WHEN on the previous night Pierre had left the farm-house where Isabel harbored, it will be remembered that no hour, either of night or day, no special time at all had been assigned for a succeeding interview. It was Isabel, who for some doubtlessly sufficient reason of her own, had, for the first meeting, assigned the early hour of darkness.
As now, when the full sun was well up the heavens, Pierre drew near the farm-house of the Ulvers, he descried1 Isabel, standing2 without the little dairy-wing, occupied in vertically3 arranging numerous glittering shield-like milk-pans on a long shelf, where they might purifyingly meet the sun. Her back was toward him. As Pierre passed through the open wicket and crossed the short soft green sward, he unconsciously muffled4 his footsteps, and now standing close behind his sister, touched her shoulder and stood still.
She started, trembled, turned upon him swiftly, made a low, strange cry, and then gazed rivetedly and imploringly7 upon him.
"I look rather queerish, sweet Isabel, do I not?" said Pierre at last with a writhed8 and painful smile.
"My brother, my blessed brother!—speak—tell me—what has happened—what hast thou done? Oh! Oh! I should have warned thee before, Pierre, Pierre; it is my fault—mine, mine!"
"What is thy fault, sweet Isabel?"
"Thou hast revealed Isabel to thy mother, Pierre."
"I have not, Isabel. Mrs. Glendinning knows not thy secret at all."
"Mrs. Glendinning?—that's,—that's thine own mother, Pierre! In heaven's name, my brother, explain thyself. Knows not my secret, and yet thou here so suddenly, and with such a fatal aspect? Come, come with me into the house. Quick, Pierre, why dost thou not stir? Oh, my God! if mad myself sometimes, I am to make mad him who loves me best, and who, I fear, has in some way ruined himself for me;—then, let me no more stand upright on this sod, but fall prone9 beneath it, that I may be hidden! Tell me!" catching10 Pierre's arms in both her frantic11 hands—"tell me, do I blast where I look? is my face Gorgon's?"
"Nay12, sweet Isabel; but it hath a more sovereign power; that turned to stone; thine might turn white marble into mother's milk."
"Come with me—come quickly."
"Pierre, forever fatal and accursed be the day my longing14 heart called thee to me, if now, in the very spring-time of our related love, thou art minded to play deceivingly with me, even though thou should'st fancy it for my good. Speak to me; oh speak to me, my brother!"
"Thou hintest of deceiving one for one's good. Now supposing, sweet Isabel, that in no case would I affirmatively deceive thee;—in no case whatever;—would'st thou then be willing for thee and me to piously15 deceive others, for both their and our united good?—Thou sayest nothing. Now, then, is it my turn, sweet Isabel, to bid thee speak to me, oh speak to me!"
"That unknown, approaching thing, seemeth ever ill, my brother, which must have unfrank heralds16 to go before. Oh, Pierre, dear, dear Pierre; be very careful with me! This strange, mysterious, unexampled love between us, makes me all plastic in thy hand. Be very careful with me. I know little out of me. The world seems all one unknown India to me. Look up, look on me, Pierre; say now, thou wilt17 be very careful; say so, say so, Pierre!"
"If the most exquisite18, and fragile filagree of Genoa be carefully handled by its artisan; if sacred nature carefully folds, and warms, and by inconceivable attentivenesses eggs round and round her minute and marvelous embryoes; then, Isabel, do I most carefully and most tenderly egg thee, gentlest one, and the fate of thee! Short of the great God, Isabel, there lives none who will be more careful with thee, more infinitely19 considerate and delicate with thee."
"From my deepest heart, do I believe thee, Pierre. Yet thou mayest be very delicate in some point, where delicateness is not all essential, and in some quick impulsive20 hour, omit thy fullest heedfulness somewhere where heedlessness were most fatal. Nay, nay, my brother; bleach22 these locks snow-white, thou sun! if I have any thought to reproach thee, Pierre, or betray distrust of thee. But earnestness must sometimes seem suspicious, else it is none. Pierre, Pierre, all thy aspect speaks eloquently23 of some already executed resolution, born in suddenness. Since I last saw thee, Pierre, some deed irrevocable has been done by thee. My soul is stiff and starched24 to it; now tell me what it is?"
"Thou, and I, and Delly Ulver, to-morrow morning depart this whole neighborhood, and go to the distant city.—That is it."
"No more?"
"Is it not enough?"
"There is something more, Pierre."
"Thou hast not yet answered a question I put to thee but just now. Bethink thee, Isabel. The deceiving of others by thee and me, in a thing wholly pertaining25 to ourselves, for their and our united good. Wouldst thou?"
"I would do any thing that does not tend to the marring of thy best lasting26 fortunes, Pierre. What is it thou wouldst have thee and me to do together? I wait; I wait!"
"Let us go into the room of the double casement, my sister," said Pierre, rising.
"Nay, then; if it can not be said here, then can I not do it anywhere, my brother; for it would harm thee."
"Girl!" cried Pierre, sternly, "if for thee I have lost"—but he checked himself.
"Lost? for me? Now does the very worst blacken on me. Pierre! Pierre!"
"I was foolish, and sought but to frighten thee, my sister. It was very foolish. Do thou now go on with thine innocent work here, and I will come again a few hours hence. Let me go now."
He was turning from her, when Isabel sprang forward to him, caught him with both her arms round him, and held him so convulsively, that her hair sideways swept over him, and half concealed27 him.
"Pierre, if indeed my soul hath cast on thee the same black shadow that my hair now flings on thee; if thou hast lost aught for me; then eternally is Isabel lost to Isabel, and Isabel will not outlive this night. If I am indeed an accursing thing, I will not act the given part, but cheat the air, and die from it. See; I let thee go, lest some poison I know not of distill28 upon thee from me."
"Foolish, foolish one! Behold31, in the very bodily act of loosing hold of me, thou dost reel and fall;—unanswerable emblem32 of the indispensable heart-stay, I am to thee, my sweet, sweet Isabel! Prate33 not then of parting."
"What hast thou lost for me? Tell me!"
"A gainful loss, my sister!"
"Nothing that my inmost heart would now recall. I have bought inner love and glory by a price, which, large or small, I would not now have paid me back, so I must return the thing I bought."
"Is love then cold, and glory white? Thy cheek is snowy, Pierre."
"It should be, for I believe to God that I am pure, let the world think how it may."
"What hast thou lost?"
"Not thee, nor the pride and glory of ever loving thee, and being a continual brother to thee, my best sister. Nay, why dost thou now turn thy face from me?"
"With fine words he wheedles36 me, and coaxes37 me, not to know some secret thing. Go, go, Pierre, come to me when thou wilt. I am steeled now to the worst, and to the last. Again I tell thee, I will do any thing—yes, any thing that Pierre commands—for, though outer ill do lower upon us, still, deep within, thou wilt be careful, very careful with me, Pierre?"
"Thou art made of that fine, unshared stuff of which God makes his seraphim38. But thy divine devotedness39 to me, is met by mine to thee. Well mayest thou trust me, Isabel; and whatever strangest thing I may yet propose to thee, thy confidence,—will it not bear me out? Surely thou will not hesitate to plunge40, when I plunge first;—already have I plunged41! now thou canst not stay upon the bank. Hearken, hearken to me.—I seek not now to gain thy prior assent42 to a thing as yet undone43; but I call to thee now, Isabel, from the depth of a foregone act, to ratify44 it, backward, by thy consent. Look not so hard upon me. Listen. I will tell all. Isabel, though thou art all fearfulness to injure any living thing, least of all, thy brother; still thy true heart foreknoweth not the myriad45 alliances and criss-crossings among mankind, the infinite entanglements46 of all social things, which forbids that one thread should fly the general fabric47, on some new line of duty, without tearing itself and tearing others. Listen. All that has happened up to this moment, and all that may be yet to happen, some sudden inspiration now assures me, inevitably48 proceeded from the first hour I saw thee. Not possibly could it, or can it, be otherwise. Therefore feel I, that I have some patience. Listen. Whatever outer things might possibly be mine; whatever seeming brightest blessings49; yet now to live uncomforting and unloving to thee, Isabel; now to dwell domestically away from thee; so that only by stealth, and base connivances of the night, I could come to thee as thy related brother; this would be, and is, unutterably impossible. In my bosom50 a secret adder51 of self-reproach and self-infamy52 would never leave off its sting. Listen. But without gratuitous53 dishonor to a memory which—for right cause or wrong—is ever sacred and inviolate54 to me, I can not be an open brother to thee, Isabel. But thou wantest not the openness; for thou dost not pine for empty nominalness, but for vital realness; what thou wantest, is not the occasional openness of my brotherly love; but its continual domestic confidence. Do I not speak thine own hidden heart to thee? say, Isabel? Well, then, still listen to me. One only way presents to this; a most strange way, Isabel; to the world, that never throbbed55 for thee in love, a most deceitful way; but to all a harmless way; so harmless in its essence, Isabel, that, seems to me, Pierre hath consulted heaven itself upon it, and heaven itself did not say Nay. Still, listen to me; mark me. As thou knowest that thou wouldst now droop29 and die without me; so would I without thee. We are equal there; mark that, too, Isabel. I do not stoop to thee, nor thou to me; but we both reach up alike to a glorious ideal! Now the continualness, the secretness, yet the always present domesticness of our love; how may we best compass that, without jeopardizing56 the ever-sacred memory I hinted of? One way—one way—only one! A strange way, but most pure. Listen. Brace57 thyself: here, let me hold thee now; and then whisper it to thee, Isabel. Come, I holding thee, thou canst not fall."
The girl moved not; was done with all her tremblings; leaned closer to him, with an inexpressible strangeness of an intense love, new and inexplicable59. Over the face of Pierre there shot a terrible self-revelation; he imprinted60 repeated burning kisses upon her; pressed hard her hand; would not let go her sweet and awful passiveness.
Then they changed; they coiled together, and entangledly stood mute.
II.
"That such accursed vileness63 should proceed from me! Now will the tongued world say—See the vile62 boy of Mary Glendinning!—Deceitful! thick with guilt64, where I thought it was all guilelessness and gentlest docility65 to me. It has not happened! It is not day! Were this thing so, I should go mad, and be shut up, and not walk here where every door is open to me.—My own only son married to an unknown—thing! My own only son, false to his holiest plighted66 public vow—and the wide world knowing to it! He bears my name—Glendinning. I will disown it; were it like this dress, I would tear my name off from me, and burn it till it shriveled to a crisp!—Pierre! Pierre! come back, come back, and swear it is not so! It can not be! Wait: I will ring the bell, and see if it be so."
She rung the bell with violence, and soon heard a responsive knock.
"Come in!—Nay, falter67 not;" (throwing a shawl over her) "come in. Stand there and tell me if thou darest, that my son was in this house this morning and met me on the stairs. Darest thou say that?"
Dates looked confounded at her most unwonted aspect.
"Say it! find thy tongue! Or I will root mine out and fling it at thee! Say it!"
"My dear mistress!"
"I am not thy mistress! but thou my master; for, if thou sayest it, thou commandest me to madness.—Oh, vile boy!—Begone from me!"
She locked the door upon him, and swiftly and distractedly walked her chamber. She paused, and tossing down the curtains, shut out the sun from the two windows.
Another, but an unsummoned knock, was at the door. She opened it.
"Let him come up."
"Here? Immediately?"
"Didst thou hear me? Let Mr. Falsgrave come up."
As if suddenly and admonishingly made aware, by Dates, of the ungovernable mood of Mrs. Glendinning, the clergyman entered the open door of her chamber with a most deprecating but honest reluctance69, and apprehensiveness70 of he knew not what.
"Be seated, sir; stay, shut the door and lock it."
"Madam!"
"I will do it. Be seated. Hast thou seen him?"
"Whom, Madam?—Master Pierre?"
"Him!—quick!"
"It was to speak of him I came, Madam. He made a most extraordinary call upon me last night—midnight."
"And thou marriedst him?—Damn thee!"
"Nay, nay, nay, Madam; there is something here I know not of—I came to tell thee news, but thou hast some o'erwhelming tidings to reveal to me."
"I beg no pardons; but I may be sorry. Mr. Falsgrave, my son, standing publicly plighted to Lucy Tartan, has privately71 wedded72 some other girl—some slut!"
"Impossible!"
"True as thou art there. Thou knowest nothing of it then?"
"Nothing, nothing—not one grain till now. Who is it he has wedded?"
"Some slut, I tell thee!—I am no lady now, but something deeper,—a woman!—an outraged73 and pride-poisoned woman!"
She turned from him swiftly, and again paced the room, as frantic and entirely74 regardless of any presence. Waiting for her to pause, but in vain, Mr. Falsgrave advanced toward her cautiously, and with the profoundest deference75, which was almost a cringing76, spoke:—
"It is the hour of woe77 to thee; and I confess my cloth hath no consolation78 for thee yet awhile. Permit me to withdraw from thee, leaving my best prayers for thee, that thou mayst know some peace, ere this now shut-out sun goes down. Send for me whenever thou desirest me.—May I go now?"
"Begone! and let me not hear thy soft, mincing79 voice, which is an infamy to a man! Begone, thou helpless, and unhelping one!"
She swiftly paced the room again, swiftly muttering to herself. "Now, now, now, now I see it clearer, clearer—clear now as day! My first dim suspicions pointed80 right!—too right! Ay—the sewing! it was the sewing!—The shriek81!—I saw him gazing rooted at her. He would not speak going home with me. I charged him with his silence; he put me off with lies, lies, lies! Ay, ay, he is married to her, to her;—to her!—perhaps was then. And yet,—and yet,—how can it be?—Lucy, Lucy—I saw him, after that, look on her as if he would be glad to die for her, and go to hell for her, whither he deserves to go!—Oh! oh! oh! Thus ruthlessly to cut off, at one gross sensual dash, the fair succession of an honorable race! Mixing the choicest wine with filthy82 water from the plebeian83 pool, and so turning all to undistinguishable rankness!—Oh viper84! had I thee now in me, I would be a suicide and a murderer with one blow!"
A third knock was at the door. She opened it.
"My mistress, I thought it would disturb you,—it is so just overhead,—so I have not removed them yet."
"Pardon, my mistress, I somehow thought you knew it, but you can not."
"I have promised my young master not to, my mistress."
"I will snatch it, then, and so leave thee blameless.—What? what? what?—He's mad sure!—'Fine old fellow Dates'—what? what?—mad and merry!—chest?—clothes?—trunks?—he wants them?—Tumble them out of his window!—and if he stand right beneath, tumble them out! Dismantle87 that whole room. Tear up the carpet. I swear, he shall leave no smallest vestige88 in this house.—Here! this very spot—here, here, where I stand, he may have stood upon;—yes, he tied my shoe-string here; it's slippery! Dates!"
"My mistress."
"Do his bidding. By reflection he has made me infamous89 to the world; and I will make him infamous to it. Listen, and do not delude90 thyself that I am crazy. Go up to yonder room" (pointing upward), "and remove every article in it, and where he bid thee set down the chest and trunks, there set down all the contents of that room."
"'Twas before the house—this house!"
"And if it had not been there, I would not order thee to put them there. Dunce! I would have the world know that I disown and scorn him! Do my bidding!—Stay. Let the room stand; but take him what he asks for."
"I will, my mistress."
As Dates left the chamber, Mrs. Glendinning again paced it swiftly, and again swiftly muttered: "Now, if I were less a strong and haughty91 woman, the fit would have gone by ere now. But deep volcanoes long burn, ere they burn out.—Oh, that the world were made of such malleable92 stuff, that we could recklessly do our fieriest93 heart's-wish before it, and not falter. Accursed be those four syllables94 of sound which make up that vile word Propriety95. It is a chain and bell to drag;—drag? what sound is that? there's dragging—his trunks—the traveler's—dragging out. Oh would I could so drag my heart, as fishers for the drowned do, as that I might drag up my sunken happiness! Boy! boy! worse than brought in dripping drowned to me,—drowned in icy infamy! Oh! oh! oh!"
She threw herself upon the bed, covered her face, and lay motionless. But suddenly rose again, and hurriedly rang the bell.
"Open that desk, and draw the stand to me. Now wait and take this to Miss Lucy."
With a pencil she rapidly traced these lines:—
"My heart bleeds for thee, sweet Lucy. I can not speak—I know it all. Look for me the first hour I regain96 myself."
Again she threw herself upon the bed, and lay motionless.
III.
TOWARD sundown that evening, Pierre stood in one of the three bespoken97 chambers98 in the Black Swan Inn; the blue chintz-covered chest and the writing-desk before him. His hands were eagerly searching through his pockets.
"The key! the key! Nay, then, I must force it open. It bodes99 ill, too. Yet lucky is it, some bankers can break into their own vaults100, when other means do fail. Not so, ever. Let me see:—yes, the tongs101 there. Now then for the sweet sight of gold and silver. I never loved it till this day. How long it has been hoarded102;—little token pieces, of years ago, from aunts, uncles, cousins innumerable, and from—but I won't mention them; dead henceforth to me! Sure there'll be a premium103 on such ancient gold. There's some broad bits, token pieces to my—I name him not—more than half a century ago. Well, well, I never thought to cast them back into the sordid104 circulations whence they came. But if they must be spent, now is the time, in this last necessity, and in this sacred cause. 'Tis a most stupid, dunderheaded crowbar. Hoy! so! ah, now for it:—snake's nest!"
Forced suddenly back, the chest-lid had as suddenly revealed to him the chair-portrait lying on top of all the rest, where he had secreted105 it some days before. Face up, it met him with its noiseless, ever-nameless, and ambiguous, unchanging smile. Now his first repugnance106 was augmented107 by an emotion altogether new. That certain lurking108 lineament in the portrait, whose strange transfer blended with far other, and sweeter, and nobler characteristics, was visible in the countenance110 of Isabel; that lineament in the portrait was somehow now detestable; nay, altogether loathsome111, ineffably112 so, to Pierre. He argued not with himself why this was so; he only felt it, and most keenly.
Omitting more subtile inquisition into this deftly-winding theme, it will be enough to hint, perhaps, that possibly one source of this new hatefulness had its primary and unconscious rise in one of those profound ideas, which at times atmospherically113, as it were, do insinuate114 themselves even into very ordinary minds. In the strange relativeness, reciprocalness, and transmittedness, between the long-dead father's portrait, and the living daughter's face, Pierre might have seemed to see reflected to him, by visible and uncontradictable symbols, the tyranny of Time and Fate. Painted before the daughter was conceived or born, like a dumb seer, the portrait still seemed leveling its prophetic finger at that empty air, from which Isabel did finally emerge. There seemed to lurk109 some mystical intelligence and vitality115 in the picture; because, since in his own memory of his father, Pierre could not recall any distinct lineament transmitted to Isabel, but vaguely116 saw such in the portrait; therefore, not Pierre's parent, as any way rememberable by him, but the portrait's painted self seemed the real father of Isabel; for, so far as all sense went, Isabel had inherited one peculiar117 trait no-whither traceable but to it.
And as his father was now sought to be banished118 from his mind, as a most bitter presence there, but Isabel was become a thing of intense and fearful love for him; therefore, it was loathsome to him, that in the smiling and ambiguous portrait, her sweet mournful image should be so sinisterly119 becrooked, bemixed, and mutilated to him.
When, the first shock, and then the pause were over, he lifted the portrait in his two hands, and held it averted120 from him.
"It shall not live. Hitherto I have hoarded up mementoes and monuments of the past; been a worshiper of all heirlooms; a fond filer away of letters, locks of hair, bits of ribbon, flowers, and the thousand-and-one minutenesses which love and memory think they sanctify:—but it is forever over now! If to me any memory shall henceforth be dear, I will not mummy it in a visible memorial for every passing beggar's dust to gather on. Love's museum is vain and foolish as the Catacombs, where grinning apes and abject121 lizards122 are embalmed123, as, forsooth, significant of some imagined charm. It speaks merely of decay and death, and nothing more; decay and death of endless innumerable generations; it makes of earth one mold. How can lifelessness be fit memorial of life?—So far, for mementoes of the sweetest. As for the rest—now I know this, that in commonest memorials, the twilight124 fact of death first discloses in some secret way, all the ambiguities125 of that departed thing or person; obliquely126 it casts hints, and insinuates127 surmises128 base, and eternally incapable129 of being cleared. Decreed by God Omnipotent130 it is, that Death should be the last scene of the last act of man's play;—a play, which begin how it may, in farce131 or comedy, ever hath its tragic132 end; the curtain inevitably falls upon a corpse133. Therefore, never more will I play the vile pigmy, and by small memorials after death, attempt to reverse the decree of death, by essaying the poor perpetuating134 of the image of the original. Let all die, and mix again! As for this—this!—why longer should I preserve it? Why preserve that on which one can not patient look? If I am resolved to hold his public memory inviolate,—destroy this thing; for here is the one great, condemning135, and unsuborned proof, whose mysticalness drives me half mad.—Of old Greek times, before man's brain went into doting136 bondage137, and bleached138 and beaten in Baconian fulling-mills, his four limbs lost their barbaric tan and beauty; when the round world was fresh, and rosy139, and spicy140, as a new-plucked apple;—all's wilted141 now!—in those bold times, the great dead were not, turkey-like, dished in trenchers, and set down all garnished142 in the ground, to glut143 the damned Cyclop like a cannibal; but nobly envious144 Life cheated the glutton145 worm, and gloriously burned the corpse; so that the spirit up-pointed, and visibly forked to heaven!
"So now will I serve thee. Though that solidity of which thou art the unsolid duplicate, hath long gone to its hideous146 church-yard account;—and though, God knows! but for one part of thee it may have been fit auditing;—yet will I now a second time see thy obsequies performed, and by now burning thee, urn5 thee in the great vase of air! Come now!"
A small wood-fire had been kindled147 on the hearth148 to purify the long-closed room; it was now diminished to a small pointed heap of glowing embers. Detaching and dismembering the gilded149 but tarnished150 frame, Pierre laid the four pieces on the coals; as their dryness soon caught the sparks, he rolled the reversed canvas into a scroll151, and tied it, and committed it to the now crackling, clamorous152 flames. Steadfastly153 Pierre watched the first crispings and blackenings of the painted scroll, but started as suddenly unwinding from the burnt string that had tied it, for one swift instant, seen through the flame and smoke, the upwrithing portrait tormentedly154 stared at him in beseeching155 horror, and then, wrapped in one broad sheet of oily fire, disappeared forever.
Yielding to a sudden ungovernable impulse, Pierre darted156 his hand among the flames, to rescue the imploring6 face; but as swiftly drew back his scorched157 and bootless grasp. His hand was burnt and blackened, but he did not heed21 it.
He ran back to the chest, and seizing repeated packages of family letters, and all sorts of miscellaneous memorials in paper, he threw them one after the other upon the fire.
"Thus, and thus, and thus! on thy manes I fling fresh spoils; pour out all my memory in one libation!—so, so, so—lower, lower, lower; now all is done, and all is ashes! Henceforth, cast-out Pierre hath no paternity, and no past; and since the Future is one blank to all; therefore, twice-disinherited Pierre stands untrammeledly his ever-present self!—free to do his own self-will and present fancy to whatever end!"
IV.
THAT same sunset Lucy lay in her chamber. A knock was heard at its door, and the responding Martha was met by the now self-controlled and resolute158 face of Mrs. Glendinning.
"How is your young mistress, Martha? May I come in?"
But waiting for no answer, with the same breath she passed the maid, and determinately entered the room.
She sat down by the bed, and met the open eye, but closed and pallid159 mouth of Lucy. She gazed rivetedly and inquisitively160 a moment; then turned a quick aghast look toward Martha, as if seeking warrant for some shuddering161 thought.
"Miss Lucy"—said Martha—"it is your—it is Mrs. Glendinning. Speak to her, Miss Lucy."
As if left in the last helpless attitude of some spent contortion162 of her grief, Lucy was not lying in the ordinary posture163 of one in bed, but lay half crosswise upon it, with the pale pillows propping164 her hueless165 form, and but a single sheet thrown over her, as though she were so heart overladen, that her white body could not bear one added feather. And as in any snowy marble statue, the drapery clings to the limbs; so as one found drowned, the thin, defining sheet invested Lucy.
"It is Mrs. Glendinning. Will you speak to her, Miss Lucy?"
The thin lips moved and trembled for a moment, and then were still again, and augmented pallor shrouded166 her.
Martha brought restoratives; and when all was as before, she made a gesture for the lady to depart, and in a whisper, said, "She will not speak to any; she does not speak to me. The doctor has just left—he has been here five times since morning—and says she must be kept entirely quiet." Then pointing to the stand, added, "You see what he has left—mere restoratives. Quiet is her best medicine now, he says. Quiet, quiet, quiet! Oh, sweet quiet, wilt thou now ever come?"
"Has Mrs. Tartan been written to?" whispered the lady. Martha nodded.
So the lady moved to quit the room, saying that once every two hours she would send to know how Lucy fared.
"But where, where is her aunt, Martha?" she exclaimed, lowly, pausing at the door, and glancing in sudden astonishment167 about the room; "surely, surely, Mrs. Lanyllyn—"
"Poor, poor old lady," weepingly whispered Martha, "she hath caught infection from sweet Lucy's woe; she hurried hither, caught one glimpse of that bed, and fell like dead upon the floor. The Doctor hath two patients now, lady"—glancing at the bed, and tenderly feeling Lucy's bosom, to mark if yet it heaved; "Alack! Alack! oh, reptile168! reptile! that could sting so sweet a breast! fire would be too cold for him—accursed!"
"Thy own tongue blister169 the roof of thy mouth!" cried Mrs. Glendinning, in a half-stifled, whispering scream. "'Tis not for thee, hired one, to rail at my son, though he were Lucifer, simmering in Hell! Mend thy manners, minx!"
And she left the chamber, dilated170 with her unconquerable pride, leaving Martha aghast at such venom171 in such beauty.
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descried
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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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vertically
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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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urn
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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imploringly
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prone
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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11
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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12
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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13
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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14
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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15
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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16
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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17
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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18
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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19
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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20
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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21
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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22
bleach
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| vt.使漂白；vi.变白；n.漂白剂 | |
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23
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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24
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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26
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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27
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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28
distill
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| vt.蒸馏，用蒸馏法提取，吸取，提炼 | |
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29
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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30
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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32
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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33
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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34
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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36
wheedles
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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37
coaxes
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的第三人称单数 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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38
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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39
devotedness
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40
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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41
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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42
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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43
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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44
ratify
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| v.批准，认可，追认 | |
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45
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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46
entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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47
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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48
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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49
blessings
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|
| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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50
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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51
adder
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| n.蝰蛇；小毒蛇 | |
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52
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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53
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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54
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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55
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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56
jeopardizing
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| 危及，损害( jeopardize的现在分词 ) | |
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57
brace
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|
| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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58
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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59
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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60
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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61
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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62
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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63
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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64
guilt
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|
| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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65
docility
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|
| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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66
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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68
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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69
reluctance
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|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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70
apprehensiveness
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| 忧虑感，领悟力 | |
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71
privately
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|
| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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72
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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73
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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74
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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75
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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76
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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77
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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78
consolation
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|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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79
mincing
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|
| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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80
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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81
shriek
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|
| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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82
filthy
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|
| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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83
plebeian
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|
| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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84
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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85
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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86
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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87
dismantle
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|
| vt.拆开，拆卸；废除，取消 | |
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88
vestige
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|
| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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89
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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90
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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91
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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92
malleable
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| adj.(金属)可锻的;有延展性的；(性格)可训练的 | |
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93
fieriest
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| 燃烧的( fiery的最高级 )； 火似的； 火热的； 激烈的 | |
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94
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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95
propriety
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|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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96
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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97
bespoken
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| v.预定( bespeak的过去分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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98
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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99
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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100
vaults
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|
| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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101
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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102
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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104
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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105
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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106
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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107
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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108
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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109
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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110
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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111
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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112
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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113
atmospherically
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| adv.由大气压所致地，气压所致地，气压上 | |
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114
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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115
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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116
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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117
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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118
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
sinisterly
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| 不吉祥地，邪恶地 | |
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120
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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121
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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122
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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123
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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124
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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125
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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126
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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127
insinuates
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| n.暗示( insinuate的名词复数 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入v.暗示( insinuate的第三人称单数 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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128
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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129
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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130
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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131
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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132
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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133
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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134
perpetuating
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| perpetuate的现在进行式 | |
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135
condemning
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|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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136
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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137
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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150
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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151
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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153
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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tormentedly
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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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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156
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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157
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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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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contortion
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| n.扭弯，扭歪，曲解 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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propping
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| 支撑 | |
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hueless
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166
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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168
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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169
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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170
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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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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