Blandford Edwards
By Mrs. Macquoid
It is difficult to think of two writers more strongly contrasted, judging from the revelation their books afford of their natures and ways of thought. They both strove, in their novels, to represent individual specimens1 of humanity. They must both have possessed2 the power of distinct vision; but though Miss Kavanagh was a keen observer of externals, her types seem to have been created by imaginative faculty3 rather than by insight into real men and women, while Miss Edwards appears to have gone about the world open-eyed, and with note-book in hand, so vivid are some of her portraits.
In traditions, also, these writers differ. Miss Kavanagh has complete faith in the old French motto, “le bon sang
ne peut pas mentir;” while one of Miss Edwards’s heroes, an aristocrat4 by birth, is extremely happy as a merchant captain, with his plebeian5 Italian wife.
The two writers, however, strike the same note in regard to some of their female personages. Both Barbara Churchill and Nathalie Montolieu are truthful6 to rudeness.
Julia Kavanagh never obtrudes7 her personality on the reader, though she lifts him into the exquisitely8 pure and peaceful atmosphere which one fancies must have been hers. There is something so restful in her books, that it is difficult to believe she was born no longer ago than 1824, and that only twenty years ago she died in middle life; she seems to belong to a farther-away age—probably because her secluded10 life kept her strongly linked to the past, out of touch with the new generation and the new world of thought around her.
She began to write for magazines while still very young, and was only twenty-three when her first book, “The Three Paths,” a child’s story, was published. After
this she wrote about fourteen novels, the best known of which are “Madeleine,” “Nathalie,” and “Adèle.” She wrote many short stories, some of which were re-printed in volumes—notably the collection called “Forget-me-nots,” published after her death. She also wrote “A Summer and Winter in the two Sicilies,” “Woman in France in the 18th Century,” “Women of Christianity,” and two books which seem to have been highly praised—“Englishwomen of Letters” and “Frenchwomen of Letters.”
Julia Kavanagh’s first novel, “Madeleine,” appeared in 1848—a charming story, its scene being in the Auvergne. The beginning is very striking, the theme being somewhat like that of “Bertha in the Lane”; but Madeleine, when she has given up her false lover, devotes the rest of her life to founding and caring for an orphanage11.
Born in Ireland, Julia Kavanagh spent the days of her youth in Normandy, and the scene of her second novel, “Nathalie,” is Norman, though Nathalie herself is a handsome, warm-blooded Proven?ale. The scenery and surroundings are very lifelike, but, with one exception, the people are less attractive than they are in “Adèle.” In both books one feels a wish to eliminate much of
the interminable talk, which could easily be dispensed13 with.
Nathalie, the country doctor’s orphan12 daughter, teacher to the excellently drawn14 schoolmistress, Mademoiselle Dantin, is sometimes disturbingly rude and tactless, in spite of her graceful15 beauty. With all this gaucherie, and a violent temper to boot, Nathalie exercises a singular fascination16 over the people of the story, especially over the delightful17 Canoness, Aunt Radégonde, who is to me the most real of Miss Kavanagh’s characters. Madame Radégonde de Sainville is a true old French lady of fifty years ago, as charming as she is natural.
The men in Julia Kavanagh’s books have led secluded lives, or they are extremely reserved—very hard nuts indeed to crack for the ingenuous18, inexperienced girls on whom they bestow19 their lordly affection. One does not pity Nathalie, who certainly brings her troubles on herself; but in the subsequent book, sweet little Adèle is too bright a bit of sunshine to be sacrificed to such a being as William Osborne.
The old chateau20 in which Adèle has spent her short life is in the north-east of France; its luxuriant but neglected garden, full of lovely light and shade, its limpid21 lake, and the old French servants, are delightfully22 fresh. The chapters which describe these are exquisite9 reading
—a gentle idyll glowing with sunshine, and with a leisureful charm that makes one resent the highly coloured intrusion of the Osborne family, though the Osborne women afford an effective contrast. Adèle is scantily23 educated, but she is always delightful, though we are never allowed to forget that she is descended24 from the ancient family of de Courcelles. She is thoroughly25 amiable26 and much enduring, in spite of an occasional waywardness.
Fresh and full of beauty as these novels are, with their sweet pure-heartedness, their truth and restful peace, they cannot compare with the admirable short sketches27 of the quiet side of French life by the same writer. The scenes in which the characters of these short stories are set, show the truth of Julia Kavanagh’s observation, as well as the quality of her style; they are quite as beautiful as some of Guy de Maupassant’s little gem-like Norman stories, but they are perfectly29 free from cynicism, although she truly shows the greedy grasping nature of the Norman peasant. The gifts of this writer are intensified30, and more incisively31 shown, in these sketches because they contain few superfluous32 words and conversations. Julia Kavanagh must have revelled33 in the creation of such tales as “By the Well,” and its companions; they are steeped in joyous34 brightness, toned here
and there with real pathos35 as in “150ément’s Love” and “Annette’s Love-Story,” in the collection called “Forget-me-nots.”
Such a story as “By the Well” would nowadays be considered a lovely idyll, and, by critics able to appreciate its breadth and finished detail, a Meissonier in point of execution: it glows with true colour.
Fifine Delpierre is not a decked-out peasant heroine; she is a bare-footed, squalid, half-clothed, half-starved little girl, when we first see her beside the well. This is the scene that introduces her.
“It has a roof, as most wells have in Normandy, a low thatched roof, shaggy, brown, and old, but made rich and gorgeous when the sun shines upon it by many a tuft of deep green fern, and many a cluster of pink sedum and golden stonecrop. Beneath that roof, in perpetual shade and freshness, lies the low round margin36, built of heavy ill-jointed stones, grey and discoloured with damp and age; and within this . . . spreads an irregular but lovely fringe of hart’s-tongue. The long glossy37 leaves of a cool pale green grow in the clefts38 of the inner wall, so far as the eye can reach, stretching and vanishing into the darkness, at the bottom of which you see a little tremulous circle of watery39 light. This well is invaluable40 to the Lenuds, for,
as they pass by the farm the waters of the little river grow brackish41 and unfit for use. So long ago, before they were rich, the Lenuds having discovered this spring through the means of a neighbouring mason, named Delpierre, got him to sink and make the well, in exchange for what is called a servitude in French legal phrase; that is to say, that he and his were to have the use of the well for ever and ever. Bitter strife42 was the result of this agreement. The feud43 lasted generations, during which the Lenuds throve and grew rich, and the Delpierres got so poor, that, at the time when this story opens, the last had just died leaving a widow and three children in bitter destitution44. Ma?tre Louis Lenud, for the Parisian Monsieur had not yet reached Manneville, immediately availed himself of this fact to bolt and bar the postern-door through which his enemy had daily invaded the courtyard to go to the well. . . .
“‘It was easily done, and it cost me nothing—not a sou,’ exultingly45 thought Ma?tre Louis Lenud, coming to this conclusion for the hundredth time on a warm evening in July. The evening was more than warm, it was sultry; yet Ma?tre Louis sat by the kitchen fire watching his old servant, Madeleine, as she got onion soup ready for the evening meal, utterly46 careless of the scorching47 blaze which shot up the deep dark funnel48 of the chimney. Pierre, his
son, unable to bear this additional heat, stood in the open doorway49, waiting with the impatience50 of eighteen for his supper, occasionally looking out on the farmyard, grey and quiet at this hour, but oftener casting a glance within. The firelight danced about the stone kitchen, now lighting51 up the armoire in the corner, with cupids and guitars, and shepherds’ pipes and tabors, and lovers’ knots carved on its brown oak panels; now showing the lad the bright copper52 saucepans, hung in rows upon the walls; now revealing the stern grim figure of his father, with his heavy grey eyebrows53 and his long Norman features both harsh and acute; and very stern could Ma?tre Louis look, though he wore a faded blue blouse, an old handkerchief round his neck, and on his head a white cotton nightcap, with a stiff tassel54 to it; now suddenly subsiding55 and leaving all in the dim uncertain shadows of twilight56.
“During one of these grey intervals57, the long-drawling Norman voice of Ma?tre Louis spoke58:
“‘The Delpierres have given up the well,’ he said, with grim triumph.
“‘Ay, but Fifine comes and draws water every night,’ tauntingly59 answered Pierre.
“‘Hem!’ the old man exclaimed with a growl60. . . .
“‘Fifine comes and draws water every night,’ reiterated62 Pierre. . . .
“ . . . he had seen the eldest63 child Fifine, a girl of eight or ten, sitting on her doorstep singing her little brother to sleep, with a wreath of hart’s-tongue round her head, and a band of it round her waist. ‘And a little beggar, too, she looked,’ scornfully added Pierre, ‘with her uncombed hair and her rags.’
“‘Shall we let the dog loose to-night?’ he said.”
“Ma?tre Louis uttered his deepest growl, and promised to break every bone in his son’s body if he attempted such a thing.
“Pierre silently gulped64 down his onion soup, but the ‘do it if you dare’ of the paternal65 wink66 only spurred him on. He gave up the dog as too cruel, but not his revenge.
“The night was a lovely one and its tender subdued67 meaning might have reached Pierre’s heart, but did not. He saw as he crouched68 in the grass near the old well that the full round moon hung in the sky; he saw that the willows69 by the little river looked very calm and still” . . . [the revengeful lad watches for the child and falls asleep, then wakes suddenly].
“ . . . behold70 . . . there was little Fifine with her pitcher71 standings in the moonlight . . . she stood there with her hair falling about her face, her torn bodice, her scanty73 petticoats, and her little bare feet. How the little traitress had got in, whilst he, the careless dragon, slept, Pierre could not
imagine; but she was evidently quite unconscious of his presence. . . . The child set her pitcher down very softly, shook back the hanging hair from her face, and peeped into the well. She liked to look thus into that deep dark hole, with its damp walls clothed with the long green hart’s-tongue that had betrayed her. She liked also to look at that white circle of water below; for you see if there was a wrathful Adam by her, ready for revenge, she was a daughter of Eve, and Eve-like enjoyed the flavour of this forbidden fruit. . . . Fifine . . . took up her pitcher again and walked straight on to the river. Pierre stared amazed, then suddenly he understood it all. There was an old forgotten gap in the hedge beyond the little stream, and through that gap Fifine and her pitcher nightly invaded Ma?tre Louis Lenud’s territory. . . . having picked up a sharp flint which lay in the grass Pierre rose and bided74 his opportunity. Fifine went on till she had half-crossed a bridge-like plank75 which spanned the stream, then, as her 1-luck would have it, she stood still to listen to the distant hooting76 of an owl61 in the old church tower on the hill. Pierre saw the child’s black figure in the moonlight standing72 out clearly against the background of grey willows, he saw the white plank and the dark river tipped with light flowing on beneath it. Above all, he saw Fifine’s glazed77 pitcher, bright as silver; he was an
unerring marksman, and he took a sure aim at this. The flint sped swiftly through the air; there was a crash, a low cry, and all was suddenly still. Both Fifine and her pitcher had tumbled into the river below and vanished there.”
Pierre rescues her, and when Fifine has been for some years in service with the repentant78 Pierre’s cousin her improved looks and clothing make her unrecognisable to the thick-headed well-meaning young farmer.
The only fault that can be found with these chronicles of Manneville is the likeness79 between them. The “Miller of Manneville,” in the “Forget-me-not” collection, is full of charm, but it too much resembles “By the Well.” The “Story of Monique” gives, however, a happy variety, and Monique is a thorough French girl; so is Mimi in the bright little story called “Mimi’s Sin.” Angélique again, in “Clément’s Love,” is a girl one meets with over and over again in Normandy, but these Norman stories are all so exquisitely told that it is invidious to single out favourites.
The stories laid in England, in which the characters are English, are less graphic80; they lack the fresh and true atmosphere of their fellows placed across the Channel.
Julia Kavanagh died at Nice, where she spent the last few years of her life. Had she lived longer she would perhaps have given us some graphic stories from the Riviera, for it is evident that foreign people and foreign ways attracted her sympathies so powerfully that she was able to reproduce them in their own atmosphere. In a brief but touching81 preface to the collection called “Forget-me-nots,” published after her death, Mr. C. W. Wood gives us a lovable glimpse of this charming writer; reading this interesting little sketch28 deepens regret that one had not the privilege of personally knowing so sweet a woman.
In regard to truth of atmosphere in her foreign stories, Julia Kavanagh certainly surpasses Amelia B. Edwards. In “Barbara’s History,” in “Lord Brackenbury,” and in other stories by Miss Edwards, there are beautiful and graphic descriptions of foreign scenery, and we meet plenty of foreign people; but we feel that the latter are described by an Englishwoman who has taken an immense amount of pains to make
herself acquainted with their ways and their speech—they somewhat lack spontaneity. In the two novels named there are chapters so full of local history and association that one thinks it might be well to have the books for companions when visiting the places described; they are full of talent—in some places near akin82 to genius.
“Barbara’s History” contains a great deal of genuine humour. It is a most interesting and exciting story, though in parts stagey; the opening chapters, indeed the whole of Barbara’s stay at her great-aunt’s farm of Stoneycroft, are so excellent that one cannot wonder the book was a great success. Now and again passages and characters remind one of Dickens; the great-aunt, Mrs. Sandyshaft, is a thorough Dickens woman, with a touch of the great master’s exaggeration; Barbara’s father is another Dickens character. There are power and passion as well as humour in this book, but in spite of its interest it becomes fatiguing83 when Barbara leaves her aunt and the hundred pigs.
There is remarkable84 truth of characterisation in some of this writer’s novels. Hugh Farquhar is sometimes an eccentric bore, but he is real. Barbara Churchill at times is wearyingly pedantic85; then, again, she is just as delightfully original—her first meeting with Mrs. Sandyshaft is so inimitable that I must transcribe86 a part of it.
A rich old aunt has invited Barbara Churchill, a
neglected child of ten years old, to stay with her in Suffolk. Barbara is the youngest of Mr. Churchill’s three girls, and she is not loved by either her widowed father or her sisters, though an old servant named Goody dotes on the child. Barbara is sent by stage-coach from London to Ipswich:—
“Dashing on between the straggling cottages, and up a hill so closely shaded by thick trees that the dusk seems to thicken suddenly to-night, we draw up all at once before a great open gate, leading to a house of which I can only see the gabled outline and the lighted windows.
“The guard jumps down; the door is thrown open; and two persons, a man and a woman, come hurrying down the path.
“‘One little girl and one box, as per book,’ says the guard, lifting me out and setting me down in the road, as if I were but another box, to be delivered as directed.
“‘From London?’ asks the woman sharply.
“‘From London,’ replies the guard, already scrambling87 back to his seat; ‘All right, ain’t it?’
“‘All right.’
“Whereupon the coach plunges88 on again into the dusk; the man shoulders my box as though it were a feather; and the woman who looks strangely gaunt and grey by this
uncertain light, seizes me by the wrist and strides away towards the house at a pace that my cramped89 and weary limbs can scarcely accomplish.
“Sick and bewildered, I am hurried into a cheerful room where the table is spread as if for tea and supper, and a delicious perfume of coffee and fresh flowers fills the air; and—and, all at once even in the moment when I am first observing them, these sights and scents90 grow all confused and sink away together, and I remember nothing . . . when I recover, I find myself laid upon a sofa, with my cloak and bonnet91 off, my eyes and mouth full of Eau de Cologne, and my hands smarting under a volley of slaps, administered by a ruddy young woman on one side, and by the same gaunt person who brought me in from the coach on the other. Seeing me look up, they both desist; and the latter, drawing back a step or two, as if to observe me to greater advantage, puts on an immense pair of heavy gold spectacles, stares steadily92 for some seconds, and and at length says:
“‘What did you mean by that now?’
“Unprepared for so abrupt93 a question, I lie as if fascinated by her bright grey eyes, and cannot utter a syllable94.
“‘Are you better?’
“Still silent, I bow my head feebly, and keep looking at her.
“‘Hey now. Am I a basilisk? Are you dumb, child?’
“Wondering why she speaks to me thus, and being, moreover, so very weak and tired, what can I do, but try in vain to answer, and failing in the effort, burst into tears again? Hereupon she frowns, pulls off her glasses, shakes her head angrily, and, saying: ‘That’s done to aggravate95 me, I know it is,’ stalks away to the window, and stands there grimly, looking out upon the night. The younger woman, with a world of kindness in her rosy96 face . . . whispers me not to cry.
“‘That child’s hungry,’ says the other coming suddenly back. ‘That’s what’s the matter with her. She’s hungry, I know she is, and I won’t be contradicted. Do you hear me, Jane?—I won’t be contradicted.’
“‘Indeed, ma’am, I think she is hungry, and tired too, poor little thing.’
“‘Tired and hungry! . . . Mercy alive, then why don’t she eat? Here’s food enough for a dozen people. Child, what will you have? Ham, cold chicken pie, bread, butter, cheese, tea, coffee, ale?’
“ . . . Everything tastes delicious; and not even the sight of the gaunt housekeeper97 . . . has power to spoil my enjoyment98.
“For she is the housekeeper, beyond a doubt. Those
heavy gold spectacles, that sad-coloured gown, that cap with its plain close bordering can belong to no one but a housekeeper. Wondering within myself that she should be so disagreeable; then where my aunt herself can be; why she has not yet come to welcome me; how she will receive me when she does come; and whether 1 shall have presence of mind enough to remember all the curtseys I have been drilled to make, and all the speeches I have been taught to say, I find myself eating as though nothing at all had been the matter with me, and even staring now and then quite confidently at my opposite neighbour. . . . Left alone now with the sleeping dogs and the housekeeper—who looks as if she never slept in her life—I find the evening wearisome. Observing too that she continues to look at me in the same grim imperturbable99 way, and seeing no books anywhere about, it occurs to me that a little conversation would perhaps be acceptable, and that, as I am her mistress’s niece, it is my place to speak first.
“‘If you please, ma’am,’ I begin after a long hesitation100.
“’Hey?’
“Somewhat disconcerted by the sharpness and suddenness of this interruption, I pause, and take some moments to recover myself.
“‘If you please, ma’am, when am I to see my aunt?’
“‘Hey? What? Who?’
“‘My aunt, if you please, ma’am?’
“‘Mercy alive! and pray who do you suppose I am?’
“‘You, ma’am,’ I falter101, with a vague uneasiness impossible to describe; ‘are you not the housekeeper?’
“To say that she glares vacantly at me from behind her spectacles, loses her very power of speech, and grows all at once quite stiff and rigid102 in her chair, is to convey but a faint picture of the amazement103 with which she receives this observation.
“‘I,’ she gasps104 at length, ‘I! Gracious me, child, I am your aunt.’ I feel my countenance105 become an utter blank. I am conscious of turning red and white, hot and cold, all in one moment. My ears tingle106; my heart sinks within me; I can neither speak nor think. A dreadful silence follows, and in the midst of this silence my aunt, without any kind of warning, bursts into a grim laugh, and says:
“‘Barbara, come and kiss me.’
“I could have kissed a kangaroo just then, in the intensity107 of my relief; and so getting up quite readily, touch her gaunt cheek with my childish lips, and look the gratitude108 I dare not speak. To my surprise she draws me closer to her knee, passes one hand idly through my hair, looks not unkindly, into my wondering eyes, and murmurs109 more to herself than me, the name of ‘Barbara.’
“This gentle mood is, however, soon dismissed, and as if
ashamed of having indulged it, she pushes me away, frowns, shakes her head, and says quite angrily:
“‘Nonsense, child, nonsense. It’s time you went to bed.’”
[Next morning at breakfast.]
“‘Your name,’ said my aunt, with a little off-hand nod, ‘is Bab. Remember that.’” . . . [Mrs. Sandyshaft asks her great niece why she took her for the housekeeper; the child hesitates, and at last owns that it was because of her dress.]
. . . “‘Too shabby?’
“‘N—no, ma’am, not shabby; but. . . . ’
“‘But what? You must learn to speak out, Bab. I hate people who hesitate.’
“‘But Papa said you were so rich, and. . . . ’
“‘Ah! He said I was rich did he? Rich! Oho! And what more, Bab? What more? Rich indeed! Come, you must tell me. What else did he say when he told you I was rich?’
“‘N—nothing more, ma’am,’ I replied, startled and confused by her sudden vehemence110. ‘Indeed nothing more.’
“‘Bab!’ said my aunt bringing her hand down so heavily upon the table that the cups and saucers rang again, ‘Bab, that’s false. If he told you I was rich, he
told you how to get my money by-and-by. He told you to cringe and fawn111, and worm yourself into my favour, to profit by my death, to be a liar112, a flatterer, and a beggar, and why? Because 1 am rich. Oh yes, because I am rich.’
“I sat as if stricken into stone, but half comprehending what she meant, and unable to answer a syllable.
“‘Rich indeed!’ she went on, excited more and more by her own words and stalking to and fro between the window and the table, like one possessed. ‘Aha! we shall see, we shall see. Listen to me, child. I shall leave you nothing—not a farthing. Never expect it—never hope for it. If you are good and true, and I like you, I shall be a friend to you while I live; but if you are mean and false, and tell me lies, I shall despise you. Do you hear? I shall despise you, send you home, never speak to you, or look at you again. Either way, you will get nothing by my death. Nothing—nothing!’
“My heart swelled113 within me—I shook from head to foot. I tried to speak and the words seemed to choke me.
“‘I don’t want it,’ I cried passionately114. ‘I—I am not mean. I have told no lies—not one.’
“My aunt stopped short, and looked sternly down upon me, as if she would read my very soul.
“‘Bab,’ said she, ‘do you mean to tell me that your father said nothing to you about why I may have asked you here, or what might come of it? Nothing? Not a word?’
“‘He said it might be for my good—he told Miss Whymper to make me curtsey and walk better, and come into a room properly; he said he wished me to please you. That was all. He never spoke of money, or of dying, or of telling lies—never.’
“‘Well then,’ retorted my aunt, sharply, ‘he meant it.’
“Flushed and trembling in my childish anger, I sprang from my chair and stood before her, face to face.
“‘He did not mean it,’ I cried. ‘How dare you speak so of Papa? How dare. . . . ’
“I could say no more, but, terrified at my own impetuosity, faltered115, covered my face with both hands, and burst into an agony of sobs116.
“‘Bab,’ said my aunt, in an altered voice, ‘little Bab,’ and took me all at once in her two arms, and kissed me on the forehead.
“My anger was gone in a moment. Something in her tone, in her kiss, in my own heart, called up a quick response; and nestling close in her embrace, I wept passionately. Then she sat down, drew me on her knee,
smoothed my hair with her hand, and comforted me as if 1 had been a little baby.
“‘So brave,’ said she, ‘so proud, so honest. Come, little Bab, you and I must be friends.’
“And we were friends from that minute; for from that minute a mutual117 confidence and love sprang up between us. Too deeply moved to answer her in words, I only clung the closer, and tried to still my sobs. She understood me.
“‘Come,’ said she, after a few seconds of silence, ‘let’s go and see the pigs.’”
The sketch of Hilda Churchill is very good, and so is that of the Grand Duke of Zollenstrasse. Taken as a whole, if we leave out the concluding chapters, “Barbara’s History” is a stirring, original, and very amusing book, full of historical and topographical information, written in terse118 and excellent English, and very rich in colour—the people in it are so wonderfully alive.
“Lord Brackenbury” is very clever and full of pictures, but it lacks the brightness and the originality119 of “Barbara’s History.” Amelia B. Edwards wrote several other novels—“Half a Million of Money,” “Miss Carew,” “Debenham’s Vow,” &c. &c. She also published a
collection of short tales—“Monsieur Maurice,” etc.—and a book of ballads120. Born in 1831, she began to write at a time when sensational121 stories were in fashion, and produced a number of exciting stories—“The Four-fifteen Express,” “The Tragedy in the Bardello Palace,” “The Patagonian Brothers”—all extremely popular; though, when we read them now, they seem wanting in the insight into human nature so remarkably122 shown in some of her novels.
She was a distinguished123 Egyptologist, and the foundation in 1883 of the Egypt Exploration Fund was largely due to her efforts; she became one of the secretaries to this enterprise, and wrote a good deal on Egyptian subjects for European and American periodicals. She wrote and illustrated124 some interesting travel books, especially her delightful “A Thousand Miles up the Nile,” and an account of her travels in 1872 among the—at that time—rarely visited Dolomites. The latter is called “Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequented Valleys:” it is interesting, but not so bright as the Nile book.
When one considers that a large part of her output involved constant and laborious125 research—that for the purposes of many of the books she had to take long and fatiguing journeys—the amount of good work she accomplished126 is very remarkable; the more so, because she was
not only a writer, but an active promoter of some of the public movements of her time. She was a member of the Biblical Arch?ological Society—a member, too, of the Society for the Promotion127 of Hellenic Literature. Then she entered into the woman’s question, not so popular in those days as it is in these, and was vice-president of a Society for promoting Women’s Suffrage128.
It is difficult to understand how in so busy and varied129 a life she could have found sufficient leisure for writing fiction; but she had a very large mental grasp, and probably as large a power of concentration. Remembering that she was an omnivorous130 reader, a careful student, possessed too of an excellent memory, we need not wonder at the fulness and richness of her books.
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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obtrudes
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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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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orphanage
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| n.孤儿院 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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16
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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17
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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18
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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19
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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20
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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21
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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22
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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23
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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24
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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25
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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26
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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27
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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28
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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29
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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30
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
incisively
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| adv.敏锐地，激烈地 | |
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32
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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33
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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34
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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35
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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36
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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37
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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38
clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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39
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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40
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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41
brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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42
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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43
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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44
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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45
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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46
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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47
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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48
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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49
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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50
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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51
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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52
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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53
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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54
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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55
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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56
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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57
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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58
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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59
tauntingly
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| 嘲笑地，辱骂地； 嘲骂地 | |
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60
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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61
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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62
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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64
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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65
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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66
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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67
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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70
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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71
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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72
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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73
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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74
bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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75
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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76
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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77
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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78
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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79
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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80
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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81
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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82
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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83
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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84
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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85
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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86
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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87
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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88
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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89
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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90
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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91
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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92
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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93
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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94
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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95
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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96
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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97
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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98
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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99
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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100
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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101
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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102
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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103
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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104
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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105
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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106
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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107
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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108
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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109
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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110
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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111
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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112
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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113
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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114
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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115
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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116
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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117
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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118
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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119
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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120
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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121
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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122
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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123
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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124
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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125
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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126
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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127
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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128
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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129
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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130
omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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