Certainly, any one who had seen her with him on the morning after Scoutbush's visit to the Mellots, would have said that, if the cause was love, the love was all on one side.
She was standing3 by the fireplace in a splendid pose, her arm resting on the chimney-piece, the book from which she had been reciting in one hand, the other playing in her black curls, as her eyes glanced back ever and anon at her own profile in the mirror. Stangrave was half sitting in a low chair by her side, half kneeling on the footstool before her, looking up beseechingly4, as she looked down tyrannically.
"Stupid, this reciting? Of course it is! I want realities, not shams5; life, not the stage; nature, not art."
"Throw away the book, then, and words, and art, and live!"
She knew well what he meant; but she answered as if she had misunderstood him.
"Thanks, I live already, and in good company enough. My ghost-husbands are as noble as they are obedient; do all which I demand of them, and vanish on my errands when I tell them. Can you guess who my last is? Since I tired of Egmont, I have taken Sir Galahad, the spotless knight6. Did you ever read the Mort d'Arthur?"
"A hundred times."
"Of course!" and she spoke7 in a tone of contempt so strong that it must have been affected8. "What have you not read! And what have you copied. No wonder that these English have been what they have been for centuries, while their heroes have been the Galahads, and their Homer the Mort d'Arthur."
"Enjoy your Utopia!" said he bitterly. "Do you fancy they acted up to their ideals? They dreamed of the Quest of the Sangreal: but which of them ever went upon it?"
"And does it count for nothing that they felt it the finest thing in the world to have gone on it, had it been possible? Be sure if their ideal was so self-sacrificing, so lofty, their practice was ruled by something higher than the almighty9 dollar."
"And so are some other men's, Marie," answered he reproachfully.
"Yes, forsooth;—when the almighty dollar is there already, and a man has ten times as much to spend every day as he can possibly invest in French cookery, and wines, and fine clothes, then he begins to lay out his surplus nobly on self-education, and the patronage10 of art, and the theatre—for merely aesthetic12 purposes, of course; and when the lust1 of the flesh has been satisfied, thinks himself an archangel, because he goes on to satisfy the lust of the eye and the pride of life. Christ was of old the model, and Sir Galahad was the hero. Now the one is exchanged for Goethe, and the other for Wilhelm Meister."
"Cruel! You know that my Goethe fever is long past. How would you have known of its existence if I had not confessed it to you as a sin of old years? Have I not said to you, again and again, show me the thing which you would have me do for your sake, and see if I will not do it!"
"For my sake? A noble reason! Show yourself the thing which you will do for its own sake; because it ought to be done. Show it yourself, I say; I cannot show you. If your own eyes cannot see the Sangreal, and the angels who are bearing it before you, it is because they are dull and gross; and am I Milton's archangel, to purge14 them with euphrasy and rue13? If you have a noble heart, you will find for yourself the noblest Quest. If not, who can prove to you that it is noble?" And tapping impatiently with her foot, she went on to herself—
"'A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three angels bear the holy Grail;
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
The spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides, the glory slides,
And star-like mingles15 with the stars.'
"Why, there was not a knight of the round table, was there, who did not give up all to go upon that Quest, though only one was found worthy16 to fulfil it? But now-a-days, the knights17 sit drinking hock and champagne18, or drive sulky-wagons, and never fancy that there is a Quest at all."
"Why talk in these parables19?"
"So the Jews asked of their prophets. They are no parables to my ghost-husband, Sir Galahad. Now go, if you please; I must be busy, and write letters."
He rose with a look, half of disappointment, half amused, and yet his face bore a firmness which seemed to say, "You will be mine yet." As he rose, he cast his eye upon the writing-table, and upon a letter which lay there: and as he did so, his cheek grew pale, and his brows knitted.
The letter was addressed to "Thomas Thurnall, Esq., Aberalva."
"Is this, then, your Sir Galahad?" asked he, after a pause, during which he had choked down his rising jealousy20, while she looked first at herself in the glass, and then at him, and then at herself again, with a determined21 and triumphant22 air.
"And what if it be?"
"So he, then, has achieved the Quest of the Sangreal?"
Stangrave spoke bitterly, and with an emphasis upon the "he;" and—
"What if he have? Do you know him?" answered she, while her face lighted up with eager interest, which she did not care to conceal23, perhaps chose, in her woman's love of tormenting24, to parade.
"I knew a man of that name once," he replied, in a carefully careless tone, which did not deceive her; "an adventurer—a doctor, if I recollect—who had been in Texas and Mexico, and I know not where besides. Agreeable enough he was; but as for your Quest of the Sangreal, whatever it may be, he seemed to have as little notion of anything beyond his own interest as any Greek I ever met."
"Unjust! Your words only show how little you can see! That man, of all men I ever met, saw the Quest at once, and followed it, at the risk of his own life, as far at least as he was concerned with it:—ay, even when he pretended to see nothing. Oh, there is more generosity25 in that man's affected selfishness, than in all the noisy good-nature which I have met with in the world. Thurnall! oh, you know his nobleness as little as he knows it himself."
"Then he, I am to suppose, is your phantom-husband, for as long, at least, as your present dream lasts?" asked he, with white, compressed lips.
"He might have been, I believe," she answered carelessly, "if he had even taken the trouble to ask me."
"Marie, this is too much! Do you not know to whom you speak? To one who deserves, if not common courtesy, at least common mercy."
"Because he adores me, and so forth26? So has many a man done; or told me that he has done so. Do you know that I might be a viscountess to-morrow, so Sabina informs me, if I but chose?"
"A viscountess? Pray accept your effete27 English aristocrat28, and, as far as I am concerned, accept my best wishes for your happiness."
"My effete English aristocrat, did I show him that pedigree of mine which I have ere now threatened to show you, would perhaps be less horrified29 at it than you are."
"Marie, I cannot bear this! Tell me only what you mean. What care I for pedigree? I want you—worship you—and that is enough, Marie!"
"You admire me because I am beautiful. What thanks do I owe you for finding out so patent a fact? What do you do more to me than I do to myself?" and she glanced back once more at the mirror.
"Marie, you know that your words are false; I do more—"
"You admire me," interrupted she, "because I am clever. What thanks to you for that, again? What do you do more to me than you do to yourself?"
"And this, after all—"
"After what? After you found me, or rather I found you—you, the critic, the arbiter30 of the greenroom, the highly-organised do-nothings—teaching others how to do nothing most gracefully31; the would-be Goethe who must, for the sake of his own self-development, try experiments on every weak woman whom he met. And I, the new phenomenon, whom you must appreciate to show your own taste, patronise to show your own liberality, develop to show your own insight into character. You found yourself mistaken! You had attempted to play with the tigress—and behold33 she was talons34; to angle for the silly fish—and behold the fish was the better angler, and caught you."
"Marie, have mercy! Is your heart iron?"
"No; but fire, as my name shows:" and she stood looking down on him with a glare of dreadful beauty.
"Fire, indeed!"
"Yes, fire, that I may scorch36 you, kindle37 you, madden you, to do my work, and wear the heart of fire which I wear day and night!"
Stangrave looked at her startled. Was she mad? Her face did not say so; her brow was white, her features calm, her eye fierce and contemptuous, but clear, steady, full of meaning.
"So you know Mr. Thurnall?" said she, after a while.
"Yes; why do you ask?"
"Because he is the only friend I have on earth."
"The only friend, Marie?"
"The only one," answered she calmly, "who, seeing the right, has gone and done it forthwith. When did you see him last?"
"I have not been acquainted with Mr. Thurnall for some years," said
Stangrave, haughtily38.
"In plain words, you have quarrelled with him?"
Stangrave bit his lip.
"He and I had a difference. He insulted my nation, and we parted."
She laughed a long, loud, bitter laugh, which rang through Stangrave's ears.
"Insulted your nation? And on what grounds, pray?"
"About that accursed slavery question!"
La Cordifiamma looked at him with firm-closed lips a while.
"So then! I was not aware of this! Even so long ago you saw the Sangreal, and did not know it when you saw it. No wonder that since then you have been staring at it for months, in your very hands, played with it, admired it, made verses about it, to show off your own taste: and yet were blind to it the whole time! Farewell, then!"
"Marie, what do you mean?" and Stangrave caught both her hands.
"Hush39, if you please. I know you are eloquent40 enough, when you choose, though you have been somewhat dumb and monosyllabic to-night in the presence of the actress whom you undertook to educate. But I know that you can be eloquent, so spare me any brilliant appeals, which can only go to prove that already settled fact. Between you and me lie two great gulfs. The one I have told you of; and from it I shrink. The other I have not told you of; from it you would shrink."
"The first is your Quest of the Sangreal."
She smiled assent42, bitterly enough.
"And the second?"
She did not answer. She was looking at herself in the mirror; and Stangrave, in spite of his almost doting43 affection, flushed with anger, almost contempt, at her vanity.
And yet, was it vanity which was expressed in that face? No; but dread35, horror, almost disgust, as she gazed with side-long, startled eyes, struggling, and yet struggling in vain, to turn her face from some horrible sight, as if her own image had been the Gorgon's head.
"What is it? Marie, speak!"
But she answered nothing. For that last question she had no heart to answer; no heart to tell him that in her veins44 were some drops, at least, of the blood of slaves. Instinctively45 she had looked round at the mirror—for might he not, if he had eyes, discover that secret for himself? Were there not in her features traces of that taint46? And as she looked,—was it the mere11 play of her excited fancy,—or did her eyelid47 slope more and more, her nostril48 shorten and curl, her lips enlarge, her mouth itself protrude49?
It was more than the play of fancy; for Stangrave saw it as well as she. Her actress's imagination, fixed50 on the African type with an intensity51 proportioned to her dread of seeing it in herself, had moulded her features, for the moment, into the very shape which it dreaded52. And Stangrave saw it, and shuddered53 as he saw.
Another half minute, and that face also had melted out of the mirror, at least for Marie's eyes; and in its place an ancient negress, white-haired, withered54 as the wrinkled ape, but with eyes closed—in death. Marie knew that face well; a face which haunted many a dream of hers; once seen, but never forgotten since; for to that old dame's coffin55 had her mother, the gay quadroon woman, flaunting56 in finery which was the price of shame, led Marie when she was but a three years' child; and Marie had seen her bend over the corpse57, and call it her dear old granny, and weep bitter tears.
Suddenly she shook off the spell, and looked round and down, terrified, self-conscious. Her eye caught Stangrave's; she saw, or thought she saw, by the expression of his face, that he knew all, and burst away with a shriek58.
He sprang up and caught her in his arms. "Marie! Beloved Marie!" She looked up at him struggling; the dark expression had vanished, and Stangrave's love-blinded eyes could see nothing in that face but the refined and yet rich beauty of the Italian.
"Marie, this is mere madness; you excite yourself till you know not what you say, or what you are—"
"I know what I am," murmured she: but he hurried on unheeding.
"You love me, you know you love me; and you madden yourself by refusing to confess it!" He felt her heart throb59 as he spoke, and knew that he spoke truth. "What gulfs are these you dream of? No; I will not ask. There is no gulf41 between me and one whom I adore, who has thrown a spell over me which I cannot resist, which I glory in not resisting; for you have been my guide, my morning star, which has awakened60 me to new life. If I have a noble purpose upon earth, if I have roused myself from that conceited61 dream of self-culture which now looks to me so cold, and barren, and tawdry, into the hope of becoming useful, beneficent—to whom do I owe it but to you, Marie? No; there is no gulf, Marie! You are my wife, and you alone!" And he held her so firmly, and gazed down upon her with such strong manhood, that her woman's heart quailed62; and he might, perhaps, have conquered then and there, had not Sabina, summoned by her shriek, entered hastily.
"Good heavens! what is the matter?"
"Wait but one minute, Mrs. Mellot," said he; "the next, I shall introduce you to my bride."
"Never! never! never!" cried she, and breaking from him, flew into
Sabina's arms. "Leave me, leave me to bear my curse alone!"
And she broke out into such wild weeping, and refused so wildly to hear another word from Stangrave, that he went away in despair, the prize snatched from his grasp in the very moment of seeming victory.
He went in search of Claude, who had agreed to meet him at the Exhibition in Trafalgar Square. Thither63 Stangrave rolled away in his cab, his heart full of many thoughts. Marie's words about him, though harsh and exaggerated, were on the whole true. She had fascinated him utterly64. To marry her was now the one object of his life: she had awakened in him, as he had confessed, noble desires to be useful: but the discovery that he was to be useful to the negro, that abolition65 was the Sangreal in the quest of which he was to go forth, was as disagreeable a discovery as he could well have made.
From public life in any shape, with all its vulgar noise, its petty chicanery66, its pandering67 to the mob whom he despised, he had always shrunk, as so many Americans of his stamp have done. He had no wish to struggle, unrewarded and disappointed, in the ranks of the minority; while to gain place and power on the side of the majority was to lend himself to that fatal policy which, ever since the Missouri Compromise of 1820, has been gradually making the northern states more and more the tools of the southern ones. He had no wish to be threatened in Congress with having his Northerner's "ears nailed to the counter, like his own base coin," or to be informed that he, with the 17,000,000 of the north, were the "White Slaves" of a southern aristocracy of 350,000 slaveholders. He had enough comprehension of, enough admiration68 for the noble principles of the American Constitution to see that the democratic mobs of Irish and Germans, who were stupidly playing into the hands of the Southerners, were not exactly carrying them out; but he had no mind to face either Irish or Southerners. The former were too vulgar for his delicacy69; the latter too aristocratic for his pride. Sprung, as he held (and rightly), from as fine old English blood as any Virginian (though it did happen to be Puritan, and not Cavalier), he had no lust to come into contact with men who considered him much further below them in rank than an English footman is below an English nobleman; who, indeed, would some of them look down on the English nobleman himself as a mushroom of yesterday. So he compounded with his conscience by ignoring the whole matter, and by looking on the state of public affairs on his side of the Atlantic with a cynicism which very soon (as is usual with rich men) passed into Epicureanism. Poetry and music, pictures and statues, amusement and travel, became his idols70, and cultivation71 his substitute for the plain duty of patriotism72, and wandering luxuriously73 over the world, he learnt to sentimentalise over cathedrals and monasteries74, pictures and statues, saints and kaisers, with a lazy regret that such "forms of beauty and nobleness" were no longer possible in a world of scrip and railroads: but without any notion that it was his duty to reproduce in his own life, or that of his country, as much as he could of the said beauty and nobleness. And now he was sorely tried. It was interesting enough to "develop" the peculiar75 turn of Marie's genius, by writing for her plays about liberty, just as he would have written plays about jealousy, or anything else for representing which she had "capabilities76." But to be called on to act in that Slavery question, the one in which he knew (as all sensible Americans do) that the life and death of his country depended, and which for that very reason he had carefully ignored till a more convenient season, finding in its very difficulty and danger an excuse for leaving it to solve itself:—to have this thrust on him, and by her, as the price of the thing which he must have, or die! If she had asked for his right hand, he would have given it sooner; and he entered the Royal Academy that day in much the same humour as that of a fine lady who should find herself suddenly dragged from the ball-room into the dust-hole, in her tenderest array of gauze and jewels, and there peremptorily77 compelled to sift78 the cinders79, under the superintendence of the sweep and the pot-boy.
Glad to escape from questions which he had rather not answer too soon, he went in search of Claude, and found him before one of those pre-Raphaelite pictures, which Claude does not appreciate as he ought.
"Desinit in Culicem mulier formosa supernè," said Stangrave, as he looked over Claude's shoulder; "but I suppose he followed nature, and copied his model."
"That he didn't," said Claude, "for I know who his model was: but if he did he had no business to do so. I object on principle to these men's notion of what copying nature means. I don't deny him talent. I am ready to confess that there is more imagination and more honest work in that picture than in any one in the room. The hysterical80, all but grinning joy upon the mother's face is a miracle of truth; I have seen the expression more than once; doctors see it often, in the sudden revulsion from terror and agony to certainty and peace; I only marvel81 where he ever met it: but the general effect is unpleasing, marred82 by patches of sheer ugliness, like that child's foot. There is the same mistake in all his pictures. Whatever they are, they are not beautiful; and no magnificence of surface-colouring will make up, in my eyes, for wilful83 ugliness of form. I say that nature is beautiful; and therefore nature cannot have been truly copied, or the general effect would have been beautiful also. I never found out the fallacy till the other day, when looking at a portrait by one of them. The woman for whom it was meant was standing by my side, young and lovely; the portrait hung there neither young nor lovely, but a wrinkled caricature twenty years older than the model."
"I surely know the portrait you mean; Lady D——'s."
"Yes. He had simply, under pretence84 of following nature, caricatured her into a woman twenty years older than she is."
"But did you ever see a modern portrait which more perfectly85 expressed character; which more completely fulfilled the requirements which you laid down a few evenings since?"
"Never; and that makes me all the more cross with the wilful mistake of it. He had painted every wrinkle."
"Why not, if they were there?"
"Because he had painted a face not one-twentieth of the size of life. What right had he to cram86 into that small space all the marks which nature had spread over a far larger one?"
"Why not, again, if he diminished the marks in proportion?"
"Just what neither he nor any man could do, without making them so small as to be invisible, save under a microscope: and the result was, that he had caricatured every wrinkle, as his friend has in those horrible knuckles87 of Shem's wife. Besides, I deny utterly your assertion that one is bound to paint what is there. On that very fallacy are they all making shipwreck88."
"Not paint what is there? And you are the man who talks of art being highest when it copies nature."
"Exactly. And therefore you must paint, not what is there, but what you see there. They forget that human beings are men with two eyes, and not daguerreotype89 lenses with one eye, and so are contriving90 and striving to introduce into their pictures the very defect of the daguerreotype which the stereoscope is required to correct."
"I comprehend. They forget that the double vision of our two eyes gives a softness, and indistinctness, and roundness, to every outline."
"Exactly so; and therefore, while for distant landscapes, motionless, and already softened91 by atmosphere, the daguerreotype is invaluable92 (I shall do nothing else this summer but work at it), yet for taking portraits, in any true sense, it will be always useless, not only for the reason I just gave, but for another one which the pre-Raphaelites have forgotten."
"Because all the features cannot be in focus at once?"
"Oh no, I am not speaking of that. Art, for aught I know, may overcome that; for it is a mere defect in the instrument. What I mean is this: it tries to represent as still what never yet was still for the thousandth part of a second: that is, the human face; and as seen by a spectator who is perfectly still, which no man ever yet was. My dear fellow, don't you see that what some painters call idealising a portrait is, if it be wisely done, really painting for you the face which you see, and know, and love; her ever-shifting features, with expression varying more rapidly than the gleam of the diamond on her finger; features which you, in your turn, are looking at with ever-shifting eyes; while, perhaps, if it is a face which you love and have lingered over, a dozen other expressions equally belonging to it are hanging in your memory, and blending themselves with the actual picture on your retina:—till every little angle is somewhat rounded, every little wrinkle somewhat softened, every little shade somewhat blended with the surrounding light, so that the sum total of what you see, and are intended by Heaven to see, is something far softer, lovelier—younger, perhaps, thank Heaven—than it would look if your head was screwed down in a vice93, to look with one eye at her head screwed down in a vice also:—though even that, thanks to the muscles of the eye, would not produce the required ugliness; and the only possible method of fulfilling the pre-Raphaelite ideal would be, to set a petrified94 Cyclops to paint his petrified brother."
"You are spiteful."
"Not at all. I am standing up for art, and for nature too. For instance: Sabina has wrinkles. She says, too, that she has grey hairs coming. The former I won't see, and therefore don't. The latter I can't see, because I am not looking for them."
"Nor I either," said Stangrave smiling. "I assure you the announcement is new to me."
"Of course. Who can see wrinkles in the light of those eyes, that smile, that complexion95?"
"Certainly," said Stangrave, "if I asked for her portrait, as I shall do some day, and the artist sat down and painted the said 'wastes of time,' on pretence of their being there, I should consider it an impertinence on his part. What business has he to spy out what nature has taken such charming trouble to conceal?"
"Again," said Claude, "such a face as Cordifiamma's. When it is at rest, in deep thought, there are lines in it which utterly puzzle one—touches which are Eastern, Kabyle, almost Quadroon."
Stangrave started. Claude went on unconscious:—
"But who sees them in the light of that beauty? They are defects, no doubt, but defects which no one would observe without deep study of the face. They express her character no more than a scar would; and therefore when I paint her, as I must and will, I shall utterly ignore them. If, on the other hand, I met the same lines in a face which I knew to have Quadroon blood in it, I should religiously copy them; because then they would be integral elements of the face. You understand?"
"Understand?—yes," answered Stangrave, in a tone which made Claude look up.
That strange scene of half an hour before flashed across him. What if it were no fancy? What if Marie had African blood in her veins? And Stangrave shuddered, and felt for the moment that thousands of pounds would be a cheap price to pay for the discovery that his fancy was a false one.
"Yes—oh—I beg your pardon," said he, recovering himself. "I was thinking of something else. But, as you say, what if she had Quadroon blood?"
"I? I never said so, or dreamt of it."
"Oh! I mistook. Do you know, though, where she came from?"
"I? You forget, my dear fellow, that you yourself introduced her to us."
"Of course; but I thought Mrs. Mellot might—women always makes confidences."
"All we know is, what I suppose you knew long ago, that her most intimate friend, next to you, seems to be an old friend of ours, named Thurnall."
"An old friend of yours?"
"Oh yes; we have known him these fifteen years. Met him first at Paris; and after that went round the world with him, and saw infinite adventures. Sabina and I spent three months with him once, among the savages96 in a South-sea Island, and a very pretty romance our stay and our escape would make. We were all three, I believe, to have been cooked and eaten, if Tom had not got us off by that wonderful address which, if you know him, you must know well enough."
"Yes," answered Stangrave, coldly, as in a dream; "I have known
Mr. Thurnall in past years; but not in connection with La Signora
Cordifiamma. I was not aware till this moment—this morning, I
mean—that they knew each other."
"You astound97 me; why, she talks of him to us all day long, as of one to whom she has the deepest obligations; she was ready to rush into our arms when she first found that we knew him. He is a greater hero in her eyes, I sometimes fancy, than even you are. She does nothing (or fancies that she does nothing, for you know her pretty wilfulness) without writing for his advice."
"I a hero in her eyes? I was really not aware of that fact," said Stangrave, more coldly than ever; for bitter jealousy had taken possession of his heart. "Do you know, then, what this same obligation may be?"
"I never asked. I hate gossiping, and I make a rule to inquire into no secrets but such as are voluntarily confided98 to me; and I know that she has never told Sabina."
"I suppose she is married to him. That is the simplest explanation of the mystery."
"Impossible! What can you mean? If she ever marries living man, she will marry you."
"Then she will never marry living man," said Stangrave to himself.
"Good-bye, my dear fellow; I have an engagement at the Traveller's."
And away went Stangrave, leaving Claude sorely puzzled, but little
dreaming of the powder-magazine into which he had put a match.
But he was puzzled still more that night, when by the latest post a note came—
"From Stangrave!" said Claude. "Why, in the name of all wonders!"—and he read:—
"Good-bye. I am just starting for the Continent, on sudden and urgent business. What my destination is I hardly can tell you yet. You will hear from me in the course of the summer."
Claude's countenance99 fell, and the note fell likewise. Sabina snatched it up, read it, and gave La Cordifiamma a look which made her spring from the sofa, and snatch it in turn.
She read it through, with trembling hands, and blanching100 cheeks, and then dropped fainting upon the floor.
They laid her on the sofa, and while they were recovering her, Claude told Sabina the only clue which he had to the American's conduct, namely, that afternoon's conversation.
Sabina shook her head over it; for to her, also, the American's explanation had suggested itself. Was Marie Thurnall's wife? Or did she—it was possible, however painful—stand to him in some less honourable101 relation, which she would fain forget now, in a new passion for Stangrave? For that Marie loved Stangrave, Sabina knew well enough.
The doubt was so ugly that it must be solved; and when she had got the poor thing safe into her bedroom she alluded102 to it as gently as she could.
Marie sprang up in indignant innocence103.
"He! Whatever he may be to others, I know not: but to me he has been purity and nobleness itself—a brother, a father! Yes; if I had no other reason for trusting him, I should love him for that alone; that however tempted32 he may have been, and Heaven knows he was tempted, he could respect the honour of his friend, though that friend lay sleeping in a soldier's grave ten thousand miles away."
And Marie threw herself upon Sabina's neck, and under the pressure of her misery104 sobbed105 out to her the story of her life. What it was need not be told. A little common sense, and a little knowledge of human nature, will enable the reader to fill up for himself the story of a beautiful slave.
Sabina soothed106 her, and cheered her; and soothed and cheered her most of all by telling her in return the story of her own life; not so dark a one, but almost as sad and strange. And poor Marie took heart, when she found in her great need a sister in the communion of sorrows.
"And you have been through all this, so beautiful and bright as you are! You whom I should have fancied always living the life of the humming-bird: and yet not a scar or a wrinkle has it left behind!"
"They were there once, Marie! but God and Claude smoothed them away."
"I have no Claude,—and no God, I think, at times."
"No God, Marie! Then how did you come hither?"
Marie was silent, reproved; and then passionately—
"Why does He not right my people?"
That question was one to which Sabina's little scheme of the universe had no answer; why should it, while many a scheme which pretends to be far vaster and more infallible has none as yet?
So she was silent, and sat with Marie's head upon her bosom107, caressing108 the black curls, till she had soothed her into sobbing109 exhaustion110.
"There; lie there and rest: you shall be my child, my poor Marie. I have a fresh child every week; but I shall find plenty of room in my heart for you, my poor hunted deer."
"You will keep my secret?"
"Why keep it? No one need be ashamed of it here in free England."
"But he—he—you do not know, Sabina! Those Northerners, with all their boasts of freedom, shrink from us just as much as our own masters."
"Oh, Marie, do not be so unjust to him! He is too noble, and you must know it yourself."
"Ay, if he stood alone; if he were even going to live in England; if he would let himself be himself; but public opinion," sobbed the poor self-tormentor—"It has been his God, Sabina, to be a leader of taste and fashion—admired and complete—the Crichton of Newport and Brooklyn. And he could not bear scorn, the loss of society. Why should he bear it for me? If he had been one of the abolitionist party, it would have been different: but he has no sympathy with them, good, narrow, pious111 people, or they with him: he could not be satisfied in their society—or I either, for I crave112 after it all as much as he—wealth, luxury, art, brilliant company, admiration,—oh, inconsistent wretch113, that I am! And that makes me love him all the more, and yet makes me so harsh to him, wickedly cruel, as I was to-day; because when I am reproving his weakness, I am reproving my own, and because I am angry with myself, I grow angry with him too—envious of him, I do believe at moments, and all his success and luxury!"
And so poor Marie sobbed out her confused confession114 of that strange double nature which so many Quadroons seem to owe to their mixed blood; a strong side of deep feeling, ambition, energy, an intellect rather Greek in its rapidity than English in sturdiness; and withal a weak side, of instability, inconsistency, hasty passion, love of present enjoyment115, sometimes, too, a tendency to untruth, which is the mark, not perhaps of the African specially116, but of every enslaved race.
Consolation117 was all that Sabina could give. It was too late to act. Stangrave was gone, and week after week rolled by without a line from the wanderer.
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1
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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progenitor
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| n.祖先，先驱 | |
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3
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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beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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13
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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14
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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15
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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18
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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19
parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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20
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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21
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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22
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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23
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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24
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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25
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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26
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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27
effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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28
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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29
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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30
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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31
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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32
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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33
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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34
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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35
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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36
scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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37
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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38
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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39
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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40
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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41
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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42
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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43
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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44
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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45
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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46
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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47
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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48
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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49
protrude
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| v.使突出，伸出，突出 | |
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50
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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51
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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52
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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53
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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54
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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55
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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56
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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57
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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58
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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59
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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60
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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61
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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62
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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64
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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65
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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66
chicanery
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| n.欺诈，欺骗 | |
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67
pandering
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| v.迎合（他人的低级趣味或淫欲）( pander的现在分词 )；纵容某人；迁就某事物 | |
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68
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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69
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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70
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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71
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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72
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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73
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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74
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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75
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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76
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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77
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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78
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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79
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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80
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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81
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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82
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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83
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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84
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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85
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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86
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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87
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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88
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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89
daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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90
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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91
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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92
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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93
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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94
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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95
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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96
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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97
astound
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| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
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98
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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99
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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100
blanching
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| adj.漂白的n.热烫v.使变白( blanch的现在分词 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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101
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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102
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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104
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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105
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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106
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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107
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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108
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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109
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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110
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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111
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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112
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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113
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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114
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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115
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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116
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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117
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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