It is difficult to account for the mingled17 reverence18, and terror, and pity with which we look upon the insane, and it is equally strange that in this case we approach the temple of the mind with deeper homage19, when we know that the divinity has passed out of it. It must be from a conviction of this that uncivilized nations venerate20 deranged21 persons as inspired, and in some instance go so far, I believe, as even to pay them divine worship.
The principle, however, is in our nature: that for which our sympathy is deep and unbroken never fails to secure our compassion23 and respect, and ultimately to excite a still higher class of our moral feelings.
These preliminary observations were suggested to me by the fate of the beautiful but unfortunate girl, the melancholy, events of whose life I am about to communicate. I feel, indeed, that in relating them, I undertake a task that would require a pen of unexampled power and delicacy24. But it is probable that if I remained silent upon a history at once so true, and so full of sorrow; no other person equally intimate with its incidents will ever give them to the world. I cannot presume to detail unhappy Jane’s, calamity25 with the pathos due to a woe26 so singularly deep and delicate, or to describe that faithful attachment27 which gave her once laughing and ruby28 lips the white smile of a maniac’s misery29. This I cannot do; for who, alas, could ever hope to invest a dispensation so dark as her’s with that rich tone of poetic30 beauty which threw its wild graces about her madness? For my part, I consider the subject not only as difficult, but sacred, and approach it on both accounts with devotion, and fear, and trembling. I need scarcely inform the reader that the names and localities are, for obvious reasons, fictitious31, but I may be permitted to add that the incidents are substantially correct and authentic32.
Jane Sinclair was the third and youngest daughter of a dissenting33 clergyman, in one of the most interesting counties in the north of Ireland. Her father was remarkable34 for that cheerful simplicity35 of character which is so frequently joined to a high order of intellect and an affectionate warmth of heart. To a well-tempered zeal36 in the cause of faith and morals, he added a practical habit of charity, both in word and deed, such as endeared him to all classes, but especially to those whose humble37 condition in life gave them the strongest claim upon his virtues38, both as a man and a pastor39. Difficult, indeed, would it be to find a minister of the gospel, whose practice and precept40 corresponded with such beautiful fitness, nor one who, in the midst of his own domestic circle, threw such calm lustre41 around him as a husband and a father. A temper grave but sweet, wit playful and innocent, and tenderness that kept his spirit benignant to error without any compromise of duty, were the links which bound all hearts to him. Seldom have I known a Christian42 clergyman who exhibited in his own life so much of the unaffected character of apostolic holiness, nor one of whom it might be said with so much truth, that “he walked in all the commandments of the Lord blameless.”
His family, which consisted of his wife, one son, and three daughters, had, as might be expected, imbibed44 a deep sense of that religion, the serene45 beauty of which shone so steadily46 along their father’s path of life. Mrs. Sinclair had been well educated, and in her husband’s conversation and society found further opportunity of improving, not only her intellect, but her heart. Though respectably descended47, she could not claim relationship with what may be emphatically termed the gentry48 of the country; but she could with that class so prevalent in the north of Ireland, which ranks in birth only one grade beneath them. I say in birth;—for in all the decencies of life, in the unostentatious bounties49 of benevolence50, in moral purity, domestic harmony, and a conscientious51 observance of religion, both in the comeliness52 of its forms, and the cheerful freedom of its spirit, this class ranks immeasurably above every other which Irish society presents. They who compose it are not sufficiently53 wealthy to relax those pursuits of honorable industry which constitute them, as a people, the ornament54 of our nation; nor does their good-sense and decent pride permit them to follow the dictates55 of a mean ambition, by struggling to reach that false elevation56, which is as much beneath them in all the virtues that grace life, as it is above them in the dazzling dissipation which renders the violation57 or neglect of its best duties a matter of fashionable etiquette58, or the shameful59 privilege of high birth. To this respectable and independent class did the immediate60 relations of Mrs. Sinclair belong; and, as might be expected, she failed not to bring all its virtues to her husband’s heart and household—there to soothe61 him by their influence, to draw fresh energy from their mutual62 intercourse63, and to shape the habits of their family into that perception of self-respect and decent propriety64, which in domestic duty, dress, and general conduct, uniformly results from a fine sense of moral feeling, blended with high religious principle. This, indeed, is the class whose example has diffused65 that spirit of keen intelligence and enterprise throughout the north which makes the name of an Ulster manufacturer or merchant a synonym66 for integrity and honor. From it is derived67 the creditable love of independence which operates upon the manners of the people and the physical soil of the country so obviously, that the natural appearance of the one may be considered as an appropriate exponent68 of the moral condition of the other. Aided by the genius of a practical and impressive creed69, whose simple grandeur70 gives elevation and dignity to its followers;—this class it is which, by affording employment, counsel, and example to many of the lower classes, brings peace and comfort to those who inhabit the white cottages and warm farmsteads of the north, and lights up its cultivated landscapes, its broad champaigns, and peaceful vales, into an aspect so smiling, that even the very soil seems to proclaim and partake of the happiness of its inhabitants. Indeed, few spots in the north could afford the spectator a better opportunity of verifying our observations as to the mild beauty of the country, than the residence of the amiable71 clergyman whose unhappy child’s fate has furnished us with the affecting circumstances we are about to lay before the reader.
Springvale House, Mr. Sinclair’s residence, was situated72 on an eminence73 that commanded a full view of the sloping valley from which it had its name. Along this vale, winding74 towards the house in a northern direction, ran a beautiful tributary75 stream, accompanied for nearly two miles in its progress by a small but well conducted road, which indeed had rather the character of a green lane than a public way, being but very little of a thoroughfare. Nothing could surpass this delightful76 vale in the soft and serene character of its scenery. Its sides, partially77 wooded, and cultivated with surpassing taste, were not so precipitous as to render habitation in its bosom78 inconvenient79. They sloped up gradually and gracefully80 on each side, presenting to the eye a number of snow-white residences, each standing82 upon the brow of some white table or undulation, and surrounded by grounds sufficiently spacious83 to allow of green lawns, ornamented84 plantations85, and gardens, together with a due proportion of land for cultivation86 and pasture. From Mr. Sinclair’s house the silver bends of this fine stream gave exquisite87 peeps to the spectator as they wound out of the wood which here and there clothed its banks, occasionally dipping into the water. On the loft88, attached to the glebe-house of the Protestant pastor of the parish, the eye rested upon a pond as smooth as a mirror, except where an occasional swan, as it floated onwards without any apparent effort, left here and there a slight quivering ripple89 behind it. Farther down, springing from between two clumps90 of trees, might be seen the span of a light and elegant arch, from under which the river gently wound away to the right; and beyond this, on the left, about a hundred yards from the bank, rose up the slender spire22 of the parish church, out of the bosom of the old beeches92 that overshadowed it, and threw a solemn gloom upon the peaceful graveyard93 at its side. About two hundred yards again to the right, in a little green shelving dell beneath the house, stood Mr. Sinclair’s modest white meeting-house, with a large ash tree hanging over each gable, and a row of poplars behind it. The valley at the opposite extremity94 opened upon a landscape bright and picturesque95, dotted with those white residences which give that peculiar96 character of warmth and comfort for which the northern landscapes are so remarkable. Indeed the eye could scarcely rest upon a richer expanse of country than lay stretched out before it, nor can we omit to notice the singularly unique and beautiful effect produced by the numerous bleach-greens that shone at various degrees of distance, and contrasted so sweetly with the surface of a land deeply and delightfully97 verdant98.
In the far distance rose the sharp outlines of a lofty mountain, whose green and sloping base melted into the “sun-silvered” expanse of the sea, on the smooth bosom of which the eye could snatch brilliant glimpses of the snow-white sails that sparkled at a distance as they fell under the beams of the noonday sun. The landscape was indeed beautiful in itself, but still rendered more so by the delicate aerial tints99 which lay on every object, and touched the whole into a mellower101 and more exquisite expression.
Such was the happy valley in which this peaceful family resided; each and all enjoying that tranquility which sheds its calm contentment over the unassuming spirits of those who are ignorant of the crimes that flow from the selfishness and ambition of busy life. To them, the fresh breezes of morning, as they rustled103 through the living foliage, and stirred the modest flowers of their pleasant path, were fraught104 with an enjoyment105 which bound their hearts to every object around them, because to each of them these objects were the sources of habitual106 gratification. On them the dewy stillness of evening descended with tender serenity107, as the valley shone in the radiance of the sinking sun; and by them was held that sweet and rapturous communion with nature, which, as it springs earliest in the affections so does it linger about the heart when all the other loves and enmities of life are forgotten. Who is there, indeed, whose spirit does not tremble with tenderness, on looking back upon the scenes of his early life? And, alas! alas! how few are there of those that are long conversant108 with the world, who can take such a retrospect109 without feeling their hearts weighed down by sorrow, and the force of associations too mournful to be uttered in words. The bitter consciousness that we can be youthful no more, and that the golden hours of our innocence110 have passed away for ever, throws a melancholy darkness over the soul, and sends it back again to retrace111, in the imaginary light of our early time, the scenes where that innocence had been our playmate. Let no man deny that groves113, and meadows, and green fields, and winding streams, and all the other charms of rural imagery, unconsciously but surely give to the human heart a deep perception of that graceful81 creed which is beautifully termed the religion of nature. They give purity and strength to feeling, and through the imagination, which owes so much of its power to their impressions, they raise our sentiments until we feel them kindled114 into union with the lustre of a holier light than even that which leads our steps to God through the beauty of his own works. For this reason it is, that all imaginative affections are much stronger in the country than in the town. Love in the one place is not only freer from the coarseness of passion, but incomparably more seductive to the heart, and more voluptuous115 in its conception of the ideal beauty with which it invests the object of its attachment. Nor is this surprising. In the country its various associations are essentially116 impressive and poetical117. Moonlight—evening—the still glen—the river side—the flowery hawthorn118—the bower—the crystal well—not forgetting the melody of the woodland songster—are all calculated, to make the heart and fancy surrender themselves to the blandishments of a passion that is surrounded by objects so sweetly linked to their earliest sympathies. But this is not all. In rural life, neither the heart nor the eye is distracted by the claims of rival beauty, when challenging, in the various graces of many, that admiration119 which might be bestowed120 on one alone, did not each successive impression efface121 that which went before it. In the country, therefore, in spring meadows, among summer groves, and beneath autumnal skies, most certainly does the passion of love sink deepest into the human heart, and pass into the greatest extremes of happiness or pain. Here is where it may be seen, cheek to cheek, now in all the shivering ecstacies of intense rapture122, or again moping carelessly along, with pale brow and flashing eye, sometimes writhing123 in the agony of undying attachment, or chanting its mad lay of hope and love in a spirit of fearful happiness more affecting than either misery or despair.
Everything was beautiful in the history of unhappy Jane Sinclair’s melancholy fate. The evening of the incident to which the fair girl’s misery might eventually be traced was one of the most calm and balmy that could be witnessed even during the leafy month of June. With the exception of Mrs. Sinclair, the whole family had gone out to saunter leisurely124 by the river side; the father between his two eldest125 daughters, and Jane, then sixteen, sometimes chatting to her brother William, and sometimes fondling a white dove, which she had petted and trained with such success that it was then amenable126 to almost every light injunction she laid upon it. It sat upon her shoulder, which, indeed, was its usual seat, would peck her cheek, cower127 as if with a sense of happiness in her bosom, and put its bill to her lips, from which it was usually fed, either to demand some sweet reward for its obedience128, or to express its attachment by a profusion129 of innocent caresses130. The evening, as we said, was fine; not a cloud could be seen, except a pile of feathery flakes131 that hung far up at the western gate of heaven; the stillness was profound; no breathing even of the gentlest zephyr132, could be felt; the river beside them, which was here pretty deep, seemed motionless; not a leaf of the trees stirred; the very aspens were still as if they had been marble; and the whole air was warm and fragrant133. Although the sun wanted an hour of setting, yet from the bottom of the vale they could perceive the broad shafts134 of light which shot from his mild disk through the snowy clouds we have mentioned, like bars of lambent radiance, almost palpable to the touch. Yet, although this delightful silence was so profound, the heart could perceive, beneath its stillest depths, that voiceless harmony of progressing life, which, like the music of a dream, can reach the soul independently of the senses, and pour upon it a sublime136 sense of natural inspiration.
Something like this appears to have been felt by the group we have alluded137 to. Mr. Sinclair, after standing for a moment on the bank of the river, and raising his eyes to the solemn splendor138 of the declining sun, looked earnestly around him, and then out upon the glowing landscape that stretched beyond the valley, after which, with a spirit of high-enthusiasm, he exclaimed, catching139 at the same time the fire and grandeur of the poet’s noble conception—
These are thy glorious works. Parent of good!
Almighty140! thine this universal fame—
Thus wondrous141 fair—thyself how wondrous then—
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works.
There was something singularly impressive in the burst of piety142 which the hour and the place drew from this venerable pastor, as indeed there was in the whole group, as they listened in the attitude of deep attention to his words. Mr. Sinclair was a tall, fine-looking old man, whose white flowing locks fell down on each side of his neck. His figure appeared to fine advantage, as, standing a little in front of his children, he pointed143 with his raised arm to the setting sun; behind him stood his two eldest girls, the countenance144 of one turned with an expression of awe145 and admiration towards the west; that of the other fixed146 with mingled reverence and affection on her father. William stood near Jane, and looked out thoughtfully towards the sea, while Jane herself, light, and young, and beautiful, stood with a hushed face, in the act of giving a pat of gentle rebuke148 to the snow-white dove on her bosom. At length they resumed their walk, and the conversation took a lighter149 turn. The girls left their father’s side, and strolled in many directions through the meadow. Sometimes they pulled wild flowers, if marked by more than ordinary beauty, or gathered the wild mint and meadow-sweet to perfume their dairy, or culled150 the flowery woodbine to shed its delicate fragrance151 through their sleeping-rooms. In fact, all their habits and amusements were pastoral, and simple, and elegant. Jane accompanied them as they strolled about, but was principally engaged with her pet, which flew, in capricious but graceful circles over her head, and occasionally shot off into the air, sweeping152 in mimic153 flight behind a green knoll154, or a clump91 of trees, completely out of her sight; after which it would again return, and folding its snowy pinions155, drop affectionately upon her shoulder, or into her bosom. In this manner they proceeded for some time, when the dove again sped off across the river, the bank of which was wooded on the other side. Jane followed the beautiful creature with a sparkling eye, and saw it wheeling to return, when immediately the report of a gun was heard from the trees directly beneath it, and the next moment it faltered156 in its flight, sunk, and with feeble wing, struggled to reach the object of its affection. This, however, was beyond its strength. After sinking gradually towards the earth, it had power only to reach the middle of the river, into the deepest part of which it fell, and there lay fluttering upon the stream.
The report of the gun, and the fate of the pigeon, brought the personages of our little drama with hurrying steps to the edge of the river. One scream of surprise and distress157 proceeded from the lips of its fair young mistress, after which she wrung158 her hands, and wept and sobbed159 like one in absolute despair.
“Oh, dear William,” she exclaimed, “can you not rescue it? Oh, save it—save it; if it sinks I will never see it more. Oh, papa, who could be so cruel, so heartless, as to injure a creature so beautiful and inoffensive?”
“I know not, my dear Jane; but cruel and heartless must the man be that could perpetrate a piece of such wanton mischief160. I should rather think it is some idle boy who knows not that it is tame.”
“William, dear William, can you not save it,” she inquired again of her brother; “if it is doomed to die, let it die with me; but, alas! now it must sink, and I will never see it more;” and the affectionate girl continued to weep bitterly.
“Indeed, my dear Jane, I never regretted my ignorance of swimming so much as I do this moment. The truth is, I cannot swim a stroke, otherwise I would save poor little Ariel for your sake.”
“Don’t take it so much to heart, my dear child,” said her father; “it is certainly a distressing161 incident, but, at the same time, your grief, girl, is too excessive; it is violent, and you know it ought not to be violent for the death of a favorite bird.”
“Oh, papa, who can look upon its struggles for life, and not feel deeply; remember it was mine, and think of its attachment to me. It has not only the pain of its wound to suffer, but to struggle with an element against which it feels a natural antipathy162, and with which the gentle creature is this moment contending for its life.”
There was, indeed, something very painful and affecting in the situation of the beautiful wounded dove. Even Mr. Sinclair himself, in witnessing its unavailing struggles, felt as much; nor were the other two girls unaffected any more than Jane herself. Their eyes became filled with tears, and Maria, the eldest, said, “It is better, Jane, to return home. Poor mute creature! the view of its sufferings is, indeed, very painful.”
Just then a tall, slender youth, apparently163 about eighteen, came out of the trees on the other bank of the river but on seeing Mr. Sinclair and his family, he paused, and appeared to feel somewhat embarrassed. It was evident he had seen the bird wounded, and followed the course of its flight, without suspecting that it was tame, or that there was any person near to claim it. The distress of the females, however, especially of its mistress, immediately satisfied him that it was theirs, and he was about to withdraw into the wood again, when the situation of poor Ariel caught his eye. He instantly took off his hat, flung it across the river, and plunging164 in swam towards the dove, which was now nearly exhausted165. A few strokes brought him to the spot, on reaching which, he caught the bird in one hand, held it above the water, and, with the other, swam down towards a slope in the bank a few yards below the spot where the party stood. Having gained the bank, he approached them, but was met half way by Jane, whose eyes, now sparkling through her tears, spoke166 her gratitude167 in language much more eloquent168 than any her tongue could utter.
Page 5-- Having Gained the Bank, he Approached Them
The youth first examined the bird, with a view to ascertain169 where it had been wounded, and immediately placed it with much gentleness in the eager hands of its mistress.
“It will not die, I should think, in consequence of the wound,” he observed, “which, though pretty severe, has left the wing unbroken. The body, at all events, is safe. With care it may recover.”
William then handed him his hat and Mr. Sinclair having thanked him for an act of such humanity, insisted that he should go home with them, in order to procure170 a change of apparel. At first he declined this offer, but, after a little persuasion171, he yielded with something of shyness and hesitation172: accordingly, without loss of time, they all reached the house together.
Having, with some difficulty, been prevailed on to take a glass of cordial, he immediately withdrew to William’s apartment, for the purpose of changing his dress. William, however, now observed that he got pale, and that in a few minutes afterwards his teeth began to chatter173, whilst he shivered excessively.
“You had better lose no time in putting these dry clothes on,” said he; “I am rather inclined to think bathing does not agree with you, that is, if I am to judge by your present paleness and trembling.”
“No,” said the youth, “it is a pleasure which, for the last two years, I have been forbidden. I feel very chilly174, indeed, and you will excuse me for declining the use of your clothes. I must return home forthwith.”
Young Sinclair, however, would not hear of this. After considerable pains he prevailed on him to change his dress, but no argument could induce him to stop a moment longer than until this was effected.
The family, on his entering the drawing-room to take his leave, were surprised at a determination so sudden and unexpected, but when Mr. Sinclair noticed his extreme paleness, he suspected that he had got ill, and that it might not be delicate to press him.
“Before you leave us,” said the good clergyman, “will you not permit us to know the name of the young gentleman to whom my daughter is indebted for the rescue of her dove?”
“We are as yet but strangers in the neighborhood,” replied the youth: “my father’s name is Osborne. We have not been more than three days in Mr. Williams’s residence, which, together with the whole of the property annexed175 to it, my father has purchased.”
“I am aware, I am aware: then you will be a permanent neighbor of ours,” said Mr. Sinclair; “and believe me, my dear boy, we shall always be happy to see you at Springvale; nor shall we soon forget the generous act which first brought us acquainted.”
Whilst this short dialogue lasted, two or three shy sidelong glances passed between him and Jane. So extremely modest was the young man that, from an apprehension176 lest these glances might have been noticed, his pale face became lit up with a faint blush, in which state of confusion he took his leave.
Conversation was not resumed among the Sinclairs for some minutes after his departure, each, in fact, having been engaged in reflecting upon the surpassing beauty of his face, and the uncommon177 symmetry of his slender but elegant person. Their impression, indeed, was rather that of wonder than of mere178 admiration. The tall youth who had just left them seemed, in fact, an incarnation of the beautiful itself—a visionary creation, in which was embodied180 the ideal spirit of youth, intellect, and grace. His face shone with that rosy181 light of life’s prime which only glows on the human countenance during the brief period that intervenes between the years of the thoughtless boy and those of the confirmed man: and whilst his white brow beamed with intellect, it was easy to perceive that the fire of deep feeling and high-wrought enthusiasm broke out in timid flashes from his dark eye. His modesty182, too, by tempering the full lustre of his beauty, gave to it a character of that graceful diffidence, which above all others makes the deepest impression upon a female heart.
“Well, I do think,” said William Sinclair, “that young Osborne is decidedly the finest boy I ever saw—the most perfect in beauty and figure—and yet we have not seen him to advantage.”
“I think, although I regretted to see him so, that he looked better after he got pale,” said Maria; “his features, though colorless, were cut like marble.”
“I hope his health may not be injured by what has occurred,” observed the second; “he appeared ill.”
“That, Agnes, is more to the point,” said Mr. Sinclair; “I fear the boy is by no means well; and I am apprehensive183, from the deep carnation179 of his cheek, and his subsequent paleness, that he carries within him the seeds of early dissolution. He is too delicate, almost too etherial for earth.”
“If he becomes an angel,” said William, smiling, “with a very slight change, he will put some of them out of countenance.”
“William,” said the father, “never, while you live attempt to be witty184 at the expense of what is sacred or solemn; such jests harden the heart of him who utters them, and sink his character, not only as a Christian, but as a gentleman.”
“I beg your pardon, father—-I was wrong—but I spoke heedlessly.”
“I know you did, Billy; but in future avoid it. Well, Jane, how is your bird?”
“I think it is better, papa; but one can form no opinion so soon.”
“Go, show it to your mamma—she is the best doctor among us—follow her advice, and no doubt she will add its cure to the other triumphs of her skill.”
“Jane is fretting185 too much about it,” observed Agnes; “why, Jane, you are just now as pale as young Osborne himself.”
This observation turned the eyes of the family upon her; but scarcely had her sister uttered the words when the young creature’s countenance became the color of crimson186, so deeply, and with such evident confusion did she blush. Indeed she felt conscious of this, for she rose, with the wounded dove lying gently between her hands and bosom, and passed, without speaking, out of the room.
“Don’t you think, papa,” observed Miss Sinclair, “that there is a striking resemblance between young Osborne and Jane? I could not help remarking it.”
“There decidedly is, Maria, now that you mentioned it,” said William.
The father paused a little, as if to consider the matter, and then added with a smile—
“It is very singular, Mary; but indeed I think there is—both in the style of their features and their figure.”
“Osborne is too handsome for a man,” observed Agnes; “yet, after all, one can hardly say so, his face, though fine, is not feminine.”
“Beauty, my children!—alas, what is it? Often—too often, a fearful, a fatal gift. It is born with us, and not of our own merit; yet we are vain enough to be proud of it. It is at best a flower that soon fades—a light that soon passes away. Oh! what is it when contrasted with those high principles whose beauty is immortal187, which brighten by age, and know neither change nor decay. There is Jane—my poor child—she is indeed very beautiful and graceful, yet I often fear that her beauty, joined as it is to an over-wrought sensibility, may, before her life closes, occasion much sorrow either to herself or others.”
“She is all affection,” said William.
“She is all love, all tenderness, all goodness; and may the grace of her Almighty Father keep her from the wail and woe which too often accompany the path of beauty in this life of vicissitude188 and trial.”
A tear of affection for his beautiful child stood in the old man’s eyes as he raised them to heaven, and the loving hearts of his family burned with tenderness towards this their youngest and best beloved sister.
The sun had now gone down, and, after a short pause, the old man desired William to summon the other members of the household in to prayers. The evening worship being concluded, the youngsters walked in the lawn before the door until darkness began to set in, after which they retired189 to their respective apartments for the night.
Sweet and light be your slumbers190, O ye that are peaceful and good—sweet be your slumbers on this night so calm and beautiful; for, alas, there is one among you into whose I innocent bosom has stolen that destroying spirit which will yet pale her fair cheek, and wring192 many a bitter tear from the eyes that love to look upon her. Her early sorrows have commenced this night, and for what mysterious purpose who can divine?—but, alas, alas, her fate is sealed—the fawn193 of Springvale is stricken, and even now carries in her young heart a wound that will never close.
Osborne’s father, who had succeeded to an estate of one thousand per annum, was the eldest son of a gentleman whose habits were badly calculated to improve the remnant of property which ancestral extravagance had left him.
Ere many years the fragment which came into his possession dwindled194 into a fraction of its former value, and he found himself With a wife and four children—two sons and two daughters—struggling on a pittance195 of two hundred a year. This, to a man possessing the feelings and education of a gentleman, amounted to something like retributive justice upon his prodigality196. His conflict with poverty, however, (for to him it might be termed such,) was fortunately not of long duration. A younger brother who, finding that he must fight his own battle in life, had embraced the profession of medicine, very seasonably died, and Osborne’s father succeeded to a sum of twelve thousand pounds in the funds, and an income in landed property of seven hundred per annum. He now felt himself more independent than he had ever been, and with this advantage, that his bitter experience of a heartless world had completely cured him of all tendency to extravagance. And now he would have enjoyed as much happiness as is the usual lot of man, were it not that the shadow of death fell upon his house, and cast its cold blight2 upon his children. Ere three years had elapsed he saw his eldest daughter fade out of life, and in less than two more his eldest son was laid beside her in the same grave. Decline, the poetry of death, in its deadly beauty came upon them, and whilst it sang its song of life and hope to their hearts, treacherously198 withdrew them to darkness and the worm.
Osborne’s feelings were those of thoughtlessness and extravagance; but he had never been either a libertine199 or a profligate200, although the world forbore not, when it found him humbled201 in his poverty, to bring such charges against him. In truth, he was full of kindness, and no parent ever loved his children with deeper or more devoted202 affection. The death of his noble son and beautiful girl brought down his spirit to the most mournful depths of affliction. Still he had two left, and, as it happened, the most beautiful, and more than equally possessed203 his affections. To them was gradually transferred that melancholy love which the heart of the sorrowing father had carried into the grave of the departed; and alas, it appeared as if it had come back to those who lived loaded with the malady of the dead. The health of the surviving boy became delicate, and by the advice of his physician, who pronounced the air in which they lived unfavorable,—Osborne, on hearing that Mr. Williams, a distant relation, was about to dispose of his house and grounds, immediately became the purchaser. The situation, which had a southern aspect, was dry and healthy, the air pure and genial204, and, according to the best medical opinions, highly beneficial to persons of a consumptive habit.
For two years before this—that is since his brother’s death—the health of young Osborne had been watched with all the tender vigilance of affection. A regimen in diet, study and exercise, had been prescribed for him by his physician; the regulations of which he was by no means to transgress205.
In fact his parents lived under a sleepless206 dread207 of losing him which kept their hearts expanded with that inexpressible and burning love which none but a parent so circumstanced can ever feel. Alas! notwithstanding the promise of life which early years usually hold out, there was much to justify208 them in this their sad and gloomy apprehension. Woeful was the uncertainty209 which they felt in discriminating210 between the natural bloom of youth and the beauty of that fatal malady which they dreaded211. His tall slender frame, his transparent212 cheek, so touching213, so unearthly in the fairness of its expression; the delicacy of his whole organization, both mental and physical—all, all, with the terror of decline in their hearts, spoke as much of despair as of hope, and placed the life and death of their beloved boy in an equal poise214.
But, independently of his extraordinary personal advantages, all his dispositions216 were so gentle and affectionate, that it was not I in human nature to entertain harsh feeling toward him. Although modest and shrinking, even to diffidence, he possessed a mind full of intellect and enthusiasm: his imagination, too, overflowed217 with creative power, and sought the dreamy solitudes218 of noon, that it might, far from the bustle220 of life, shadow forth those images of beauty which come thickly only upon those whose hearts are most susceptible221 of its forms. Many a time has he sat alone upon the brow of a rock or hill, watching the clouds of heaven, or gazing on the setting sun, or communing with the thousand aspects of nature in a thousand moods, his young spirit relaxed into that elysian reverie which, beyond all other kinds of intellectual enjoyment, is the most seductive to a youth of poetic temperament222.
There were, indeed, in Osborne’s case, too many of those light and scarcely perceptible tokens which might be traced, if not to a habit of decline, at least to a more than ordinary delicacy of constitution. The short cough, produced by the slightest damp, or the least breath of ungenial air—the varying cheek, now rich as purple, and again pale as a star of heaven—the unsteady pulse, and the nervous sense of uneasiness without a cause—all these might be symptoms of incipient223 decay, or proofs of those fine impulses which are generally associated with quick sensibility and genius. Still they existed; at one time oppressing the hearts of his parents with fear, and again exalting224 them with pride. The boy was consequently enjoined225 to avoid all violent exercise, to keep out of Currents, while heated to drink nothing cold, and above all things never to indulge in the amusement of cold bathing.
Such were the circumstances under which Osbome first appeared to the reader, who may now understand the extent of his alarm on feeling himself so suddenly and seriously affected43 by his generosity226 in rescuing the wounded dove. His mere illness on this occasion was a matter of much less anxiety to himself than the alarm which he knew it would occasion his parents and sister. On his reaching home he mentioned the incident which occurred, admitted that he had been rather warm on going into the water, and immediately went to bed. Medical aid was forthwith procured227, and although the physician assured them that there appeared nothing serious in his immediate state, yet was his father’s house a house of wail and sorrow.
The next day the Sinclairs, having heard in reply to their inquiries228 through the servant who had been sent home with his apparel, that he was ill, the worthy229 clergyman lost no time in paying his parents a visit on the occasion. In this he expressed his regret, and that also of his whole family, that any circumstance relating to them should have been the means, even accidentally, of affecting the young gentleman’s health. It was not, however, until he dwelt upon the occurrence in terms of approbation230, and placed the boy’s conduct in a generous light, that he was enabled to appreciate the depth and tenderness of their affection for him. The mother’s tears flowed in silence on hearing this fresh proof of his amiable spirit, and the father, with a foreboding heart, related to Mr. Sinclair the substance of that which we have detailed232 to the reader.
Such was the incident which brought these two families acquainted, and ultimately ripened233 their intimacy234 into friendship.
Much sympathy was felt for young Osborne by the other members of Mr. Sinclair’s household, especially as his modest and unobtrusive deportment, joined to his extraordinary beauty, had made so singularly favorable an impression upon them. Is or was the history of that insidious235 malady, which had already been so fatal to his sister and brother, calculated to lessen236 the interest which his first appearance had excited. There was one young heart among them which sank, as if the Weight of death had come over it, on hearing this melancholy account of him whose image was now for ever the star of her fate, whether for happiness or sorrow. From the moment their eyes had met in those few shrinking but flashing glances by which the spirit of love conveys its own secret, she felt the first painful transports of the new affection, and retired to solitude219 with the arrow that struck her so deeply yet quivering in her bosom.
The case of our fair girl differed widely from that of many young persons, in whose heart the passion of love lurks237 unknown for a time, throwing its roseate shadows of delight and melancholy over their peace, whilst they themselves feel unable in the beginning to develop those strange sensations which take away from their pillows the unbroken slumber191 of early life.
Jane from the moment her eyes rested on Osborne felt and was conscious of feeling the influence of a youth so transcendently fascinating. Her love broke not forth gradually like the trembling light that brightens into the purple flush of morning; neither was it fated to sink calm and untroubled like the crimson tints that die only when the veil of night, like the darkness of death, wraps them in its shadow. Alas no, it sprung from her heart in all the noontide strength of maturity—a full-grown passion, incapable238 of self-restraint, and conscious only of the wild and novel delight arising from its own indulgence. Night and day that graceful form hovered239 before her, encircled in the halo of her young imagination, with a lustre that sparkled beyond the light of human beauty. We know that the eye when it looks steadily upon a cloudless sun, is incapable for some time afterwards of seeing any other object distinctly; and that in whatever direction it turns that bright image floats incessantly240 before it—nor will be removed even although the eye itself is closed against its radiance. So was it with Jane. Asleep or awake, in society or in solitude, the vision with which her soul held communion never for a moment withdrew from before her, until at length her very heart became sick, and her fancy entranced, by the excess of her youthful and unrestrained attachment. She could not despair, she could scarcely doubt; for on thinking of the blushing glances so rapidly stolen at herself, and of the dark brilliant eye from whence they came, she knew that the soul of him she loved spoke to her in a language that was mutually understood. These impressions, it is true, were felt in her moments of ecstacy, but then came, notwithstanding this confidence, other moments when maidenly241 timidity took the crown of rejoicing off her head, and darkened her youthful brow with that uncertainty, which, while it depresses hope, renders the object that is loved a thousand times dearer to the heart.
To others, at the present stage of her affection, she appeared more silent than usual, and evidently fond of solitude, a trait which they had not observed in her before. But these were slight symptoms of what she felt; for alas, the day was soon to come that was to overshadow their hearts forever—never, never more were they and she, in the light of their own innocence, to sing like the morning stars together, or to lay their untroubled heads in the slumbers of the happy.
More than a month had now elapsed since the first appearance of Osborne as one of the dramatis personae of our narrative242. A slight fever, attended with less effect upon the lungs than his parents anticipated, had passed off, and he was once more able to go abroad and take exercise in the open air. The two families were now in the habit of visiting each other almost daily; and what tended more and more to draw closer the bonds of good feeling between them, was the fact of the Osbornes being members of the same creed, and attendants at Mr. Sinclair’s place of worship. Jane, while Charles Osborne was yet ill, had felt a childish diminution243 of her affection for her convalescent dove, whilst at the same time something whispered to her that it possessed a stronger interest in her heart than it had ever done before. This may seem a paradox244 to such of our readers as have never been in love; but it is not at all irreconcilable245 to the analogous246 and often conflicting states of feeling produced by that strange and mysterious passion. The innocent girl was wont247, as frequently as she could without exciting notice, to steal away to the garden, or the fields, or the river side, accompanied by her mute, companion, to which with pouting248 caresses she would address a series of rebukes249 of having been the means of occasioning the illness of him she loved.
“Alas, Ariel, little do you know, sweet bird, what anxiety you have caused your mistress—if he dies I shall never love you more? Yes, coo, and flutter—but I do not care for you; no, that kiss won’t satisfy me until he is recovered—then I shall be friends with you, and you shall be my own Ariel again.”
She would then pat it petulantly250; and the beautiful creature would sink its head, and slightly expand its wings, as if conscious that there was a change of mood in her affection.
But again the innocent remorse251 of her girlish heart would flow forth in terms of tenderness and endearment252; again would I she pat and cherish it; and with the artless I caprice of childhood exclaim—
“No, my own Ariel, the fault was not yours; come, I shall love you—and I will not be angry again; even if you were not good I would love you for his sake. You are now dearer to me a thousand times than you ever were; but alas! Ariel, I am sick, I am sick, and no longer happy. Where is my lightness of heart, my sweet bird, and where, oh where is the joy I used to feel?”
Even this admission, which in the midst of solitude could reach no other human ear, would startle the bashful creature into alarm; and whilst her cheek became alternately pale and crimson at such an avowal253 thus uttered aloud, she would wipe away the tears that arose to her eyes whenever the depths of her affection were stirred by those pensive254 broodings which gave its sweetest charm to youthful love.
In thus seeking solitude, it is not to be imagined that our young heroine was drawn255 thither256 by a love of contemplating257 nature in those fresher aspects which present themselves in the stillness of her remote recesses258. She sought not for their own sakes the shades of the grove112, the murmuring cascade259, nor the voice of the hidden rivulet260 that occasionally stole out from its leafy cover, and ran in music towards the ampler stream of the valley.
No, no; over her heart and eye the spirit of their beauty passed idly and unfelt. All of external life that she had been wont to love and admire gave her pleasure no more. The natural arbors of woodbine, the fairy dells, and the wild flowers that peeped in unknown sweetness about the hedges, the fairy fingers, the blue-bells, the cow-slips, with many others of her fragrant and graceful favorites, all, all, charmed her, alas, no more. Nor at home, where every voice was tenderness, and every word affection, did there exist in her stricken heart that buoyant sense of enjoyment which had made her youth like the music of a brook261, where every thing that broke the smoothness of its current only turned it into melody. The morning and evening prayer—the hymn262 of her sister voices—their simple spirit of tranquil102 devotion—and the touching solemnity of her father, worshipping God upon the altar of his own heart—all, all this, alas—alas, charmed her no more. Oh, no—no; many motives263 conspired264 to send her into solitude, that she might in the sanctity of unreproving nature cherish her affection for the youth whose image was ever, ever before her. At home such was the timid delicacy of her love, that she felt as if its indulgence even in the stillest depths of her own heart, was disturbed by the conversation of her kindred, and the familiar habits of domestic life. Her father’s, her brother’s, and her sisters’ voices, produced in her a feeling of latent shame, which, when she supposed for a moment that they could guess her attachment, filled her with anxiety and confusion. She experienced besides a sense of uneasiness on reflecting that she practiced, for the first time in their presence, a dissimulation265 so much at variance266 with the opinion she knew they entertained of her habitual candor267. It was, in fact, the first secret she had ever concealed268 from them; and now the suppression of it in her own bosom made her feel as if she had withdrawn269 that confidence which was due to the love they bore her. This was what kept her so much in her own room, or sent her abroad to avoid all that had a tendency to repress the indulgence of an attachment that had left in her heart a capacity for no other enjoyment. But in solitude she was far from every thing that could disturb those dreams in which the tranquility of nature never failed to entrance her. There was where the mysterious spirit that raises the soul above the impulses of animal life, mingled with her being—and poured upon her affection the elemental purity of that original love which in the beginning preceded human guilt.
It is, indeed, far from the contamination of society—in the stillness of solitude when the sentiment of love comes abroad before its passion, that the heart can be said to realize the object of its devotion, and to forget that its indulgence can ever be associated with error. This is, truly, the angelic love of youth and innocence; and such was the nature of that which the beautiful girl felt. Indeed, her clay was so divinely tempered, that the veil which covered her pure and ethereal spirit, almost permitted the light within to be visible, and exhibited the workings of a soul that struggled to reach the object whose communion with itself seemed to constitute the sole end of its existence.
The evening on which Jane and Charles Osborne met for the first time, unaccompanied by their friends, was one of those to which the power of neither pen nor pencil can do justice. The sun was slowly sinking among a pile of those soft crimson clouds, behind which fancy is so apt to picture to itself the regions of calm delight that are inhabited by the happy spirits of the blest; the sycamore and hawthorn were yet musical with the hum of bees, busy in securing their evening burthen for the hive. Myriads270 of winged insects were sporting in the sunbeams; the melancholy plaint of the ringdove came out sweetly from the trees, mingled with the songs of other birds, and the still sweeter voice of some happy groups of children at play in the distance. The light of the hour, in its subdued271 but golden tone, fell with singular clearness upon all nature, giving to it that tranquil beauty which makes every thing the eye rests upon glide272 with quiet rapture into the heart. The moth231 butterflies were fluttering over the meadows, and from the low stretches of softer green rose the thickly-growing grass-stalks, laying their slender ear’s bent135 with the mellow100 burthen of wild honey—the ambrosial273 feast for the lips of innocence and childhood. It was, indeed, an evening when love would bring forth its sweetest memories, and dream itself into those ecstacies of tenderness that flow from the mingled sensations of sadness and delight.
It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to see on this earth a young creature, whose youth and beauty, and slender grace of person gave her more the appearance of some visionary spirit, too exquisitely274 ideal for human life. Indeed, she seemed to be tinted275 with the hues276 of heaven, and never did a mortal being exist in such fine and harmonious277 keeping with the scene in which she moved. So light and sylph-like was her figure, though tall, that the eye almost feared she would dissolve from before it, and leave nothing to gaze at but the earth on which she trod. Yet was there still apparent in her something that preserved, with singular power, the delightful reality that she was of humanity, and subject to all those softer influences that breathe their music so sweetly over the chords of the human heart. The delicate bloom of her cheek, shaded away as it was, until it melted into the light that sparkled from her complexion—the snowy forehead, the flashing eye, in which sat the very soul of love—the lips, blushing of sweets—her whole person breathing the warmth of youth, and feeling, and so characteristic in the easiness of its motions of that gracile flexibility278 that has never been known to exist separate from the power of receiving varied279 and profound emotions—all this told the spectator, too truly, that the lovely being before him was not of another sphere, but one of the most delightful that ever appeared in this.
But hush147!—here is a strain of music! Oh! what lips breathed forth that gush280 of touching melody which flows in such linked sweetness from the flute281 of an unseen performer? How soft, how gentle, but oh, how very mournful are the notes! Alas! they are steeped in sorrow, and melt away in the plaintive282 cadences283 of despair, until they mingle16 with silence. Surely, surely, they come from one whose heart has been brought low by the ruined hopes of an unrequited passion. Yes, fair girl, thou at least dost so interpret them; but why this sympathy in one so young? Why is thy bright eye dewy with tears for the imaginary sorrows of another? And again—but ha!—why that flash of delight and terror?—that sudden suffusion284 of red over thy face and neck—and even now, that paleness like death! Thy heart, thy heart—why does it throb285, and why do thy knees totter286? Alas! it is even so; the Endymion of thy dreams, as beautiful as even thou thyself in thy purple dawn of womanhood,—he from whom thou now shrinkest, yet whom thou dreadest not to meet, is approaching, and bears in his beauty the charm that will darken thy destiny.
The appearance of Osborne, unaccompanied, taught this young creature to know the full extent of his influence over her. Delight, terror, and utter confusion of thought and feeling, seized upon her the moment he became visible. She wished herself at home, but had not power to go; she blushed, she trembled, and, in the tumult287 of the moment, lost all presence of mind and self-possession. He had come from behind a hedge, on the path-way along which she walked, and was consequently approaching her, so that it was evident they must meet. On seeing her he ceased to play, paused a moment, and were it not that it might appear cold, and rather remarkable, he, too, would have retraced288 his steps homewards. In truth, both felt equally confused and equally agitated289, for, although such an interview had been, for some time previously290, the dearest wish of their hearts, yet would they both almost have felt relieved, had they had an opportunity of then escaping it. Their first words were uttered in a low, hesitating voice, amid pauses occasioned by the necessity of collecting their scattered291 thoughts, and with countenances292 deeply blushing from a consciousness of what they felt. Osborne turned back, mechanically, and accompanied her in her walk. After this there was a silence for some time, for neither had courage to renew the conversation. At length Osborne, in a faltering293 voice addressed her:
“Your dove,” said he, “is quite recovered, I presume.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “it is perfectly294 well again.”
“It is an exceedingly beautiful bird, and remarkably295 docile296.”
“I have had little difficulty in training it,” she returned, and then added, very timidly, “it is also very affectionate.”
The youth’s eyes sparkled, as if he were about to indulge in some observation suggested by her reply, but, fearing to give it expression, he paused again; in a few minutes, however, he added—
“I think there is nothing that gives one so perfect an idea of purity and innocence as a snow-white dove, unless I except a young and beautiful girl, such as—”
He glanced at her as he spoke, and their eyes met, but in less than a moment they were withdrawn, and cast upon the earth.
“And of meekness297 and holiness too,” she observed, after a little.
“True; but perhaps I ought to make another exception,” he added, alluding299 to the term by which she herself was then generally known. As he spoke, his voice expressed considerable hesitation.
“Another exception,” she answered, inquiringly, “it would be difficult, I think, to find any other emblem300 of innocence so appropriate as a dove.”
“Is not a Fawn still more so,” he replied, “it is so gentle and meek298, and its motions are so full of grace and timidity, and beauty. Indeed I do not wonder, when an individual of your sex resembles it in the qualities I have mentioned, that the name is sometimes applied301 to her.”
The tell-tale cheek of the girl blushed a recognition of the compliment implied in the words, and after a short silence, she said, in a tone that was any thing but indifferent, and with a view of changing the conversation—
“I hope you are quite recovered from your illness.”
“With the exception of a very slight cough, I am,” he replied.
“I think,” she observed, “that you look somewhat paler than you did.”
“That paleness does not proceed from indisposition, but from a far different”—he paused again, and looked evidently abashed302. In the course of a minute, however, he added, “yes, I know I am pale, but not because I am unwell, for my health is nearly, if not altogether, restored, but because I am unhappy.”
“Strange,” said Jane, “to see one unhappy at your years.”
“I think I know my own character and disposition215 well,” he replied; “my temperament is naturally a melancholy one; the frame of my mind is like that of my body, very delicate, and capable of being affected by a thousand slight influences which pass over hearts of a stronger mould, without ever being felt. Life to me, I know, will be productive of much pain, and much enjoyment, while its tenure303 lasts, but that, indeed, will not be long. My sands are measured, for I feel a presentiment304, a mournful and prophetic impression, that I am doomed to go down into an early grave.”
The tone of passionate305 enthusiasm which pervaded306 these words, uttered as they were in a voice wherein pathos and melody were equally blended, appeared to be almost too much for a creature whose sympathy in all his moods and feelings was then so deep and congenial. She felt some difficulty in repressing her tears, and said, in a voice which no effort could keep firm.
“You ought not to indulge in those gloomy forebodings; you should struggle against them, otherwise they will distress your mind, and injure your health.”
“Oh, you do not know,” he proceeded, his eyes sparkling with that light which is so often the beacon307 of death—“you do not know the fatal fascination308 by which a mind, set to the sorrows of a melancholy temperament, is charmed out of its strength. But no matter how dark may be my dreams—there is one light for ever upon them—one image ever, ever before me—one figure of grace and beauty—oh, how could I deny myself the contemplation of a vision that pours into my soul a portion of itself, and effaces309: every other object but an entrancing sense of its own presence. I cannot, I cannot—it bears me away into a happiness that is full of sadness—where I indulge alone, without knowing why, in my feast of tears’—happy! happy! so I think, and so I feel; yet why is my heart sunk, and why are all my visions filled with death and the grave?”
“Oh, do not talk so frequently of death,” replied the beautiful girl, “surely you need not fear it for a long while. This morbid310 tone of mind will pass away when you grow into better health and strength.”
“Is not this hour calm?” said he, flashing his dark eyes full upon her, “see how beautiful the sun sinks in the west;—alas! so I should wish to die—as calm, and the moral lustre of my life as radiant.”
“And so you shall,” said Jane, in a voice full of that delightful spirit of consolation311 which, proceeding312 from such lips, breathes the most affecting power of sympathy, “so you shall, but like him, not until after the close of a long and well-spent life.”
“That—that,” said he, “was only a passing thought. Yes, the hour is calm, but even in such stillness, do you not observe that the aspen there to our left, this moment quivers to the breezes which we cannot feel, and by which not a leaf of any other tree about us is stirred—such I know myself to be, an aspen among men, stirred into joy or sorrow, whilst the hearts of others are at rest. Oh, how can my foretaste of life be either bright or cheerful, for when I am capable of being moved by the very breathings of passion, what must I not feel in the blast, and in the storm—even now, even now!”—The boy, here overcome by the force of his own melancholy enthusiasm, paused abruptly313, and Jane, after several attempts to speak, at last said, in a voice scarcely audible—
“Is not hope always better than despair?”
Osborne instantly fixed his eyes upon her, and saw, that although her’s were bent upon the earth, her face had become overspread with a deep blush. While he looked she raised them, but after a single glance, at once quick and timid, she withdrew them again, a still deeper blush mantling314 on her cheek. He now felt a sudden thrill of rapture fall upon his heart, and rush, almost like a suffocating315 sensation, to his throat; his being became for a moment raised to an ecstacy too intense for the power of description to portray316, and, were it not for the fear which ever accompanies the disclosure of first and youthful love, the tears of exulting317 delight would have streamed down his cheeks.
Both had reached a little fairy dell of vivid green, concealed by trees on every side, and in the middle of which rose a large yew318, around whose trunk had been built a seat of natural turf whereon those who strolled about the ground might rest, when heated or fatigued319 by exercise or the sun. Here the girl sat down.
A change had now come over both. The gloom of the boy’s temperament was gone, and his spirit caught its mood from that of his companion. Each at the moment breathed the low, anxious, and tender timidity of love, in it purest character. The souls of both vibrated to each other, and felt depressed320 with that sweetest emotion which derives321 all its power from the consciousness that its participation322 is mutual. Osborne spoke low, and his voice trembled; the girl was silent, but her bosom panted, and her frame shook from head to foot. At length, Osborne spoke.
“I sometimes sit here alone, and amuse myself with my flute; but of late—of late—I can hear no music that is not melancholy.”
“I, too, prefer mournful—mournful music,” replied Jane. “That was a beautiful air you played just now.”
Osborne put the flute to his lips, and commenced playing over again the air she had praised; but, on glancing at the fair girl, he perceived her eyes fixed upon him with a look of such deep and devoted passion as utterly323 overcame him. Her eyes, as before, were immediately withdrawn, but there dwelt again upon her burning cheek such a consciousness of her love as could not, for a moment, be mistaken. In fact she betrayed all the confused symptoms of one who felt that the state of her heart had been discovered. Osborne ceased playing; for such was his agitation324 that he scarcely knew what he thought or did.
“I cannot go on,” said he in a voice which equally betrayed the state of his heart; “I cannot play;” and at the same time he seated himself beside her.
Jane rose as he spoke, and in a broken voice, full of an expression like distress, said hastily:
“It is time I should go;—I am,—I am too long out.”
Osborne caught her hand, and in words that burned with the deep and melting contagion325 of his passion, said simply:
“Do not go:—oh do not yet go!”
She looked full upon him, and perceived that as he spoke his face became deadly pale, as if her words were to seal his happiness or misery.
“Oh do not leave me now,” he pleaded; “do not go, and my life may yet be happy.”
“I must,” she replied, with great difficulty; “I cannot stay; I do not wish you to be unhappy;” and whilst saying this, the tears that ran in silence down her cheeks proved too clearly how dear his happiness must ever be to her.
Osborne’s arm glided326 round her waist, and she resumed her seat,—or rather tottered327 into it.
“You are in tears,” he exclaimed. “Oh could it be true! Is it not, my beloved girl? It is—it is—love! Oh surely, surely it must—it must!”
She sobbed aloud once or twice; and, as he kissed her unresisting lips, she murmured out, “It is; it is; I love you.”
Oh life! how dark and unfathomable are thy mysteries! And why is it that thou permittest the course of true love, like this, so seldom to run smooth, when so many who, uniting through the impulse of sordid328 passion, sink into a state of obtuse329 indifference330, over which the lights and shadows that touch thee into thy finest perceptions of enjoyment pass in vain.
It is a singular fact, but no less true than singular, that since the world began there never was known any instance of an anxiety, on the part of youthful lovers, to prolong to an immoderate extent the scene in which the first mutual avowal of their passions takes place. The excitement is too profound, and the waste of those delicate spirits, which are expended331 in such interviews, is much too great to permit the soul to bear such an excess of happiness long. Independently of this, there is associated with it an ultimate enjoyment, for which the lovers immediately fly to solitude; there, in the certainty of waking bliss332, to think over and over again of all that has occurred between them, and to luxuriate in the conviction, that at length the heart has not another wish, but sinks into the solitary333 charm which expands it with such a sense of rapturous and exulting delight.
The interview between our lovers was, consequently, not long. The secret of their hearts being now known, each felt anxious to retire, and to look with a miser’s ecstacy upon the delicious hoard334 which the scene we have just described had created. Jane did not reach home until the evening devotions of the family were over, and this was the first time she had ever, to their knowledge, been absent from them before. Borne away by the force of what had just occurred, she was proceeding up to her own room, after reaching home, when Mr. Sinclair, who had remarked her absence, desired that she be called into the drawing-room.
“It is the first neglect,” he observed, “of a necessary duty, and it would be wrong in me to let it pass without at least pointing it out to the dear child as an error, and knowing from her own lips why it has happened.”
Terror and alarm, like what might be supposed to arise from the detection of secret guilt, seized upon the young creature so violently that she had hardly strength to enter the drawing-room without support: her face became the image of death, and her whole frame tottered and trembled visibly.
“Jane, my dear, why were you absent from prayers this evening?” inquired her father, with his usual mildness of manner.
This question, to one who had never yet been, in the slightest instance, guilty of falsehood, was indeed a terrible one; and especially to a girl so extremely timid as was this his best beloved daughter.
“Papa,” she at last replied, “I was out walking;” but as she spoke there was that in her voice and manner which betrayed the guilt of an insincere reply.
“I know, my dear, you were; but although you have frequently been out walking, yet I do not remember that you ever stayed, away from our evening worship before. Why is this?”
Her father’s question was repeated in vain. She hung her head and returned no answer. She tried to speak, but from her parched335 lips not a word could proceed. She felt as if all the family that moment were conscious of the occurrence between her and her lover; and if the wish could have relieved her, she would almost have wished to die, so much did she shrink abashed in their presence.
“Tell me, my daughter,” proceeded her father, more seriously, “has your absence been occasioned by anything that you are ashamed or afraid to mention? From me, Jane, you ought to have no secrets;—you are yet too young to think away from your father’s heart and from your mother’s also;—speak candidly336, my child,—speak candidly,—I expect it.”
As he uttered the last words, the head of their beautiful flower sank upon her bosom, and in a moment she lay insensible upon the sofa on which she had been sitting.
This was a shock for which neither the father nor the family were prepared. William flew to her,—all of them crowded about her, and scarcely had he raised that face so pale, but now so mournfully beautiful in its insensibility, when her mother and sisters burst into tears and wailings, for they feared at the moment that their beloved one must have been previously seized with sudden illness, and was then either taken, or about to be taken from their eyes for ever. By the coolness of her father, however, they were directed how to restore her, in which, after a lapse197 of not less than ten minutes, they succeeded.
When she recovered, her mother folded her in her arms, and her sisters embraced her with tenderness and tears. Her father then gently caught her hand in his, and said with much affection:
“Jane, my child, you are ill. Why not have told us so?”
The beautiful girl knelt before him for a moment, but again rose up, and hiding her head in his bosom, exclaimed—weeping—
“Papa, bless me, oh, bless me, and forgive me.”
“I do; I do,” said the old man; and as he spoke a few large tears trickled337 down his cheeks, and fell upon her golden locks.
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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2
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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3
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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4
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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5
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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7
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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8
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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9
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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10
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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11
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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12
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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13
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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14
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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15
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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16
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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17
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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18
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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19
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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20
venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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21
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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22
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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23
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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24
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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25
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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26
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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27
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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28
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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29
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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30
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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31
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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32
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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33
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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34
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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35
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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36
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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37
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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38
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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39
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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40
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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41
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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42
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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43
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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44
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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45
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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46
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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47
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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48
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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49
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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50
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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51
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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52
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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53
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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54
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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55
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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56
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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57
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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58
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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59
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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60
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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61
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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62
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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63
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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64
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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65
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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66
synonym
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| n.同义词，换喻词 | |
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67
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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68
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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69
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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70
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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71
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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72
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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73
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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74
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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75
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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76
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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77
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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78
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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79
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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80
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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81
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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82
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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83
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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84
ornamented
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|
| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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86
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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87
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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88
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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89
ripple
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|
| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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90
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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91
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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92
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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93
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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94
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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95
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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96
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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97
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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98
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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99
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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100
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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101
mellower
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| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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102
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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103
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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105
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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106
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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107
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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108
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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109
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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110
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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111
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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112
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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113
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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114
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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115
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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116
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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117
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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118
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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119
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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120
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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122
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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123
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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124
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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125
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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126
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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127
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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128
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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129
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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130
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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131
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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132
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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133
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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134
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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135
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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136
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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137
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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139
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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140
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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141
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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142
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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143
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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144
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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145
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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146
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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147
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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148
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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149
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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150
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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152
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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153
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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154
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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155
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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156
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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157
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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158
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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159
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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160
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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161
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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162
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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163
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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164
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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165
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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166
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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167
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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168
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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169
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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170
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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171
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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172
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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173
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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174
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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175
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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176
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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177
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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178
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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179
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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180
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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181
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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182
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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183
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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184
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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185
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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186
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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187
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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188
vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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189
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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190
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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191
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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192
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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193
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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194
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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196
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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197
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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198
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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199
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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200
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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201
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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202
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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203
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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204
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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205
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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206
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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207
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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208
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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209
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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210
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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211
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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212
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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213
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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214
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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215
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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216
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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217
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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218
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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219
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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220
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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221
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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222
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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223
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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224
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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225
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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227
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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228
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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229
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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230
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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231
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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232
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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233
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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235
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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236
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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237
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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238
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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239
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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240
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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241
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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242
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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243
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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244
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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245
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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246
analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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247
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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248
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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249
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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250
petulantly
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251
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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252
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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253
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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254
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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255
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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256
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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257
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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258
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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259
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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260
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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261
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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262
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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263
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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264
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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265
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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266
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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267
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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268
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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269
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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270
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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271
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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272
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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273
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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274
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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275
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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276
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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277
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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278
flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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279
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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280
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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281
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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282
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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283
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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284
suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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285
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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286
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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287
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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288
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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289
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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290
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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291
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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292
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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293
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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294
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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296
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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297
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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298
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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299
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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300
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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301
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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302
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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303
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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304
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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305
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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306
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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307
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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308
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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309
effaces
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| v.擦掉( efface的第三人称单数 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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310
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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311
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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312
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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313
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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314
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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315
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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316
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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317
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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318
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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319
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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320
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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321
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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322
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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323
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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324
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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325
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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326
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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327
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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328
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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329
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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330
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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331
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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332
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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333
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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334
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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335
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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336
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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337
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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