene of our avocations14 lay.
Three or four hours after the wedding ceremony, Frances, divested15 of her bridal snow, and attired in a pretty lilac gown of warmer materials, a piquant16 black silk apron17, and a lace collar with some finishing decoration of lilac ribbon, was kneeling on the carpet of a neatly18 furnished though not spacious19 parlour, arranging on the shelves of a chiffoniere some books, which I handed to her from the table. It was snowing fast out of doors; the afternoon had turned out wild and cold; the leaden sky seemed full of drifts, and the street was already ankle-deep in the white downfall. Our fire burned bright, our new habitation looked brilliantly clean and fresh, the furniture was all arranged, and there were but some articles of glass, china, books, &c., to put in order. Frances found in this business occupation till tea-time, and then, after I had distinctly instructed her how to make a cup of tea in rational English style, and after she had got over the dismay occasioned by seeing such an extravagant20 amount of material put into the pot, she administered to me a proper British repast, at which there wanted neither candies nor urn1, fire-light nor comfort.
Our week’s holiday glided21 by, and we readdressed ourselves to labour. Both my wife and I began in good earnest with the notion that we were working people, destined22 to earn our bread by exertion23, and that of the most assiduous kind. Our days were thoroughly24 occupied; me used to part every morning at eight o’clock, and not meet again till five P.M.; but into what sweet rest did the turmoil25 of each busy day decline! Looking down the vista26, of memory, I see the evenings passed in that little parlour like a long string of rubies27 circling the dusk brow of the past. Unvaried were they as each cut gem28, and like each gem brilliant and burning.
A year and a half passed. One morning (it was a fete, and we had the day to ourselves) Frances said to me, with a suddenness peculiar29 to her when she had been thinking long on a subject, and at last, having come to a conclusion, wished to test its soundness by the touchstone of my judgment:—
“I don’t work enough.”
“What now?” demanded I, looking up from my coffee, which I had been deliberately30 stirring while enjoying, in anticipation31, a walk I proposed to take with Frances, that fine summer day (it was June), to a certain farmhouse32 in the country, where we were to dine. “What now?” and I saw at once, in the serious ardour of her face, a project of vital importance.
“I am not satisfied” returned she: “you are now earning eight thousand francs a year” (it was true; my efforts, punctuality, the fame of my pupils’ progress, the publicity33 of my station, had so far helped me on), “while I am still at my miserable34 twelve hundred francs. I can do better, and I will.”
“You work as long and as diligently35 as I do, Frances.”
“Yes, monsieur, but I am not working in the right way, and I am convinced of it.”
“You wish to change — you have a plan for progress in your mind; go and put on your bonnet36; and, while we take our walk, you shall tell me of it.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
She went — as docile37 as a well-trained child; she was a curious mixture of tractability38 and firmness: I sat thinking about her, and wondering what her plan could be, when she re-entered.
“Monsieur, I have given Minnie” (our bonne) “leave to go out too, as it is so very fine; so will you be kind enough to lock the door, and take the key with you?”
“Kiss me, Mrs. Crimsworth,” was my not very apposite reply; but she looked so engaging in her light summer dress and little cottage bonnet, and her manner in speaking to me was then, as always, so unaffectedly and suavely39 respectful, that my heart expanded at the sight of her, and a kiss seemed necessary to content its importunity40.
“There, monsieur.”
“Why do you always call me ‘Monsieur?’ Say, ‘William.’”
“I cannot pronounce your W; besides, ‘Monsieur’ belongs to you; I like it best.”
Minnie having departed in clean cap and smart shawl, we, too, set out, leaving the house solitary41 and silent — silent, at least, but for the ticking of the clock. We were soon clear of Brussels; the fields received us, and then the lanes, remote from carriage-resounding chaussees. Ere long we came upon a nook, so rural, green, and secluded42, it might have been a spot in some pastoral English province; a bank of short and mossy grass, under a hawthorn44, offered a seat too tempting45 to be declined; we took it, and when we had admired and examined some English-looking wild-flowers growing at our feet, I recalled Frances’ attention and my own to the topic touched on at breakfast.
“What was her plan?” A natural one — the next step to be mounted by us, or, at least, by her, if she wanted to rise in her profession. She proposed to begin a school. We already had the means for commencing on a careful scale, having lived greatly within our income. We possessed46, too, by this time, an extensive and eligible47 connection, in the sense advantageous48 to our business; for, though our circle of visiting acquaintance continued as limited as ever, we were now widely known in schools and families as teachers. When Frances had developed her plan, she intimated, in some closing sentences, her hopes for the future. If we only had good health and tolerable success, me might, she was sure, in time realize an independency; and that, perhaps, before we were too old to enjoy it; then both she and I would rest; and what was to hinder us from going to live in England? England was still her Promised Land.
I put no obstacle in her way; raised no objection; I knew she was not one who could live quiescent49 and inactive, or even comparatively inactive. Duties she must have to fulfil, and important duties; work to do — and exciting, absorbing, profitable work; strong faculties50 stirred in her frame, and they demanded full nourishment51, free exercise: mine was not the hand ever to starve or cramp52 them; no, I delighted in offering them sustenance53, and in clearing them wider space for action.
“You have conceived a plan, Frances,” said I, “and a good plan; execute it; you have my free consent, and wherever and whenever my assistance is wanted, ask and you shall have.”
Frances’ eyes thanked me almost with tears; just a sparkle or two, soon brushed away; she possessed herself of my hand too, and held it for some time very close clasped in both her own, but she said no more than “Thank you, monsieur.”
We passed a divine day, and came home late, lighted by a full summer moon.
Ten years rushed now upon me with dusty, vibrating, unresting wings; years of bustle54, action, unslacked endeavour; years in which I and my wife, having launched ourselves in the full career of progress, as progress whirls on in European capitals, scarcely knew repose55, were strangers to amusement, never thought of indulgence, and yet, as our course ran side by side, as we marched hand in hand, we neither murmured, repented56, nor faltered57. Hope indeed cheered us; health kept us up; harmony of thought and deed smoothed many difficulties, and finally, success bestowed58 every now and then encouraging reward on diligence. Our school became one of the most popular in Brussels, and as by degrees we raised our terms and elevated our system of education, our choice of pupils grew more select, and at length included the children of the best families in Belgium. We had too an excellent connection in England, first opened by the unsolicited recommendation of Mr. Hunsden, who having been over, and having abused me for my prosperity in set terms, went back, and soon after sent a leash59 of young —-shire heiresses — his cousins; as he said “to be polished off by Mrs. Crimsworth.”
As to this same Mrs. Crimsworth, in one sense she was become another woman, though in another she remained unchanged. So different was she under different circumstances. I seemed to possess two wives. The faculties of her nature, already disclosed when I married her, remained fresh and fair; but other faculties shot up strong, branched out broad, and quite altered the external character of the plant. Firmness, activity, and enterprise, covered with grave foliage60, poetic61 feeling and fervour; but these flowers were still there, preserved pure and dewy under the umbrage62 of later growth and hardier63 nature: perhaps I only in the world knew the secret of their existence, but to me they were ever ready to yield an exquisite64 fragrance65 and present a beauty as chaste66 as radiant.
In the daytime my house and establishment were conducted by Madame the directress, a stately and elegant woman, bearing much anxious thought on her large brow; much calculated dignity in her serious mien67: immediately after breakfast I used to part with this lady; I went to my college, she to her schoolroom; returning for an hour in the course of the day, I found her always in class, intently occupied; silence, industry, observance, attending on her presence. When not actually teaching, she was overlooking and guiding by eye and gesture; she then appeared vigilant68 and solicitous69. When communicating instruction, her aspect was more animated70; she seemed to feel a certain enjoyment71 in the occupation. The language in which she addressed her pupils, though simple and unpretending, was never trite72 or dry; she did not speak from routine formulas — she made her own phrases as she went on, and very nervous and impressive phrases they frequently were; often, when elucidating73 favourite points of history, or geography, she would wax genuinely eloquent74 in her earnestness. Her pupils, or at least the elder and more intelligent amongst them, recognized well the language of a superior mind; they felt too, and some of them received the impression of elevated sentiments; there was little fondling between mistress and girls, but some of Frances’ pupils in time learnt to love her sincerely, all of them beheld75 her with respect; her general demeanour towards them was serious; sometimes benignant when they pleased her with their progress and attention, always scrupulously77 refined and considerate. In cases where reproof78 or punishment was called for she was usually forbearing enough; but if any took advantage of that forbearance, which sometimes happened, a sharp, sudden and lightning-like severity taught the culprit the extent of the mistake committed. Sometimes a gleam of tenderness softened79 her eyes and manner, but this was rare; only when a pupil was sick, or when it pined after home, or in the case of some little motherless child, or of one much poorer than its companions, whose scanty81 wardrobe and mean appointments brought on it the contempt of the jewelled young countesses and silk-clad misses. Over such feeble fledglings the directress spread a wing of kindliest protection: it was to their bedside she came at night to tuck them warmly in; it was after them she looked in winter to see that they always had a comfortable seat by the stove; it was they who by turns were summoned to the salon82 to receive some little dole83 of cake or fruit — to sit on a footstool at the fireside — to enjoy home comforts, and almost home liberty, for an evening together — to be spoken to gently and softly, comforted, encouraged, cherished — and when bedtime came, dismissed with a kiss of true tenderness. As to Julia and Georgiana G—-, daughters of an English baronet, as to Mdlle. Mathilde de —— heiress of a Belgian count, and sundry85 other children of patrician86 race, the directress was careful of them as of the others, anxious for their progress, as for that of the rest — but it never seemed to enter her head to distinguish then by a mark of preference; one girl of noble blood she loved dearly — a young Irish baroness87 — lady Catherine —-; but it was for her enthusiastic heart and clever head, for her generosity88 and her genius, the title and rank went for nothing.
My afternoons were spent also in college, with the exception of an hour that my wife daily exacted of me for her establishment, and with which she would not dispense89. She said that I must spend that time amongst her pupils to learn their characters, to be au courant with everything that was passing in the house, to become interested in what interested her, to be able to give her my opinion on knotty90 points when she required it, and this she did constantly, never allowing my interest in the pupils to fall asleep, and never making any change of importance without my cognizance and consent. She delighted to sit by me when I gave my lessons (lessons in literature), her hands folded on her knee, the most fixedly91 attentive92 of any present. She rarely addressed me in class; when she did it was with an air of marked deference93; it was her pleasure, her joy to make me still the master in all things.
At six o’clock P.M. my daily labours ceased. I then came home, for my home was my heaven; ever at that hour, as I entered our private sitting-room94, the lady-directress vanished from before my eyes, and Frances Henri, my own little lace-mender, was magically restored to my arms; much disappointed she would have been if her master had not been as constant to the tryste as herself, and if his truthfull kiss had not been prompt to answer her soft, “Bon soir, monsieur.”
Talk French to me she would, and many a punishment she has had for her wilfulness95. I fear the choice of chastisement96 must have been injudicious, for instead of correcting the fault, it seemed to encourage its renewal98. Our evenings were our own; that recreation was necessary to refresh our strength for the due discharge of our duties; sometimes we spent them all in conversation, and my young Genevese, now that she was thoroughly accustomed to her English professor, now that she loved him too absolutely to fear him much, reposed100 in him a confidence so unlimited101 that topics of conversation could no more be wanting with him than subjects for communion with her own heart. In those moments, happy as a bird with its mate, she would show me what she had of vivacity102, of mirth, of originality103 in her well-dowered nature. She would show, too, some stores of raillery, of “malice,” and would vex104, tease, pique105 me sometimes about what she called my “bizarreries anglaises,” my “caprices insulaires,” with a wild and witty106 wickedness that made a perfect white demon107 of her while it lasted. This was rare, however, and the elfish freak was always short: sometimes when driven a little hard in the war of words — for her tongue did ample justice to the pith, the point, the delicacy108 of her native French, in which language she always attacked me — I used to turn upon her with my old decision, and arrest bodily the sprite that teased me. Vain idea! no sooner had I grasped hand or arm than the elf was gone; the provocative109 smile quenched110 in the expressive111 brown eyes, and a ray of gentle homage112 shone under the lids in its place. I had seized a mere113 vexing114 fairy, and found a submissive and supplicating115 little mortal woman in my arms. Then I made her get a book, and read English to me for an hour by way of penance116. I frequently dosed her with Wordsworth in this way, and Wordsworth steadied her soon; she had a difficulty in comprehending his deep, serene117, and sober mind; his language, too, was not facile to her; she had to ask questions, to sue for explanations, to be like a child and a novice118, and to acknowledge me as her senior and director. Her instinct instantly penetrated119 and possessed the meaning of more ardent120 and imaginative writers. Byron excited her; Scott she loved; Wordsworth only she puzzled at, wondered over, and hesitated to pronounce an opinion upon.
But whether she read to me, or talked with me; whether she teased me in French, or entreated121 me in English; whether she jested with wit, or inquired with deference; narrated122 with interest, or listened with attention; whether she smiled at me or on me, always at nine o’clock I was left abandoned. She would extricate123 herself from my arms, quit my side, take her lamp, and be gone. Her mission was upstairs; I have followed her sometimes and watched her. First she opened the door of the dortoir (the pupils’ chamber124), noiselessly she glided up the long room between the two rows of white beds, surveyed all the sleepers125; if any were wakeful, especially if any were sad, spoke84 to them and soothed126 them; stood some minutes to ascertain127 that all was safe and tranquil128; trimmed the watch-light which burned in the apartment all night, then withdrew, closing the door behind her without sound. Thence she glided to our own chamber; it had a little cabinet within; this she sought; there, too, appeared a bed, but one, and that a very small one; her face (the night I followed and observed her) changed as she approached this tiny couch; from grave it warmed to earnest; she shaded with one hand the lamp she held in the other; she bent129 above the pillow and hung over a child asleep; its slumber130 (that evening at least, and usually, I believe) was sound and calm; no tear wet its dark eyelashes; no fever heated its round cheek; no ill dream discomposed its budding features. Frances gazed, she did not smile, and yet the deepest delight filled, flushed her face; feeling pleasurable, powerful, worked in her whole frame, which still was motionless. I saw, indeed, her heart heave, her lips were a little apart, her breathing grew somewhat hurried; the child smiled; then at last the mother smiled too, and said in low soliloquy, “God bless my little son!” She stooped closer over him, breathed the softest of kisses on his brow, covered his minute hand with hers, and at last started up and came away. I regained131 the parlour before her. Entering it two minutes later she said quietly as she put down her extinguished lamp —
“Victor rests well: he smiled in his sleep; he has your smile, monsieur.”
The said Victor was of course her own boy, born in the third year of our marriage: his Christian132 name had been given him in honour of M. Vandenhuten, who continued always our trusty and well-beloved friend.
Frances was then a good and dear wife to me, because I was to her a good, just, and faithful husband. What she would have been had she married a harsh, envious133, careless man — a profligate134, a prodigal135, a drunkard, or a tyrant136 — is another question, and one which I once propounded137 to her. Her answer, given after some reflection, was —
“I should have tried to endure the evil or cure it for awhile; and when I found it intolerable and incurable138, I should have left my torturer suddenly and silently.”
“And if law or might had forced you back again?”
“What, to a drunkard, a profligate, a selfish spendthrift, an unjust fool?”
“Yes.”
“I would have gone back; again assured myself whether or not his vice11 and my misery139 were capable of remedy; and if not, have left him again.”
“And if again forced to return, and compelled to abide140?”
“I don’t know,” she said, hastily. “Why do you ask me, monsieur?”
I would have an answer, because I saw a strange kind of spirit in her eye, whose voice I determined141 to waken.
“Monsieur, if a wife’s nature loathes142 that of the man she is wedded143 to, marriage must be slavery. Against slavery all right thinkers revolt, and though torture be the price of resistance, torture must be dared: though the only road to freedom lie through the gates of death, those gates must be passed; for freedom is indispensable. Then, monsieur, I would resist as far as my strength permitted; when that strength failed I should be sure of a refuge. Death would certainly screen me both from bad laws and their consequences.”
“Voluntary death, Frances?”
“No, monsieur. I’d have courage to live out every throe of anguish144 fate assigned me, and principle to contend for justice and liberty to the last.”
“I see you would have made no patient Grizzle. And now, supposing fate had merely assigned you the lot of an old maid, what then? How would you have liked celibacy145?”
“Not much, certainly. An old maid’s life must doubtless be void and vapid146 — her heart strained and empty. Had I been an old maid I should have spent existence in efforts to fill the void and ease the aching. I should have probably failed, and died weary and disappointed, despised and of no account, like other single women. But I’m not an old maid,” she added quickly. “I should have been, though, but for my master. I should never have suited any man but Professor Crimsworth — no other gentleman, French, English, or Belgian, would have thought me amiable147 or handsome; and I doubt whether I should have cared for the approbation148 of many others, if I could have obtained it. Now, I have been Professor Crimsworth’s wife eight years, and what is he in my eyes? Is he honourable149, beloved —-?” She stopped, her voice was cut off, her eyes suddenly suffused150. She and I were standing151 side by side; she threw her arms round me, and strained me to her heart with passionate152 earnestness: the energy of her whole being glowed in her dark and then dilated153 eye, and crimsoned154 her animated cheek; her look and movement were like inspiration; in one there was such a flash, in the other such a power. Half an hour afterwards, when she had become calm, I asked where all that wild vigour155 was gone which had transformed her ere-while and made her glance so thrilling and ardent — her action so rapid and strong. She looked down, smiling softly and passively:—
“I cannot tell where it is gone, monsieur,” said she, “but I know that, whenever it is wanted, it will come back again.”
Behold156 us now at the close of the ten years, and we have realized an independency. The rapidity with which we attained157 this end had its origin in three reasons:— Firstly, we worked so hard for it; secondly158, we had no incumbrances to delay success; thirdly, as soon as we had capital to invest, two well-skilled counsellors, one in Belgium, one in England, viz. Vandenhuten and Hunsden, gave us each a word of advice as to the sort of investment to be chosen. The suggestion made was judicious97; and, being promptly159 acted on, the result proved gainful — I need not say how gainful; I communicated details to Messrs. Vandenhuten and Hunsden; nobody else can be interested in hearing them.
Accounts being wound up, and our professional connection disposed of, we both agreed that, as mammon was not our master, nor his service that in which we desired to spend our lives; as our desires were temperate160, and our habits unostentatious, we had now abundance to live on — abundance to leave our boy; and should besides always have a balance on hand, which, properly managed by right sympathy and unselfish activity, might help philanthropy in her enterprises, and put solace161 into the hand of charity.
To England we now resolved to take wing; we arrived there safely; Frances realized the dream of her lifetime. me spent a whole summer and autumn in travelling from end to end of the British islands, and afterwards passed a winter in London. Then we thought it high time to fix our residence. My heart yearned162 towards my native county of —— shire; and it is in —— shire I now live; it is in the library of my own home I am now writing. That home lies amid a sequestered163 and rather hilly region, thirty miles removed from X——; a region whose verdure the smoke of mills has not yet sullied, whose waters still run pure, whose swells164 of moorland preserve in some ferny glens that lie between them the very primal165 wildness of nature, her moss43, her bracken, her blue-bells, her scents166 of reed and heather, her free and fresh breezes. My house is a picturesque167 and not too spacious dwelling168, with low and long windows, a trellised and leaf-veiled porch over the front door, just now, on this summer evening, looking like an arch of roses and ivy169. The garden is chiefly laid out in lawn, formed of the sod of the hills, with herbage short and soft as moss, full of its own peculiar flowers, tiny and starlike, imbedded in the minute embroidery170 of their fine foliage. At the bottom of the sloping garden there is a wicket, which opens upon a lane as green as the lawn, very long, shady, and little frequented; on the turf of this lane generally appear the first daisies of spring — whence its name — Daisy Lane; serving also as a distinction to the house.
It terminates (the lane I mean) in a valley full of wood; which wood — chiefly oak and beech171 — spreads shadowy about the vicinage of a very old mansion172, one of the Elizabethan structures, much larger, as well as more antique than Daisy Lane, the property and residence of an individual familiar both to me and to the reader. Yes, in Hunsden Wood — for so are those glades173 and that grey building, with many gables and more chimneys, named — abides175 Yorke Hunsden, still unmarried; never, I suppose, having yet found his ideal, though I know at least a score of young ladies within a circuit of forty miles, who would be willing to assist him in the search.
The estate fell to him by the death of his father, five years since; he has given up trade, after having made by it sufficient to pay off some incumbrances by which the family heritage was burdened. I say he abides here, but I do not think he is resident above five months out of the twelve; he wanders from land to land, and spends some part of each winter in town: he frequently brings visitors with him when he comes to —-shire, and these visitors are often foreigners; sometimes he has a German metaphysician, sometimes a French savant; he had once a dissatisfied and savage-looking Italian, who neither sang nor played, and of whom Frances affirmed that he had “tout l’air d’un conspirateur.”
What English guests Hunsden invites, are all either men of Birmingham or Manchester — hard men, seemingly knit up in one thought, whose talk is of free trade. The foreign visitors, too, are politicians; they take a wider theme — European progress — the spread of liberal sentiments over the Continent; on their mental tablets, the names of Russia, Austria, and the Pope, are inscribed176 in red ink. I have heard some of them talk vigorous sense — yea, I have been present at polyglot177 discussions in the old, oak-lined dining-room at Hunsden Wood, where a singular insight was given of the sentiments entertained by resolute178 minds respecting old northern despotisms, and old southern superstitions179: also, I have heard much twaddle, enounced chiefly in French and Deutsch, but let that pass. Hunsden himself tolerated the drivelling theorists; with the practical men he seemed leagued hand and heart.
When Hunsden is staying alone at the Wood (which seldom happens) he generally finds his way two or three times a week to Daisy Lane. He has a philanthropic motive180 for coming to smoke his cigar in our porch on summer evenings; he says he does it to kill the earwigs amongst the roses, with which insects, but for his benevolent181 fumigations, he intimates we should certainly be overrun. On wet days, too, we are almost sure to see him; according to him, it gets on time to work me into lunacy by treading on my mental corns, or to force from Mrs. Crimsworth revelations of the dragon within her, by insulting the memory of Hofer and Tell.
We also go frequently to Hunsden Wood, and both I and Frances relish182 a visit there highly. If there are other guests, their characters are an interesting study; their conversation is exciting and strange; the absence of all local narrowness both in the host and his chosen society gives a metropolitan183, almost a cosmopolitan184 freedom and largeness to the talk. Hunsden himself is a polite man in his own house: he has, when he chooses to employ it, an inexhaustible power of entertaining guests; his very mansion too is interesting, the rooms look storied, the passages legendary185, the low-ceiled chambers186, with their long rows of diamond-paned lattices, have an old-world, haunted air: in his travels he hall collected stores of articles of vertu, which are well and tastefully disposed in his panelled or tapestried187 rooms: I have seen there one or two pictures, and one or two pieces of statuary which many an aristocratic connoisseur188 might have envied.
When I and Frances have dined and spent an evening with Hunsden, he often walks home with us. His wood is large, and some of the timber is old and of huge growth. There are winding189 ways in it which, pursued through glade174 and brake, make the walk back to Daisy Lane a somewhat long one. Many a time, when we have had the benefit of a full moon, and when the night has been mild and balmy, when, moreover, a certain nightingale has been singing, and a certain stream, hid in alders190, has lent the song a soft accompaniment, the remote church-bell of the one hamlet in a district of ten miles, has tolled191 midnight ere the lord of the wood left us at our porch. Free-flowing was his talk at such hours, and far more quiet and gentle than in the day-time and before numbers. He would then forget politics and discussion, and would dwell on the past times of his house, on his family history, on himself and his own feelings — subjects each and all invested with a peculiar zest192, for they were each and all unique. One glorious night in June, after I had been taunting193 him about his ideal bride and asking him when she would come and graft194 her foreign beauty on the old Hunsden oak, he answered suddenly —
“You call her ideal; but see, here is her shadow; and there cannot be a shadow without a substance.”
He had led us from the depth of the “winding way” into a glade from whence the beeches195 withdrew, leaving it open to the sky; an unclouded moon poured her light into this glade, and Hunsden held out under her beam an ivory miniature.
Frances, with eagerness, examined it first; then she gave it to me — still, however, pushing her little face close to mine, and seeking in my eyes what I thought of the portrait. I thought it represented a very handsome and very individual-looking female face, with, as he had once said, “straight and harmonious196 features.” It was dark; the hair, raven-black, swept not only from the brow, but from the temples — seemed thrust away carelessly, as if such beauty dispensed197 with, nay198, despised arrangement. The Italian eye looked straight into you, and an independent, determined eye it was; the mouth was as firm as fine; the chin ditto. On the back of the miniature was gilded199 “Lucia.”
“That is a real head,” was my conclusion.
Hunsden smiled.
“I think so,” he replied. “All was real in Lucia.”
“And she was somebody you would have liked to marry — but could not?”
“I should certainly have liked to marry her, and that I have not done so is a proof that I could not.”
He repossessed himself of the miniature, now again in Frances’ hand, and put it away.
“What do you think of it?” he asked of my wife, as he buttoned his coat over it.
“I am sure Lucia once wore chains and broke them,” was the strange answer. “I do not mean matrimonial chains,” she added, correcting herself, as if she feared mis-interpretation, “but social chains of some sort. The face is that of one who has made an effort, and a successful and triumphant200 effort, to wrest201 some vigorous and valued faculty202 from insupportable constraint203; and when Lucia’s faculty got free, I am certain it spread wide pinions204 and carried her higher than —” she hesitated.
“Than what?” demanded Hunsden.
“Than ‘les convenances’ permitted you to follow.”
“I think you grow spiteful — impertinent.”
“Lucia has trodden the stage,” continued Frances. “You never seriously thought of marrying her; you admired her originality, her fearlessness, her energy of body and mind; you delighted in her talent, whatever that was, whether song, dance, or dramatic representation; you worshipped her beauty, which was of the sort after your own heart: but I am sure she filled a sphere from whence you would never have thought of taking a wife.”
“Ingenious,” remarked Hunsden; “whether true or not is another question. Meantime, don’t you feel your little lamp of a spirit wax very pale, beside such a girandole as Lucia’s?”
“Yes.”
“Candid, at least; and the Professor will soon be dissatisfied with the dim light you give?”
“Will you, monsieur?”
“My sight was always too weak to endure a blaze, Frances,” and we had now reached the wicket.
I said, a few pages back, that this is a sweet summer evening; it is — there has been a series of lovely days, and this is the loveliest; the hay is just carried from my fields, its perfume still lingers in the air. Frances proposed to me, an hour or two since, to take tea out on the lawn; I see the round table, loaded with china, placed under a certain beech; Hunsden is expected — nay, I hear he is come — there is his voice, laying down the law on some point with authority; that of Frances replies; she opposes him of course. They are disputing about Victor, of whom Hunsden affirms that his mother is making a milksop. Mrs. Crimsworth retaliates:—
“Better a thousand times he should be a milksop than what he, Hunsden, calls ‘a fine lad;’ and moreover she says that if Hunsden were to become a fixture205 in the neighbourhood, and were not a mere comet, coming and going, no one knows how, when, where, or why, she should be quite uneasy till she had got Victor away to a school at least a hundred miles off; for that with his mutinous206 maxims207 and unpractical dogmas, he would ruin a score of children.”
I have a word to say of Victor ere I shut this manuscript in my desk — but it must be a brief one, for I hear the tinkle208 of silver on porcelain209.
Victor is as little of a pretty child as I am of a handsome man, or his mother of a fine woman; he is pale and spare, with large eyes, as dark as those of Frances, and as deeply set as mine. His shape is symmetrical enough, but slight; his health is good. I never saw a child smile less than he does, nor one who knits such a formidable brow when sitting over a book that interests him, or while listening to tales of adventure, peril210, or wonder, narrated by his mother, Hunsden, or myself. But though still, he is not unhappy — though serious, not morose211; he has a susceptibility to pleasurable sensations almost too keen, for it amounts to enthusiasm. He learned to read in the old-fashioned way out of a spelling-book at his mother’s knee, and as he got on without driving by that method, she thought it unnecessary to buy him ivory letters, or to try any of the other inducements to learning now deemed indispensable. When he could read, he became a glutton212 of books, and is so still. His toys have been few, and he has never wanted more. For those he possesses, he seems to have contracted a partiality amounting to affection; this feeling, directed towards one or two living animals of the house, strengthens almost to a passion.
Mr. Hunsden gave him a mastiff cub213, which he called Yorke, after the donor214; it grew to a superb dog, whose fierceness, however, was much modified by the companionship and caresses215 of its young master. He would go nowhere, do nothing without Yorke; Yorke lay at his feet while he learned his lessons, played with him in the garden, walked with him in the lane and wood, sat near his chair at meals, was fed always by his own hand, was the first thing he sought in the morning, the last he left at night. Yorke accompanied Mr. Hunsden one day to X—— and was bitten in the street by a dog in a rabid state. As soon as Hunsden had brought him home, and had informed me of the circumstance, I went into the yard and shot him where he lay licking his wound: he was dead in an instant; he had not seen me level the gun; I stood behind him. I had scarcely been ten minutes in the house, when my ear was struck with sounds of anguish: I repaired to the yard once more, for they proceeded thence. Victor was kneeling beside his dead mastiff, bent over it, embracing its bull-like neck, and lost in a passion of the wildest woe216: he saw me.
“Oh, papa, I’ll never forgive you! I’ll never forgive you!” was his exclamation217. “You shot Yorke — I saw it from the window. I never believed you could be so cruel — I can love you no more!”
I had much ado to explain to him, with a steady voice, the stern necessity of the deed; he still, with that inconsolable and bitter accent which I cannot render, but which pierced my heart, repeated —
“He might have been cured — you should have tried — you should have burnt the wound with a hot iron, or covered it with caustic218. You gave no time; and now it is too late — he is dead!”
He sank fairly down on the senseless carcase; I waited patiently a long while, till his grief had somewhat exhausted219 him; and then I lifted him in my arms and carried him to his mother, sure that she would comfort him best. She had witnessed the whole scene from a window; she would not come out for fear of increasing my difficulties by her emotion, but she was ready now to receive him. She took him to her kind heart, and on to her gentle lap; consoled him but with her lips, her eyes, her soft embrace, for some time; and then, when his sobs220 diminished, told him that Yorke had felt no pain in dying, and that if he had been left to expire naturally, his end would have been most horrible; above all, she told him that I was not cruel (for that idea seemed to give exquisite pain to poor Victor), that it was my affection for Yorke and him which had made me act so, and that I was now almost heart-broken to see him weep thus bitterly.
Victor would have been no true son of his father, had these considerations, these reasons, breathed in so low, so sweet a tone — married to caresses so benign76, so tender — to looks so inspired with pitying sympathy — produced no effect on him. They did produce an effect: he grew calmer, rested his face on her shoulder, and lay still in her arms. Looking up, shortly, he asked his mother to tell him over again what she had said about Yorke having suffered no pain, and my not being cruel; the balmy words being repeated, he again pillowed his cheek on her breast, and was again tranquil.
Some hours after, he came to me in my library, asked if I forgave him, and desired to be reconciled. I drew the lad to my side, and there I kept him a good while, and had much talk with him, in the course of which he disclosed many points of feeling and thought I appoved of in my son. I found, it is true, few elements of the “good fellow” or the “fine fellow” in him; scant80 sparkles of the spirit which loves to flash over the wine cup, or which kindles221 the passions to a destroying fire; but I saw in the soil of his heart healthy and swelling222 germs of compassion223, affection, fidelity224. I discovered in the garden of his intellect a rich growth of wholesome225 principles — reason, justice, moral courage, promised, if not blighted226, a fertile bearing. So I bestowed on his large forehead, and on his cheek — still pale with tears — a proud and contented227 kiss, and sent him away comforted. Yet I saw him the next day laid on the mound228 under which Yorke had been buried, his face covered with his hands; he was melancholy229 for some weeks, and more than a year elapsed before he would listen to any proposal of having another dog.
Victor learns fast. He must soon go to Eton, where, I suspect, his first year or two will be utter wretchedness: to leave me, his mother, and his home, will give his heart an agonized230 wrench231; then, the fagging will not suit him — but emulation232, thirst after knowledge, the glory of success, will stir and reward him in time. Meantime, I feel in myself a strong repugnance233 to fix the hour which will uproot234 my sole olive branch, and transplant it far from me; and, when I speak to Frances on the subject, I am heard with a kind of patient pain, as though I alluded235 to some fearful operation, at which her nature shudders236, but from which her fortitude237 will not permit her to recoil238. The step must, however, be taken, and it shall be; for, though Frances will not make a milksop of her son, she will accustom99 him to a style of treatment, a forbearance, a congenial tenderness, he will meet with from none else. She sees, as I also see, a something in Victor’s temper — a kind of electrical ardour and power — which emits, now and then, ominous239 sparks; Hunsden calls it his spirit, and says it should not be curbed240. I call it the leaven241 of the offending Adam, and consider that it should be, if not whipped out of him, at least soundly disciplined; and that he will be cheap of any amount of either bodily or mental suffering which will ground him radically242 in the art of self-control. Frances gives this something in her son’s marked character no name; but when it appears in the grinding of his teeth, in the glittering of his eye, in the fierce revolt of feeling against disappointment, mischance, sudden sorrow, or supposed injustice243, she folds him to her breast, or takes him to walk with her alone in the wood; then she reasons with him like any philosopher, and to reason Victor is ever accessible; then she looks at him with eyes of love, and by love Victor can be infallibly subjugated244; but will reason or love be the weapons with which in future the world will meet his violence? Oh, no! for that flash in his black eye — for that cloud on his bony brow — for that compression of his statuesque lips, the lad will some day get blows instead of blandishments — kicks instead of kisses; then for the fit of mute fury which will sicken his body and madden his soul; then for the ordeal245 of merited and salutary suffering, out of which he will come (I trust) a wiser and a better man.
I see him now; he stands by Hunsden, who is seated on the lawn under the beech; Hunsden’s hand rests on the boy’s collar, and he is instilling246 God knows what principles into his ear. Victor looks well just now, for he listens with a sort of smiling interest; he never looks so like his mother as when he smiles — pity the sunshine breaks out so rarely! Victor has a preference for Hunsden, full as strong as I deem desirable, being considerably247 more potent248 decided249, and indiscriminating, than any I ever entertained for that personage myself. Frances, too, regards it with a sort of unexpressed anxiety; while her son leans on Hunsden’s knee, or rests against his shoulder, she roves with restless movement round, like a dove guarding its young from a hovering250 hawk251; she says she wishes Hunsden had children of his own, for then he would better know the danger of inciting252 their pride end indulging their foibles.
Frances approaches my library window; puts aside the honeysuckle which half covers it, and tells me tea is ready; seeing that I continue busy she enters the room, comes near me quietly, and puts her hand on my shoulder.
“Monsieur est trop applique.”
“I shall soon have done.”
She draws a chair near, and sits down to wait till I have finished; her presence is as pleasant to my mind as the perfume of the fresh hay and spicy253 flowers, as the glow of the westering sun, as the repose of the midsummer eve are to my senses.
But Hunsden comes; I hear his step, and there he is, bending through the lattice, from which he has thrust away the woodbine with unsparing hand, disturbing two bees and a butterfly.
“Crimsworth! I say, Crimsworth! take that pen out of his hand, mistress, and make him lift up his head.
“Well, Hunsden? I hear you —”
“I was at X—— yesterday! your brother Ned is getting richer than Croesus by railway speculations254; they call him in the Piece Hall a stag of ten; and I have heard from Brown. M. and Madame Vandenhuten and Jean Baptiste talk of coming to see you next month. He mentions the Pelets too; he says their domestic harmony is not the finest in the world, but in business they are doing ‘on ne peut mieux,’ which circumstance he concludes will be a sufficient consolation255 to both for any little crosses in the affections. Why don’t you invite the Pelets to —— shire, Crimsworth? I should so like to see your first flame, Zoraide. Mistress, don’t be jealous, but he loved that lady to distraction256; I know it for a fact. Brown says she weighs twelve stones now; you see what you’ve lost, Mr. Professor. Now, Monsieur and Madame, if you don’t come to tea, Victor and I will begin without you.”
“Papa, come!”
The End
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1
urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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5
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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7
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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10
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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11
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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13
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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14
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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15
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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18
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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19
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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20
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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21
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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22
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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23
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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25
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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26
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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27
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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28
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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29
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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30
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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32
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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34
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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35
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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36
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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37
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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38
tractability
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| 温顺，易处理，易加工的东西 | |
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suavely
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40
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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41
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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42
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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43
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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44
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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45
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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46
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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47
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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48
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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49
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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50
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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51
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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52
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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53
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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54
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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55
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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56
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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58
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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60
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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61
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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62
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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63
hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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64
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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65
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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66
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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67
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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68
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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69
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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70
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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71
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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72
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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73
elucidating
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| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的现在分词 ) | |
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74
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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75
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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76
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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77
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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78
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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79
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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80
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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81
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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82
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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83
dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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84
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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85
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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86
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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87
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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88
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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89
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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90
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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91
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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92
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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93
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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94
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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95
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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96
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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97
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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98
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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99
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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100
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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102
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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103
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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104
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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105
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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106
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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107
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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108
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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109
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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110
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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111
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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112
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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113
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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114
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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115
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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116
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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117
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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118
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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119
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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120
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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121
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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124
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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125
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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126
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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127
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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128
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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129
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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130
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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131
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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132
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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133
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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134
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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135
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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136
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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137
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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139
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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140
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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141
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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142
loathes
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的第三人称单数 )；极不喜欢 | |
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143
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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145
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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146
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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147
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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148
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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149
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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150
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
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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152
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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153
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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155
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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156
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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157
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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158
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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159
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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160
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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161
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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162
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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164
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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165
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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166
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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167
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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168
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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169
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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170
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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171
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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172
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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173
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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174
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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175
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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176
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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177
polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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178
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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179
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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180
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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181
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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182
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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183
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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184
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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185
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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186
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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187
tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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189
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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190
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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191
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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192
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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193
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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194
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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195
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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196
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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197
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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198
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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199
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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200
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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201
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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202
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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203
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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204
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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205
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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206
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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207
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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208
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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209
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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210
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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211
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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212
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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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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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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uproot
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| v.连根拔起，拔除；根除，灭绝；赶出家园，被迫移开 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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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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subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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instilling
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instil的现在分词 )；逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的现在分词 ) | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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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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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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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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