Miss Welwyn’s father died some years since. I remember him very well—though he never excited in me, or in any one else that I ever heard of, the slightest feeling of interest. When I have said that he inherited a very large fortune, amassed2 during his father’s time, by speculations3 of a very daring, very fortunate, but not always very honorable kind, and that he bought this old house with the notion of raising his social position, by making himself a member of our landed aristocracy in these parts, I have told you as much about him, I suspect, as you would care to hear. He was a thoroughly4 commonplace man, with no great virtues5 and no great vices7 in him. He had a little heart, a feeble mind, an amiable8 temper, a tall figure, and a handsome face. More than this need not, and cannot, be said on the subject of Mr. Welwyn’s character.
I must have seen the late Mrs. Welwyn very often as a child; but I cannot say that I remember anything more of her than that she was tall and handsome, and very generous and sweet-tempered toward me when I was in her company. She was her husband’s superior in birth, as in everything else; was a great reader of books in all languages; and possessed9 such admirable talents as a musician, that her wonderful playing on the organ is remembered and talked of to this day among the old people in our country houses about here. All her friends, as I have heard, were disappointed when she married Mr. Welwyn, rich as he was; and were afterward11 astonished to find her preserving the appearance, at least, of being perfectly12 happy with a husband who, neither in mind nor heart, was worthy13 of her.
It was generally supposed (and I have no doubt correctly) that she found her great happiness and her great consolation14 in her little girl Ida—now the lady from whom we have just parted. The child took after her mother from the first—inheriting her mother’s fondness for books, her mother’s love of music, her mother’s quick sensibilities, and, more than all, her mother’s quiet firmness, patience, and loving kindness of disposition15. From Ida’s earliest years, Mrs. Welwyn undertook the whole superintendence of her education. The two were hardly ever apart, within doors or without. Neighbors and friends said that the little girl was being brought up too fancifully, and was not enough among other children, was sadly neglected as to all reasonable and practical teaching, and was perilously16 encouraged in those dreamy and imaginative tendencies of which she had naturally more than her due share. There was, perhaps, some truth in this; and there might have been still more, if Ida had possessed an ordinary character, or had been reserved for an ordinary destiny. But she was a strange child from the first, and a strange future was in store for her.
Little Ida reached her eleventh year without either brother or sister to be her playfellow and companion at home. Immediately after that period, however, her sister Rosamond was born. Though Mr. Welwyn’s own desire was to have had a son, there were, nevertheless, great rejoicings yonder in the old house on the birth of this second daughter. But they were all turned, only a few months afterward, to the bitterest grief and despair: the Grange lost its mistress. While Rosamond was still an infant in arms, her mother died.
Mrs. Welwyn had been afflicted18 with some disorder19 after the birth of her second child, the name of which I am not learned enough in medical science to be able to remember. I only know that she recovered from it, to all appearance, in an unexpectedly short time; that she suffered a fatal relapse, and that she died a lingering and a painful death. Mr. Welwyn (who, in after years, had a habit of vaingloriously describing his marriage as “a love-match on both sides”) was really fond of his wife in his own frivolous20, feeble way, and suffered as acutely as such a man could suffer, during the latter days of her illness, and at the terrible time when the doctors, one and all, confessed that her life was a thing to be despaired of. He burst into irrepressible passions of tears, and was always obliged to leave the sick-room whenever Mrs. Welwyn spoke21 of her approaching end. The last solemn words of the dying woman, the tenderest messages that she could give, the dearest parting wishes that she could express, the most earnest commands that she could leave behind her, the gentlest reasons for consolation that she could suggest to the survivors22 among those who loved her, were not poured into her husband’s ear, but into her child’s. From the first period of her illness, Ida had persisted in remaining in the sick-room, rarely speaking, never showing outwardly any signs of terror or grief, except when she was removed from it; and then bursting into hysterical23 passions of weeping, which no expostulations, no arguments, no commands—nothing, in short, but bringing her back to the bedside—ever availed to calm. Her mother had been her playfellow, her companion her dearest and most familiar friend; and there seemed something in the remembrance of this which, instead of overwhelming the child with despair, strengthened her to watch faithfully and bravely by her dying parent to the very last.
When the parting moment was over, and when Mr. Welwyn, unable to bear the shock of being present in the house of death at the time of his wife’s funeral, left home and went to stay with one of his relations in a distant part of England, Ida, whom it had been his wish to take away with him, petitioned earnestly to be left behind. “I promised mamma before she died that I would be as good to my little sister Rosamond as she had been to me,” said the child, simply; “and she told me in return that I might wait here and see her laid in her grave.” There happened to be an aunt of Mrs. Welwyn, and an old servant of the family, in the house at this time, who understood Ida much better than her father did, and they persuaded him not to take her away. I have heard my mother say that the effect of the child’s appearance at the funeral on her, and on all who went to see it, was something that she could never think of without the tears coming into her eyes, and could never forget to the last day of her life.
It must have been very shortly after this period that I saw Ida for the first time.
I remember accompanying my mother on a visit to the old house we have just left, in the summer, when I was at home for the holidays. It was a lovely, sunshiny morning. There was nobody indoors, and we walked out into the garden. As we approached that lawn yonder, on the other side of the shrubbery, I saw, first, a young woman in mourning (apparently a servant) sitting reading; then a little girl, dressed all in black, moving toward us slowly over the bright turf, and holding up before her a baby, whom she was trying to teach to walk. She looked, to my ideas, so very young to be engaged in such an occupation as this, and her gloomy black frock appeared to be such an unnaturally24 grave garment for a mere25 child of her age, and looked so doubly dismal26 by contrast with the brilliant sunny lawn on which she stood, that I quite started when I first saw her, and eagerly asked my mother who she was. The answer informed me of the sad family story, which I have been just relating to you. Mrs. Welwyn had then been buried about three months; and Ida, in her childish way, was trying, as she had promised, to supply her mother’s place to her infant sister Rosamond.
I only mention this simple incident, because it is necessary, before I proceed to the eventful part of my narrative27, that you should know exactly in what relation the sisters stood toward one another from the first. Of all the last parting words that Mrs. Welwyn had spoken to her child, none had been oftener repeated, none more solemnly urged, than those which had commended the little Rosamond to Ida’s love and care. To other persons, the full, the all-trusting dependence28 which the dying mother was known to have placed in a child hardly eleven years old, seemed merely a proof of that helpless desire to cling even to the feeblest consolations29, which the approach of death so often brings with it. But the event showed that the trust so strangely placed had not been ventured vainly when it was committed to young and tender hands. The whole future existence of the child was one noble proof that she had been worthy of her mother’s dying confidence, when it was first reposed30 in her. In that simple incident which I have just mentioned the new life of the two motherless sisters was all foreshadowed.
Time passed. I left school—went to college—traveled in Germany, and stayed there some time to learn the language. At every interval31 when I came home, and asked about the Welwyns, the answer was, in substance, almost always the same. Mr. Welwyn was giving his regular dinners, performing his regular duties as a county magistrate32, enjoying his regular recreations as an a amateur farmer and an eager sportsman. His two daughters were never separate. Ida was the same strange, quiet, retiring girl, that she had always been; and was still (as the phrase went) “spoiling” Rosamond in every way in which it was possible for an elder sister to spoil a younger by too much kindness.
I myself went to the Grange occasionally, when I was in this neighborhood, in holiday and vacation time; and was able to test the correctness of the picture of life there which had been drawn33 for me. I remember the two sisters, when Rosamond was four or five years old; and when Ida seemed to me, even then, to be more like the child’s mother than her sister. She bore with her little caprices as sisters do not bear with one another. She was so patient at lesson-time, so anxious to conceal34 any weariness that might overcome her in play hours, so proud when Rosamond’s beauty was noticed, so grateful for Rosamond’s kisses when the child thought of bestowing36 them, so quick to notice all that Rosamond did, and to attend to all that Rosamond said, even when visitors were in the room, that she seemed, to my boyish observation, altogether different from other elder sisters in other family circles into which I was then received.
I remember then, again, when Rosamond was just growing to womanhood, and was in high spirits at the prospect37 of spending a season in London, and being presented at court. She was very beautiful at that time—much handsomer than Ida. Her “accomplishments” were talked of far and near in our country circles. Few, if any, of the people, however, who applauded her playing and singing, who admired her water-color drawings, who were delighted at her fluency39 when she spoke French, and amazed at her ready comprehension when she read German, knew how little of all this elegant mental cultivation40 and nimble manual dexterity41 she owed to her governess and masters, and how much to her elder sister. It was Ida who really found out the means of stimulating42 her when she was idle; Ida who helped her through all her worst difficulties; Ida who gently conquered her defects of memory over her books, her inaccuracies of ear at the piano, her errors of taste when she took the brush and pencil in hand. It was Ida alone who worked these marvels43, and whose all-sufficient reward for her hardest exertions44 was a chance word of kindness from her sister’s lips. Rosamond was not unaffectionate, and not ungrateful; but she inherited much of her father’s commonness and frivolity45 of character. She became so accustomed to owe everything to her sister—to resign all her most trifling46 difficulties to Ida’s ever-ready care—to have all her tastes consulted by Ida’s ever-watchful kindness—that she never appreciated, as it deserved, the deep, devoted47 love of which she was the object. When Ida refused two good offers of marriage, Rosamond was as much astonished as the veriest strangers, who wondered why the elder Miss Welwyn seemed bent48 on remaining single all her life.
When the journey to London, to which I have already alluded49, took place, Ida accompanied her father and sister. If she had consulted her own tastes, she would have remained in the country; but Rosamond declared that she should feel quite lost and helpless twenty times a day, in town, without her sister. It was in the nature of Ida to sacrifice herself to any one whom she loved, on the smallest occasions as well as the greatest. Her affection was as intuitively ready to sanctify Rosamond’s slightest caprices as to excuse Rosamond’s most thoughtless faults. So she went to London cheerfully, to witness with pride all the little triumphs won by her sister’s beauty; to hear, and never tire of hearing, all that admiring friends could say in her sister’s praise.
At the end of the season Mr. Welwyn and his daughters returned for a short time to the country; then left home again to spend the latter part of the autumn and the beginning of the winter in Paris.
They took with them excellent letters of introduction, and saw a great deal of the best society in Paris, foreign as well as English. At one of the first of the evening parties which they attended, the general topic of conversation was the conduct of a certain French nobleman, the Baron50 Franval, who had returned to his native country after a long absence, and who was spoken of in terms of high eulogy51 by the majority of the guests present. The history of who Franval was, and of what he had done, was readily communicated to Mr. Welwyn and his daughters, and was briefly52 this:
The baron inherited little from his ancestors besides his high rank and his ancient pedigree. On the death of his parents, he and his two unmarried sisters (their only surviving children) found the small territorial53 property of the Franvals, in Normandy, barely productive enough to afford a comfortable subsistence for the three. The baron, then a young man of three-and-twenty endeavored to obtain such military or civil employment as might become his rank; but, although the Bourbons were at that time restored to the throne of France, his efforts were ineffectual. Either his interest at court was bad, or secret enemies were at work to oppose his advancement54. He failed to obtain even the slightest favor; and, irritated by undeserved neglect, resolved to leave France, and seek occupation for his energies in foreign countries, where his rank would be no bar to his bettering his fortunes, if he pleased, by engaging in commercial pursuits.
An opportunity of the kind that he wanted unexpectedly offered itself. He left his sisters in care of an old male relative of the family at the chateau56 in Normandy, and sailed, in the first instance, to the West Indies; afterward extending his wanderings to the continent of South America, and there engaging in mining transactions on a very large scale. After fifteen years of absence (during the latter part of which time false reports of his death had reached Normandy), he had just returned to France, having realized a handsome independence, with which he proposed to widen the limits of his ancestral property, and to give his sisters (who were still, like himself, unmarried) all the luxuries and advantages that affluence57 could bestow35. The baron’s independent spirit and generous devotion to the honor of his family and the happiness of his surviving relatives were themes of general admiration58 in most of the social circles of Paris. He was expected to arrive in the capital every day; and it was naturally enough predicted that his reception in society there could not fail to be of the most flattering and most brilliant kind.
The Welwyns listened to this story with some little interest; Rosamond, who was very romantic, being especially attracted by it, and openly avowing60 to her father and sister, when they got back to their hotel, that she felt as ardent61 a curiosity as anybody to see the adventurous62 and generous baron. The desire was soon gratified. Franval came to Paris, as had been anticipated—was introduced to the Welwyns—met them constantly in society—made no favorable impression on Ida, but won the good opinion of Rosamond from the first; and was regarded with such high approval by their father, that when he mentioned his intentions of visiting England in the spring of the new year, he was cordially invited to spend the hunting season at Glenwith Grange.
I came back from Germany about the same time that the Welwyns returned from Paris, and at once set myself to improve my neighborly intimacy63 with the family. I was very fond of Ida; more fond, perhaps, than my vanity will now allow me to—; but that is of no consequence. It is much more to the purpose to tell you that I heard the whole of the baron’s story enthusiastically related by Mr. Welwyn and Rosamond; that he came to the Grange at the appointed time; that I was introduced to him; and that he produced as unfavorable an impression upon me as he had already produced upon Ida.
It was whimsical enough; but I really could not tell why I disliked him, though I could account very easily, according to my own notions, for his winning the favor and approval of Rosamond and her father. He was certainly a handsome man as far as features went; he had a winning gentleness and graceful64 respect in his manner when he spoke to women; and he sang remarkably65 well, with one of the sweetest tenor66 voices I ever heard. These qualities alone were quite sufficient to attract any girl of Rosamond’s disposition; and I certainly never wondered why he was a favorite of hers.
Then, as to her father, the baron was not only fitted to win his sympathy and regard in the field, by proving himself an ardent sportsman and an excellent rider; but was also, in virtue6 of some of his minor67 personal peculiarities68, just the man to gain the friendship of his host. Mr. Welwyn was as ridiculously prejudiced as most weak-headed Englishmen are, on the subject of foreigners in general. In spite of his visit to Paris, the vulgar notion of a Frenchman continued to be his notion, both while he was in France and when he returned from it. Now, the baron was as unlike the traditional “Mounseer” of English songs, plays, and satires70, as a man could well be; and it was on account of this very dissimilarity that Mr. Welwyn first took a violent fancy to him, and then invited him to his house. Franval spoke English remarkably well; wore neither beard, mustache, nor whiskers; kept his hair cut almost unbecomingly short; dressed in the extreme of plainness and modest good taste; talked little in general society; uttered his words, when he did speak, with singular calmness and deliberation; and, to crown all, had the greater part of his acquired property invested in English securities. In Mr. Welwyn’s estimation, such a man as this was a perfect miracle of a Frenchman, and he admired and encouraged him accordingly.
I have said that I disliked him, yet could not assign a reason for my dislike; and I can only repeat it now. He was remarkably polite to me; we often rode together in hunting, and sat near each other at the Grange table; but I could never become familiar with him. He always gave me the idea of a man who had some mental reservation in saying the most trifling thing. There was a constant restraint, hardly perceptible to most people, but plainly visible, nevertheless, to me, which seemed to accompany his lightest words, and to hang about his most familiar manner. This, however, was no just reason for my secretly disliking and distrusting him as I did. Ida said as much to me, I remember, when I confessed to her what my feelings toward him were, and tried (but vainly) to induce her to be equally candid72 with me in return. She seemed to shrink from the tacit condemnation73 of Rosamond’s opinion which such a confidence on her part would have implied. And yet she watched the growth of that opinion—or, in other words, the growth of her sister’s liking71 for the baron—with an apprehension74 and sorrow which she tried fruitlessly to conceal. Even her father began to notice that her spirits were not so good as usual, and to suspect the cause of her melancholy75. I remember he jested, with all the dense76 insensibility of a stupid man, about Ida having invariably been jealous, from a child, if Rosamond looked kindly77 upon anybody except her elder sister.
The spring began to get far advanced toward summer. Franval paid a visit to London; came back in the middle of the season to Glenwith Grange; wrote to put off his departure for France; and at last (not at all to the surprise of anybody who was intimate with the Welwyns) proposed to Rosamond, and was accepted. He was candor78 and generosity79 itself when the preliminaries of the marriage-settlement were under discussion. He quite overpowered Mr. Welwyn and the lawyers with references, papers, and statements of the distribution and extent of his property, which were found to be perfectly correct. His sisters were written to, and returned the most cordial answers; saying that the state of their health would not allow them to come to England for the marriage; but adding a warm invitation to Normandy for the bride and her family. Nothing, in short, could be more straightforward80 and satisfactory than the baron’s behavior, and the testimonies81 to his worth and integrity which the news of the approaching marriage produced from his relatives and his friends.
The only joyless face at the Grange now was Ida’s. At any time it would have been a hard trial to her to resign that first and foremost place which she had held since childhood in her sister’s heart, as she knew she must resign it when Rosamond married. But, secretly disliking and distrusting Franval as she did, the thought that he was soon to become the husband of her beloved sister filled her with a vague sense of terror which she could not explain to herself; which it was imperatively82 necessary that she should conceal; and which, on those very accounts, became a daily and hourly torment83 to her that was almost more than she could bear.
One consolation alone supported her: Rosamond and she were not to be separated. She knew that the baron secretly disliked her as much as she disliked him; she knew that she must bid farewell to the brighter and happier part of her life on the day when she went to live under the same roof with her sister’s husband; but, true to the promise made years and years ago by her dying mother’s bed—true to the affection which was the ruling and beautiful feeling of her whole existence—she never hesitated about indulging Rosamond’s wish, when the girl, in her bright, light-hearted way, said that she could never get on comfortably in the marriage state unless she had Ida to live with her and help her just the same as ever. The baron was too polite a man even to look dissatisfied when he heard of the proposed arrangement; and it was therefore settled from the beginning that Ida was always to live with her sister.
The marriage took place in the summer, and the bride and bridegroom went to spend their honeymoon84 in Cumberland. On their return to Glenwith Grange, a visit to the baron’s sisters, in Normandy, was talked of; but the execution of this project was suddenly and disastrously85 suspended by the death of Mr. Welwyn, from an attack of pleurisy.
In consequence of this calamity86, the projected journey was of course deferred87; and when autumn and the shooting season came, the baron was unwilling88 to leave the well-stocked preserves of the Grange. He seemed, indeed, to grow less and less inclined, as time advanced, for the trip to Normandy; and wrote excuse after excuse to his sisters, when letters arrived from them urging him to pay the promised visit. In the winter-time, he said he would not allow his wife to risk a long journey. In the spring, his health was pronounced to be delicate. In the genial89 summer-time, the accomplishment38 of the proposed visit would be impossible, for at that period the baroness90 expected to become a mother. Such were the apologies which Franval seemed almost glad to be able to send to his sisters in France.
The marriage was, in the strictest sense of the term, a happy one. The baron, though he never altogether lost the strange restraint and reserve of his manner, was, in his quiet, peculiar69 way, the fondest and kindest of husbands. He went to town occasionally on business, but always seemed glad to return to the baroness; he never varied91 in the politeness of his bearing toward his wife’s sister; he behaved with the most courteous92 hospitality toward all the friends of the Welwyns; in short, he thoroughly justified93 the good opinion which Rosamond and her father had formed of him when they first met at Paris. And yet no experience of his character thoroughly re-assured Ida. Months passed on quietly and pleasantly; and still that secret sadness, that indefinable, unreasonable94 apprehension on Rosamond’s account, hung heavily on her sister’s heart.
At the beginning of the first summer months, a little domestic inconvenience happened, which showed the baroness, for the first time, that her husband’s temper could be seriously ruffled—and that by the veriest trifle. He was in the habit of taking in two French provincial95 newspapers—one published at Bordeaux and the other at Havre. He always opened these journals the moment they came, looked at one particular column of each with the deepest attention, for a few minutes, then carelessly threw them aside into his waste-paper basket. His wife and her sister were at first rather surprised at the manner in which he read his two papers; but they thought no more of it when he explained that he only took them in to consult them about French commercial intelligence, which might be, occasionally, of importance to him.
These papers were published weekly. On the occasion to which I have just referred, the Bordeaux paper came on the proper day, as usual; but the Havre paper never made its appearance. This trifling circumstance seemed to make the baron seriously uneasy. He wrote off directly to the country post-office and to the newspaper agent in London. His wife, astonished to see his tranquillity96 so completely overthrown97 by so slight a cause, tried to restore his good humor by jesting with him about the missing newspaper. He replied by the first angry and unfeeling words that she had heard issue from his lips. She was then within about six weeks of her confinement98, and very unfit to bear harsh answers from anybody—least of all from her husband.
On the second day no answer came. On the afternoon of the third, the baron rode off to the post town to make inquiries99. About an hour after he had gone, a strange gentleman came to the Grange and asked to see the baroness. On being informed that she was not well enough to receive visitors, he sent up a message that his business was of great importance and that he would wait downstairs for a second answer.
On receiving this message, Rosamond turned, as usual, to her elder sister for advice. Ida went downstairs immediately to see the stranger. What I am now about to tell you of the extraordinary interview which took place between them, and of the shocking events that followed it, I have heard from Miss Welwyn’s own lips.
She felt unaccountably nervous when she entered the room. The stranger bowed very politely, and asked, in a foreign accent, if she were the Baroness Franval. She set him right on this point, and told him she attended to all matters of business for the baroness; adding that, if his errand at all concerned her sister’s husband, the baron was not then at home.
The stranger answered that he was aware of it when he called, and that the unpleasant business on which he came could not be confided100 to the baron—at least, in the first instance.
She asked why. He said he was there to explain; and expressed himself as feeling greatly relieved at having to open his business to her, because she would, doubtless, be best able to prepare her sister for the bad news that he was, unfortunately, obliged to bring. The sudden faintness which overcame her, as he spoke those words, prevented her from addressing him in return. He poured out some water for her from a bottle which happened to be standing101 on the table, and asked if he might depend on her fortitude102. She tried to say “Yes”; but the violent throbbing103 of her heart seemed to choke her. He took a foreign newspaper from his pocket, saying that he was a secret agent of the French police—that the paper was the Havre Journal, for the past week, and that it had been expressly kept from reaching the baron, as usual, through his (the agent’s) interference. He then opened the newspaper, and begged that she would nerve herself sufficiently104 (for her sister’s sake) to read certain lines, which would give her some hint of the business that brought him there. He pointed10 to the passage as he spoke. It was among the “Shipping Entries,” and was thus expressed:
“Arrived, the Berenice, from San Francisco, with a valuable cargo105 of hides. She brings one passenger, the Baron Franval, of Chateau Franval, in Normandy.”
As Miss Welwyn read the entry, her heart, which had been throbbing violently but the moment before, seemed suddenly to cease from all action, and she began to shiver, though it was a warm June evening. The agent held the tumbler to her lips, and made her drink a little of the water, entreating106 her very earnestly to take courage and listen to him. He then sat down, and referred again to the entry, every word he uttered seeming to burn itself in forever (as she expressed it) on her memory and her heart.
He said: “It has been ascertained108 beyond the possibility of doubt that there is no mistake about the name in the lines you have just read. And it is as certain as that we are here, that there is only one Baron Franval now alive. The question, therefore, is, whether the passenger by the Berenice is the true baron, or—I beg you most earnestly to bear with me and to compose yourself—or the husband of your sister. The person who arrived last week at Havre was scouted109 as an impostor by the ladies at the chateau, the moment he presented himself there as the brother, returning to them after sixteen years of absence. The authorities were communicated with, and I and my assistants were instantly sent for from Paris.
“We wasted no time in questioning the supposed impostor. He either was, or affected110 to be, in a perfect frenzy111 of grief and indignation. We just ascertained, from competent witnesses, that he bore an extraordinary resemblance to the real baron, and that he was perfectly familiar with places and persons in and about the chateau; we just ascertained that, and then proceeded to confer with the local authorities, and to examine their private entries of suspected persons in their jurisdiction112, ranging back over a past period of twenty years or more. One of the entries thus consulted contained these particulars: ‘Hector Auguste Monbrun, son of a respectable proprietor113 in Normandy. Well educated; gentleman-like manners. On bad terms with his family. Character: bold, cunning, unscrupulous, self-possessed. Is a clever mimic114. May be easily recognized by his striking likeness115 to the Baron Franval. Imprisoned116 at twenty for theft and assault.’”
Miss Welwyn saw the agent look up at her after he had read this extract from the police-book, to ascertain107 if she was still able to listen to him. He asked, with some appearance of alarm, as their eyes met, if she would like some more water. She was just able to make a sign in the negative. He took a second extract from his pocket-book, and went on.
He said: “The next entry under the same name was dated four years later, and ran thus, ‘H. A. Monbrun, condemned117 to the galleys118 for life, for assassination119, and other crimes not officially necessary to be here specified120. Escaped from custody121 at Toulon. Is known, since the expiration122 of his first term of imprisonment123, to have allowed his beard to grow, and to have worn his hair long, with the intention of rendering124 it impossible for those acquainted with him in his native province to recognize him, as heretofore, by his likeness to the Baron Franval.’ There were more particulars added, not important enough for extract. We immediately examined the supposed impostor; for, if he was Monbrun, we knew that we should find on his shoulder the two letters of the convict brand, ‘T. F.,’ standing for Travaux Forces. After the minutest examination with the mechanical and chemical tests used on such occasions, not the slightest trace of the brand was to be found. The moment this astounding125 discovery was made, I started to lay an embargo126 on the forthcoming numbers of the Havre Journal for that week, which were about to be sent to the English agent in London. I arrived at Havre on Saturday (the morning of publication), in time to execute my design. I waited there long enough to communicate by telegraph with my superiors in Paris, then hastened to this place. What my errand here is, you may—”
He might have gone on speaking for some moments longer; but Miss Welwyn heard no more.
Her first sensation of returning consciousness was the feeling that water was being sprinkled on her face. Then she saw that all the windows in the room had been set wide open, to give her air; and that she and the agent were still alone. At first she felt bewildered, and hardly knew who he was; but he soon recalled to her mind the horrible realities that had brought him there, by apologizing for not having summoned assistance when she fainted. He said it was of the last importance, in Franval’s absence, that no one in the house should imagine that anything unusual was taking place in it. Then, after giving her an interval of a minute or two to collect what little strength she had left, he added that he would not increase her sufferings by saying anything more, just then, on the shocking subject of the investigation127 which it was his duty to make—that he would leave her to recover herself, and to consider what was the best course to be taken with the baroness in the present terrible emergency—and that he would privately128 return to the house between eight and nine o’clock that evening, ready to act as Miss Welwyn wished, and to afford her and her sister any aid and protection of which they might stand in need. With these words he bowed, and noiselessly quitted the room.
For the first few awful minutes after she was left alone, Miss Welwyn sat helpless and speechless; utterly129 numbed130 in heart, and mind, and body—then a sort of instinct (she was incapable131 of thinking) seemed to urge her to conceal the fearful news from her sister as long as possible. She ran upstairs to Rosamond’s sitting-room132, and called through the door (for she dared not trust herself in her sister’s presence) that the visitor had come on some troublesome business from their late father’s lawyers, and that she was going to shut herself up, and write some long letters in connection with that business. After she had got into her own room, she was never sensible of how time was passing—never conscious of any feeling within her, except a baseless, helpless hope that the French police might yet be proved to have made some terrible mistake—until she heard a violent shower of rain come on a little after sunset. The noise of the rain, and the freshness it brought with it in the air, seemed to awaken133 her as if from a painful and a fearful sleep. The power of reflection returned to her; her heart heaved and bounded with an overwhelming terror, as the thought of Rosamond came back vividly134 to it; her memory recurred135 despairingly to the long-past day of her mother’s death, and to the farewell promise she had made by her mother’s bedside. She burst into an hysterical passion of weeping that seemed to be tearing her to pieces. In the midst of it she heard the clatter136 of a horse’s hoofs137 in the courtyard, and knew that Rosamond’s husband had come back.
Dipping her handkerchief in cold water, and passing it over her eyes as she left the room, she instantly hastened to her sister.
Fortunately the daylight was fading in the old-fashioned chamber138 that Rosamond occupied. Before they could say two words to each other, Franval was in the room. He seemed violently irritated; said that he had waited for the arrival of the mail—that the missing newspaper had not come by it—that he had got wet through—that he felt a shivering fit coming on—and that he believed he had caught a violent cold. His wife anxiously suggested some simple remedies. He roughly interrupted her, saying there was but one remedy, the remedy of going to bed; and so left them without another word. She just put her handkerchief to her eyes, and said softly to her sister, “How he is changed!” then spoke no more. They sat silent for half an hour or longer. After that, Rosamond went affectionately and forgivingly to see how her husband was. She returned, saying that he was in bed, and in a deep, heavy sleep; and predicting hopefully that he would wake up quite well the next morning. In a few minutes more the clock stuck nine; and Ida heard the servant’s step ascending139 the stairs. She suspected what his errand was, and went out to meet him. Her presentiment140 had not deceived her; the police agent had arrived, and was waiting for her downstairs.
He asked her if she had said anything to her sister, or had thought of any plan of action, the moment she entered the room; and, on receiving a reply in the negative, inquired, further, if “the baron” had come home yet. She answered that he had; that he was ill and tired, and vexed141, and that he had gone to bed. The agent asked in an eager whisper if she knew that he was asleep, and alone in bed? and, when he received her reply, said that he must go up into the bedroom directly.
She began to feel the faintness coming over her again, and with it sensations of loathing142 and terror that she could neither express to others nor define to herself. He said that if she hesitated to let him avail himself of this unexpected opportunity, her scruples143 might lead to fatal results. He reminded her that if “the baron” were really the convict Monbrun, the claims of society and of justice demanded that he should be discovered by the first available means; and that if he were not—if some inconceivable mistake had really been committed—then such a plan for getting immediately at the truth as was now proposed would insure the delivery of an innocent man from suspicion; and at the same time spare him the knowledge that he had ever been suspected. This last argument had its effect on Miss Welwyn. The baseless, helpless hope that the French authorities might yet be proved to be in error, which she had already felt in her own room, returned to her now. She suffered the agent to lead her upstairs.
He took the candle from her hand when she pointed to the door; opened it softly; and, leaving it ajar, went into the room.
She looked through the gap with a feverish144, horror-struck curiosity. Franval was lying on his side in a profound sleep, with his back turned toward the door. The agent softly placed the candle upon a small reading-table between the door and the bedside, softly drew down the bed-clothes a little away from the sleeper’s back, then took a pair of scissors from the toilet-table, and very gently and slowly began to cut away, first the loose folds, then the intervening strips of linen145, from the part of Franval’s night-gown that was over his shoulders. When the upper part of his back had been bared in this way, the agent took the candle and held it near the flesh. Miss Welwyn heard him ejaculate some word under his breath, then saw him looking round to where she was standing, and beckoning146 to her to come in.
Mechanically she obeyed; mechanically she looked down where his finger was pointing. It was the convict Monbrun—there, just visible under the bright light of the candle, were the fatal letters “T. F.” branded on the villain’s shoulder!
Though she could neither move nor speak, the horror of this discovery did not deprive her of her consciousness. She saw the agent softly draw up the bed-clothes again into their proper position, replace the scissors on the toilet-table, and take from it a bottle of smelling-salts. She felt him removing her from the bedroom, and helping147 her quickly downstairs, giving her the salts to smell to by the way. When they were alone again, he said, with the first appearance of agitation148 that he had yet exhibited, “Now, madam, for God’s sake, collect all your courage, and be guided by me. You and your sister had better leave the house immediately. Have you any relatives in the neighborhood with whom you could take refuge?” They had none. “What is the name of the nearest town where you could get good accommodation for the night?” Harleybrook (he wrote the name down on his tablets). “How far off is it?” Twelve miles. “You had better have the carriage out at once, to go there with as little delay as possible, leaving me to pass the night here. I will communicate with you to-morrow at the principal hotel. Can you compose yourself sufficiently to be able to tell the head servant, if I ring for him, that he is to obey my orders till further notice?” The servant was summoned, and received his instructions, the agent going out with him to see that the carriage was got ready quietly and quickly. Miss Welwyn went upstairs to her sister.
How the fearful news was first broken to Rosamond, I cannot relate to you. Miss Welwyn has never confided to me, has never confided to anybody, what happened at the interview between her sister and herself that night. I can tell you nothing of the shock they both suffered, except that the younger and the weaker died under it; that the elder and the stronger has never recovered from it, and never will.
They went away the same night, with one attendant, to Harleybrook, as the agent had advised. Before daybreak Rosamond was seized with the pains of premature149 labor150. She died three days after, unconscious of the horror of her situation, wandering in her mind about past times, and singing old tunes55 that Ida had taught her as she lay in her sister’s arms.
The child was born alive, and lives still. You saw her at the window as we came in at the back way to the Grange. I surprised you, I dare say, by asking you not to speak of her to Miss Welwyn. Perhaps you noticed something vacant in the little girl’s expression. I am sorry to say that her mind is more vacant still. If “idiot” did not sound like a mocking word, however tenderly and pityingly one may wish to utter it, I should tell you that the poor thing had been an idiot from her birth.
You will, doubtless, want to hear now what happened at Glenwith Grange after Miss Welwyn and her sister had left it. I have seen the letter which the police agent sent the next morning to Harleybrook; and, speaking from my recollection of that, I shall be able to relate all you can desire to know.
First, as to the past history of the scoundrel Monbrun, I need only tell you that he was identical with an escaped convict, who, for a long term of years, had successfully eluded151 the vigilance of the authorities all over Europe, and in America as well. In conjunction with two accomplices152, he had succeeded in possessing himself of large sums of money by the most criminal means. He also acted secretly as the “banker” of his convict brethren, whose dishonest gains were all confided to his hands for safe-keeping. He would have been certainly captured, on venturing back to France, along with his two associates, but for the daring imposture153 in which he took refuge; and which, if the true Baron Franval had really died abroad, as was reported, would, in all probability, never have been found out.
Besides his extraordinary likeness to the baron, he had every other requisite154 for carrying on his deception155 successfully. Though his parents were not wealthy, he had received a good education. He was so notorious for his gentleman-like manners among the villainous associates of his crimes and excesses, that they nicknamed him “the Prince.” All his early life had been passed in the neighborhood of the Chateau Franval. He knew what were the circumstances which had induced the baron to leave it. He had been in the country to which the baron had emigrated. He was able to refer familiarly to persons and localities, at home and abroad, with which the baron was sure to be acquainted. And, lastly, he had an expatriation of fifteen years to plead for him as his all-sufficient excuse, if he made any slight mistakes before the baron’s sisters, in his assumed character of their long-absent brother. It will be, of course, hardly necessary for me to tell you, in relation to this part of the subject, that the true Franval was immediately and honorably reinstated in the family rights of which the impostor had succeeded for a time in depriving him.
According to Monbrun’s own account, he had married poor Rosamond purely156 for love; and the probabilities certainly are, that the pretty, innocent English girl had really struck the villain’s fancy for the time; and that the easy, quiet life he was leading at the Grange pleased him, by contrast with his perilous17 and vagabond existence of former days. What might have happened if he had had time enough to grow wearied of his ill-fated wife and his English home, it is now useless to inquire. What really did happen on the morning when he awoke after the flight of Ida and her sister can be briefly told.
As soon as his eyes opened they rested on the police agent, sitting quietly by the bedside, with a loaded pistol in his hand. Monbrun knew immediately that he was discovered; but he never for an instant lost the self-possession for which he was famous. He said he wished to have five minutes allowed him to deliberate quietly in bed, whether he should resist the French authorities on English ground, and so gain time by obliging the one Government to apply specially59 to have him delivered up by the other—or whether he should accept the terms officially offered to him by the agent, if he quietly allowed himself to be captured. He chose the latter course—it was suspected, because he wished to communicate personally with some of his convict associates in France, whose fraudulent gains were in his keeping, and because he felt boastfully confident of being able to escape again, whenever he pleased. Be his secret motives157, however, what they might, he allowed the agent to conduct him peaceably from the Grange; first writing a farewell letter to poor Rosamond, full of heartless French sentiment and glib158 sophistries159 about Fate and Society. His own fate was not long in overtaking him. He attempted to escape again, as it had been expected he would, and was shot by the sentinel on duty at the time. I remember hearing that the bullet entered his head and killed him on the spot.
My story is done. It is ten years now since Rosamond was buried in the churchyard yonder; and it is ten years also since Miss Welwyn returned to be the lonely inhabitant of Glenwith Grange. She now lives but in the remembrances that it calls up before her of her happier existence of former days. There is hardly an object in the old house which does not tenderly and solemnly remind her of the mother, whose last wishes she lived to obey; of the sister, whose happiness was once her dearest earthly care. Those prints that you noticed on the library walls Rosamond used to copy in the past time, when her pencil was often guided by Ida’s hand. Those music-books that you were looking over, she and her mother have played from together through many a long and quiet summer’s evening. She has no ties now to bind160 her to the present but the poor child whose affliction it is her constant effort to lighten, and the little peasant population around her, whose humble161 cares and wants and sorrows she is always ready to relieve. Far and near her modest charities have penetrated162 among us; and far and near she is heartily163 beloved and blessed in many a laborer’s household. There is no poor man’s hearth164, not in this village only, but for miles away from it as well, at which you would not be received with the welcome given to an old friend, if you only told the cottagers that you knew the Lady of Glenwith Grange!
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1
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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14
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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42
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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45
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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51
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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52
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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56
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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59
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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avowing
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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satires
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| 讽刺，讥讽( satire的名词复数 )； 讽刺作品 | |
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71
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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77
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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80
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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81
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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82
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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83
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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84
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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85
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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86
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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87
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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88
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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89
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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90
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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91
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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92
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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93
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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94
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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95
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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96
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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97
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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98
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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99
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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100
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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101
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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102
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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103
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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104
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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105
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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106
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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107
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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108
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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110
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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111
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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112
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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113
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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114
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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115
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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116
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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118
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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119
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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120
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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121
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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122
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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123
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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124
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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125
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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126
embargo
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| n.禁运（令）；vt.对...实行禁运，禁止（通商） | |
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127
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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128
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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129
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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130
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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132
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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133
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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134
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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135
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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136
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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137
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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139
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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140
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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141
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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142
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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143
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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144
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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145
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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146
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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147
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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148
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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149
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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150
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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151
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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152
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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153
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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154
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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155
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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156
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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157
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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158
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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159
sophistries
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| n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 )；（一次）诡辩 | |
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160
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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161
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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162
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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163
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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164
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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