“No motive?” I repeated.
“Let me appeal, my dear Miss Clack, to your experience of children,” he went on. “A child pursues a certain course of conduct. You are greatly struck by it, and you attempt to get at the motive. The dear little thing is incapable2 of telling you its motive. You might as well ask the grass why it grows, or the birds why they sing. Well! in this matter, I am like the dear little thing—like the grass—like the birds. I don’t know why I made a proposal of marriage to Miss Verinder. I don’t know why I have shamefully3 neglected my dear Ladies. I don’t know why I have apostatised from the Mothers’ Small-Clothes. You say to the child, Why have you been naughty? And the little angel puts its finger into its mouth, and doesn’t know. My case exactly, Miss Clack! I couldn’t confess it to anybody else. I feel impelled4 to confess it to you!”
I began to recover myself. A mental problem was involved here. I am deeply interested in mental problems—and I am not, it is thought, without some skill in solving them.
“Best of friends, exert your intellect, and help me,” he proceeded. “Tell me—why does a time come when these matrimonial proceedings5 of mine begin to look like something done in a dream? Why does it suddenly occur to me that my true happiness is in helping6 my dear Ladies, in going my modest round of useful work, in saying my few earnest words when called on by my Chairman? What do I want with a position? I have got a position! What do I want with an income? I can pay for my bread and cheese, and my nice little lodging7, and my two coats a year. What do I want with Miss Verinder? She has told me with her own lips (this, dear lady, is between ourselves) that she loves another man, and that her only idea in marrying me is to try and put that other man out of her head. What a horrid8 union is this! Oh, dear me, what a horrid union is this! Such are my reflections, Miss Clack, on my way to Brighton. I approach Rachel with the feeling of a criminal who is going to receive his sentence. When I find that she has changed her mind too—when I hear her propose to break the engagement—I experience (there is no sort of doubt about it) a most overpowering sense of relief. A month ago I was pressing her rapturously to my bosom9. An hour ago, the happiness of knowing that I shall never press her again, intoxicates10 me like strong liquor. The thing seems impossible—the thing can’t be. And yet there are the facts, as I had the honour of stating them when we first sat down together in these two chairs. I have lost a beautiful girl, an excellent social position, and a handsome income; and I have submitted to it without a struggle. Can you account for it, dear friend? It’s quite beyond me.”
His magnificent head sank on his breast, and he gave up his own mental problem in despair.
I was deeply touched. The case (if I may speak as a spiritual physician) was now quite plain to me. It is no uncommon11 event, in the experience of us all, to see the possessors of exalted12 ability occasionally humbled14 to the level of the most poorly-gifted people about them. The object, no doubt, in the wise economy of Providence15, is to remind greatness that it is mortal and that the power which has conferred it can also take it away. It was now—to my mind—easy to discern one of these salutary humiliations in the deplorable proceedings on dear Mr. Godfrey’s part, of which I had been the unseen witness. And it was equally easy to recognise the welcome reappearance of his own finer nature in the horror with which he recoiled16 from the idea of a marriage with Rachel, and in the charming eagerness which he showed to return to his Ladies and his Poor.
I put this view before him in a few simple and sisterly words. His joy was beautiful to see. He compared himself, as I went on, to a lost man emerging from the darkness into the light. When I answered for a loving reception of him at the Mothers’ Small-Clothes, the grateful heart of our Christian17 Hero overflowed18. He pressed my hands alternately to his lips. Overwhelmed by the exquisite19 triumph of having got him back among us, I let him do what he liked with my hands. I closed my eyes. I felt my head, in an ecstasy20 of spiritual self-forgetfulness, sinking on his shoulder. In a moment more I should certainly have swooned away in his arms, but for an interruption from the outer world, which brought me to myself again. A horrid rattling21 of knives and forks sounded outside the door, and the footman came in to lay the table for luncheon22.
Mr. Godfrey started up, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“How time flies with you!” he exclaimed. “I shall barely catch the train.”
I ventured on asking why he was in such a hurry to get back to town. His answer reminded me of family difficulties that were still to be reconciled, and of family disagreements that were yet to come.
“I have heard from my father,” he said. “Business obliges him to leave Frizinghall for London today, and he proposes coming on here, either this evening or tomorrow. I must tell him what has happened between Rachel and me. His heart is set on our marriage—there will be great difficulty, I fear, in reconciling him to the breaking-off of the engagement. I must stop him, for all our sakes, from coming here till he is reconciled. Best and dearest of friends, we shall meet again!”
With those words he hurried out. In equal haste on my side, I ran upstairs to compose myself in my own room before meeting Aunt Ablewhite and Rachel at the luncheon-table.
I am well aware—to dwell for a moment yet on the subject of Mr. Godfrey—that the all-profaning opinion of the world has charged him with having his own private reasons for releasing Rachel from her engagement, at the first opportunity she gave him. It has also reached my ears, that his anxiety to recover his place in my estimation has been attributed in certain quarters, to a mercenary eagerness to make his peace (through me) with a venerable committee-woman at the Mothers’ Small-Clothes, abundantly blessed with the goods of this world, and a beloved and intimate friend of my own. I only notice these odious23 slanders25 for the sake of declaring that they never had a moment’s influence on my mind. In obedience26 to my instructions, I have exhibited the fluctuations27 in my opinion of our Christian Hero, exactly as I find them recorded in my diary. In justice to myself, let me here add that, once reinstated in his place in my estimation, my gifted friend never lost that place again. I write with the tears in my eyes, burning to say more. But no—I am cruelly limited to my actual experience of persons and things. In less than a month from the time of which I am now writing, events in the money-market (which diminished even my miserable28 little income) forced me into foreign exile, and left me with nothing but a loving remembrance of Mr. Godfrey which the slander24 of the world has assailed29, and assailed in vain.
Let me dry my eyes, and return to my narrative30.
I went downstairs to luncheon, naturally anxious to see how Rachel was affected31 by her release from her marriage engagement.
It appeared to me—but I own I am a poor authority in such matters—that the recovery of her freedom had set her thinking again of that other man whom she loved, and that she was furious with herself for not being able to control a revulsion of feeling of which she was secretly ashamed. Who was the man? I had my suspicions—but it was needless to waste time in idle speculation32. When I had converted her, she would, as a matter of course, have no concealments from Me. I should hear all about the man; I should hear all about the Moonstone. If I had had no higher object in stirring her up to a sense of spiritual things, the motive of relieving her mind of its guilty secrets would have been enough of itself to encourage me to go on.
Aunt Ablewhite took her exercise in the afternoon in an invalid34 chair. Rachel accompanied her. “I wish I could drag the chair,” she broke out, recklessly. “I wish I could fatigue35 myself till I was ready to drop.”
She was in the same humour in the evening. I discovered in one of my friend’s precious publications—the Life, Letters, and Labours of Miss Jane Ann Stamper, forty-fourth edition—passages which bore with a marvellous appropriateness on Rachel’s present position. Upon my proposing to read them, she went to the piano. Conceive how little she must have known of serious people, if she supposed that my patience was to be exhausted36 in that way! I kept Miss Jane Ann Stamper by me, and waited for events with the most unfaltering trust in the future.
Old Mr. Ablewhite never made his appearance that night. But I knew the importance which his worldly greed attached to his son’s marriage with Miss Verinder—and I felt a positive conviction (do what Mr. Godfrey might to prevent it) that we should see him the next day. With his interference in the matter, the storm on which I had counted would certainly come, and the salutary exhaustion38 of Rachel’s resisting powers would as certainly follow. I am not ignorant that old Mr. Ablewhite has the reputation generally (especially among his inferiors) of being a remarkably39 good-natured man. According to my observation of him, he deserves his reputation as long as he has his own way, and not a moment longer.
The next day, exactly as I had foreseen, Aunt Ablewhite was as near to being astonished as her nature would permit, by the sudden appearance of her husband. He had barely been a minute in the house, before he was followed, to my astonishment40 this time, by an unexpected complication in the shape of Mr. Bruff.
I never remember feeling the presence of the lawyer to be more unwelcome than I felt it at that moment. He looked ready for anything in the way of an obstructive proceeding—capable even of keeping the peace with Rachel for one of the combatants!
“This is a pleasant surprise, sir,” said Mr. Ablewhite, addressing himself with his deceptive41 cordiality to Mr. Bruff. “When I left your office yesterday, I didn’t expect to have the honour of seeing you at Brighton today.”
“I turned over our conversation in my mind, after you had gone,” replied Mr. Bruff. “And it occurred to me that I might perhaps be of some use on this occasion. I was just in time to catch the train, and I had no opportunity of discovering the carriage in which you were travelling.”
Having given that explanation, he seated himself by Rachel. I retired42 modestly to a corner—with Miss Jane Ann Stamper on my lap, in case of emergency. My aunt sat at the window; placidly43 fanning herself as usual. Mr. Ablewhite stood up in the middle of the room, with his bald head much pinker than I had ever seen it yet, and addressed himself in the most affectionate manner to his niece.
“Rachel, my dear,” he said, “I have heard some very extraordinary news from Godfrey. And I am here to inquire about it. You have a sitting-room44 of your own in this house. Will you honour me by showing me the way to it?”
Rachel never moved. Whether she was determined45 to bring matters to a crisis, or whether she was prompted by some private sign from Mr. Bruff, is more than I can tell. She declined doing old Mr. Ablewhite the honour of conducting him into her sitting-room.
“Whatever you wish to say to me,” she answered, “can be said here—in the presence of my relatives, and in the presence” (she looked at Mr. Bruff) “of my mother’s trusted old friend.”
“Just as you please, my dear,” said the amiable46 Mr. Ablewhite. He took a chair. The rest of them looked at his face—as if they expected it, after seventy years of worldly training, to speak the truth. I looked at the top of his bald head; having noticed on other occasions that the temper which was really in him had a habit of registering itself there.
“Some weeks ago,” pursued the old gentleman, “my son informed me that Miss Verinder had done him the honour to engage herself to marry him. Is it possible, Rachel, that he can have misinterpreted—or presumed upon—what you really said to him?”
“Certainly not,” she replied. “I did engage myself to marry him.”
“Very frankly47 answered!” said Mr. Ablewhite. “And most satisfactory, my dear, so far. In respect to what happened some weeks since, Godfrey has made no mistake. The error is evidently in what he told me yesterday. I begin to see it now. You and he have had a lovers’ quarrel—and my foolish son has interpreted it seriously. Ah! I should have known better than that at his age.”
The fallen nature in Rachel—the mother Eve, so to speak—began to chafe48 at this.
“Pray let us understand each other, Mr. Ablewhite,” she said. “Nothing in the least like a quarrel took place yesterday between your son and me. If he told you that I proposed breaking off our marriage engagement, and that he agreed on his side—he told you the truth.”
The self-registering thermometer at the top of Mr. Ablewhite’s bald head began to indicate a rise of temper. His face was more amiable than ever—but there was the pink at the top of his face, a shade deeper already!
“Come, come, my dear!” he said, in his most soothing49 manner, “now don’t be angry, and don’t be hard on poor Godfrey! He has evidently said some unfortunate thing. He was always clumsy from a child—but he means well, Rachel, he means well!”
“Mr. Ablewhite, I have either expressed myself very badly, or you are purposely mistaking me. Once for all, it is a settled thing between your son and myself that we remain, for the rest of our lives, cousins and nothing more. Is that plain enough?”
The tone in which she said those words made it impossible, even for old Mr. Ablewhite, to mistake her any longer. His thermometer went up another degree, and his voice when he next spoke50, ceased to be the voice which is appropriate to a notoriously good-natured man.
“I am to understand, then,” he said, “that your marriage engagement is broken off?”
“You are to understand that, Mr. Ablewhite, if you please.”
“I am also to take it as a matter of fact that the proposal to withdraw from the engagement came, in the first instance, from you?”
“It came, in the first instance, from me. And it met, as I have told you, with your son’s consent and approval.”
The thermometer went up to the top of the register. I mean, the pink changed suddenly to scarlet51.
“My son is a mean-spirited hound!” cried this furious old worldling. “In justice to myself as his father—not in justice to him—I beg to ask you, Miss Verinder, what complaint you have to make of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite?”
Here Mr. Bruff interfered52 for the first time.
“You are not bound to answer that question,” he said to Rachel.
Old Mr. Ablewhite fastened on him instantly.
“Don’t forget, sir,” he said, “that you are a self-invited guest here. Your interference would have come with a better grace if you had waited until it was asked for.”
Mr. Bruff took no notice. The smooth varnish53 on his wicked old face never cracked. Rachel thanked him for the advice he had given to her, and then turned to old Mr. Ablewhite—preserving her composure in a manner which (having regard to her age and her sex) was simply awful to see.
“Your son put the same question to me which you have just asked,” she said. “I had only one answer for him, and I have only one answer for you. I proposed that we should release each other, because reflection had convinced me that I should best consult his welfare and mine by retracting54 a rash promise, and leaving him free to make his choice elsewhere.”
“What has my son done?” persisted Mr. Ablewhite. “I have a right to know that. What has my son done?”
She persisted just as obstinately56 on her side.
“You have had the only explanation which I think it necessary to give to you, or to him,” she answered.
“In plain English, it’s your sovereign will and pleasure, Miss Verinder, to jilt my son?”
Rachel was silent for a moment. Sitting close behind her, I heard her sigh. Mr. Bruff took her hand, and gave it a little squeeze. She recovered herself, and answered Mr. Ablewhite as boldly as ever.
“I have exposed myself to worse misconstruction than that,” she said. “And I have borne it patiently. The time has gone by, when you could mortify57 me by calling me a jilt.”
She spoke with a bitterness of tone which satisfied me that the scandal of the Moonstone had been in some way recalled to her mind. “I have no more to say,” she added, wearily, not addressing the words to anyone in particular, and looking away from us all, out of the window that was nearest to her.
Mr. Ablewhite got upon his feet, and pushed away his chair so violently that it toppled over and fell on the floor.
“I have something more to say on my side,” he announced, bringing down the flat of his hand on the table with a bang. “I have to say that if my son doesn’t feel this insult, I do!”
Rachel started, and looked at him in sudden surprise.
“Insult?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Insult!” reiterated58 Mr. Ablewhite. “I know your motive, Miss Verinder, for breaking your promise to my son! I know it as certainly as if you had confessed it in so many words. Your cursed family pride is insulting Godfrey, as it insulted me when I married your aunt. Her family—her beggarly family—turned their backs on her for marrying an honest man, who had made his own place and won his own fortune. I had no ancestors. I wasn’t descended59 from a set of cut-throat scoundrels who lived by robbery and murder. I couldn’t point to the time when the Ablewhites hadn’t a shirt to their backs, and couldn’t sign their own names. Ha! ha! I wasn’t good enough for the Herncastles, when I married. And now, it comes to the pinch, my son isn’t good enough for you. I suspected it, all along. You have got the Herncastle blood in you, my young lady! I suspected it all along.”
“A very unworthy suspicion,” remarked Mr. Bruff. “I am astonished that you have the courage to acknowledge it.”
Before Mr. Ablewhite could find words to answer in, Rachel spoke in a tone of the most exasperating60 contempt.
“Surely,” she said to the lawyer, “this is beneath notice. If he can think in that way, let us leave him to think as he pleases.”
From scarlet, Mr. Ablewhite was now becoming purple. He gasped61 for breath; he looked backwards62 and forwards from Rachel to Mr. Bruff in such a frenzy63 of rage with both of them that he didn’t know which to attack first. His wife, who had sat impenetrably fanning herself up to this time, began to be alarmed, and attempted, quite uselessly, to quiet him. I had, throughout this distressing64 interview, felt more than one inward call to interfere37 with a few earnest words, and had controlled myself under a dread65 of the possible results, very unworthy of a Christian Englishwoman who looks, not to what is meanly prudent66, but to what is morally right. At the point at which matters had now arrived, I rose superior to all considerations of mere67 expediency68. If I had contemplated69 interposing any remonstrance70 of my own humble13 devising, I might possibly have still hesitated. But the distressing domestic emergency which now confronted me, was most marvellously and beautifully provided for in the Correspondence of Miss Jane Ann Stamper—Letter one thousand and one, on “Peace in Families.” I rose in my modest corner, and I opened my precious book.
“Dear Mr. Ablewhite,” I said, “one word!”
When I first attracted the attention of the company by rising, I could see that he was on the point of saying something rude to me. My sisterly form of address checked him. He stared at me in heathen astonishment.
“As an affectionate well-wisher and friend,” I proceeded, “and as one long accustomed to arouse, convince, prepare, enlighten, and fortify71 others, permit me to take the most pardonable of all liberties—the liberty of composing your mind.”
He began to recover himself; he was on the point of breaking out—he would have broken out, with anybody else. But my voice (habitually gentle) possesses a high note or so, in emergencies. In this emergency, I felt imperatively72 called upon to have the highest voice of the two.
I held up my precious book before him; I rapped the open page impressively with my forefinger73. “Not my words!” I exclaimed, in a burst of fervent74 interruption. “Oh, don’t suppose that I claim attention for My humble words! Manna in the wilderness75, Mr. Ablewhite! Dew on the parched76 earth! Words of comfort, words of wisdom, words of love—the blessed, blessed, blessed words of Miss Jane Ann Stamper!”
I was stopped there by a momentary77 impediment of the breath. Before I could recover myself, this monster in human form shouted out furiously,
“Miss Jane Ann Stamper be ——!”
It is impossible for me to write the awful word, which is here represented by a blank. I shrieked78 as it passed his lips; I flew to my little bag on the side table; I shook out all my tracts79; I seized the one particular tract55 on profane80 swearing, entitled, “Hush, for Heaven’s Sake!”; I handed it to him with an expression of agonised entreaty81. He tore it in two, and threw it back at me across the table. The rest of them rose in alarm, not knowing what might happen next. I instantly sat down again in my corner. There had once been an occasion, under somewhat similar circumstances, when Miss Jane Ann Stamper had been taken by the two shoulders and turned out of a room. I waited, inspired by her spirit, for a repetition of her martyrdom.
But no—it was not to be. His wife was the next person whom he addressed. “Who—who—who,” he said, stammering82 with rage, “who asked this impudent83 fanatic84 into the house? Did you?”
Before Aunt Ablewhite could say a word, Rachel answered for her.
“Miss Clack is here,” she said, “as my guest.”
Those words had a singular effect on Mr. Ablewhite. They suddenly changed him from a man in a state of red-hot anger to a man in a state of icy-cold contempt. It was plain to everybody that Rachel had said something—short and plain as her answer had been—which gave him the upper hand of her at last.
“Oh?” he said. “Miss Clack is here as your guest—in my house?”
It was Rachel’s turn to lose her temper at that. Her colour rose, and her eyes brightened fiercely. She turned to the lawyer, and, pointing to Mr. Ablewhite, asked haughtily85, “What does he mean?”
Mr. Bruff interfered for the third time.
“You appear to forget,” he said, addressing Mr. Ablewhite, “that you took this house as Miss Verinder’s guardian86, for Miss Verinder’s use.”
“Not quite so fast,” interposed Mr. Ablewhite. “I have a last word to say, which I should have said some time since, if this——” He looked my way, pondering what abominable87 name he should call me—“if this Rampant88 Spinster had not interrupted us. I beg to inform you, sir, that, if my son is not good enough to be Miss Verinder’s husband, I cannot presume to consider his father good enough to be Miss Verinder’s guardian. Understand, if you please, that I refuse to accept the position which is offered to me by Lady Verinder’s will. In your legal phrase, I decline to act. This house has necessarily been hired in my name. I take the entire responsibility of it on my shoulders. It is my house. I can keep it, or let it, just as I please. I have no wish to hurry Miss Verinder. On the contrary, I beg her to remove her guest and her luggage, at her own entire convenience.” He made a low bow, and walked out of the room.
That was Mr. Ablewhite’s revenge on Rachel, for refusing to marry his son!
The instant the door closed, Aunt Ablewhite exhibited a phenomenon which silenced us all. She became endowed with energy enough to cross the room!
“My dear,” she said, taking Rachel by the hand, “I should be ashamed of my husband, if I didn’t know that it is his temper which has spoken to you, and not himself. You,” continued Aunt Ablewhite, turning on me in my corner with another endowment of energy, in her looks this time instead of her limbs—“you are the mischievous89 person who irritated him. I hope I shall never see you or your tracts again.” She went back to Rachel and kissed her. “I beg your pardon, my dear,” she said, “in my husband’s name. What can I do for you?”
Consistently perverse90 in everything—capricious and unreasonable91 in all the actions of her life—Rachel melted into tears at those commonplace words, and returned her aunt’s kiss in silence.
“If I may be permitted to answer for Miss Verinder,” said Mr. Bruff, “might I ask you, Mrs. Ablewhite, to send Penelope down with her mistress’s bonnet92 and shawl. Leave us ten minutes together,” he added, in a lower tone, “and you may rely on my setting matters right, to your satisfaction as well as to Rachel’s.”
The trust of the family in this man was something wonderful to see. Without a word more, on her side, Aunt Ablewhite left the room.
“Ah!” said Mr. Bruff, looking after her. “The Herncastle blood has its drawbacks, I admit. But there is something in good breeding after all!”
Having made that purely93 worldly remark, he looked hard at my corner, as if he expected me to go. My interest in Rachel—an infinitely94 higher interest than his—riveted me to my chair.
Mr. Bruff gave it up, exactly as he had given it up at Aunt Verinder’s, in Montagu Square. He led Rachel to a chair by the window, and spoke to her there.
“My dear young lady,” he said, “Mr. Ablewhite’s conduct has naturally shocked you, and taken you by surprise. If it was worth while to contest the question with such a man, we might soon show him that he is not to have things all his own way. But it isn’t worth while. You were quite right in what you said just now; he is beneath our notice.”
He stopped, and looked round at my corner. I sat there quite immovable, with my tracts at my elbow and with Miss Jane Ann Stamper on my lap.
“You know,” he resumed, turning back again to Rachel, “that it was part of your poor mother’s fine nature always to see the best of the people about her, and never the worst. She named her brother-in-law your guardian because she believed in him, and because she thought it would please her sister. I had never liked Mr. Ablewhite myself, and I induced your mother to let me insert a clause in the will, empowering her executors, in certain events, to consult with me about the appointment of a new guardian. One of those events has happened today; and I find myself in a position to end all these dry business details, I hope agreeably, with a message from my wife. Will you honour Mrs. Bruff by becoming her guest? And will you remain under my roof, and be one of my family, until we wise people have laid our heads together, and have settled what is to be done next?”
At those words, I rose to interfere. Mr. Bruff had done exactly what I had dreaded95 he would do, when he asked Mrs. Ablewhite for Rachel’s bonnet and shawl.
Before I could interpose a word, Rachel had accepted his invitation in the warmest terms. If I suffered the arrangement thus made between them to be carried out—if she once passed the threshold of Mr. Bruff’s door—farewell to the fondest hope of my life, the hope of bringing my lost sheep back to the fold! The bare idea of such a calamity96 as this quite overwhelmed me. I cast the miserable trammels of worldly discretion97 to the winds, and spoke with the fervour that filled me, in the words that came first.
“Stop!” I said—“stop! I must be heard. Mr. Bruff! you are not related to her, and I am. I invite her—I summon the executors to appoint me guardian. Rachel, dearest Rachel, I offer you my modest home; come to London by the next train, love, and share it with me!”
Mr. Bruff said nothing. Rachel looked at me with a cruel astonishment which she made no effort to conceal33.
“You are very kind, Drusilla,” she said. “I shall hope to visit you whenever I happen to be in London. But I have accepted Mr. Bruff’s invitation, and I think it will be best, for the present, if I remain under Mr. Bruff’s care.”
“Oh, don’t say so!” I pleaded. “I can’t part with you, Rachel—I can’t part with you!”
I tried to fold her in my arms. But she drew back. My fervour did not communicate itself; it only alarmed her.
“Surely,” she said, “this is a very unnecessary display of agitation98? I don’t understand it.”
“No more do I,” said Mr. Bruff.
Their hardness—their hideous99, worldly hardness—revolted me.
“Oh, Rachel! Rachel!” I burst out. “Haven’t you seen yet, that my heart yearns100 to make a Christian of you? Has no inner voice told you that I am trying to do for you, what I was trying to do for your dear mother when death snatched her out of my hands?”
Rachel advanced a step nearer, and looked at me very strangely.
“I don’t understand your reference to my mother,” she said. “Miss Clack, will you have the goodness to explain yourself?”
Before I could answer, Mr. Bruff came forward, and offering his arm to Rachel, tried to lead her out of the room.
“You had better not pursue the subject, my dear,” he said. “And Miss Clack had better not explain herself.”
If I had been a stock or a stone, such an interference as this must have roused me into testifying to the truth. I put Mr. Bruff aside indignantly with my own hand, and, in solemn and suitable language, I stated the view with which sound doctrine101 does not scruple102 to regard the awful calamity of dying unprepared.
Rachel started back from me—I blush to write—with a scream of horror.
“Come away!” she said to Mr. Bruff. “Come away, for God’s sake, before that woman can say any more! Oh, think of my poor mother’s harmless, useful, beautiful life! You were at the funeral, Mr. Bruff; you saw how everybody loved her; you saw the poor helpless people crying at her grave over the loss of their best friend. And that wretch103 stands there, and tries to make me doubt that my mother, who was an angel on earth, is an angel in heaven now! Don’t stop to talk about it! Come away! It stifles104 me to breathe the same air with her! It frightens me to feel that we are in the same room together!”
Deaf to all remonstrance, she ran to the door.
At the same moment, her maid entered with her bonnet and shawl. She huddled105 them on anyhow. “Pack my things,” she said, “and bring them to Mr. Bruff’s.” I attempted to approach her—I was shocked and grieved, but, it is needless to say, not offended. I only wished to say to her, “May your hard heart be softened106! I freely forgive you!” She pulled down her veil, and tore her shawl away from my hand, and, hurrying out, shut the door in my face. I bore the insult with my customary fortitude107. I remember it now with my customary superiority to all feeling of offence.
Mr. Bruff had his parting word of mockery for me, before he too hurried out, in his turn.
“You had better not have explained yourself, Miss Clack,” he said, and bowed, and left the room.
The person with the cap-ribbons followed.
“It’s easy to see who has set them all by the ears together,” she said. “I’m only a poor servant—but I declare I’m ashamed of you!” She too went out, and banged the door after her.
I was left alone in the room. Reviled108 by them all, deserted109 by them all, I was left alone in the room.
Is there more to be added to this plain statement of facts—to this touching110 picture of a Christian persecuted111 by the world? No! my diary reminds me that one more of the many chequered chapters in my life ends here. From that day forth112, I never saw Rachel Verinder again. She had my forgiveness at the time when she insulted me. She has had my prayerful good wishes ever since. And when I die—to complete the return on my part of good for evil—she will have the Life, Letters, and Labours of Miss Jane Ann Stamper left her as a legacy113 by my will.
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1
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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3
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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4
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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intoxicates
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| 使喝醉（intoxicate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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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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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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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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21
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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22
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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slanders
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| 诽谤，诋毁( slander的名词复数 ) | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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33
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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40
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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41
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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42
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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44
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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45
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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46
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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47
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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48
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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49
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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50
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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51
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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52
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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53
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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54
retracting
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的现在分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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55
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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56
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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57
mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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58
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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60
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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61
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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62
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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63
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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64
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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65
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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66
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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67
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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68
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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69
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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70
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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71
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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72
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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73
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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74
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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75
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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76
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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77
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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78
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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80
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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81
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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82
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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83
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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84
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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85
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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86
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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87
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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88
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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89
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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90
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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91
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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92
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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93
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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94
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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95
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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96
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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97
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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98
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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99
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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100
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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102
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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103
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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104
stifles
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的第三人称单数 )； 镇压，遏制 | |
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105
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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106
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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107
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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108
reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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110
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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111
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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112
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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113
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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