And yet the disturbing emotions of existence and the bitter inheritance of humanity should exercise but a modified sway, and entail10 but a light burden, within the circle of the city into which the next scene of our history leads us. For it is the sacred city of study, of learning, and of faith; and the declining beam is resting on the dome7 of the Radcliffe, lingering on the towers of Christchurch and Magdalen, sanctifying the spires11 and pinnacles12 of holy St. Mary’s.
A young Oxonian, who had for some time been watching the city in the sunset, from a rising ground in its vicinity, lost, as it would seem, in meditation13, suddenly rose, and looking at his watch, as if remindful of some engagement, hastened his return at a rapid pace. He reached the High Street as the Blenheim light post coach dashed up to the Star Hotel, with that brilliant precision which even the New Generation can remember, and yet which already ranks among the traditions of English manners. A peculiar14 and most animating15 spectacle used to be the arrival of a firstrate light coach in a country town! The small machine, crowded with so many passengers, the foaming16 and curvetting leaders, the wheelers more steady and glossy17, as if they had not done their ten miles in the hour, the triumphant18 bugle19 of the guard, and the haughty20 routine with which the driver, as he reached his goal, threw his whip to the obedient ostlers in attendance; and, not least, the staring crowd, a little awestruck, and looking for the moment at the lowest official of the stable with considerable respect, altogether made a picture which one recollects21 with cheerfulness, and misses now in many a dreary22 market-town.
Our Oxonian was a young man about the middle height, and naturally of a thoughtful expression and rather reserved mien23. The general character of his countenance24 was, indeed, a little stern, but it broke into an almost bewitching smile, and a blush suffused25 his face, as he sprang forward and welcomed an individual about the same age, who had jumped off the Blenheim.
‘Well, Coningsby!’ he exclaimed, extending both his hands.
‘By Jove! my dear Millbank, we have met at last,’ said his friend.
And here we must for a moment revert26 to what had occurred to Coningsby since he so suddenly quitted Paris at the beginning of the year. The wound he had received was deep to one unused to wounds. Yet, after all, none had outraged27 his feelings, no one had betrayed his hopes. He had loved one who had loved another. Misery28, but scarcely humiliation29. And yet ‘tis a bitter pang30 under any circumstances to find another preferred to yourself. It is about the same blow as one would probably feel if falling from a balloon. Your Icarian flight melts into a grovelling31 existence, scarcely superior to that of a sponge or a coral, or redeemed32 only from utter insensibility by your frank detestation of your rival. It is quite impossible to conceal33 that Coningsby had imbibed34 for Sidonia a certain degree of aversion, which, in these days of exaggerated phrase, might even be described as hatred35. And Edith was so beautiful! And there had seemed between them a sympathy so native and spontaneous, creating at once the charm of intimacy36 without any of the disenchanting attributes that are occasionally its consequence. He would recall the tones of her voice, the expression of her soft dark eye, the airy spirit and frank graciousness, sometimes even the flattering blush, with which she had ever welcomed one of whom she had heard so long and so kindly38. It seemed, to use a sweet and homely39 phrase, that they were made for each other; the circumstances of their mutual40 destinies might have combined into one enchanting37 fate.
And yet, had she accorded him that peerless boon41, her heart, with what aspect was he to communicate this consummation of all his hopes to his grandfather, ask Lord Monmouth for his blessing42, and the gracious favour of an establishment for the daughter of his foe43, of a man whose name was never mentioned except to cloud his visage? Ah! what was that mystery that connected the haughty house of Coningsby with the humble44 blood of the Lancashire manufacturer? Why was the portrait of his mother beneath the roof of Millbank? Coningsby had delicately touched upon the subject both with Edith and the Wallingers, but the result of his inquiries45 only involved the question in deeper gloom. Edith had none but maternal46 relatives: more than once she had mentioned this, and the Wallingers, on other occasions, had confirmed the remark. Coningsby had sometimes drawn47 the conversation to pictures, and he would remind her with playfulness of their first unconscious meeting in the gallery of the Rue48 Tronchet; then he remembered that Mr. Millbank was fond of pictures; then he recollected49 some specimens50 of Mr. Millbank’s collection, and after touching51 on several which could not excite suspicion, he came to ‘a portrait, a portrait of a lady; was it a portrait or an ideal countenance?’
Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, but she was by no means certain, and most assuredly was quite unacquainted with the name of the original, if there were an original.
Coningsby addressed himself to the point with Sir Joseph. He inquired of the uncle explicitly52 whether he knew anything on the subject. Sir Joseph was of opinion that it was something that Millbank had somewhere ‘picked up.’ Millbank used often to ‘pick up’ pictures.
Disappointed in his love, Coningsby sought refuge in the excitement of study, and in the brooding imagination of an aspiring53 spirit. The softness of his heart seemed to have quitted him for ever. He recurred54 to his habitual55 reveries of political greatness and public distinction. And as it ever seemed to him that no preparation could be complete for the career which he planned for himself, he devoted56 himself with increased ardour to that digestion57 of knowledge which converts it into wisdom. His life at Cambridge was now a life of seclusion58. With the exception of a few Eton friends, he avoided all society. And, indeed, his acquisitions during this term were such as few have equalled, and could only have been mastered by a mental discipline of a severe and exalted59 character. At the end of the term Coningsby took his degree, and in a few days was about to quit that university where, on the whole, he had passed three serene60 and happy years in the society of fond and faithful friends, and in ennobling pursuits. He had many plans for his impending movements, yet none of them very mature ones. Lord Vere wished Coningsby to visit his family in the north, and afterwards to go to Scotland together: Coningsby was more inclined to travel for a year. Amid this hesitation61 a circumstance occurred which decided62 him to adopt neither of these courses.
It was Commencement, and coming out of the quadrangle of St. John’s, Coningsby came suddenly upon Sir Joseph and Lady Wallinger, who were visiting the marvels63 and rarities of the university. They were alone. Coningsby was a little embarrassed, for he could not forget the abrupt64 manner in which he had parted from them; but they greeted him with so much cordiality that he instantly recovered himself, and, turning, became their companion. He hardly ventured to ask after Edith: at length, in a depressed65 tone and a hesitating manner, he inquired whether they had lately seen Miss Millbank. He was himself surprised at the extreme light-heartedness which came over him the moment he heard she was in England, at Millbank, with her family. He always very much liked Lady Wallinger, but this morning he hung over her like a lover, lavished66 on her unceasing and the most delicate attentions, seemed to exist only in the idea of making the Wallingers enjoy and understand Cambridge; and no one else was to be their guide at any place or under any circumstances. He told them exactly what they were to see; how they were to see it; when they were to see it. He told them of things which nobody did see, but which they should. He insisted that Sir Joseph should dine with him in hall; Sir Joseph could not think of leaving Lady Wallinger; Lady Wallinger could not think of Sir Joseph missing an opportunity that might never offer again. Besides, they might both join her after dinner. Except to give her husband a dinner, Coningsby evidently intended never to leave her side.
And the next morning, the occasion favourable67, being alone with the lady, Sir Joseph bustling68 about a carriage, Coningsby said suddenly, with a countenance a little disturbed, and in a low voice, ‘I was pleased, I mean surprised, to hear that there was still a Miss Millbank; I thought by this time she might have borne another name?’
Lady Wallinger looked at him with an expression of some perplexity, and then said, ‘Yes, Edith was much admired; but she need not be precipitate69 in marrying. Marriage is for a woman the event. Edith is too precious to be carelessly bestowed70.’
‘But I understood,’ said Coningsby, ‘when I left Paris,’ and here, he became very confused, ‘that Miss Millbank was engaged, on the point of marriage.’
‘With whom?’
‘Our friend Sidonia.’
‘I am sure that Edith would never marry Monsieur de Sidonia, nor Monsieur de Sidonia, Edith. ‘Tis a preposterous71 idea!’ said Lady Wallinger.
‘But he very much admired her?’ said Coningsby with a searching eye.
‘Possibly,’ said Lady Wallinger; ‘but he never even intimated his admiration72.’
‘Not more than our intimate friendship authorised, and might expect.’
‘You have known Sidonia a long time?’
‘It was Monsieur de Sidonia’s father who introduced us to the care of Mr. Wallinger,’ said Lady Wallinger, ‘and therefore I have ever entertained for his son a sincere regard. Besides, I look upon him as a compatriot. Recently he has been even more than usually kind to us, especially to Edith. While we were at Paris he recovered for her a great number of jewels which had been left to her by her uncle in Spain; and, what she prized infinitely74 more, the whole of her mother’s correspondence which she maintained with this relative since her marriage. Nothing but the influence of Sidonia could have effected this. Therefore, of course, Edith is attached to him almost as much as I am. In short, he is our dearest friend; our counsellor in all our cares. But as for marrying him, the idea is ridiculous to those who know Monsieur Sidonia. No earthly consideration would ever induce him to impair75 that purity of race on which he prides himself. Besides, there are other obvious objections which would render an alliance between him and my niece utterly76 impossible: Edith is quite as devoted to her religion as Monsieur Sidonia can be to his race.’
A ray of light flashed on the brain of Coningsby as Lady Wallinger said these words. The agitated77 interview, which never could be explained away, already appeared in quite a different point of view. He became pensive78, remained silent, was relieved when Sir Joseph, whose return he had hitherto deprecated, reappeared. Coningsby learnt in the course of the day that the Wallingers were about to make, and immediately, a visit to Hellingsley; their first visit; indeed, this was the first year that Mr. Millbank had taken up his abode79 there. He did not much like the change of life, Sir Joseph told Coningsby, but Edith was delighted with Hellingsley, which Sir Joseph understood was a very distinguished80 place, with fine gardens, of which his niece was particularly fond.
When Coningsby returned to his rooms, those rooms which he was soon about to quit for ever, in arranging some papers preparatory to his removal, his eye lighted on a too-long unanswered letter of Oswald Millbank. Coningsby had often projected a visit to Oxford81, which he much desired to make, but hitherto it had been impossible for him to effect it, except in the absence of Millbank; and he had frequently postponed82 it that he might combine his first visit to that famous seat of learning with one to his old schoolfellow and friend. Now that was practicable. And immediately Coningsby wrote to apprise83 Millbank that he had taken his degree, was free, and prepared to pay him immediately the long-projected visit. Three years and more had elapsed since they had quitted Eton. How much had happened in the interval84! What new ideas, new feelings, vast and novel knowledge! Though they had not met, they were nevertheless familiar with the progress and improvement of each other’s minds. Their suggestive correspondence was too valuable to both of them to have been otherwise than cherished. And now they were to meet on the eve of entering that world for which they had made so sedulous85 a preparation.
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1
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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recollects
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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51
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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52
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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53
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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56
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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57
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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72
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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82
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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84
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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