Knockholt Park was one of those rare places which present a perfect combination of luxury and comfort to the beholder12, and impress the latter element of their constitution upon the resident visitor. Bien, être seemed to reign13 there; and the very peacocks which strutted14 upon the terrace, and tapped at the dining-room window as soon as Sir Peregrine had taken his accustomed seat at the head of the long table, seemed less restless in their vanity and brighter in their plumage than their confrères of the neighbouring gentlemen's seats. The brute15 creation had fine times of it at Knockholt Park, except, of course, such of their number as came under the denomination16 of vermin; and those Sir Peregrine was too good a farmer, to say nothing of his being too enthusiastic a sportsman, to spare. Horses were in good quarters in the stables and the paddocks of Knockholt Park; and well-to-do dogs were to be found everywhere, the kennel17 and the dining-room included. Sir Peregrine had the liking18 for animals to be observed in all kindly19 natures which are solitary20 without being studious, and which affords to such natures a subtle pleasure, a sympathy which does not jar with their pride, a companionship which does not infringe21 upon their exclusiveness.
Sir Peregrine Alsager was essentially22 a solitary man, though he hunted pretty regularly and shot a little; though he fulfilled the duties of county hospitality with resignation, which county perceptions mistook for alacrity23; and though he associated as much as most resident country gentlemen with the inmates24 of his house. These inmates were Helen Manningtree and her ci-devant governess, Mrs. Chisholm, a ladylike accomplished25 person, and a distant relative of Sir Peregrine, who had offered her a home with him when the charge of Helen had devolved upon him, almost simultaneously26 with the death of Mrs. Chisholm's husband,--an overworked young curate, who had fallen a victim to an epidemic27 disease, in consequence of the prevalence of which in the parish his rector had found it necessary to remove himself and his family to a more salubrious climate, but had not found it necessary to procure28 any assistance for the curate. They were pleasant inmates, but scarcely interesting,--would hardly have been so to a younger man; and there was a certain reserve in Sir Peregrine's manner, though it never lacked kindness, and was distinguished29 for its courtesy and consideration, which maintained their relative positions quite unchanged. A young girl would have been an unintelligible30 creature to Sir Peregrine, even if she had been his own daughter; and he contented31 himself with taking care that all Helen's personal and intellectual wants were amply supplied, and all her tastes consulted and gratified: he left the reading of the enigma32 to others, or was content that it should remain unread.
Life at Knockholt Park had rolled on very smoothly33 on the whole, until the accident which recalled his son to his neglected home had befallen Sir Peregrine; and if the master of the fine old house and the fine old estate had had a good deal of loneliness, some bitterness, not a little wistful haggard remembrance and yearning34 regret, a sense of discordance35 where he longed for harmony, with a disheartening conviction that he had not the faculties36 requisite37 for setting it right, and would never find them in this world, among his daily experiences, the decent and decorous mantle of pride had hidden these discrepancies38 in the general order of things from every perception but his own. If the hale old gentleman, on whom every eye looked with respect, and who had filled his place with honour all the days of his life, had unseen companions in those walks shared visibly by his dog alone; if the handsome stately library where he sat o' nights, and read all that a country gentleman is ever expected to read, was haunted now and then by a shadowy presence, by a beckoning39 hand; if the gentle whisper of a voice, whose music was heard in its full melody among the angels only, came oftener and more often, as "the tender grace of a day that was dead" receded40 more and more into the past, and stirred the slow pulses of the old man's heart,--he was all the happier, with such solemn happiness as remembrance and anticipation41 can confer, and no one was the wiser.
If "county society" in those parts had been brighter as a collective body, or if the individuals who composed it had had clearer notions of military life, and the obligations of a lieutenant-colonel, the long absence of Laurence Alsager from his father's house might have been made a subject of ill-natured and wondering comment; but the particular county to which Knockholt and its master belonged was rather remarkable42 for obtuseness43, and there was a certain something about the old baronet which rendered it impossible to say unpleasant things in his presence, and difficult even to say them in his absence; and so Laurence Alsager escaped almost scot-free. Helen Manningtree felt some indignant wonder occasionally at the only son's prolonged absence from his father--indignant, be it observed, on Sir Peregrine's account, not on her own. Helen was very sensible, and as little vain as it was possible for a nice-looking and attractive girl to be, without attaining44 a painful height of perfection; and so she did not wonder that Laurence Alsager had not been induced by curiosity to see her--of whom Sir Peregrine had doubtless frequently spoken to him--to visit his old home. Her life had been too simple and well regulated to enable her to comprehend an estrangement46 between father and son arising from diversity of sentiment alone; but it had also been so devoid47 of strong affections, of vivid emotions, that she was not likely to regard Laurence Alsager's conduct from a particularly elevated point of view. It was wrong, she thought, and odd; but if Laurence had gone to Knockholt at stated periods, and had conformed outwardly to filial conventionalities, Helen would have been the last person in the world to perceive that anything was wanting to the strength and sweetness of the relationship between Sir Peregrine and his only son.
Mrs. Chisholm-a woman who had known love and bereavement48, struggle and rest, but who was childless, and in whom, therefore, that subtlest instinct which gives comprehension to the dullest had never been awakened--felt about it all much as Helen did; but she expressed less, and the little she permitted herself to say was cold and vague, Coldness and vagueness characterized Mrs. Chisholm, because sorrow had early chilled her heart, and no one whom she loved had ever addressed himself to the awakening49 of her intellect. The curate had not had time, poor fellow; he had had too much to do in persuading people to go to church who would not be persuaded; and his Sophy had been so pretty in the brief old time, so cheerful, so notable, so lovable and beloved, that it had never occurred to him that her mind might have been a little larger and a little stronger with advantage. The time was brief, and the curate died in the simple old faith, leaving his pretty Sophy to outlive him, his love, and her prettiness, but never to outlive his memory, or to cease to glory in that unutterably-precious recollection, that her husband had never found fault with her in his life. On the whole, then, Laurence Alsager was gently judged and mildly handled by the worthy50 people who had the best right to criticise51 his conduct; and perhaps the knowledge that this was the case added keenness to the pang52 of self-reproach, which made his self-inflicted punishment, with which he read the brief but terrible news flashed to his conscious heart along the marvellous electric wire.
Evening had fallen over stream and meadow, over upland and forest, at Knockholt. It had come with the restless and depressing influence which contrasts so strangely with the calm and peace it brings to the fulness of life and health, into the lofty and spacious53 chamber54 where Sir Peregrine lay, prostrate55 under the victorious56 hand of paralysis57. The mysterious influence of serious illness, the shadow of the wings of the Angel of Death, rested heavily upon the whole of that decorously-ordered house; and the watchers in the chamber of helplessness, it may be of pain,--who can tell? who can interpret the enforced stillness, the inexorable dumbness of that dread58 disease?--succumbed to its gloom. Mrs. Chisholm and Helen were there, not, indeed, close by the bed, not watching eagerly the motionless form, but gazing alternately at each other and at the doctor, who kept a vigilant59 watch over the patient. This watch had, if possible, increased in intensity60 since sunset, at which time Dr. Galton had perceived a change, visible at first to the eye of science alone. The dreadful immobility had certainly relaxed; the rigidity61 of the features, blended with an indescribable but wofully-perceptible distortion of the habitual63 expression, had softened64; the plum-like blueness of the lips had faded to a hue65 less startlingly contrasted with that of the shrunken and ashy features.
"He will recover from this attack, I hope--I think," said the doctor in answer to a mute question which he read in Helen's eyes, as he stood upright after a long and close investigation66 of the patient. "Yes, he will outlive this. I wish Colonel Alsager were here."
"We may expect him very soon," Mrs. Chisholm said; "he would start immediately of course, and we know the telegraph-message would reach him in time for him to catch the up-train."
As she spoke45, wheels were heard on the distant carriage-drive. Sir Peregrine's room was on the north side, that farthest from the approach; and immediately afterwards a servant gently opened the door--ah, with what needless caution!--and told Mrs. Chisholm that the Colonel had arrived, and desired to see her. There was more awkwardness than agitation68 in Mrs. Chisholm's manner as she hurriedly rose to comply with this request, but was interrupted by Dr. Galton, who said:
"No, no, my dear madam,--I had better see him myself; I can make him understand the necessary care and caution better than you can."
Mrs. Chisholm returned to her seat in silent acquiescence69; and for the ensuing half-hour she and Helen sat sadly looking at the helpless form upon the bed, and occasionally whispering to one another their several impressions of how Laurence Alsager "would bear it."
What Laurence Alsager had to bear, and how he bore it, was not for any one to see. He held himself aloof70 even from the gentle scrutiny71 he had so little reason to dread. In half-an-hour Dr. Galton reentered Sir Peregrine's room, looking very grave, and requested Mrs. Chisholm and Helen to withdraw.
"I am going to let Colonel Alsager see his father," he said; "and I think there should be no one else by. We can never know exactly how much or how little the patient feels, or knows, or is affected72 in eases like these; but one at a time is an admirable rule."
"He will find us in the long drawing-room when he wishes to see us," said Mrs. Chisholm; and then she and Helen left the room, and went in silence along the wide corridor, and down the broad flat staircase of fine white stone, with its narrow strip of velvet73-pile carpeting and its heavy, carved balustrade, terminated by a fierce figure in armour74 holding a glittering spear, with a mimic75 banderol blazoned76 with the device of the Alsagers. The wide stone hall, at the opposite extremity77 of which the door of the long drawing-room stood open, the heavy velvet portière withdrawn78, was hung with trophies80 of the chase and of war. Tiger-skins, buffalo-horns, the dépouilles of the greater and the lesser81 animals which man so loves to destroy, adorned82 its walls, diversified83 by several handsome specimens84 of Indian arms, and a French helmet, pistol, and sabretache. Four splendid wood-carvings, representing such scenes as Snyders has painted, were conspicuous85 among the orthodox ornaments86 of the hall. They were great favourites with Sir Peregrine, who had bought them in one of the old Belgian cities on the one only occasion when he had visited foreign parts--an awful experience, to which he had been wont87 to allude88 with mingled89 pride and repugnance90. Helen glanced at them sadly as she crossed the hall; then turned her head carelessly in the direction of the great door, which stood open, and before which a huge black Newfoundland lay at full length upon the marble steps. At the same moment the dog, whose name was Faust, rose, wagged his tail, twitched91 his ears, and cantered down the steps, and across the terrace in an oblique92 direction.
"Who is that, Helen?" asked Mrs. Chisholm, as she caught sight of Faust's swift-vanishing form. "Some one is coming whom the dog knows."
"It is only Mr. Farleigh," answered Helen; but her reply must have been made quite at random93, for she had not advanced another step in the direction of the door, and could not possibly have seen, from her position in the hall, who was approaching the house at that moment.
Mrs. Chisholm had a natural and spontaneous inclination94 towards curates. She respected--indeed, she admired all the ranks of the hierarchy95 and all their members, and she never could be induced to regard them as in any way divided in spirit or opinions. They were all sacred creatures in her eves, from the most sucking of curates to the most soapy of bishops96; but the curates had the pre?minence in the order of this remarkably98 unworldly woman's estimation. Her Augustine had been a curate; he might, indeed, have become a bishop97 in the fulness of time, and supposing the order of merit to have been attended to by the prime minister in posse; but fate had otherwise decreed, and his apotheosis99 had occurred at the curate-stage of his career. For this perfectly100 laudable and appreciable101 reason Mrs. Chisholm liked the Reverend Cuthbert Farleigh, and would have liked him had he been the silliest, most commonplace, most priggish young parson in existence--had he had weak eyes and a weak mind, Low-Church opinions, and a talent for playing the flute102. But the Reverend Cuthbert had none of these things. On the contrary, he was a handsome manly103 young fellow, who looked as if he possessed104 an intellect and a conscience, and was in the habit of using both; who had a tall well-built figure, fine expressive105 dark eyes, and an independent, sensible, cheerful manner, which few people could have resisted. Helen Manningtree had never made any attempt at resisting it. She had known Cuthbert Farleigh for eighteen months, and she had been in love with him just twelve out of the number. She was not aware of the circumstance at first, for she had had no experience of similar feelings; she had had none of the preliminary feints and make-believes which often precede the great passion of such persons as are calculated to feel a great passion, and the tepid106 sincerity107 of such as are not. Helen had never experienced a sensation of preference for any one of the limited and not very varied number of young country gentlemen whom she had met since she "came out" (the term had a restricted significance in her case); and when she did experience and avow108 to herself such a sentiment in the instance of the Reverend Cuthbert Farleigh, she readily accounted for it to herself by impressing on her own memory that, however young he might look and be, he was her spiritual pastor109 and master--and, of course, that occult influence affected her very deeply--and by making up her mind that he preached beautifully. And Cuthbert? What was the young lady with the brown eyes, and the brown curls, and the fresh healthful complexion110; the young lady who was not indeed strictly111 beautiful, nor, perhaps, exactly pretty, but who was so charming, so graceful, so thoroughly112 well-bred; such an innate113 lady in thought, word, and deed, in accent, in gesture, in manner;--what was she to him? He had asked himself that same question many a time; he asked it now, as he came up to the open door--rarely shut at Knockholt Park, save in the rigorous depths of winter--and he came to the conclusion, as he thought of the manifest luxury and elegance114 in whose enjoyment115 Helen had been reared, and of the probable fortune which she would possess, that he had better postpone116 answering it until he should have become a bishop.
Helen, who did not try to analyze117 her own perturbations, and was wholly unconscious of Cuthbert's, received him with her accustomed gentle sweetness, but with a sedate118 and mournful gravity adapted to the circumstances. When the ladies had brought their lengthy119 and minute narrative120 to a close--a narrative which embraced only the history of twenty-four hours, for Cuthbert was a regular and attentive121 visitor--he inquired about Colonel Alsager. Had he been informed? had he been sent for? had he come?
"Yes, to all your questions, Mr. Farleigh. Colonel Alsager is now in the house, in Sir Peregrine's room; but as yet we have not seen him."
The sensitive and expressive face of the curate was clouded by a look of pain and regret. He and Colonel Alsager had never met; but the young clergyman knew Sir Peregrine better, perhaps, than any other person knew him, and respected him deeply. He could not regard Laurence's conduct so lightly, he could not acquit122 him as easily, as others did. He blamed him heavily, as he sat and listened to the women's talk; and with the blame keen compassion123 mingled; for he knew, with the mysterious insight of a sympathetic nature, all that he must suffer in realizing that regret must be in vain, must be wasted now, must be too late.
The occasion was too solemn to admit of so trivial a feeling as curiosity; but had it not been so, that feminine sentiment would undoubtedly124 have predominated among the emotions with which Mrs. Chisholm and Helen Manningtree received Colonel Alsager, when, after a lengthened126 interval127, he made his appearance in the long drawing-room. As it was, their mutual128 greetings were kindly but subdued129. The presence of illness and danger in the house superseded130 all minor131 considerations, and Colonel Alsager might have been a guest as familiar as he was in reality strange, for all the emotion his presence excited. Mrs. Chisholm introduced Cuthbert Farleigh, and added to the usual formula a few words to the effect that he was a favoured guest with Sir Peregrine, which led Alsager to receive the introduction warmly, and to prosecute132 the acquaintance with zeal133. The curate thawed134 under the influence of the Colonel's genial135 manner,--so warm and attractive, with all its solemn impress of regret, fear, and uncertainty136. After a little while the women went away again to resume their dreary137 watch; and Dr. Galton came down to make his report, and to join Alsager at his late and much-needed dinner. A telegraphic message had been sent to London to seek further medical assistance; but the great man, who could do so little, could not reach Knockholt before the morning. In the mean time there was little change in the state of the patient; but Dr. Galton adhered to the hopeful opinion he had formed at sunset. Cuthbert Farleigh went away from the Park, and sat down to the preparation of his Sunday's sermon with a troubled mind. "What a capital good fellow Alsager is," he thought, "with all his faults! What a number of questions he asked about her! He takes a great interest in her. Well, it would be a very natural and a very nice thing." It is granted, is it not, on all hands, that the abandonment of proper names and the substitution of pronouns--which, whether personal or impersonal138, are at all events demonstrative--is a very suspicious circumstance in certain cases?
Sir Peregrine Alsager did not die, as Laurence had thought, and dreaded139 that he was to die, with the silence between them unbroken, the estrangement unremoved. Nothing could undo125 the past, indeed; but the present was given to the father and son; and its preciousness was valued duly by them both. In a few days after Laurence's arrival the paralysis loosened its grasp of his father's faculties; and though he still lay in his bed shrunk, shrivelled, and helpless, he could see, and hear, and speak. Sometimes his words were a little confused, and a slight but distressing140 lapse142 of memory caused him to pause and try painfully first to recall the word he wanted, and next to accomplish its utterance143; but gradually this difficulty wore away, and the old man spoke freely, though little. He was greatly changed by his illness--was most pathetically patient; and his face, a little distorted by the shock, and never more to wear the healthy hue of his vigorous age, assumed an expression of tranquil144 waiting. The supremacy145 of his will was gone with the practical abolition146 of his authority. He let it slip unnoticed. He cared little for anything now but the presence of his son and the progress of the mornings and the evenings which were making the week-days of his life, and wearing towards the dawn of the eternal Sabbath. He loved to have Helen with him, and would regard her with unwonted interest and tenderness,--keenest when she and Laurence met beside his couch, and talked together, as they came gradually to do, very often at first for his sake, and afterwards, as he hoped, as he never doubted, for their own. Yes, the keen anxiety, the foresight147, the intensifying148 of former mental attributes which characterize some kinds of physical decay in persons of a certain intellectual and moral constitution and calibre, showed themselves strongly in Sir Peregrine Alsager, and centred themselves in his son. He had asked nothing, and had heard little of his wandering and purposeless life; but that little had made the old man--held back now, on the brink149 of the eternal verity150, by no scruples151 of coldness, of pride, of pique152, or of scrupulosity--very anxious that his son should marry, and settle down to live at Knockholt Park at least a fair proportion of the year. With that considerate, but perhaps, after all, beautiful, simplicity153 which restores to age the faith of youth, and builds her shrines154 for all the long-shattered idols155, Sir Peregrine reasoned of his own life and his own experience, and applied156 his deductions157 to his son's far different case. He was, however, too wise to put his wishes into words, or even to make them evident without words, to their objects. But there were two persons in the small group who tenanted Knockholt Park who knew that the dearest wish of Sir Peregrine's heart, that desire which overpassed the present and projected itself into the inscrutable future, when its fruition might perchance never be known to him, was that Laurence Alsager, his son, should marry Helen Manningtree, his ward. The two who had penetrated158 the inmost feelings of the old man were Cuthbert Farleigh and Mrs. Chisholm.
How sped the days with Colonel Alsager in the old home? Heavily, to say the least of it. He had undergone strong excitement of various kinds; and now reaction had set in, with the unspeakable relief of his father's reprieve160 from immediate67 death. During his journey from Redmoor to Knockholt he had been an unresisting prey161 to bitter and confused regrets; so bitter, they seemed almost like remorse162; so unavailing, they touched the confines of despair. The scenes in which he had lately played a part, the problems he had been endeavouring to solve, rushed from his view, and retired164 to the recesses165 of his memory,--to come out again, and occupy him more closely, more anxiously than ever, when the cruel grasp of suspense166 and terror was removed from his heart; when the monotony of the quiet house, and the life regulated by the exigencies167 of that of an invalid168, had fairly settled down upon him; when all the past seemed distant, and all the future had more than the ordinary uncertainty of human existence. There was no estrangement between Laurence and his father now; but the son knew that there was no more similarity than before. Their relative positions had altered, and with the change old things had passed away. The pale and shrunken old man who lay patiently on his couch beside the large window of the library at Knockholt, at which the peacocks had now learned to tap and the dogs to sniff169, was not the silent though urbane170, the hale and arriéré country gentleman to whom his Guardsman's life had been an unattractive mystery, and all his ways distasteful. That Guardsman's life, those London ways, the shibboleth171 of his set, even the distinctive172 peculiarities173 of his own individuality, had all been laid aside, almost obliterated174, by the dread reality which had drawn79 so near, and still, as they both knew, was unobtrusively ever nigh at hand. Father and son were much together at certain regulated times; and Laurence was unfailing in his scrupulous175 observance of all the wishes, his intuitive perception of all the fancies, of the invalid. Still there were many hours of solitude176 to be got through in every day; and Laurence Alsager held stricter and truer commune with his own heart, while they passed over the dial, than he had ever been used to hold. The quiet of the house; the seclusion177 of the park in which he walked and rode; the formal beauty of the garden, where he strolled with Helen Manningtree, and listened to her enthusiastic expectations of what its appearance would be when the time of flowers should have fully62 arrived; the regularity178 of the household; the few and trivial interruptions from without;--all these things had a strong influence on the sensitive temperament179 of Laurence Alsager, and gradually isolated180 him within himself. There was nothing to disturb the retrospective and introspective current of his thoughts; and in those quiet weeks of waiting he learned much of himself, of life, and of truth--knowledge which otherwise might never have come to him. It was not very long before his mind recurred181 painfully to Redmoor and its mistress, whom he had left in a position of difficulty and danger. He remembered the counsel he had given her, and he wondered whether it might avail. He pondered on all the eventualities which the triste sagesse of a man of the world taught him to anticipate, and longed for power to avert182 them or to alter their character. He learned some wholesome183 lessons in these vain aspirations184, and looked deeper into the stream of life than he had ever looked before.
He looked at Lady Mitford's position from every point of view; he weighed and measured her trials, and then he began to speculate upon her temptations. All at once it struck him that he had ceased to fear Lord Dollamore; that that distinguished personage had somehow dropped out of his calculations; that he was occupying himself rather with her sentimental185 griefs than with the serious danger which he had believed, a little while ago, menaced her reputation and her position. He feared Laura Hammond, and he ardently186 desired to penetrate159 the full meaning of Miss Gillespie's warning. He perfectly understood the difficulty of conveying to a mind so innocent as that of Lady Mitford the full force and meaning of the counsel he had given her, the hopelessness of inducing her to arm herself with a woman's legitimate187 weapon--the strong desire to please,--and getting her to use it against her husband. She did not lack intelligence, but she did not possess tact188; and her nature was too refined and straightforward189 to give her any chance in so unequal a contest as that into which her husband's worthlessness had forced her.
And now another truth came steadily190 up from the abyss into which Alsager was always gazing, and confronted him. That truth was the motive191 which animated192 his thoughts and inspired his perceptions; which gave him so clear an insight into Lady Mitford's position, and enabled him to read her heart with more distinctness than she herself could have interpreted it. One day Laurence Alsager knew, and acknowledged to himself, what this motive was, whence came this intuition. He loved Georgie Mitford. Yes; the idle speculation193, the indignation of a true gentleman at beholding194 the innocent wronged and the trusting deceived; the loyal instinct of protection; the contemptuous anger which had led him to detest195 Laura Hammond and to desire her discomfiture196; the tender and true sympathy of a world-worn man with a pure and simple woman, to whom the world and its ways are all unknown and unsuspected; the shrinking from beholding the suffering which experience must inflict,--all these had been evident--they had existed in utter integrity and vitality197. Alsager had not deceived himself then, neither did he deceive himself now; and though they still existed, they had receded from their prominence,--they did but supplement another, a more powerful, a more vital reality. He loved her--he never doubted the fact, never questioned it more. He loved with a love as much superior to, as much stronger, holier, truer, and more vital than, any love which he had ever before felt or fancied--as his present self-commune was more candid198, searching, and complete than any counsel ever previously199 held in the secret chambers200 of his brain and heart. He had settled this point with himself, and was moodily201 pondering on the possible consequences of the fact, and on the alteration202 in his own position towards Lady Mitford which it implied, when he received a letter from Georgie. It was not the first,--several notes had passed between them in the easy intimacy203 of their acquaintance; but it was the first since that acquaintance had strengthened into friendship. And now, for him, friendship too had passed away, and in its place stood love--dangerous, delicious, entrancing, bewildering love. So Georgie's letter had altogether a different value and significance for him now. This was the letter:
"Redmoor, -- March 18--.
"Dear Colonel Alsager,--Sir Charles received your kind note, but has been too busy to write; so he has asked me to do so, and I comply with very great pleasure. I need hardly say how truly glad we were to hear of the improvement in Sir Peregrine's state, and how earnestly we hope he may completely rally. All things are going on here much as usual. Poor Mr. Hammond is very ill,--failing rapidly, I am sure; this week he is suffering fearfully from bronchitis. They talked of going away, but that is of course impossible. I am a good deal with him, and I think he likes me. Lord Dollamore has come back from town, and is staying here,--doing nothing but lounge about and watch everybody. Is there any chance that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again if we are detained here much longer? I hoped Charley would have taken me to see my father, who has been ailing163 this cold spring weather; but I fear the long delay here will prevent that,--he will be impatient to get to town as soon as possible. Pray let us hear from you how Sir Peregrine is. Charley is out, but I know I may add his kindest regards to my own.--Yours, dear Colonel Alsager, always sincerely,
"Georgina Mitford.
"P.S. I have not forgotten your advice for a minute, nor ceased to act upon it, and to thank you for it from my heart. But--it is so difficult to write upon this subject--difficult to me to write on any, for, as you know, I am not clever, unfortunately for me. Could you not come?"
Laurence read and re-read this simple letter with unspeakable pain and keen irrepressible delight. She trusted him; she thought of him; she wished for his presence! Could he not come? she asked. No; he could not. But supposing he could--ought he? Well, he was a brave man and a true, and he faced that question also. How he answered it remains204 to be seen.
The days passed at Knockholt Park, and resembled each other very closely. Laurence saw a good deal of Cuthbert Farleigh, and liked him much. He wondered a little, after the manner of men, at the content yielded by a life so unlike his own, or any that his fancy had ever painted; but if he and the curate did not sympathize, they coalesced205. Laurence wrote again to, and heard again from, Lady Mitford.
There was not much in her letter apart from her kind and sympathizing comments upon his; but he gathered a good deal from the tone which unconsciously pervaded206 it. He learned that she had not succeeded in breaking up the party at Redmoor; that Sir Charles had invited a fresh relay of county guests; that Mr. Hammond's health was very precarious207; and that Georgie had not been gratified in her wish to see her father. The letter made him more uneasy, more sad, by its reticence208 than by its revelations. If he could but have returned to Redmoor!--but it was impossible. If he could have left his father, how was he to have accounted for an uninvited return to Sir Charles Mitford's house? He did not choose, for many reasons, to assume or cultivate such relations with the worthy Baronet as going there in an informal manner would imply.
So March and April slipped away, and Laurence Alsager was still at Knockholt, in close attendance upon his father. One day in the last week of April, Laurence was returning from a solitary ramble209 in the park, intending to read to his father for a while, if he should find that Sir Peregrine (sensibly feebler, and much inclined to slumber210 through the brightest hours of sunshine) could bear the exertion211 of listening. As he emerged from the shade of a thick plantation212 on the north side of the house and approached the terrace, he observed with alarm that several servants were assembled on the steps, and that two came running towards him, with evident signs of agitation and distress141. He advanced quickly to meet them, and exclaimed, "Is anything wrong? Is my father worse?"
"I am sorry to tell you, Sir Laurence--" began the foremost of the two servants. And so Laurence Alsager learned that his father had gone to his rest, and that he had come to his kingdom.
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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7
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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8
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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9
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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10
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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11
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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12
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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13
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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14
strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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16
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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17
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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18
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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19
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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20
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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21
infringe
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| v.违反，触犯，侵害 | |
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22
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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23
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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24
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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25
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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26
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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27
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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28
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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29
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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30
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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31
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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32
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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33
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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34
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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35
discordance
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| n.不调和，不和，不一致性；不整合；假整合 | |
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36
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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37
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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38
discrepancies
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| n.差异，不符合（之处），不一致（之处）( discrepancy的名词复数 ) | |
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39
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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40
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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41
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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42
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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43
obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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44
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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45
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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46
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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47
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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48
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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49
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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50
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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51
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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52
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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53
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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54
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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55
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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56
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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57
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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58
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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59
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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60
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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61
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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62
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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63
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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64
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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65
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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66
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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67
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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68
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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69
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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70
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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71
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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72
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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73
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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74
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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75
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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76
blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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77
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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78
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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80
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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81
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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82
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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83
diversified
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|
| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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84
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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85
conspicuous
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|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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86
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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88
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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89
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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90
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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91
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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92
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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93
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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94
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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95
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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96
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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97
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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98
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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99
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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100
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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101
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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102
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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103
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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104
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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105
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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106
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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107
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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108
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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109
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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110
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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111
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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112
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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113
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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114
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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115
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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116
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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117
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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118
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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119
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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120
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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121
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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122
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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123
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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124
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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125
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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126
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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128
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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129
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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130
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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131
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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132
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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133
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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134
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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135
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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136
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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137
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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138
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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139
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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140
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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141
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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142
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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143
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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144
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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145
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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146
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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147
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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148
intensifying
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的现在分词 )；增辉 | |
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149
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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150
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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151
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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152
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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153
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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154
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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155
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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156
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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157
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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158
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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159
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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160
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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161
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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162
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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163
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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164
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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165
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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166
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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167
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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168
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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169
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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170
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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171
shibboleth
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| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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172
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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173
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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174
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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175
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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176
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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177
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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178
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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179
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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180
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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181
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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182
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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183
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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184
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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185
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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186
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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187
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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188
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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189
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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190
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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191
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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192
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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193
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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194
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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195
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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196
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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197
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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198
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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199
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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200
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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201
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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202
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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203
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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204
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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205
coalesced
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| v.联合，合并( coalesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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208
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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209
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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210
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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211
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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212
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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