I.
HIS second interview with Isabel was more satisfying, but none the less affecting and mystical than the first, though in the beginning, to his no small surprise, it was far more strange and embarrassing.
As before, Isabel herself admitted him into the farm-house, and spoke3 no word to him till they were both seated in the room of the double casement4, and himself had first addressed her. If Pierre had any way predetermined how to deport5 himself at the moment, it was to manifest by some outward token the utmost affection for his sister; but her rapt silence and that atmosphere of unearthliness which invested her, now froze him to his seat; his arms refused to open, his lips refused to meet in the fraternal kiss; while all the while his heart was overflowing6 with the deepest love, and he knew full well, that his presence was inexpressibly grateful to the girl. Never did love and reverence7 so intimately react and blend; never did pity so join with wonder in casting a spell upon the movements of his body, and impeding8 him in its command.
After a few embarrassed words from Pierre, and a brief reply, a pause ensued, during which not only was the slow, soft stepping overhead quite audible, as at intervals10 on the night before, but also some slight domestic sounds were heard from the adjoining room; and noticing the unconsciously interrogating11 expression of Pierre's face, Isabel thus spoke to him:
"I feel, my brother, that thou dost appreciate the peculiarity13 and the mystery of my life, and of myself, and therefore I am at rest concerning the possibility of thy misconstruing any of my actions. It is only when people refuse to admit the uncommonness14 of some persons and the circumstances surrounding them, that erroneous conceits17 are nourished, and their feelings pained. My brother, if ever I shall seem reserved and unembracing to thee, still thou must ever trust the heart of Isabel, and permit no doubt to cross thee there. My brother, the sounds thou hast just overheard in yonder room, have suggested to thee interesting questions connected with myself. Do not speak; I fervently18 understand thee. I will tell thee upon what terms I have been living here; and how it is that I, a hired person, am enabled to receive thee in this seemly privacy; for as thou mayest very readily imagine, this room is not my own. And this reminds me also that I have yet some few further trifling19 things to tell thee respecting the circumstances which have ended in bestowing20 upon me so angelical a brother."
"I can not retain that word"—said Pierre, with earnest lowness, and drawing a little nearer to her—"of right, it only pertains21 to thee."
"My brother, I will now go on, and tell thee all that I think thou couldst wish to know, in addition to what was so dimly rehearsed last night. Some three months ago, the people of the distant farm-house, where I was then staying, broke up their household and departed for some Western country. No place immediately presented itself where my services were wanted, but I was hospitably22 received at an old neighbor's hearth23, and most kindly24 invited to tarry there, till some employ should offer. But I did not wait for chance to help me; my inquiries25 resulted in ascertaining26 the sad story of Delly Ulver, and that through the fate which had overtaken her, her aged27 parents were not only plunged28 into the most poignant29 grief, but were deprived of the domestic help of an only daughter, a circumstance whose deep discomfort30 can not be easily realized by persons who have always been ministered to by servants. Though indeed my natural mood—if I may call it so, for want of a better term—was strangely touched by thinking that the misery31 of Delly should be the source of benefit to me; yet this had no practically operative effect upon me,—my most inmost and truest thoughts seldom have;—and so I came hither, and my hands will testify that I did not come entirely32 for naught33. Now, my brother, since thou didst leave me yesterday, I have felt no small surprise, that thou didst not then seek from me, how and when I came to learn the name of Glendinning as so closely associated with myself; and how I came to know Saddle Meadows to be the family seat, and how I at last resolved upon addressing thee, Pierre, and none other; and to what may be attributed that very memorable34 scene in the sewing-circle at the Miss Pennies."
"I have myself been wondering at myself that these things should hitherto have so entirely absented themselves from my mind," responded Pierre;—"but truly, Isabel, thy all-abounding hair falls upon me with some spell which dismisses all ordinary considerations from me, and leaves me only sensible to the Nubian power in thine eyes. But go on, and tell me every thing and any thing. I desire to know all, Isabel, and yet, nothing which thou wilt35 not voluntarily disclose. I feel that already I know the pith of all; that already I feel toward thee to the very limit of all; and that, whatever remains36 for thee to tell me, can but corroborate37 and confirm. So go on, my dearest,—ay, my only sister."
Isabel fixed38 her wonderful eyes upon him with a gaze of long impassionment; then rose suddenly to her feet, and advanced swiftly toward him; but more suddenly paused, and reseated herself in silence, and continued so for a time, with her head averted39 from him, and mutely resting on her hand, gazing out of the open casement upon the soft heat-lightning, occasionally revealed there.
She resumed anon.
II.
"My brother, thou wilt remember that certain part of my story which in reference to my more childish years spent remote from here, introduced the gentleman—my—yes, our father, Pierre. I can not describe to thee, for indeed, I do not myself comprehend how it was, that though at the time I sometimes called him my father, and the people of the house also called him so, sometimes when speaking of him to me; yet—partly, I suppose, because of the extraordinary secludedness of my previous life—I did not then join in my mind with the word father, all those peculiar12 associations which the term ordinarily inspires in children. The word father only seemed a word of general love and endearment41 to me—little or nothing more; it did not seem to involve any claims of any sort, one way or the other. I did not ask the name of my father; for I could have had no motive42 to hear him named, except to individualize the person who was so peculiarly kind to me; and individualized in that way he already was, since he was generally called by us the gentleman, and sometimes my father. As I have no reason to suppose that had I then or afterward43, questioned the people of the house as to what more particular name my father went by in the world, they would have at all disclosed it to me; and, indeed, since, for certain singular reasons, I now feel convinced that on that point they were pledged to secrecy44; I do not know that I ever would have come to learn my father's name,—and by consequence, ever have learned the least shade or shadow of knowledge as to you, Pierre, or any of your kin—had it not been for the merest little accident, which early revealed it to me, though at the moment I did not know the value of that knowledge. The last time my father visited the house, he chanced to leave his handkerchief behind him. It was the farmer's wife who first discovered it. She picked it up, and fumbling46 at it a moment, as if rapidly examining the corners, tossed it to me, saying, 'Here, Isabel, here is the good gentleman's handkerchief; keep it for him now, till he comes to see little Bell again.' Gladly I caught the handkerchief, and put it into my bosom47. It was a white one; and upon closely scanning it, I found a small line of fine faded yellowish writing in the middle of it. At that time I could not read either print or writing, so I was none the wiser then; but still, some secret instinct told me, that the woman would not so freely have given me the handkerchief, had she known there was any writing on it. I forbore questioning her on the subject; I waited till my father should return, to secretly question him. The handkerchief had become dusty by lying on the uncarpeted floor. I took it to the brook48 and washed it, and laid it out on the grass where none would chance to pass; and I ironed it under my little apron49, so that none would be attracted to it, to look at it again. But my father never returned; so, in my grief, the handkerchief became the more and the more endeared to me; it absorbed many of the secret tears I wept in memory of my dear departed friend, whom, in my child-like ignorance, I then equally called my father and the gentleman. But when the impression of his death became a fixed thing to me, then again I washed and dried and ironed the precious memorial of him, and put it away where none should find it but myself, and resolved never more to soil it with my tears; and I folded it in such a manner, that the name was invisibly buried in the heart of it, and it was like opening a book and turning over many blank leaves before I came to the mysterious writing, which I knew should be one day read by me, without direct help from any one. Now I resolved to learn my letters, and learn to read, in order that of myself I might learn the meaning of those faded characters. No other purpose but that only one, did I have in learning then to read. I easily induced the woman to give me my little teachings, and being uncommonly51 quick, and moreover, most eager to learn, I soon mastered the alphabet, and went on to spelling, and by-and-by to reading, and at last to the complete deciphering of the talismanic52 word—Glendinning. I was yet very ignorant. Glendinning, thought I, what is that? It sounds something like gentleman;—Glen-din-ning;—just as many syllables53 as gentleman; and—G—it begins with the same letter; yes, it must mean my father. I will think of him by that word now;—I will not think of the gentleman, but of Glendinning. When at last I removed from that house and went to another, and still another, and as I still grew up and thought more to myself, that word was ever humming in my head, I saw it would only prove the key to more. But I repressed all undue54 curiosity, if any such has ever filled my breast. I would not ask of any one, who it was that had been Glendinning; where he had lived; whether, ever any other girl or boy had called him father as I had done. I resolved to hold myself in perfect patience, as somehow mystically certain, that Fate would at last disclose to me, of itself, and at the suitable time, whatever Fate thought it best for me to know. But now, my brother, I must go aside a little for a moment.—Hand me the guitar."
Surprised and rejoiced thus far at the unanticipated newness, and the sweet lucidness and simplicity55 of Isabel's narrating56, as compared with the obscure and marvelous revelations of the night before, and all eager for her to continue her story in the same limpid57 manner, but remembering into what a wholly tumultuous and unearthly frame of mind the melodies of her guitar had formerly58 thrown him; Pierre now, in handing the instrument to Isabel, could not entirely restrain something like a look of half-regret, accompanied rather strangely with a half-smile of gentle humor. It did not pass unnoticed by his sister, who receiving the guitar, looked up into his face with an expression which would almost have been arch and playful, were it not for the ever-abiding shadows cast from her infinite hair into her unfathomed eyes, and redoubledly shot back again from them.
"Do not be alarmed, my brother; and do not smile at me; I am not going to play the Mystery of Isabel to thee to-night. Draw nearer to me now. Hold the light near to me."
So saying she loosened some ivory screws of the guitar, so as to open a peep lengthwise through its interior.
"Now hold it thus, my brother; thus; and see what thou wilt see; but wait one instant till I hold the lamp." So saying, as Pierre held the instrument before him as directed, Isabel held the lamp so as to cast its light through the round sounding-hole into the heart of the guitar.
"Now, Pierre, now."
Eagerly Pierre did as he was bid; but somehow felt disappointed, and yet surprised at what he saw. He saw the word Isabel, quite legibly but still fadedly gilded59 upon a part of one side of the interior, where it made a projecting curve.
"A very curious place thou hast chosen, Isabel, wherein to have the ownership of the guitar engraved60. How did ever any person get in there to do it, I should like to know?"
The girl looked surprisedly at him a moment; then took the instrument from him, and looked into it herself. She put it down, and continued.
"I see, my brother, thou dost not comprehend. When one knows every thing about any object, one is too apt to suppose that the slightest hint will suffice to throw it quite as open to any other person. I did not have the name gilded there, my brother."
"How?" cried Pierre.
"The name was gilded there when I first got the guitar, though then I did not know it. The guitar must have been expressly made for some one by the name of Isabel; because the lettering could only have been put there before the guitar was put together."
"Go on—hurry," said Pierre.
"Yes, one day, after I had owned it a long time, a strange whim61 came into me. Thou know'st that it is not at all uncommon15 for children to break their dearest playthings in order to gratify a half-crazy curiosity to find out what is in the hidden heart of them. So it is with children, sometimes. And, Pierre, I have always been, and feel that I must always continue to be a child, though I should grow to three score years and ten. Seized with this sudden whim, I unscrewed the part I showed thee, and peeped in, and saw 'Isabel.' Now I have not yet told thee, that from as early a time as I can remember, I have nearly always gone by the name of Bell. And at the particular time I now speak of, my knowledge of general and trivial matters was sufficiently62 advanced to make it quite a familiar thing to me, that Bell was often a diminutive63 for Isabella, or Isabel. It was therefore no very strange affair, that considering my age, and other connected circumstances at the time, I should have instinctively64 associated the word Isabel, found in the guitar, with my own abbreviated65 name, and so be led into all sorts of fancyings. They return upon me now. Do not speak to me."
She leaned away from him, toward the occasionally illuminated66 casement, in the same manner as on the previous night, and for a few moments seemed struggling with some wild bewilderment But now she suddenly turned, and fully67 confronted Pierre with all the wonderfulness of her most surprising face.
"I am called woman, and thou, man, Pierre; but there is neither man nor woman about it. Why should I not speak out to thee? There is no sex in our immaculateness. Pierre, the secret name in the guitar even now thrills me through and through. Pierre, think! think! Oh, canst thou not comprehend? see it?—what I mean, Pierre? The secret name in the guitar thrills me, thrills me, whirls me, whirls me; so secret, wholly hidden, yet constantly carried about in it; unseen, unsuspected, always vibrating to the hidden heart-strings68—broken heart-strings; oh, my mother, my mother, my mother!"
As the wild plaints of Isabel pierced into his bosom's core, they carried with them the first inkling of the extraordinary conceit16, so vaguely69 and shrinkingly hinted at in her till now entirely unintelligible70 words.
She lifted her dry burning eyes of long-fringed fire to him.
"Pierre—I have no slightest proof—but the guitar was hers, I know, I feel it was. Say, did I not last night tell thee, how it first sung to me upon the bed, and answered me, without my once touching71 it? and how it always sung to me and answered me, and soothed72 and loved me,—Hark now; thou shalt hear my mother's spirit."
She carefully scanned the strings, and tuned73 them carefully; then placed the guitar in the casement-bench, and knelt before it; and in low, sweet, and changefully modulated74 notes, so barely audible, that Pierre bent75 over to catch them; breathed the word mother, mother, mother! There was profound silence for a time; when suddenly, to the lowest and least audible note of all, the magical untouched guitar responded with a quick spark of melody, which in the following hush76, long vibrated and subsidingly tingled77 through the room; while to his augmented78 wonder, he now espied79, quivering along the metallic80 strings of the guitar, some minute scintillations, seemingly caught from the instrument's close proximity81 to the occasionally irradiated window.
The girl still kept kneeling; but an altogether unwonted expression suddenly overcast82 her whole countenance83. She darted84 one swift glance at Pierre; and then with a single toss of her hand tumbled her unrestrained locks all over her, so that they tent-wise invested her whole kneeling form close to the floor, and yet swept the floor with their wild redundancy. Never Saya of Limeean girl, at dim mass in St. Dominic's cathedral, so completely muffled85 the human figure. To Pierre, the deep oaken recess86 of the double-casement, before which Isabel was kneeling, seemed now the immediate vestibule of some awful shrine87, mystically revealed through the obscurely open window, which ever and anon was still softly illumined by the mild heat-lightnings and ground-lightnings, that wove their wonderfulness without, in the unsearchable air of that ebonly warm and most noiseless summer night.
Some unsubduable word was on Pierre's lip, but a sudden voice from out the veil bade him be silent.
"Mother—mother—mother!"
Again, after a preluding silence, the guitar as magically responded as before; the sparks quivered along its strings; and again Pierre felt as in the immediate presence of the spirit.
"Shall I, mother?—Art thou ready? Wilt thou tell me?—Now? Now?"
These words were lowly and sweetly murmured in the same way with the word mother, being changefully varied88 in their modulations, till at the last now, the magical guitar again responded; and the girl swiftly drew it to her beneath her dark tent of hair. In this act, as the long curls swept over the strings of the guitar, the strange sparks—still quivering there—caught at those attractive curls; the entire casement was suddenly and wovenly illumined; then waned89 again; while now, in the succeeding dimness, every downward undulating wave and billow of Isabel's tossed tresses gleamed here and there like a tract50 of phosphorescent midnight sea; and, simultaneously90, all the four winds of the world of melody broke loose, and again as on the previous night, only in a still more subtile, and wholly inexplicable91 way, Pierre felt himself surrounded by ten thousand sprites and gnomes92, and his whole soul was swayed and tossed by supernatural tides; and again he heard the wondrous93, rebounding94, chanted words:
"Mystery! Mystery!
Mystery of Isabel!
Mystery! Mystery!
Isabel and Mystery!"
Mystery!
III.
ALMOST deprived of consciousness by the spell flung over him by the marvelous girl, Pierre unknowingly gazed away from her, as on vacancy95; and when at last stillness had once more fallen upon the room—all except the stepping—and he recovered his self-possession, and turned to look where he might now be, he was surprised to see Isabel composedly, though avertedly, seated on the bench; the longer and fuller tresses of her now ungleaming hair flung back, and the guitar quietly leaning in the corner.
He was about to put some unconsidered question to her, but she half-anticipated it by bidding him, in a low, but nevertheless almost authoritative96 tone, not to make any allusion97 to the scene he had just beheld98.
He paused, profoundly thinking to himself, and now felt certain that the entire scene, from the first musical invocation of the guitar, must have unpremeditatedly proceeded from a sudden impulse in the girl, inspired by the peculiar mood into which the preceding conversation, and especially the handling of the guitar under such circumstances, had irresistibly99 thrown her.
But that certain something of the preternatural in the scene, of which he could not rid his mind:—the, so to speak, voluntary and all but intelligent responsiveness of the guitar—its strangely scintillating100 strings—the so suddenly glorified101 head of Isabel; altogether, these things seemed not at the time entirely produced by customary or natural causes. To Pierre's dilated102 senses Isabel seemed to swim in an electric fluid; the vivid buckler of her brow seemed as a magnetic plate. Now first this night was Pierre made aware of what, in the superstitiousness103 of his rapt enthusiasm, he could not help believing was an extraordinary physical magnetism105 in Isabel. And—as it were derived106 from this marvelous quality thus imputed107 to her—he now first became vaguely sensible of a certain still more marvelous power in the girl over himself and his most interior thoughts and motions;—a power so hovering108 upon the confines of the invisible world, that it seemed more inclined that way than this;—a power which not only seemed irresistibly to draw him toward Isabel, but to draw him away from another quarter—wantonly as it were, and yet quite ignorantly and unintendingly; and, besides, without respect apparently109 to any thing ulterior, and yet again, only under cover of drawing him to her. For over all these things, and interfusing itself with the sparkling electricity in which she seemed to swim, was an ever-creeping and condensing haze110 of ambiguities111. Often, in after-times with her, did he recall this first magnetic night, and would seem to see that she then had bound him to her by an extraordinary atmospheric112 spell—both physical and spiritual—which henceforth it had become impossible for him to break, but whose full potency114 he never recognized till long after he had become habituated to its sway. This spell seemed one with that Pantheistic master-spell, which eternally locks in mystery and in muteness the universal subject world, and the physical electricalness of Isabel seemed reciprocal with the heat-lightnings and the ground-lightnings nigh to which it had first become revealed to Pierre. She seemed molded from fire and air, and vivified at some Voltaic pile of August thunder-clouds heaped against the sunset.
The occasional sweet simplicity, and innocence115, and humbleness116 of her story; her often serene117 and open aspect; her deep-seated, but mostly quiet, unobtrusive sadness, and that touchingness118 of her less unwonted tone and air;—these only the more signalized and contrastingly emphasized the profounder, subtler, and more mystic part of her. Especially did Pierre feel this, when after another silent interval9, she now proceeded with her story in a manner so gently confiding119, so entirely artless, so almost peasant-like in its simplicity, and dealing120 in some details so little sublimated121 in themselves, that it seemed well nigh impossible that this unassuming maid should be the same dark, regal being who had but just now bade Pierre be silent in so imperious a tone, and around whose wondrous temples the strange electric glory had been playing. Yet not very long did she now thus innocently proceed, ere, at times, some fainter flashes of her electricalness came from her, but only to be followed by such melting, human, and most feminine traits as brought all his soft, enthusiast122 tears into the sympathetic but still unshedding eyes of Pierre.
IV.
"Thou rememberest, my brother, my telling thee last night, how the—the—thou knowest what I mean—that, there"—avertedly pointing to the guitar; "thou rememberest how it came into my possession. But perhaps I did not tell thee, that the pedler said he had got it in barter123 from the servants of a great house some distance from the place where I was then residing."
Pierre signed his acquiescence124, and Isabel proceeded:
"Now, at long though stated intervals, that man passed the farm-house in his trading route between the small towns and villages. When I discovered the gilding125 in the guitar, I kept watch for him; for though I truly felt persuaded that Fate had the dispensing126 of her own secrets in her own good time; yet I also felt persuaded that in some cases Fate drops us one little hint, leaving our own minds to follow it up, so that we of ourselves may come to the grand secret in reserve. So I kept diligent127 watch for him; and the next time he stopped, without permitting him at all to guess my motives128, I contrived129 to steal out of him what great house it was from which the guitar had come. And, my brother, it was the mansion130 of Saddle Meadows."
Pierre started, and the girl went on:
"Yes, my brother, Saddle Meadows; 'old General Glendinning's place,' he said; 'but the old hero's long dead and gone now; and—the more's the pity—so is the young General, his son, dead and gone; but then there is a still younger grandson General left; that family always keep the title and the name a-going; yes, even to the surname,—Pierre. Pierre Glendinning was the white-haired old General's name, who fought in the old French and Indian wars; and Pierre Glendinning is his young great-grandson's name.' Thou may'st well look at me so, my brother;—yes, he meant thee, thee, my brother."
"But the guitar—the guitar!"—cried Pierre—"how came the guitar openly at Saddle Meadows, and how came it to be bartered131 away by servants? Tell me that, Isabel!"
"Do not put such impetuous questions to me, Pierre; else thou mayst recall the old—may be, it is the evil spell upon me. I can not precisely132 and knowingly answer thee. I could surmise133; but what are surmises134 worth? Oh, Pierre, better, a million times, and far sweeter are mysteries than surmises: though the mystery be unfathomable, it is still the unfathomableness of fullness; but the surmise, that is but shallow and unmeaning emptiness."
"But this is the most inexplicable point of all. Tell me, Isabel; surely thou must have thought something about this thing."
"Much, Pierre, very much; but only about the mystery of it—nothing more. Could I, I would not now be fully told, how the guitar came to be at Saddle Meadows, and came to be bartered away by the servants of Saddle Meadows. Enough, that it found me out, and came to me, and spoke and sung to me, and soothed me, and has been every thing to me."
She paused a moment; while vaguely to his secret self Pierre revolved135 these strange revealings; but now he was all attention again as Isabel resumed.
"I now held in my mind's hand the clew, my brother. But I did not immediately follow it further up. Sufficient to me in my loneliness was the knowledge, that I now knew where my father's family was to be found. As yet not the slightest intention of ever disclosing myself to them, had entered my mind. And assured as I was, that for obvious reasons, none of his surviving relatives could possibly know me, even if they saw me, for what I really was, I felt entire security in the event of encountering any of them by chance. But my unavoidable displacements137 and migrations138 from one house to another, at last brought me within twelve miles of Saddle Meadows. I began to feel an increasing longing139 in me; but side by side with it, a new-born and competing pride,—yes, pride, Pierre. Do my eyes flash? They belie104 me, if they do not. But it is no common pride, Pierre; for what has Isabel to be proud of in this world? It is the pride of—of—a too, too longing, loving heart, Pierre—the pride of lasting140 suffering and grief, my brother! Yes, I conquered the great longing with the still more powerful pride, Pierre; and so I would not now be here, in this room,—nor wouldst thou ever have received any line from me; nor, in all worldly probability, ever so much as heard of her who is called Isabel Banford, had it not been for my hearing that at Walter Ulver's, only three miles from the mansion of Saddle Meadows, poor Bell would find people kind enough to give her wages for her work. Feel my hand, my brother."
"Dear divine girl, my own exalted141 Isabel!" cried Pierre, catching142 the offered hand with ungovernable emotion, "how most unbeseeming, that this strange hardness, and this still stranger littleness should be united in any human hand. But hard and small, it by an opposite analogy hints of the soft capacious heart that made the hand so hard with heavenly submission143 to thy most undeserved and martyred lot. Would, Isabel, that these my kisses on the hand, were on the heart itself, and dropt the seeds of eternal joy and comfort there."
He leaped to his feet, and stood before her with such warm, god-like majesty144 of love and tenderness, that the girl gazed up at him as though he were the one benignant star in all her general night.
"Isabel," cried Pierre, "I stand the sweet penance145 in my father's stead, thou, in thy mother's. By our earthly acts we shall redeemingly bless both their eternal lots; we will love with the pure and perfect love of angel to an angel. If ever I fall from thee, dear Isabel, may Pierre fall from himself; fall back forever into vacant nothingness and night!"
"My brother, my brother, speak not so to me; it is too much; unused to any love ere now, thine, so heavenly and immense, falls crushing on me! Such love is almost hard to bear as hate. Be still; do not speak to me."
They were both silent for a time; when she went on.
"Yes, my brother, Fate had now brought me within three miles of thee; and—but shall I go straight on, and tell thee all, Pierre? all? every thing? art thou of such divineness, that I may speak straight on, in all my thoughts, heedless whither they may flow, or what things they may float to me?"
"Straight on, and fearlessly," said Pierre.
"By chance I saw thy mother, Pierre, and under such circumstances that I knew her to be thy mother; and—but shall I go on?"
"Straight on, my Isabel; thou didst see my mother—well?"
"And when I saw her, though I spake not to her, nor she to me, yet straightway my heart knew that she would love me not."
"Thy heart spake true," muttered Pierre to himself; "go on."
"I re-swore an oath never to reveal myself to thy mother."
"Oath well sworn," again he muttered; "go on."
"But I saw thee, Pierre; and, more than ever filled my mother toward thy father, Pierre, then upheaved in me. Straightway I knew that if ever I should come to be made known to thee, then thy own generous love would open itself to me."
"Again thy heart spake true," he murmured; "go on—and didst thou re-swear again?"
"No, Pierre; but yes, I did. I swore that thou wert my brother; with love and pride I swore, that young and noble Pierre Glendinning was my brother!"
"And only that?"
"Nothing more, Pierre; not to thee even, did I ever think to reveal myself."
"How then? thou art revealed to me."
"Yes; but the great God did it, Pierre—not poor Bell. Listen.
"I felt very dreary146 here; poor, dear Delly—thou must have heard something of her story—a most sorrowful house, Pierre. Hark! that is her seldom-pausing pacing thou hearest from the floor above. So she keeps ever pacing, pacing, pacing; in her track, all thread-bare, Pierre, is her chamber147-rug. Her father will not look upon her; her mother, she hath cursed her to her face. Out of yon chamber, Pierre, Delly hath not slept, for now four weeks and more; nor ever hath she once laid upon her bed; it was last made up five weeks ago; but paces, paces, paces, all through the night, till after twelve; and then sits vacant in her chair. Often I would go to her to comfort her; but she says, 'Nay148, nay, nay,' to me through the door; says 'Nay, nay, nay,' and only nay to me, through the bolted door; bolted three weeks ago—when I by cunning arts stole her dead baby from her, and with these fingers, alone, by night, scooped149 out a hollow, and, seconding heaven's own charitable stroke, buried that sweet, wee symbol of her not unpardonable shame far from the ruthless foot of man—yes, bolted three weeks ago, not once unbolted since; her food I must thrust through the little window in her closet. Pierre, hardly these two handfuls has she eaten in a week."
"Curses, wasp-like, cohere150 on that villain151, Ned, and sting him to his death!" cried Pierre, smit by this most piteous tale. "What can be done for her, sweet Isabel; can Pierre do aught?"
"If thou or I do not, then the ever-hospitable grave will prove her quick refuge, Pierre. Father and mother both, are worse than dead and gone to her. They would have turned her forth113, I think, but for my own poor petitionings, unceasing in her behalf!"
"Isabel, a thought of benefit to Delly has just entered me; but I am still uncertain how best it may be acted on. Resolved I am though to succor154 her. Do thou still hold her here yet awhile, by thy sweet petitionings, till my further plans are more matured. Now run on with thy story, and so divert me from the pacing;—her every step steps in my soul."
"Thy noble heart hath many chambers155, Pierre; the records of thy wealth, I see, are not bound up in the one poor book of Isabel, my brother. Thou art a visible token, Pierre, of the invisible angel-hoods, which in our darker hours we do sometimes distrust. The gospel of thy acts goes very far, my brother. Were all men like to thee, then were there no men at all,—mankind extinct in seraphim156!"
"Praises are for the base, my sister, cunningly to entice157 them to fair Virtue158 by our ignorings of the ill in them, and our imputings of the good not theirs. So make not my head to hang, sweet Isabel. Praise me not. Go on now with thy tale."
"I have said to thee, my brother, how most dreary I found it here, and from the first. Wonted all my life to sadness—if it be such—still, this house hath such acuteness in its general grief, such hopelessness and despair of any slightest remedy—that even poor Bell could scarce abide159 it always, without some little going forth into contrasting scenes. So I went forth into the places of delight, only that I might return more braced160 to minister in the haunts of woe161. For continual unchanging residence therein, doth but bring on woe's stupor162, and make us as dead. So I went forth betimes; visiting the neighboring cottages; where there were chattering163 children, and no one place vacant at the cheerful board. Thus at last I chanced to hear of the Sewing Circle to be held at the Miss Pennies'; and how that they were anxious to press into their kind charity all the maidens164 of the country round. In various cottages, I was besought165 to join; and they at length persuaded me; not that I was naturally loth to it, and needed such entreaties166; but at first I felt great fear, lest at such a scene I might closely encounter some of the Glendinnings; and that thought was then namelessly repulsive167 to me. But by stealthy inquiries I learned, that the lady of the manorial-house would not be present;—it proved deceptive168 information;—but I went; and all the rest thou knowest."
"I do, sweet Isabel, but thou must tell it over to me; and all thy emotions there."
V.
"Though but one day hath passed, my brother, since we first met in life, yet thou hast that heavenly magnet in thee, which draws all my soul's interior to thee. I will go on.—Having to wait for a neighbor's wagon169, I arrived but late at the Sewing Circle. When I entered, the two joined rooms were very full. With the farmer's girls, our neighbors, I passed along to the further corner, where thou didst see me; and as I went, some heads were turned, and some whisperings I heard, of—'She's the new help at poor Walter Ulver's—the strange girl they've got—she thinks herself 'mazing170 pretty, I'll be bound;—but nobody knows her—Oh, how demure171!—but not over-good, I guess;—I wouldn't be her, not I—mayhap she's some other ruined Delly, run away;—minx!' It was the first time poor Bell had ever mixed in such a general crowded company; and knowing little or nothing of such things, I had thought, that the meeting being for charity's sweet sake, uncharity could find no harbor there; but no doubt it was mere45 thoughtlessness, not malice172 in them. Still, it made my heart ache in me sadly; for then I very keenly felt the dread173 suspiciousness, in which a strange and lonely grief invests itself to common eyes; as if grief itself were not enough, nor innocence any armor to us, but despite must also come, and icy infamy174! Miserable175 returnings then I had—even in the midst of bright-budding girls and full-blown women—miserable returnings then I had of the feeling, the bewildering feeling of the inhumanities I spoke of in my earlier story. But Pierre, blessed Pierre, do not look so sadly and half-reproachfully upon me. Lone136 and lost though I have been, I love my kind; and charitably and intelligently pity them, who uncharitably and unintelligently do me despite. And thou, thou, blessed brother, hath glorified many somber176 places in my soul, and taught me once for all to know, that my kind are capable of things which would be glorious in angels. So look away from me, dear Pierre, till thou hast taught thine eyes more wonted glances."
"They are vile177 falsifying telegraphs of me, then, sweet Isabel. What my look was I can not tell, but my heart was only dark with ill-restrained upbraidings against heaven that could unrelentingly see such innocence as thine so suffer. Go on with thy too-touching tale."
"Quietly I sat there sewing, not brave enough to look up at all, and thanking my good star, that had led me to so concealed178 a nook behind the rest: quietly I sat there, sewing on a flannel179 shirt, and with each stitch praying God, that whatever heart it might be folded over, the flannel might hold it truly warm; and keep out the wide-world-coldness which I felt myself; and which no flannel, or thickest fur, or any fire then could keep off from me; quietly I sat there sewing, when I heard the announcing words—oh, how deep and ineffaceably engraved they are!—'Ah, dames180, dames, Madame Glendinning,—Master Pierre Glendinning.' Instantly, my sharp needle went through my side and stitched my heart; the flannel dropt from my hand; thou heard'st my shriek181. But the good people bore me still nearer to the casement close at hand, and threw it open wide; and God's own breath breathed on me; and I rallied; and said it was some merest passing fit—'twas quite over now—I was used to it—they had my heart's best thanks—but would they now only leave me to myself, it were best for me;—I would go on and sew. And thus it came and passed away; and again I sat sewing on the flannel, hoping either that the unanticipated persons would soon depart, or else that some spirit would catch me away from there; I sat sewing on—till, Pierre! Pierre!—without looking up—for that I dared not do at any time that evening—only once—without looking up, or knowing aught but the flannel on my knee, and the needle in my heart, I felt,—Pierre, felt—a glance of magnetic meaning on me. Long, I, shrinking, sideways turned to meet it, but could not; till some helping182 spirit seized me, and all my soul looked up at thee in my full-fronting face. It was enough. Fate was in that moment. All the loneliness of my life, all the choked longings183 of my soul, now poured over me. I could not away from them. Then first I felt the complete deplorableness of my state; that while thou, my brother, had a mother, and troops of aunts and cousins, and plentiful184 friends in city and in country—I, I, Isabel, thy own father's daughter, was thrust out of all hearts' gates, and shivered in the winter way. But this was but the least. Not poor Bell can tell thee all the feelings of poor Bell, or what feelings she felt first. It was all one whirl of old and new bewilderings, mixed and slanted185 with a driving madness. But it was most the sweet, inquisitive186, kindly interested aspect of thy face,—so strangely like thy father's, too—the one only being that I first did love—it was that which most stirred the distracting storm in me; most charged me with the immense longings for some one of my blood to know me, and to own me, though but once, and then away. Oh, my dear brother—Pierre! Pierre!—could'st thou take out my heart, and look at it in thy hand, then thou would'st find it all over written, this way and that, and crossed again, and yet again, with continual lines of longings, that found no end but in suddenly calling thee. Call him! Call him! He will come!—so cried my heart to me; so cried the leaves and stars to me, as I that night went home. But pride rose up—the very pride in my own longings,—and as one arm pulled, the other held. So I stood still, and called thee not. But Fate will be Fate, and it was fated. Once having met thy fixed regardful glance; once having seen the full angelicalness in thee, my whole soul was undone187 by thee; my whole pride was cut off at the root, and soon showed a blighting188 in the bud; which spread deep into my whole being, till I knew, that utterly189 decay and die away I must, unless pride let me go, and I, with the one little trumpet190 of a pen, blew my heart's shrillest blast, and called dear Pierre to me. My soul was full; and as my beseeching191 ink went tracing o'er the page, my tears contributed their mite193, and made a strange alloy194. How blest I felt that my so bitterly tear-mingled ink—that last depth of my anguish195—would never be visibly known to thee, but the tears would dry upon the page, and all be fair again, ere the so submerged-freighted letter should meet thine eye.
"Ah, there thou wast deceived, poor Isabel," cried Pierre impulsively196; "thy tears dried not fair, but dried red, almost like blood; and nothing so much moved my inmost soul as that tragic197 sight."
"How? how? Pierre, my brother? Dried they red? Oh, horrible! enchantment198! most undreamed of!"
"Nay, the ink—the ink! something chemic in it changed thy real tears to seeming blood;—only that, my sister."
"Oh Pierre! thus wonderfully is it—seems to me—that our own hearts do not ever know the extremity199 of their own sufferings; sometimes we bleed blood, when we think it only water. Of our sufferings, as of our talents, others sometimes are the better judges. But stop me! force me backward to my story! Yet methinks that now thou knowest all;—no, not entirely all. Thou dost not know what planned and winnowed200 motive I did have in writing thee; nor does poor Bell know that; for poor Bell was too delirious201 to have planned and winnowed motives then. The impulse in me called thee, not poor Bell. God called thee, Pierre, not poor Bell. Even now, when I have passed one night after seeing thee, and hearkening to all thy full love and graciousness; even now, I stand as one amazed, and feel not what may be coming to me, or what will now befall me, from having so rashly claimed thee for mine. Pierre, now, now, this instant a vague anguish fills me. Tell me, by loving me, by owning me, publicly or secretly,—tell me, doth it involve any vital hurt to thee? Speak without reserve; speak honestly; as I do to thee! Speak now, Pierre, and tell me all!"
"Is Love a harm? Can Truth betray to pain? Sweet Isabel, how can hurt come in the path to God? Now, when I know thee all, now did I forget thee, fail to acknowledge thee, and love thee before the wide world's whole brazen202 width—could I do that; then might'st thou ask thy question reasonably and say—Tell me, Pierre, does not the suffocating203 in thee of poor Bell's holy claims, does not that involve for thee unending misery? And my truthful204 soul would echo—Unending misery! Nay, nay, nay. Thou art my sister and I am thy brother; and that part of the world which knows me, shall acknowledge thee; or by heaven I will crush the disdainful world down on its knees to thee, my sweet Isabel!"
"The menacings in thy eyes are dear delights to me; I grow up with thy own glorious stature205; and in thee, my brother, I see God's indignant embassador to me, saying—Up, up, Isabel, and take no terms from the common world, but do thou make terms to it, and grind thy fierce rights out of it! Thy catching nobleness unsexes me, my brother; and now I know that in her most exalted moment, then woman no more feels the twin-born softness of her breasts, but feels chain-armor palpitating there!"
Her changed attitude of beautiful audacity206; her long scornful hair, that trailed out a disheveled banner; her wonderful transfigured eyes, in which some meteors seemed playing up; all this now seemed to Pierre the work of an invisible enchanter. Transformed she stood before him; and Pierre, bowing low over to her, owned that irrespective, darting207 majesty of humanity, which can be majestical and menacing in woman as in man.
But her gentler sex returned to Isabel at last; and she sat silent in the casement's niche208, looking out upon the soft ground-lightnings of the electric summer night.
VI.
SADLY smiling, Pierre broke the pause.
"My sister, thou art so rich, that thou must do me alms; I am very hungry; I have forgotten to eat since breakfast;—and now thou shalt bring me bread and a cup of water, Isabel, ere I go forth from thee. Last night I went rummaging209 in a pantry, like a bake-house burglar; but to-night thou and I must sup together, Isabel; for as we may henceforth live together, let us begin forthwith to eat in company."
Isabel looked up at him, with sudden and deep emotion, then all acquiescing210 sweetness, and silently left the room.
As she returned, Pierre, casting his eyes toward the ceiling, said—"She is quiet now, the pacing hath entirely ceased."
"Not the beating, tho'; her foot hath paused, not her unceasing heart. My brother, she is not quiet now; quiet for her hath gone; so that the pivoted211 stillness of this night is yet a noisy madness to her."
"Give me pen or pencil, and some paper, Isabel."
She laid down her loaf, and plate, and knife, and brought him pen, and ink, and paper.
Pierre took the pen.
"Was this the one, dear Isabel?"
"It is the one, my brother; none other is in this poor cot."
"For Delly Ulver: with the deep and true regard and sympathy of Pierre Glendinning.
"Thy sad story—partly known before—hath now more fully come to me, from one who sincerely feels for thee, and who hath imparted her own sincerity213 to me. Thou desirest to quit this neighborhood, and be somewhere at peace, and find some secluded40 employ fitted to thy sex and age. With this, I now willingly charge myself, and insure it to thee, so far as my utmost ability can go. Therefore—if consolation214 be not wholly spurned215 by thy great grief, which too often happens, though it be but grief's great folly216 so to feel—therefore, two true friends of thine do here beseech192 thee to take some little heart to thee, and bethink thee, that all thy life is not yet lived; that Time hath surest healing in his continuous balm. Be patient yet a little while, till thy future lot be disposed for thee, through our best help; and so, know me and Isabel thy earnest friends and true-hearted lovers."
He handed the note to Isabel. She read it silently, and put it down, and spread her two hands over him, and with one motion lifted her eyes toward Delly and toward God.
"Thou think'st it will not pain her to receive the note, Isabel? Thou know'st best. I thought, that ere our help do really reach her, some promise of it now might prove slight comfort. But keep it, and do as thou think'st best."
"Then straightway will I give it her, my brother," said Isabel, quitting him.
An infixing stillness, now thrust a long rivet217 through the night, and fast nailed it to that side of the world. And alone again in such an hour, Pierre could not but listen. He heard Isabel's step on the stair; then it approached him from above; then he heard a gentle knock, and thought he heard a rustling218, as of paper slid over a threshold underneath219 a door. Then another advancing and opposite step tremblingly met Isabel's; and then both steps stepped from each other, and soon Isabel came back to him.
"Thou did'st knock, and slide it underneath the door?"
"Yes, and she hath it now. Hark! a sobbing220! Thank God, long arid221 grief hath found a tear at last. Pity, sympathy hath done this.—Pierre, for thy dear deed thou art already sainted, ere thou be dead."
"Do saints hunger, Isabel?" said Pierre, striving to call her away from this. "Come, give me the loaf; but no, thou shalt help me, my sister.—Thank thee;—this is twice over the bread of sweetness.—Is this of thine own making, Isabel?"
"My own making, my brother."
"Give me the cup; hand it me with thine own hand. So:—Isabel, my heart and soul are now full of deepest reverence; yet I do dare to call this the real sacrament of the supper.—Eat with me."
They eat together without a single word; and without a single word, Pierre rose, and kissed her pure and spotless brow, and without a single word departed from the place.
VII.
WE know not Pierre Glendinning's thoughts as he gained the village and passed on beneath its often shrouding222 trees, and saw no light from man, and heard no sound from man, but only, by intervals, saw at his feet the soft ground-lightnings, snake-like, playing in and out among the blades of grass; and between the trees, caught the far dim light from heaven, and heard the far wide general hum of the sleeping but still breathing earth.
He paused before a detached and pleasant house, with much shrubbery about it. He mounted the portico223 and knocked distinctly there, just as the village clock struck one. He knocked, but no answer came. He knocked again, and soon he heard a sash thrown up in the second story, and an astonished voice inquired who was there?
"It is Pierre Glendinning, and he desires an instant interview with the Reverend Mr. Falsgrave."
"Do I hear right?—in heaven's name, what is the matter, young gentleman?"
"Every thing is the matter; the whole world is the matter. Will you admit me, sir?"
"Certainly—but I beseech thee—nay, stay, I will admit thee."
In quicker time than could have been anticipated, the door was opened to Pierre by Mr. Falsgrave in person, holding a candle, and invested in his very becoming student's wrapper of Scotch224 plaid.
"For heaven's sake, what is the matter, Mr. Glendinning?"
"Heaven and earth is the matter, sir! shall we go up to the study?"
"Certainly, but—but—"
"Well, let us proceed, then."
They went up-stairs, and soon found themselves in the clergyman's retreat, and both sat down; the amazed host still holding the candle in his hand, and intently eying Pierre, with an apprehensive225 aspect.
"Thou art a man of God, sir, I believe."
"I? I? I? upon my word, Mr. Glendinning!"
"Yes, sir, the world calls thee a man of God. Now, what hast thou, the man of God, decided226, with my mother, concerning Delly Ulver?"
"Delly Ulver! why, why—what can this madness mean?"
"It means, sir, what have thou and my mother decided concerning Delly Ulver."
"She?—Delly Ulver? She is to depart the neighborhood; why, her own parents want her not."
"How is she to depart? Who is to take her? Art thou to take her? Where is she to go? Who has food for her? What is to keep her from the pollution to which such as she are every day driven to contribute, by the detestable uncharitableness and heartlessness of the world?"
"Mr. Glendinning," said the clergyman, now somewhat calmly putting down the candle, and folding himself with dignity in his gown; "Mr. Glendinning, I will not now make any mention of my natural astonishment227 at this most unusual call, and the most extraordinary time of it. Thou hast sought information upon a certain point, and I have given it to thee, to the best of my knowledge. All thy after and incidental questions, I choose to have no answer for. I will be most happy to see thee at any other time, but for the present thou must excuse my presence. Good-night, sir."
"I perfectly229 comprehend the whole, sir. Delly Ulver, then, is to be driven out to starve or rot; and this, too, by the acquiescence of a man of God. Mr. Falsgrave, the subject of Delly, deeply interesting as it is to me, is only the preface to another, still more interesting to me, and concerning which I once cherished some slight hope that thou wouldst have been able, in thy Christian230 character, to sincerely and honestly counsel me. But a hint from heaven assures me now, that thou hast no earnest and world-disdaining counsel for me. I must seek it direct from God himself, whom, I now know, never delegates his holiest admonishings. But I do not blame thee; I think I begin to see how thy profession is unavoidably entangled231 by all fleshly alliances, and can not move with godly freedom in a world of benefices. I am more sorry than indignant. Pardon me for my most uncivil call, and know me as not thy enemy. Good-night, sir."
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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deport
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| vt.驱逐出境 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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interrogating
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peculiar
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peculiarity
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uncommonness
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uncommon
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conceit
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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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fervently
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trifling
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bestowing
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pertains
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hospitably
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hearth
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kindly
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inquiries
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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aged
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plunged
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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discomfort
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misery
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entirely
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naught
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memorable
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wilt
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remains
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corroborate
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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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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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secluded
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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49
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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50
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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51
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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52
talismanic
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| adj.护身符的，避邪的 | |
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53
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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54
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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55
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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56
narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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57
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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58
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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59
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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60
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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61
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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62
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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63
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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64
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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65
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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66
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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67
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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68
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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69
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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70
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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71
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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72
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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73
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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74
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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75
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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76
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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77
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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79
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
metallic
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|
| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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81
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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82
overcast
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|
| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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83
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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84
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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85
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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86
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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87
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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88
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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89
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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90
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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91
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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92
gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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93
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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94
rebounding
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| 蹦跳运动 | |
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95
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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96
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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97
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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98
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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99
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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100
scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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101
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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102
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
superstitiousness
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| 被邪教所支配 | |
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104
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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105
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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106
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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107
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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109
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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110
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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111
ambiguities
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| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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112
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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113
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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114
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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115
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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116
humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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117
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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118
touchingness
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| 易动气，过分敏感 | |
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119
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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120
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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121
sublimated
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| v.（使某物质）升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 )；使净化；纯化 | |
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122
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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123
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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124
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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125
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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126
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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127
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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128
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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129
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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130
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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131
bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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133
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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134
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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135
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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136
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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137
displacements
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| n.取代( displacement的名词复数 )；替代；移位；免职 | |
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138
migrations
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| n.迁移，移居( migration的名词复数 ) | |
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139
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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140
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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141
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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142
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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143
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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144
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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145
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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146
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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147
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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148
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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149
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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150
cohere
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| vt.附着，连贯，一致 | |
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151
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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152
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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153
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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154
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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155
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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156
seraphim
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| n.六翼天使(seraph的复数)；六翼天使( seraph的名词复数 ) | |
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157
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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158
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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159
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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160
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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161
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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162
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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163
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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164
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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165
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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166
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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167
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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168
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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169
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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170
mazing
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| 使困惑（maze的现在分词形式） | |
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171
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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172
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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173
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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174
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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175
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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176
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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177
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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178
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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179
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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180
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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181
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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182
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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183
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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184
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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185
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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186
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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187
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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188
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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189
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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190
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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191
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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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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193
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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194
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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195
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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196
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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197
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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198
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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199
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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winnowed
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| adj.扬净的，风选的v.扬( winnow的过去式和过去分词 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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201
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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202
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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203
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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204
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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205
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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206
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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207
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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208
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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209
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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210
acquiescing
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的现在分词 ) | |
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211
pivoted
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| adj.转动的，回转的，装在枢轴上的v.（似）在枢轴上转动( pivot的过去式和过去分词 )；把…放在枢轴上；以…为核心，围绕（主旨）展开 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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213
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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214
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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215
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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217
rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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218
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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219
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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220
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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221
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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222
shrouding
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| n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 )；保密 | |
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223
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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224
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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225
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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226
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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227
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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228
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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229
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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230
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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231
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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