THE face, of which Pierre and Lucy so strangely and fearfully hinted, was not of enchanted3 air; but its mortal lineaments of mournfulness had been visibly beheld4 by Pierre. Nor had it accosted6 him in any privacy; or in any lonely byeway; or beneath the white light of the crescent moon; but in a joyous8 chamber9, bright with candles, and ringing with two score women's gayest voices. Out of the heart of mirthfulness, this shadow had come forth10 to him. Encircled by bandelets of light, it had still beamed upon him; vaguely11 historic and prophetic; backward, hinting of some irrevocable sin; forward, pointing to some inevitable13 ill. One of those faces, which now and then appear to man, and without one word of speech, still reveal glimpses of some fearful gospel. In natural guise14, but lit by supernatural light; palpable to the senses, but inscrutable to the soul; in their perfectest impression on us, ever hovering15 between Tartarean misery16 and Paradisaic beauty; such faces, compounded so of hell and heaven, overthrow17 in us all foregone persuasions18, and make us wondering children in this world again.
The face had accosted Pierre some weeks previous to his ride with Lucy to the hills beyond Saddle Meadows; and before her arrival for the summer at the village; moreover it had accosted him in a very common and homely19 scene; but this enhanced the wonder.
On some distant business, with a farmer-tenant, he had been absent from the mansion20 during the best part of the day, and had but just come home, early of a pleasant moonlight evening, when Dates delivered a message to him from his mother, begging him to come for her about half-past seven that night to Miss Llanyllyn's cottage, in order to accompany her thence to that of the two Miss Pennies. At the mention of that last name, Pierre well knew what he must anticipate. Those elderly and truly pious21 spinsters, gifted with the most benevolent22 hearts in the world, and at mid-age deprived by envious23 nature of their hearing, seemed to have made it a maxim24 of their charitable lives, that since God had not given them any more the power to hear Christ's gospel preached, they would therefore thenceforth do what they could toward practicing it. Wherefore, as a matter of no possible interest to them now, they abstained25 from church; and while with prayer-books in their hands the Rev12. Mr. Falsgrave's congregation were engaged in worshiping their God, according to the divine behest; the two Miss Pennies, with thread and needle, were hard at work in serving him; making up shirts and gowns for the poor people of the parish. Pierre had heard that they had recently been at the trouble of organizing a regular society, among the neighboring farmers' wives and daughters, to meet twice a month at their own house (the Miss Pennies) for the purpose of sewing in concert for the benefit of various settlements of necessitous emigrants28, who had lately pitched their populous29 shanties30 further up the river. But though this enterprise had not been started without previously31 acquainting Mrs. Glendinning of it,—for indeed she was much loved and honored by the pious spinsters,—and their promise of solid assistance from that gracious manorial32 lady; yet Pierre had not heard that his mother had been officially invited to preside, or be at all present at the semi-monthly meetings; though he supposed, that far from having any scruples34 against so doing, she would be very glad to associate that way, with the good people of the village.
"Now, brother Pierre"—said Mrs. Glendinning, rising from Miss Llanyllyn's huge cushioned chair—"throw my shawl around me; and good-evening to Lucy's aunt.—There, we shall be late."
As they walked along, she added—"Now, Pierre, I know you are apt to be a little impatient sometimes, of these sewing scenes; but courage; I merely want to peep in on them; so as to get some inkling of what they would indeed be at; and then my promised benefactions can be better selected by me. Besides, Pierre, I could have had Dates escort me, but I preferred you; because I want you to know who they are you live among; how many really pretty, and naturally-refined dames37 and girls you shall one day be lord of the manor33 of. I anticipate a rare display of rural red and white."
Cheered by such pleasant promises, Pierre soon found himself leading his mother into a room full of faces. The instant they appeared, a gratuitous38 old body, seated with her knitting near the door, squeaked39 out shrilly—"Ah! dames, dames,—Madam Glendinning!—Master Pierre Glendinning!"
Almost immediately following this sound, there came a sudden, long-drawn40, unearthly, girlish shriek41, from the further corner of the long, double room. Never had human voice so affected42 Pierre before. Though he saw not the person from whom it came, and though the voice was wholly strange to him, yet the sudden shriek seemed to split its way clean through his heart, and leave a yawning gap there. For an instant, he stood bewildered; but started at his mother's voice; her arm being still in his. "Why do you clutch my arm so, Pierre? You pain me. Pshaw! some one has fainted,—nothing more."
Instantly Pierre recovered himself, and affecting to mock at his own trepidation43, hurried across the room to offer his services, if such were needed. But dames and maidens44 had been all beforehand with him; the lights were wildly flickering45 in the air-current made by the flinging open of the casement46, near to where the shriek had come. But the climax47 of the tumult48 was soon past; and presently, upon closing the casement, it subsided49 almost wholly. The elder of the spinster Pennies, advancing to Mrs. Glendinning, now gave her to understand, that one of the further crowd of industrious50 girls present, had been attacked by a sudden, but fleeting51 fit, vaguely imputable52 to some constitutional disorder53 or other. She was now quite well again. And so the company, one and all, seemingly acting54 upon their natural good-breeding, which in any one at bottom, is but delicacy55 and charity, refrained from all further curiosity; reminded not the girl of what had passed; noted56 her scarce at all; and all needles stitched away as before.
Leaving his mother to speak with whom she pleased, and attend alone to her own affairs with the society; Pierre, oblivious57 now in such a lively crowd, of any past unpleasantness, after some courtly words to the Miss Pennies,—insinuated into their understandings through a long coiled trumpet59, which, when not in use, the spinsters wore, hanging like a powder-horn from their girdles:—and likewise, after manifesting the profoundest and most intelligent interest in the mystic mechanism60 of a huge woolen61 sock, in course of completion by a spectacled old lady of his more particular acquaintance; after all this had been gone through, and something more too tedious to detail, but which occupied him for nearly half an hour, Pierre, with a slightly blushing, and imperfectly balanced assurance, advanced toward the further crowd of maidens; where, by the light of many a well-snuffed candle, they clubbed all their bright contrasting cheeks, like a dense63 bed of garden tulips. There were the shy and pretty Maries, Marthas, Susans, Betties, Jennies, Nellies; and forty more fair nymphs, who skimmed the cream, and made the butter of the fat farms of Saddle Meadows.
Assurance is in presence of the assured. Where embarrassments64 prevail, they affect the most disembarrassed. What wonder, then, that gazing on such a thick array of wreathing, roguish, half-averted65, blushing faces—still audacious in their very embarrassment—Pierre, too, should flush a bit, and stammer66 in his attitudes a little? Youthful love and graciousness were in his heart; kindest words upon his tongue; but there he stood, target for the transfixing glances of those ambushed67 archers68 of the eye.
But his abashments last too long; his cheek hath changed from blush to pallor; what strange thing does Pierre Glendinning see? Behind the first close, busy breast-work of young girls, are several very little stands, or circular tables, where sit small groups of twos and threes, sewing in small comparative solitudes69, as it were. They would seem to be the less notable of the rural company; or else, for some cause, they have voluntarily retired70 into their humble71 banishment72. Upon one of these persons engaged at the furthermost and least conspicuous73 of these little stands, and close by a casement, Pierre's glance is palely fixed74.
The girl sits steadily75 sewing; neither she nor her two companions speak. Her eyes are mostly upon her work; but now and then a very close observer would notice that she furtively76 lifts them, and moves them sideways and timidly toward Pierre; and then, still more furtively and timidly toward his lady mother, further off. All the while, her preternatural calmness sometimes seems only made to cover the intensest struggle in her bosom78. Her unadorned and modest dress is black; fitting close up to her neck, and clasping it with a plain, velvet79 border. To a nice perception, that velvet shows elastically80; contracting and expanding, as though some choked, violent thing were risen up there within from the teeming82 region of her heart. But her dark, olive cheek is without a blush, or sign of any disquietude. So far as this girl lies upon the common surface, ineffable83 composure steeps her. But still, she sideways steals the furtive77, timid glance. Anon, as yielding to the irresistible84 climax of her concealed85 emotion, whatever that may be, she lifts her whole marvelous countenance87 into the radiant candlelight, and for one swift instant, that face of supernaturalness unreservedly meets Pierre's. Now, wonderful loveliness, and a still more wonderful loneliness, have with inexplicable88 implorings, looked up to him from that henceforth immemorial face. There, too, he seemed to see the fair ground where Anguish90 had contended with Beauty, and neither being conqueror91, both had laid down on the field.
Recovering at length from his all too obvious emotion, Pierre turned away still farther, to regain92 the conscious possession of himself. A wild, bewildering, and incomprehensible curiosity had seized him, to know something definite of that face. To this curiosity, at the moment, he entirely93 surrendered himself; unable as he was to combat it, or reason with it in the slightest way. So soon as he felt his outward composure returned to him, he purposed to chat his way behind the breastwork of bright eyes and cheeks, and on some parlor94 pretense95 or other, hear, if possible, an audible syllable96 from one whose mere35 silent aspect had so potentially moved him. But at length, as with this object in mind, he was crossing the room again, he heard his mother's voice, gayly calling him away; and turning, saw her shawled and bonneted97. He could now make no plausible98 stay, and smothering99 the agitation100 in him, he bowed a general and hurried adieu to the company, and went forth with his mother.
"Well, Pierre, what can it possibly be!"
"My God, mother, did you see her then!"
"My son!" cried Mrs. Glendinning, instantly stopping in terror, and withdrawing her arm from Pierre, "what—what under heaven ails103 you? This is most strange! I but playfully asked, what you were so steadfastly104 thinking of; and here you answer me by the strangest question, in a voice that seems to come from under your great-grandfather's tomb! What, in heaven's name, does this mean, Pierre? Why were you so silent, and why now are you so ill-timed in speaking! Answer me;—explain all this;—she—she—what she should you be thinking of but Lucy Tartan?—Pierre, beware, beware! I had thought you firmer in your lady's faith, than such strange behavior as this would seem to hint. Answer me, Pierre, what may this mean? Come, I hate a mystery; speak, my son."
Fortunately, this prolonged verbalized wonder in his mother afforded Pierre time to rally from his double and aggravated105 astonishment106, brought about by first suspecting that his mother also had been struck by the strange aspect of the face, and then, having that suspicion so violently beaten back upon him, by her apparently107 unaffected alarm at finding him in some region of thought wholly unshared by herself at the time.
"It is nothing—nothing, sister Mary; just nothing at all in the world. I believe I was dreaming—sleep-walking, or something of that sort. They were vastly pretty girls there this evening, sister Mary, were they not? Come, let us walk on—do, sister mine."
"Pierre, Pierre!—but I will take your arm again;—and have you really nothing more to say? were you really wandering, Pierre?"
"I swear to you, my dearest mother, that never before in my whole existence, have I so completely gone wandering in my soul, as at that very moment. But it is all over now." Then in a less earnest and somewhat playful tone, he added: "And sister mine, if you know aught of the physical and sanitary108 authors, you must be aware, that the only treatment for such a case of harmless temporary aberration109, is for all persons to ignore it in the subject. So no more of this foolishness. Talking about it only makes me feel very unpleasantly silly, and there is no knowing that it may not bring it back upon me."
"Then by all means, my dear boy, not another word about it. But it's passing strange—very, very strange indeed. Well, about that morning business; how fared you? Tell me about it."
II.
SO Pierre, gladly plunging110 into this welcome current of talk, was enabled to attend his mother home without furnishing further cause for her concern or wonderment. But not by any means so readily could he allay111 his own concern and wonderment. Too really true in itself, however evasive in its effect at the time, was that earnest answer to his mother, declaring that never in his whole existence had he been so profoundly stirred. The face haunted him as some imploring89, and beauteous, impassioned, ideal Madonna's haunts the morbidly112 longing113 and enthusiastic, but ever-baffled artist. And ever, as the mystic face thus rose before his fancy's sight, another sense was touched in him; the long-drawn, unearthly, girlish shriek pealed114 through and through his soul; for now he knew the shriek came from the face—such Delphic shriek could only come from such a source. And wherefore that shriek? thought Pierre. Bodes115 it ill to the face, or me, or both? How am I changed, that my appearance on any scene should have power to work such woe116? But it was mostly the face—the face, that wrought117 upon him. The shriek seemed as incidentally embodied118 there.
The emotions he experienced seemed to have taken hold of the deepest roots and subtlest fibres of his being. And so much the more that it was so subterranean119 in him, so much the more did he feel its weird120 inscrutableness. What was one unknown, sad-eyed, shrieking121 girl to him? There must be sad-eyed girls somewhere in the world, and this was only one of them. And what was the most beautiful sad-eyed girl to him? Sadness might be beautiful, as well as mirth—he lost himself trying to follow out this tangle122. "I will no more of this infatuation," he would cry; but forth from regions of irradiated air, the divine beauty and imploring sufferings of the face, stole into his view.
Hitherto I have ever held but lightly, thought Pierre, all stories of ghostly mysticalness in man; my creed123 of this world leads me to believe in visible, beautiful flesh, and audible breath, however sweet and scented124; but only in visible flesh, and audible breath, have I hitherto believed. But now!—now!—and again he would lose himself in the most surprising and preternatural ponderings, which baffled all the introspective cunning of his mind. Himself was too much for himself. He felt that what he had always before considered the solid land of veritable reality, was now being audaciously encroached upon by bannered armies of hooded125 phantoms126, disembarking in his soul, as from flotillas of specter-boats.
The terrors of the face were not those of Gorgon128; not by repelling130 hideousness131 did it smite132 him so; but bewilderingly allured133 him, by its nameless beauty, and its long-suffering, hopeless anguish.
But he was sensible that this general effect upon him, was also special; the face somehow mystically appealing to his own private and individual affections; and by a silent and tyrannic call, challenging him in his deepest moral being, and summoning Truth, Love, Pity, Conscience, to the stand. Apex135 of all wonders! thought Pierre; this indeed almost unmans me with its wonderfulness. Escape the face he could not. Muffling136 his own in his bed-clothes—that did not hide it. Flying from it by sunlight down the meadows, was as vain.
Most miraculous137 of all to Pierre was the vague impression, that somewhere he had seen traits of the likeness138 of that face before. But where, he could not say; nor could he, in the remotest degree, imagine. He was not unaware—for in one or two instances, he had experienced the fact—that sometimes a man may see a passing countenance in the street, which shall irresistibly139 and magnetically affect him, for a moment, as wholly unknown to him, and yet strangely reminiscent of some vague face he has previously encountered, in some fancied time, too, of extreme interest to his life. But not so was it now with Pierre. The face had not perplexed140 him for a few speculative141 minutes, and then glided142 from him, to return no more. It stayed close by him; only—and not invariably—could he repel129 it, by the exertion143 of all his resolution and self-will. Besides, what of general enchantment144 lurked145 in his strange sensations, seemed concentringly condensed, and pointed146 to a spear-head, that pierced his heart with an inexplicable pang147, whenever the specializing emotion—to call it so—seized the possession of his thoughts, and waved into his visions, a thousand forms of by-gone times, and many an old legendary148 family scene, which he had heard related by his elderly relations, some of them now dead.
Disguising his wild reveries as best he might from the notice of his mother, and all other persons of her household, for two days Pierre wrestled149 with his own haunted spirit; and at last, so effectually purged150 it of all weirdnesses, and so effectually regained151 the general mastery of himself, that for a time, life went with him, as though he had never been stirred so strangely. Once more, the sweet unconditional152 thought of Lucy slid wholly into his soul, dislodging thence all such phantom127 occupants. Once more he rode, he walked, he swam, he vaulted154; and with new zest155 threw himself into the glowing practice of all those manly156 exercises, he so dearly loved. It almost seemed in him, that ere promising157 forever to protect, as well as eternally to love, his Lucy, he must first completely invigorate and embrawn himself into the possession of such a noble muscular manliness159, that he might champion Lucy against the whole physical world.
Still—even before the occasional reappearance of the face to him—Pierre, for all his willful ardor160 in his gymnasticals and other diversions, whether in-doors or out, or whether by book or foil; still, Pierre could not but be secretly annoyed, and not a little perplexed, as to the motive161, which, for the first time in his recollection, had impelled162 him, not merely to conceal86 from his mother a singular circumstance in his life (for that, he felt would have been but venial163; and besides, as will eventually be seen, he could find one particular precedent165 for it, in his past experience) but likewise, and superaddedly, to parry, nay166, to evade167, and, in effect, to return something alarmingly like a fib, to an explicit168 question put to him by his mother;—such being the guise, in which part of the conversation they had had that eventful night, now appeared to his fastidious sense. He considered also, that his evasive answer had not pantheistically burst from him in a momentary169 interregnum of self-command. No; his mother had made quite a lengthy170 speech to him; during which he well remembered, he had been carefully, though with trepidation, turning over in his mind, how best he might recall her from her unwished-for and untimely scent7. Why had this been so? Was this his wont171? What inscrutable thing was it, that so suddenly had seized him, and made him a falsifyer—ay, a falsifyer and nothing less—to his own dearly-beloved, and confiding172 mother? Here, indeed, was something strange for him; here was stuff for his utmost ethical173 meditations174. But, nevertheless, on strict introspection, he felt, that he would not willingly have it otherwise; not willingly would he now undissemble himself in this matter to his mother. Why was this, too? Was this his wont? Here, again, was food for mysticism. Here, in imperfect inklings, tinglings, presentiments175, Pierre began to feel—what all mature men, who are Magians, sooner or later know, and more or less assuredly—that not always in our actions, are we our own factors. But this conceit177 was very dim in Pierre; and dimness is ever suspicious and repugnant to us; and so, Pierre shrank abhorringly from the infernal catacombs of thought, down into which, this f?tal fancy beckoned178 him. Only this, though in secret, did he cherish; only this, he felt persuaded of; namely, that not for both worlds would he have his mother made a partner to his sometime mystic mood.
But with this nameless fascination179 of the face upon him, during those two days that it had first and fully2 possessed180 him for its own, did perplexed Pierre refrain from that apparently most natural of all resources,—boldly seeking out, and returning to the palpable cause, and questioning her, by look or voice, or both together—the mysterious girl herself? No; not entirely did Pierre here refrain. But his profound curiosity and interest in the matter—strange as it may seem—did not so much appear to be embodied in the mournful person of the olive girl, as by some radiations from her, embodied in the vague conceits181 which agitated182 his own soul. There, lurked the subtler secret: that, Pierre had striven to tear away. From without, no wonderful effect is wrought within ourselves, unless some interior, responding wonder meets it. That the starry183 vault153 shall surcharge the heart with all rapturous marvelings, is only because we ourselves are greater miracles, and superber trophies184 than all the stars in universal space. Wonder interlocks with wonder; and then the confounding feeling comes. No cause have we to fancy, that a horse, a dog, a fowl185, ever stand transfixed beneath yon skyey load of majesty186. But our soul's arches underfit into its; and so, prevent the upper arch from falling on us with unsustainable inscrutableness. "Explain ye my deeper mystery," said the shepherd Chaldean king, smiting187 his breast, lying on his back upon the plain; "and then, I will bestow188 all my wonderings upon ye, ye stately stars!" So, in some sort, with Pierre. Explain thou this strange integral feeling in me myself, he thought—turning upon the fancied face—and I will then renounce189 all other wonders, to gaze wonderingly at thee. But thou hast evoked190 in me profounder spells than the evoking191 one, thou face! For me, thou hast uncovered one infinite, dumb, beseeching192 countenance of mystery, underlying193 all the surfaces of visible time and space.
But during those two days of his first wild vassalage194 to his original sensations, Pierre had not been unvisited by less mysterious impulses. Two or three very plain and practical plannings of desirable procedures in reference to some possible homely explication of all this nonsense—so he would momentarily denominate it—now and then flittingly intermitted his pervading195 mood of semi-madness. Once he had seized his hat, careless of his accustomed gloves and cane196, and found himself in the street, walking very rapidly in the direction of the Miss Pennies'. But whither now? he disenchantingly interrogated197 himself. Where would you go? A million to one, those deaf old spinsters can tell you nothing you burn to know. Deaf old spinsters are not used to be the depositaries of such mystical secrecies198. But then, they may reveal her name—where she dwells, and something, however fragmentary and unsatisfactory, of who she is, and whence. Ay; but then, in ten minutes after your leaving them, all the houses in Saddle Meadows would be humming with the gossip of Pierre Glendinning engaged to marry Lucy Tartan, and yet running about the country, in ambiguous pursuit of strange young women. That will never do. You remember, do you not, often seeing the Miss Pennies, hatless and without a shawl, hurrying through the village, like two postmen intent on dropping some tit-bit of precious gossip? What a morsel199 for them, Pierre, have you, if you now call upon them. Verily, their trumpets200 are both for use and for significance. Though very deaf, the Miss Pennies are by no means dumb. They blazon201 very wide.
"Now be sure, and say that it was the Miss Pennies, who left the news—be sure—we—the Miss Pennies—remember—say to Mrs. Glendinning it was we." Such was the message that now half-humorously occurred to Pierre, as having been once confided202 to him by the sister spinsters, one evening when they called with a choice present of some very recherche203 chit-chat for his mother; but found the manorial lady out; and so charged her son with it; hurrying away to all the inferior houses, so as not to be anywhere forestalled204 in their disclosure.
Now, I wish it had been any other house than the Miss Pennies; any other house but theirs, and on my soul I believe I should have gone. But not to them—no, that I can not do. It would be sure to reach my mother, and then she would put this and that together—stir a little—let it simmer—and farewell forever to all her majestic205 notions of my immaculate integrity. Patience, Pierre, the population of this region is not so immense. No dense mobs of Nineveh confound all personal identities in Saddle Meadows. Patience; thou shalt see it soon again; catch it passing thee in some green lane, sacred to thy evening reveries. She that bears it can not dwell remote. Patience, Pierre. Ever are such mysteries best and soonest unraveled by the eventual164 unraveling of themselves. Or, if you will, go back and get your gloves, and more especially your cane, and begin your own secret voyage of discovery after it. Your cane, I say; because it will probably be a very long and weary walk. True, just now I hinted, that she that bears it can not dwell very remote; but then her nearness may not be at all conspicuous. So, homeward, and put off thy hat, and let thy cane stay still, good Pierre. Seek not to mystify the mystery so.
Thus, intermittingly, ever and anon during those sad two days of deepest sufferance, Pierre would stand reasoning and expostulating with himself; and by such meditative206 treatment, reassure207 his own spontaneous impulses. Doubtless, it was wise and right that so he did; doubtless: but in a world so full of all dubieties as this, one can never be entirely certain whether another person, however carefully and cautiously conscientious208, has acted in all respects conceivable for the very best.
But when the two days were gone by, and Pierre began to recognize his former self as restored to him from its mystic exile, then the thoughts of personally and pointedly209 seeking out the unknown, either preliminarily by a call upon the sister spinsters, or generally by performing the observant lynx-eyed circuit of the country on foot, and as a crafty210 inquisitor, dissembling his cause of inquisition; these and all similar intentions completely abandoned Pierre.
He was now diligently211 striving, with all his mental might, forever to drive the phantom from him. He seemed to feel that it begat in him a certain condition of his being, which was most painful, and every way uncongenial to his natural, wonted self. It had a touch of he knew not what sort of unhealthiness in it, so to speak; for, in his then ignorance, he could find no better term; it seemed to have in it a germ of somewhat which, if not quickly extirpated212, might insidiously213 poison and embitter214 his whole life—that choice, delicious life which he had vowed216 to Lucy for his one pure and comprehensive offering—at once a sacrifice and a delight.
Nor in these endeavorings did he entirely fail. For the most part, he felt now that he had a power over the comings and the goings of the face; but not on all occasions. Sometimes the old, original mystic tyranny would steal upon him; the long, dark, locks of mournful hair would fall upon his soul, and trail their wonderful melancholy217 along with them; the two full, steady, over-brimming eyes of loveliness and anguish would converge218 their magic rays, till he felt them kindling219 he could not tell what mysterious fires in the heart at which they aimed.
When once this feeling had him fully, then was the perilous220 time for Pierre. For supernatural as the feeling was, and appealing to all things ultramontane to his soul; yet was it a delicious sadness to him. Some hazy221 fairy swam above him in the heavenly ether, and showered down upon him the sweetest pearls of pensiveness222. Then he would be seized with a singular impulse to reveal the secret to some one other individual in the world. Only one, not more; he could not hold all this strange fullness in himself. It must be shared. In such an hour it was, that chancing to encounter Lucy (her, whom above all others, he did confidingly223 adore), she heard the story of the face; nor slept at all that night; nor for a long time freed her pillow completely from wild, Beethoven sounds of distant, waltzing melodies, as of ambiguous fairies dancing on the heath.
III.
THIS history goes forward and goes backward, as occasion calls. Nimble center, circumference224 elastic81 you must have. Now we return to Pierre, wending homeward from his reveries beneath the pine-tree.
His burst of impatience225 against the sublime226 Italian, Dante, arising from that poet being the one who, in a former time, had first opened to his shuddering227 eyes the infinite cliffs and gulfs of human mystery and misery;—though still more in the way of experimental vision, than of sensational229 presentiment176 or experience (for as yet he had not seen so far and deep as Dante, and therefore was entirely incompetent230 to meet the grim bard231 fairly on his peculiar232 ground), this ignorant burst of his young impatience,—also arising from that half contemptuous dislike, and sometimes selfish loathing233, with which, either naturally feeble or undeveloped minds, regard those dark ravings of the loftier poets, which are in eternal opposition234 to their own fine-spun235, shallow dreams of rapturous or prudential Youth;—this rash, untutored burst of Pierre's young impatience, seemed to have carried off with it, all the other forms of his melancholy—if melancholy it had been—and left him now serene236 again, and ready for any tranquil237 pleasantness the gods might have in store. For his, indeed, was true Youth's temperament,—summary with sadness, swift to joyfulness239, and long protracting240, and detaining with that joyfulness, when once it came fully nigh to him.
As he entered the dining-hall, he saw Dates retiring from another door with his tray. Alone and meditative, by the bared half of the polished table, sat his mother at her dessert; fruit-baskets, and a decanter were before her. On the other leaf of the same table, still lay the cloth, folded back upon itself, and set out with one plate and its usual accompaniments.
"Sit down, Pierre; when I came home, I was surprised to hear that the phaeton had returned so early, and here I waited dinner for you, until I could wait no more. But go to the green pantry now, and get what Dates has but just put away for you there. Heigh-ho! too plainly I foresee it—no more regular dinner-hours, or tea-hours, or supper-hours, in Saddle Meadows, till its young lord is wedded241. And that puts me in mind of something, Pierre; but I'll defer242 it till you have eaten a little. Do you know, Pierre, that if you continue these irregular meals of yours, and deprive me so entirely almost of your company, that I shall run fearful risk of getting to be a terrible wine-bibber;—yes, could you unalarmed see me sitting all alone here with this decanter, like any old nurse, Pierre; some solitary243, forlorn old nurse, Pierre, deserted244 by her last friend, and therefore forced to embrace her flask245?"
"No, I did not feel any great alarm, sister," said Pierre, smiling, "since I could not but perceive that the decanter was still full to the stopple."
"Possibly it may be only a fresh decanter, Pierre;" then changing her voice suddenly—"but mark me, Mr. Pierre Glendinning!"
"Well, Mrs. Mary Glendinning!"
"Do you know, sir, that you are very shortly to be married,—that indeed the day is all but fixed?"
"How-!" cried Pierre, in real joyful238 astonishment, both at the nature of the tidings, and the earnest tones in which they were conveyed—"dear, dear mother, you have strangely changed your mind then, my dear mother."
"It is even so, dear brother;—before this day month I hope to have a little sister Tartan."
"You talk very strangely, mother," rejoined Pierre, quickly. "I suppose, then, I have next to nothing to say in the matter!"
"Next to nothing, Pierre! What indeed could you say to the purpose? what at all have you to do with it, I should like to know? Do you so much as dream, you silly boy, that men ever have the marrying of themselves? Juxtaposition246 marries men. There is but one match-maker in the world, Pierre, and that is Mrs. Juxtaposition, a most notorious lady!"
"Very peculiar, disenchanting sort of talk, this, under the circumstances, sister Mary," laying down his fork. "Mrs. Juxtaposition, ah! And in your opinion, mother, does this fine glorious passion only amount to that?"
"Only to that, Pierre; but mark you: according to my creed—though this part of it is a little hazy—Mrs. Juxtaposition moves her pawns247 only as she herself is moved to so doing by the spirit."
"Ah! that sets it all right again," said Pierre, resuming his fork—"my appetite returns. But what was that about my being married so soon?" he added, vainly striving to assume an air of incredulity and unconcern; "you were joking, I suppose; it seems to me, sister, either you or I was but just now wandering in the mind a little, on that subject. Are you really thinking of any such thing? and have you really vanquished248 your sagacious scruples by yourself, after I had so long and ineffectually sought to do it for you? Well, I am a million times delighted; tell me quick!"
"I will, Pierre. You very well know, that from the first hour you apprised249 me—or rather, from a period prior to that—from the moment that I, by my own insight, became aware of your love for Lucy, I have always approved it. Lucy is a delicious girl; of honorable descent, a fortune, well-bred, and the very pattern of all that I think amiable250 and attractive in a girl of seventeen."
"Well, well, well," cried Pierre rapidly and impetuously; "we both knew that before."
"Well, well, well, Pierre," retorted his mother, mockingly.
"It is not well, well, well; but ill, ill, ill, to torture me so, mother; go on, do!"
"But notwithstanding my admiring approval of your choice, Pierre; yet, as you know, I have resisted your entreaties251 for my consent to your speedy marriage, because I thought that a girl of scarcely seventeen, and a boy scarcely twenty, should not be in such a hurry;—there was plenty of time, I thought, which could be profitably employed by both."
"Permit me here to interrupt you, mother. Whatever you may have seen in me; she,—I mean Lucy,—has never been in the slightest hurry to be married;—that's all. But I shall regard it as a lapsus-lingua in you."
"Undoubtedly252, a lapsus. But listen to me. I have been carefully observing both you and Lucy of late; and that has made me think further of the matter. Now, Pierre, if you were in any profession, or in any business at all; nay, if I were a farmer's wife, and you my child, working in my fields; why, then, you and Lucy should still wait awhile. But as you have nothing to do but to think of Lucy by day, and dream of her by night, and as she is in the same predicament, I suppose; with respect to you; and as the consequence of all this begins to be discernible in a certain, just perceptible, and quite harmless thinness, so to speak, of the cheek; but a very conspicuous and dangerous febrileness of the eye; therefore, I choose the lesser253 of two evils; and now you have my permission to be married, as soon as the thing can be done with propriety254. I dare say you have no objection to have the wedding take place before Christmas, the present month being the first of summer."
Pierre said nothing; but leaping to his feet, threw his two arms around his mother, and kissed her repeatedly.
"A most sweet and eloquent255 answer, Pierre; but sit down again. I desire now to say a little concerning less attractive, but quite necessary things connected with this affair. You know, that by your father's will, these lands and—"
"Miss Lucy, my mistress;" said Dates, throwing open the door.
Pierre sprang to his feet; but as if suddenly mindful of his mother's presence, composed himself again, though he still approached the door.
Lucy entered, carrying a little basket of strawberries.
"Why, how do you do, my dear," said Mrs. Glendinning affectionately. "This is an unexpected pleasure."
"Yes; and I suppose that Pierre here is a little surprised too; seeing that he was to call upon me this evening, and not I upon him before sundown. But I took a sudden fancy for a solitary stroll,—the afternoon was such a delicious one; and chancing—it was only chancing—to pass through the Locust256 Lane leading hither, I met the strangest little fellow, with this basket in his hand.—'Yes, buy them, miss'—said he. 'And how do you know I want to buy them,' returned I, 'I don't want to buy them.'—'Yes you do, miss; they ought to be twenty-six cents, but I'll take thirteen cents, that being my shilling. I always want the odd half cent, I do. Come, I can't wait, I have been expecting you long enough.'"
"A very sagacious little imp," laughed Mrs. Glendinning.
"Impertinent little rascal," cried Pierre.
"And am I not now the silliest of all silly girls, to be telling you my adventures so very frankly257," smiled Lucy.
"No; but the most celestial258 of all innocents," cried Pierre, in a rhapsody of delight. "Frankly open is the flower, that hath nothing but purity to show."
"Now, my dear little Lucy," said Mrs. Glendinning, "let Pierre take off your shawl, and come now and stay to tea with us. Pierre has put back the dinner so, the tea-hour will come now very soon."
"Thank you; but I can not stay this time. Look, I have forgotten my own errand; I brought these strawberries for you, Mrs. Glendinning, and for Pierre;—Pierre is so wonderfully fond of them."
"I was audacious enough to think as much," cried Pierre, "for you and me, you see, mother; for you and me, you understand that, I hope."
Lucy blushed.
"How warm it is, Mrs. Glendinning."
"Very warm, Lucy. So you won't stay to tea?"
"No, I must go now; just a little stroll, that's all; good-bye! Now don't be following me, Pierre. Mrs. Glendinning, will you keep Pierre back? I know you want him; you were talking over some private affair when I entered; you both looked so very confidential259."
"And you were not very far from right, Lucy," said Mrs. Glendinning, making no sign to stay her departure.
"Yes, business of the highest importance," said Pierre, fixing his eyes upon Lucy significantly.
At this moment, Lucy just upon the point of her departure, was hovering near the door; the setting sun, streaming through the window, bathed her whole form in golden loveliness and light; that wonderful, and most vivid transparency of her clear Welsh complexion260, now fairly glowed like rosy261 snow. Her flowing, white, blue-ribboned dress, fleecily invested her. Pierre almost thought that she could only depart the house by floating out of the open window, instead of actually stepping from the door. All her aspect to him, was that moment touched with an indescribable gayety, buoyancy, fragility, and an unearthly evanescence.
Youth is no philosopher. Not into young Pierre's heart did there then come the thought, that as the glory of the rose endures but for a day, so the full bloom of girlish airiness and bewitchingness, passes from the earth almost as soon; as jealously absorbed by those frugal262 elements, which again incorporate that translated girlish bloom, into the first expanding flower-bud. Not into young Pierre, did there then steal that thought of utmost sadness; pondering on the inevitable evanescence of all earthly loveliness; which makes the sweetest things of life only food for ever-devouring and omnivorous263 melancholy. Pierre's thought was different from this, and yet somehow akin27 to it.
This to be my wife? I that but the other day weighed an hundred and fifty pounds of solid avoirdupois;—I to wed101 this heavenly fleece? Methinks one husbandly embrace would break her airy zone, and she exhale264 upward to that heaven whence she hath hither come, condensed to mortal sight. It can not be; I am of heavy earth, and she of airy light. By heaven, but marriage is an impious thing!
Meanwhile, as these things ran through his soul, Mrs. Glendinning also had thinkings of her own.
"A very beautiful tableau," she cried, at last, artistically265 turning her gay head a little sideways—"very beautiful, indeed; this, I suppose is all premeditated for my entertainment. Orpheus finding his Eurydice; or Pluto266 stealing Proserpine. Admirable! It might almost stand for either."
"No," said Pierre, gravely; "it is the last. Now, first I see a meaning there." Yes, he added to himself inwardly, I am Pluto stealing Proserpine; and every accepted lover is.
"And you would be very stupid, brother Pierre, if you did not see something there," said his mother, still that way pursuing her own different train of thought. "The meaning thereof is this: Lucy has commanded me to stay you; but in reality she wants you to go along with her. Well, you may go as far as the porch; but then, you must return, for we have not concluded our little affair, you know. Adieu, little lady!"
There was ever a slight degree of affectionate patronizing in the manner of the resplendent, full-blown Mrs. Glendinning, toward the delicate and shrinking girlhood of young Lucy. She treated her very much as she might have treated some surpassingly beautiful and precocious267 child; and this was precisely268 what Lucy was. Looking beyond the present period, Mrs. Glendinning could not but perceive, that even in Lucy's womanly maturity269, Lucy would still be a child to her; because, she, elated, felt, that in a certain intellectual vigor158, so to speak, she was the essential opposite of Lucy, whose sympathetic mind and person had both been cast in one mould of wondrous270 delicacy. But here Mrs. Glendinning was both right and wrong. So far as she here saw a difference between herself and Lucy Tartan, she did not err1; but so far—and that was very far—as she thought she saw her innate271 superiority to her in the absolute scale of being, here she very widely and immeasurably erred36. For what may be artistically styled angelicalness, this is the highest essence compatible with created being; and angelicalness hath no vulgar vigor in it. And that thing which very often prompts to the display of any vigor—which thing, in man or woman, is at bottom nothing but ambition—this quality is purely272 earthly, and not angelical. It is false, that any angels fell by reason of ambition. Angels never fall; and never feel ambition. Therefore, benevolently273, and affectionately, and all-sincerely, as thy heart, oh, Mrs. Glendinning! now standest affected toward the fleecy Lucy; still, lady, thou dost very sadly mistake it, when the proud, double-arches of the bright breastplate of thy bosom, expand with secret triumph over one, whom thou so sweetly, but still so patronizingly stylest, The Little Lucy.
But ignorant of these further insights, that very superb-looking lady, now waiting Pierre's return from the portico274 door, sat in a very matronly revery; her eyes fixed upon the decanter of amber-hued wine before her. Whether it was that she somehow saw some lurking275 analogical similitude between that remarkably276 slender, and gracefully277 cut little pint-decanter, brimfull of light, golden wine, or not, there is no absolute telling now. But really, the peculiarly, and reminiscently, and forecastingly complacent278 expression of her beaming and benevolent countenance, seemed a tell-tale of some conceit very much like the following:—Yes, she's a very pretty little pint-decanter of a girl: a very pretty little Pale Sherry pint-decanter of a girl; and I—I'm a quart decanter of—of—Port—potent Port! Now, Sherry for boys, and Port for men—so I've heard men say; and Pierre is but a boy; but when his father wedded me,—why, his father was turned of five-and-thirty years.
After a little further waiting for him, Mrs. Glendinning heard Pierre's voice—"Yes, before eight o'clock at least, Lucy—no fear;" and then the hall door banged, and Pierre returned to her.
But now she found that this unforeseen visit of Lucy had completely routed all business capacity in her mercurial279 son; fairly capsizing him again into, there was no telling what sea of pleasant pensiveness.
"Dear me! some other time, sister Mary."
"Not this time; that is very certain, Pierre. Upon my word I shall have to get Lucy kidnapped, and temporarily taken out of the country, and you handcuffed to the table, else there will be no having a preliminary understanding with you, previous to calling in the lawyers. Well, I shall yet manage you, one way or other. Good-bye, Pierre; I see you don't want me now. I suppose I shan't see you till to-morrow morning. Luckily, I have a very interesting book to read. Adieu!"
But Pierre remained in his chair; his gaze fixed upon the stilly sunset beyond the meadows, and far away to the now golden hills. A glorious, softly glorious, and most gracious evening, which seemed plainly a tongue to all humanity, saying: I go down in beauty to rise in joy; Love reigns280 throughout all worlds that sunsets visit; it is a foolish ghost story; there is no such thing as misery. Would Love, which is omnipotent281, have misery in his domain282? Would the god of sunlight decree gloom? It is a flawless, speckless283, fleckless, beautiful world throughout; joy now, and joy forever!
Then the face, which before had seemed mournfully and reproachfully looking out upon him from the effulgent284 sunset's heart; the face slid from him; and left alone there with his soul's joy, thinking that that very night he would utter the magic word of marriage to his Lucy; not a happier youth than Pierre Glendinning sat watching that day's sun go down.
IV.
AFTER this morning of gayety, this noon of tragedy, and this evening so full of chequered pensiveness; Pierre now possessed his soul in joyful mildness and steadfastness285; feeling none of that wild anguish of anticipative rapture286, which, in weaker minds, too often dislodges Love's sweet bird from her nest.
The early night was warm, but dark—for the moon was not risen yet—and as Pierre passed on beneath the pendulous287 canopies288 of the long arms of the weeping elms of the village, an almost impenetrable blackness surrounded him, but entered not the gently illuminated289 halls of his heart. He had not gone very far, when in the distance beyond, he noticed a light moving along the opposite side of the road, and slowly approaching. As it was the custom for some of the more elderly, and perhaps timid inhabitants of the village, to carry a lantern when going abroad of so dark a night, this object conveyed no impression of novelty to Pierre; still, as it silently drew nearer and nearer, the one only distinguishable thing before him, he somehow felt a nameless presentiment that the light must be seeking him. He had nearly gained the cottage door, when the lantern crossed over toward him; and as his nimble hand was laid at last upon the little wicket-gate, which he thought was now to admit him to so much delight; a heavy hand was laid upon himself, and at the same moment, the lantern was lifted toward his face, by a hooded and obscure-looking figure, whose half-averted countenance he could but indistinctly discern. But Pierre's own open aspect, seemed to have been quickly scrutinized290 by the other.
"I have a letter for Pierre Glendinning," said the stranger, "and I believe this is he." At the same moment, a letter was drawn forth, and sought his hand.
"For me!" exclaimed Pierre, faintly, starting at the strangeness of the encounter;—"methinks this is an odd time and place to deliver your mail;—who are you?—Stay!"
But without waiting an answer, the messenger had already turned about, and was re-crossing the road. In the first impulse of the moment, Pierre stept forward, and would have pursued him; but smiling at his own causeless curiosity and trepidation, paused again; and softly turned over the letter in his hand. What mysterious correspondent is this, thought he, circularly moving his thumb upon the seal; no one writes me but from abroad; and their letters come through the office; and as for Lucy—pooh!—when she herself is within, she would hardly have her notes delivered at her own gate. Strange! but I'll in, and read it;—no, not that;—I come to read again in her own sweet heart—that dear missive to me from heaven,—and this impertinent letter would pre-occupy me. I'll wait till I go home.
He entered the gate, and laid his hand upon the cottage knocker. Its sudden coolness caused a slight, and, at any other time, an unaccountable sympathetic sensation in his hand. To his unwonted mood, the knocker seemed to say—"Enter not!—Begone, and first read thy note."
Yielding now, half alarmed, and half bantering291 with himself, to these shadowy interior monitions, he half-unconsciously quitted the door; repassed the gate; and soon found himself retracing292 his homeward path.
He equivocated293 with himself no more; the gloom of the air had now burst into his heart, and extinguished its light; then, first in all his life, Pierre felt the irresistible admonitions and intuitions of Fate.
He entered the hall unnoticed, passed up to his chamber, and hurriedly locking the door in the dark, lit his lamp. As the summoned flame illuminated the room, Pierre, standing58 before the round center-table, where the lamp was placed, with his hand yet on the brass294 circle which regulated the wick, started at a figure in the opposite mirror. It bore the outline of Pierre, but now strangely filled with features transformed, and unfamiliar295 to him; feverish296 eagerness, fear, and nameless forebodings of ill! He threw himself into a chair, and for a time vainly struggled with the incomprehensible power that possessed him. Then, as he avertedly drew the letter from his bosom, he whispered to himself—Out on thee, Pierre! how sheepish now will ye feel when this tremendous note will turn out to be an invitation to a supper to-morrow night; quick, fool, and write the stereotyped297 reply: Mr. Pierre Glendinning will be very happy to accept Miss so and so's polite invitation.
Still for the moment he held the letter averted. The messenger had so hurriedly accosted him, and delivered his duty, that Pierre had not yet so much as gained one glance at the superscription of the note. And now the wild thought passed through his mind of what would be the result, should he deliberately298 destroy the note, without so much as looking at the hand that had addressed it. Hardly had this half-crazy conceit fully made itself legible in his soul, when he was conscious of his two hands meeting in the middle of the sundered299 note! He leapt from his chair—By heaven! he murmured, unspeakably shocked at the intensity300 of that mood which had caused him unwittingly as it were, to do for the first time in his whole life, an act of which he was privately301 ashamed. Though the mood that was on him was none of his own willful seeking; yet now he swiftly felt conscious that he had perhaps a little encouraged it, through that certain strange infatuation of fondness, which the human mind, however vigorous, sometimes feels for any emotion at once novel and mystical. Not willingly, at such times—never mind how fearful we may be—do we try to dissolve the spell which seems, for the time, to admit us, all astonished, into the vague vestibule of the spiritual worlds.
Pierre now seemed distinctly to feel two antagonistic302 agencies within him; one of which was just struggling into his consciousness, and each of which was striving for the mastery; and between whose respective final ascendencies, he thought he could perceive, though but shadowly, that he himself was to be the only umpire. One bade him finish the selfish destruction of the note; for in some dark way the reading of it would irretrievably entangle303 his fate. The other bade him dismiss all misgivings304; not because there was no possible ground for them, but because to dismiss them was the manlier305 part, never mind what might betide. This good angel seemed mildly to say—Read, Pierre, though by reading thou may'st entangle thyself, yet may'st thou thereby306 disentangle others. Read, and feel that best blessedness which, with the sense of all duties discharged, holds happiness indifferent. The bad angel insinuatingly307 breathed—Read it not, dearest Pierre; but destroy it, and be happy. Then, at the blast of his noble heart, the bad angel shrunk up into nothingness; and the good one defined itself clearer and more clear, and came nigher and more nigh to him, smiling sadly but benignantly; while forth from the infinite distances wonderful harmonies stole into his heart; so that every vein308 in him pulsed to some heavenly swell309.
V.
"The name at the end of this letter will be wholly strange to thee. Hitherto my existence has been utterly310 unknown to thee. This letter will touch thee and pain thee. Willingly would I spare thee, but I can not. My heart bears me witness, that did I think that the suffering these lines would give thee, would, in the faintest degree, compare with what mine has been, I would forever withhold311 them.
"Pierre Glendinning, thou art not the only child of thy father; in the eye of the sun, the hand that traces this is thy sister's; yes, Pierre, Isabel calls thee her brother—her brother! oh, sweetest of words, which so often I have thought to myself, and almost deemed it profanity for an outcast like me to speak or think. Dearest Pierre, my brother, my own father's child! art thou an angel, that thou canst overleap all the heartless usages and fashions of a banded world, that will call thee fool, fool, fool! and curse thee, if thou yieldest to that heavenly impulse which alone can lead thee to respond to the long tyrannizing, and now at last unquenchable yearnings of my bursting heart? Oh, my brother!
"But, Pierre Glendinning, I will be proud with thee. Let not my hapless condition extinguish in me, the nobleness which I equally inherit with thee. Thou shall not be cozened, by my tears and my anguish, into any thing which thy most sober hour will repent312. Read no further. If it suit thee, burn this letter; so shalt thou escape the certainty of that knowledge, which, if thou art now cold and selfish, may hereafter, in some maturer, remorseful313, and helpless hour, cause thee a poignant314 upbraiding315. No, I shall not, I will not implore316 thee.—Oh, my brother, my dear, dear Pierre,—help me, fly to me; see, I perish without thee;—pity, pity,—here I freeze in the wide, wide world;—no father, no mother, no sister, no brother, no living thing in the fair form of humanity, that holds me dear. No more, oh no more, dear Pierre, can I endure to be an outcast in the world, for which the dear Savior died. Fly to me, Pierre;—nay, I could tear what I now write,—as I have torn so many other sheets, all written for thy eye, but which never reached thee, because in my distraction317, I knew not how to write to thee, nor what to say to thee; and so, behold318 again how I rave26.
"Nothing more; I will write no more;—silence becomes this grave;—the heart-sickness steals over me, Pierre, my brother.
"Scarce know I what I have written. Yet will I write thee the fatal line, and leave all the rest to thee, Pierre, my brother.—She that is called Isabel Banford dwells in the little red farm-house, three miles from the village, on the slope toward the lake. To-morrow night-fall—not before—not by day, not by day, Pierre.
THY SISTER, ISABEL."
VI.
THIS letter, inscribed319 in a feminine, but irregular hand, and in some places almost illegible320, plainly attesting321 the state of the mind which had dictated322 it;—stained, too, here and there, with spots of tears, which chemically acted upon by the ink, assumed a strange and reddish hue—as if blood and not tears had dropped upon the sheet;—and so completely torn in two by Pierre's own hand, that it indeed seemed the fit scroll323 of a torn, as well as bleeding heart;—this amazing letter, deprived Pierre for the time of all lucid324 and definite thought or feeling. He hung half-lifeless in his chair; his hand, clutching the letter, was pressed against his heart, as if some assassin had stabbed him and fled; and Pierre was now holding the dagger325 in the wound, to stanch326 the outgushing of the blood.
Ay, Pierre, now indeed art thou hurt with a wound, never to be completely healed but in heaven; for thee, the before undistrusted moral beauty of the world is forever fled; for thee, thy sacred father is no more a saint; all brightness hath gone from thy hills, and all peace from thy plains; and now, now, for the first time, Pierre, Truth rolls a black billow through thy soul! Ah, miserable327 thou, to whom Truth, in her first tides, bears nothing but wrecks328!
The perceptible forms of things; the shapes of thoughts; the pulses of life, but slowly came back to Pierre. And as the mariner329, shipwrecked and cast on the beach, has much ado to escape the recoil330 of the wave that hurled331 him there; so Pierre long struggled, and struggled, to escape the recoil of that anguish, which had dashed him out of itself, upon the beach of his swoon.
But man was not made to succumb332 to the villain333 Woe. Youth is not young and a wrestler334 in vain. Pierre staggeringly rose to his feet; his wide eyes fixed, and his whole form in a tremble.
"Myself am left, at least," he slowly and half-chokingly murmured. "With myself I front thee! Unhand me all fears, and unlock me all spells! Henceforth I will know nothing but Truth; glad Truth, or sad Truth; I will know what is, and do what my deepest angel dictates335.—The letter!—Isabel,—sister,—brother,—me, me—my sacred father!—This is some accursed dream!—nay, but this paper thing is forged,—a base and malicious336 forgery337, I swear;—Well didst thou hide thy face from me, thou vile338 lanterned messenger, that didst accost5 me on the threshold of Joy, with this lying warrant of Woe! Doth Truth come in the dark, and steal on us, and rob us so, and then depart, deaf to all pursuing invocations? If this night, which now wraps my soul, be genuine as that which now wraps this half of the world; then Fate, I have a choice quarrel with thee. Thou art a palterer and a cheat; thou hast lured134 me on through gay gardens to a gulf228. Oh! falsely guided in the days of my Joy, am I now truly led in this night of my grief?—I will be a raver, and none shall stay me! I will lift my hand in fury, for am I not struck? I will be bitter in my breath, for is not this cup of gall339? Thou Black Knight340, that with visor down, thus confrontest me, and mockest at me; Lo! I strike through thy helm, and will see thy face, be it Gorgon!—Let me go, ye fond affections; all piety341 leave me;—I will be impious, for piety hath juggled342 me, and taught me to revere343, where I should spurn344. From all idols345, I tear all veils; henceforth I will see the hidden things; and live right out in my own hidden life!—Now I feel that nothing but Truth can move me so. This letter is not a forgery. Oh! Isabel, thou art my sister; and I will love thee, and protect thee, ay, and own thee through all. Ah! forgive me, ye heavens, for my ignorant ravings, and accept this my vow215.—Here I swear myself Isabel's. Oh! thou poor castaway girl, that in loneliness and anguish must have long breathed that same air, which I have only inhaled346 for delight; thou who must even now be weeping, and weeping, cast into an ocean of uncertainty347 as to thy fate, which heaven hath placed in my hands; sweet Isabel! would I not be baser than brass, and harder, and colder than ice, if I could be insensible to such claims as thine? Thou movest before me, in rainbows spun of thy tears! I see thee long weeping, and God demands me for thy comforter; and comfort thee, stand by thee, and fight for thee, will thy leapingly-acknowledging brother, whom thy own father named Pierre!"
He could not stay in his chamber: the house contracted to a nut-shell around him; the walls smote348 his forehead; bare-headed he rushed from the place, and only in the infinite air, found scope for that boundless349 expansion of his life.
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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accost
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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scent
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joyous
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chamber
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forth
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vaguely
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rev
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inevitable
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guise
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hovering
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misery
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overthrow
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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19
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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20
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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21
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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22
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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23
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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24
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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25
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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26
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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27
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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28
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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29
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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30
shanties
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| n.简陋的小木屋( shanty的名词复数 )；铁皮棚屋；船工号子；船歌 | |
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31
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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32
manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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33
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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34
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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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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38
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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39
squeaked
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|
| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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40
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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41
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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42
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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43
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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44
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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45
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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46
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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47
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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48
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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49
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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50
industrious
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|
| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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51
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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52
imputable
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| adj.可归罪的，可归咎的，可归因的 | |
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53
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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54
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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55
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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56
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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57
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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58
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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59
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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60
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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61
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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62
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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63
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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64
embarrassments
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|
| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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65
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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66
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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67
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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68
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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69
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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70
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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71
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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72
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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73
conspicuous
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|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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74
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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75
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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76
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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77
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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78
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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79
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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80
elastically
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|
| adv.有弹性地，伸缩自如地 | |
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81
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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82
teeming
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|
| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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83
ineffable
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|
| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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84
irresistible
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|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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85
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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86
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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87
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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89
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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90
anguish
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|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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91
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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92
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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95
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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96
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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97
bonneted
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| 发动机前置的 | |
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98
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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99
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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100
agitation
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|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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101
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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102
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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103
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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104
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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105
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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106
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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107
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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108
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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109
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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110
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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111
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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112
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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113
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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114
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
bodes
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的第三人称单数 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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116
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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117
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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118
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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119
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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120
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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121
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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122
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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123
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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124
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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125
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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126
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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127
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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128
gorgon
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| n.丑陋女人，蛇发女怪 | |
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129
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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130
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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131
hideousness
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132
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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133
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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135
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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136
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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137
miraculous
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|
| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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138
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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139
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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140
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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141
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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142
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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143
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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144
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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145
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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146
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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147
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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148
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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149
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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150
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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151
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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152
unconditional
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| adj.无条件的，无限制的，绝对的 | |
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153
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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154
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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155
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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156
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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157
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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158
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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159
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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160
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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161
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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162
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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163
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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164
eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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165
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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166
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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167
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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168
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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169
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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170
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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171
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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172
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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173
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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174
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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175
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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176
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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177
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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178
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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180
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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181
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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182
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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183
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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184
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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185
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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186
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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187
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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188
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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189
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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190
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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191
evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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192
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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193
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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194
vassalage
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| n.家臣身份，隶属 | |
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195
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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196
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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197
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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198
secrecies
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| 保密（secrecy的复数形式） | |
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199
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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200
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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201
blazon
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| n.纹章，装饰；精确描绘；v.广布；宣布 | |
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202
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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203
recherche
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| adj.精选的；罕有的 | |
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204
forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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206
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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207
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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208
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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209
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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210
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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211
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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212
extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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213
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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214
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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215
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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216
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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217
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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218
converge
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| vi.会合；聚集，集中；(思想、观点等)趋近 | |
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219
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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220
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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221
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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222
pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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223
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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224
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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225
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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226
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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227
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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228
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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229
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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230
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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231
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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232
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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233
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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234
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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235
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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236
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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237
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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238
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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239
joyfulness
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240
protracting
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| v.延长，拖延（某事物）( protract的现在分词 ) | |
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241
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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243
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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244
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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245
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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246
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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247
pawns
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| n.（国际象棋中的）兵( pawn的名词复数 )；卒；被人利用的人；小卒v.典当，抵押( pawn的第三人称单数 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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248
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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249
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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250
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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251
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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252
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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253
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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254
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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255
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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256
locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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257
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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258
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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259
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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260
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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261
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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262
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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263
omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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264
exhale
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| v.呼气，散出，吐出，蒸发 | |
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265
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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266
Pluto
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| n.冥王星 | |
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267
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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268
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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269
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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270
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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271
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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272
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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273
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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274
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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275
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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276
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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277
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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278
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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279
mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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280
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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281
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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282
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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283
speckless
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| adj.无斑点的，无瑕疵的 | |
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284
effulgent
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| adj.光辉的；灿烂的 | |
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285
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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286
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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287
pendulous
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| adj.下垂的；摆动的 | |
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288
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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289
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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290
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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291
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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292
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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293
equivocated
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| v.使用模棱两可的话隐瞒真相( equivocate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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294
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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295
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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296
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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297
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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298
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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299
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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300
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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301
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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302
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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303
entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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304
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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305
manlier
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| manly（有男子气概的）的比较级形式 | |
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306
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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307
insinuatingly
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308
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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309
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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310
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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311
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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312
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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313
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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314
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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315
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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316
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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317
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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318
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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319
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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320
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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321
attesting
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| v.证明( attest的现在分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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322
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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323
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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324
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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325
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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326
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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327
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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328
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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329
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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330
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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331
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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332
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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333
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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334
wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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335
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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336
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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337
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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338
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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339
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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340
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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341
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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342
juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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343
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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344
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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345
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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346
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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347
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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348
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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349
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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