"I will stay here then," she said, "and go on just as usual. I don't know whether you are aware that I was Sir Peregrine's almoner. Am I to be yours? The farm-bailiffs, the keepers, and all the rest of your people, are my excellent good friends. I shall get on capitally with them, and go my old rounds in the village, and so forth34. But I want to know what I am to do about the charities, the schools, and the promiscuous35 applications to the 'great house.'"
"I would give you unlimited36 credit with Todd, Helen, for all your requirements in that way, but that I fear you would be too conscientious37 to make sufficient use of it. But stay; the best plan will be to arrange it with Farleigh. Yes; I'll speak to him, and tell Todd he is to give him anything he asks for. I daresay he won't mind a little additional trouble in the cause of his poor people; and you can do the visiting and all that as usual, and report to him."
Sir Laurence looked at Helen as he made this remarkably38 convenient proposition for rendering39 the intercourse40 between the Park and the Rectory (for Cuthbert lived at the rector's house; that is to say, in a corner of it) more frequent than it was at present. Helen grew extremely red, and then turned the conversation.
"So, I suppose," said she to Mrs. Chisholm, after Sir Laurence had taken his leave, and the two women were talking over his visit and all the late events,--"so I suppose we shall live here until Sir Laurence is married; and then, when he brings a handsome, dashing, fashionable Lady Alsager down here, you and I, dear old woman, will go and live in the village; perhaps that pretty little house with the roses and the little white fountain, just big enough for the two ducks that are always swimming in it, may be vacant then; and I daresay Laurence would give it to us rent-free, and we should be very snug41 there; but we would not have ducks, except for dinner; and Lady Alsager would have us up to tea, I daresay, when there were no fine people at the Park. What do you say to all this, Mrs. Chisholm? doesn't it sound pleasant? What a cosy42 little place it is! don't you think so?"
"My dear Helen, how you do run on?" said the calmer Mrs. Chisholm; "you are quite in spirits to-day."
She was; for in her sketch43 of the rural abode44 with the roses there had been an unmentioned element. Helen thought the house would be quite the thing for a curate. Helen was always thinking about a curate; and in that respect there was considerable sympathy between her and her companion, for Mrs. Chisholm was almost always thinking of a curate too. Helen's curate was living; Mrs. Chisholm's was dead. The girl's heart was in a dream of the future; the woman's, in the memory of the sacred past.
Cuthbert Farleigh had received the intelligence of Sir Peregrine Alsager's unaccountable conduct towards Helen Manningtree with mingled45 feelings. He was by no means a commonplace young man, though not the light of learning and the mirror of chivalry46 which Helen believed him. Her over-estimate of him did him no harm, for he entertained a tolerably correct opinion of himself; and if the future were destined47 to unite them, it would probably not militate against her own happiness either. The mistake she made was in degree, not in kind,--a distinction which makes all possible difference. A sensible and dutiful woman may find out that her husband is not possessed of the qualities with which she has believed her lover to be endowed, to the extent with which she accredited48 him, and her love and esteem49 may not suffer by the discovery. She would probably recognize that if she had over-rated him (and what a dreadful woman she would be if she had not!) on some points, she had also failed to discover his merits on others, until the intimacy of domestic life had restored the balance of judgment. The mistake, which lays a woman's life waste in its rectification50, is that which endows a man with qualities which he does not possess at all,--the mistake which leads to the conviction that the man she has married is not the man she loved, and burdens her with an actual duty and a lost ideal. If Helen Manningtree were ever to marry Cuthbert Farleigh, she would incur51 no such danger; she would have to pay no such price for the indulgence of undisciplined imagination. He was a good and a clever man, and was as highly and wholly disinterested52 as it is possible for a human being to be, to whom the consideration of meat, drink, clothing, and house-rent is one of rational importance.
He regarded his position with respect to Helen as very much improved by the fact that Sir Peregrine Alsager had not left her the fortune, which the gossips of the neighbourhood had taken for granted, and even announced "on authority." On the other hand, he grieved that she should be deprived of the luxurious53 home and the opulent manner of life to which she had been so long habituated; and as he was not at all a conceited54 man,--albeit flattered and exalted56 by all the ladies in the parish, which is ordinarily the bane of curates,--it did occur to him that perhaps Helen might have been better and happier if Sir Peregrine had left her the fortune, and he had adhered to his resolution of leaving her to its enjoyment57, unwooed by him. Such a supposition was not likely to last long; its cold chill would pass off in the sunshine of free and acknowledged love. Free and acknowledged love? Yes, the curate was going to tell Helen, as soon as he should have learned the particulars of her position, that she had not erred59 in believing that he loved her, aid to ask her to take all the risks and all the cares of a life which could never have any brilliancy or any luxury to offer her, for the sole consideration of sharing them with him. He had not the smallest doubt of his success. Helen's nature was too true, and too well known to him, to render a misgiving60 possible; still the near approach of the assurance of his hope made him grave and solemn. The orphan61-girl loved and trusted him; without him she was alone--alone in a world which is not very easily gotten through with the best of help and companionship. The sense of a great responsibility rested upon him, and his heart was lifted up in no merely conventional or professional prayer. So Cuthbert made up his mind, and felt very quiet and solemn about it. That mood would pass away; it would be succeeded by the dazzling delight, the splendid triumph, the fertile fancy, and superhuman hope and exultation62 of love, as it ought to be; but it is a good omen14 for any woman whose lover addresses himself to his wooing in such a temper.
Thus it fell out that Helen and Cuthbert, standing64 together by a window which opened on the broad stone terrace, and watching poor Sir Peregrine's peacocks, as they marched up and down outside, talked of a future which was to be common to them both, and was to date from the expiration65 of the year of mourning for Sir Peregrine Alsager. Helen had told Cuthbert how she had sketched66 such a charming picture for Mrs. Chisholm, of the house with the roses; and they had talked a good deal of the nonsense incidental to their position, and which is so much pleasanter than sense,--about whether she had thought of him; and if she had, why she had?--for there is a subtle resemblance to Jack67 Bunsby's monologue68 in the dialogues of lovers;--and then the conversation drifted away to Sir Laurence Alsager.
"We must tell him, my own Helen," said the curate; "he has been very kind to you, and I daresay will be very much disgusted at your making so poor a marriage."
The girl looked reproachfully at him, but smiled in a moment, and said, "Go on, Cuthbert; you are not worth contradicting, you know."
"No, but--" said Cuthbert, remonstrating69, "you must let me set the world's view before you. No doubt Sir Laurence will think you very foolish; but he will always be our friend,--I feel sure of that,--though I know he is so different, and lives in so different a world, under so different a system. Sometimes, Helen, I have had an idea that he found out my secret; though I never could see an inch farther into his life and his heart than it was his good pleasure I should look. Yes, my darling, he must know all about us, and soon; for you must remember that it may make a difference in all his plans and arrangements, if he finds you are not to remain here after next spring."
"I hardly think it will do that," said Helen; "I fancy he will establish Mrs. Chisholm here en permanence; that is to say, until he marries."
"Is he likely to marry? Have you heard anything of that sort?"
"O no! he has never talked of any girls to me. He has never said anything the least like intending to marry. The only woman he ever speaks of--and he does talk of her, and sometimes hears from her--is Lady Mitford; you remember, you told me about her marriage,--the daughter of Mr. Stanfield, your old tutor, you know."
"Of course, I remember. How strangely things come about! it really seems as if there were only two sets of people in the world; for one never meets any one with whom one has not some link of communication! And Georgie Stanfield is Laurence Alsager's female crony and correspondent! How and where is she?"
"In town, I believe; but I don't know much about her. He used to speak of her vaguely70, in talking to me of the great world and its hollowness, as of one whom he greatly liked and esteemed71, and who was unfortunately circumstanced. He said he would have asked Lady Mitford down here in the autumn, if he could have asked her without her husband; but that, of course, was impossible, and he could not invite Sir Charles Mitford. I believe they are very unhappy. Think of that, Cuthbert,--a husband and wife unhappy! a splendid home, with rank and wealth, and misery72!" The girl lifted solemn eyes full of wonder and compassion73 to her lover's face. "Sir Laurence wished that I could know her, for her sake, he kindly74 said."
"I wish you could, Helen; you would comfort her and do her good: and yet I would not have you saddened, my child, and made wise in the possibilities of life, as you must be if you had the confidence of an unhappy wife. You are better without it, darling--far better without it."
Then the curate remembered the alarm he had felt when Colonel Alsager made his appearance at Knockholt Park; and he confessed it to Helen, who laughed at him, and pretended to scold him, but who was not a little pleased all the time.
"You stupid Cuthbert!" said the young lady, to whom the curate had ceased to be an object of awe75 since their engagement; "it never came into Laurence's head to wish to marry me; and I am certain it never crossed any human being's imagination but your own that such a thing could ever happen."
The Reverend Cuthbert was reluctantly obliged to break off the conversation at this point, and go about his parish business. So he took leave of Helen, enjoining76 her to write to Sir Laurence that very day, and to make him acquainted with their engagement,--as Mrs. Chisholm, who had just entered the room, and to whom he referred the matter, gave it as her decided77 opinion that the communication should be made by Helen.
The post was not a subject of such overwhelming importance at Knockholt Park, its punctuality was not so earnestly discussed, nor was there as much excitement on its arrival, as at the generality of country-houses. Mrs. Chisholm had very few correspondents; Helen had only two, exclusive of Sir Laurence; and no letters were "due" at this particular time: hence it happened that the ladies often left the breakfast-table before the arrival of the letter-bag, and that its contents awaited their attention undisturbed through more hours of the day than most people would believe possible. Mrs. Chisholm never read the newspapers until the evening, and Helen never read them at all, being content with Cuthbert's version of public affairs. On this particular morning, however, Helen thought proper to remain in the breakfast-room until the post should arrive. The truth was she shrank from the task of writing to Sir Laurence, and she knew she ought to set about it at once; so she lingered and fidgeted about the breakfast-room long after Mrs. Chisholm had betaken herself to her daily confabulation with the housekeeper78. Thus she was alone when the letter-bag was brought in, and she turned over its contents, expecting to find them of the usual uninteresting nature. There were several letters for Sir Laurence "to be forwarded," a number of circulars, a few letters for some of the servants, the customary newspapers, and lastly--a missive for Helen herself. It was a large letter in a blue envelope, and directed in a lawyer-like hand Helen opened it, feeling a little frightened, and found that the cover enclosed a packet addressed to her, in the hand of Sir Laurence Alsager, and marked "Private."
"What on earth can Laurence be writing to me about that requires such precaution?" thought Helen anxiously; and then she rang the bell, handed over the other letters to the footman for proper distribution, and retired79 to her own room, where she read the following:
"Dover.
"My Dear Helen,--I am devoting the last evening which I shall pass in England for an indefinite period, to writing to you a letter, which I shall take the precaution of sending so that its existence may be known to none but you, at the present time. A certain portion of its contents must necessarily be communicated to others; but you will use your discretion, upon which in this, and all other things, I rely with absolute confidence.
"You must not let this preamble80 alarm you; there is nothing to occasion you any trouble or sorrow in what I am about to say to you. It will be a long story, and, I daresay, a clumsily--told one, for I am eminently81 unready with my pen; but it will interest you, Helen, for my sake and for your own. When I tell you that this story is not a new one,-that it does not include anything that has occurred after I left Knockholt, though I am indirectly82 impelled83 to write it to you by circumstances which have happened since then,--you will wonder why I did not tell it to you in person, during the period when our companionship was so close and easy,--so delightful84 to me, and I am quite sure I may add, so pleasant to you. I could not tell you then, because I was not sufficiently85 sure of myself. I had an experiment to try--an experience to undergo--before I could be certain, even in the limited sense of human security, of my own future; and until these were over and done with, all was vague for me. They are over and done with now: and I am going to tell you all about yourself, and a good deal about myself.
"You know that among the sorrows of my life there is one which must be life-long. It is the remembrance of my conduct to my father, and of the long tacit estrangement86 which preceded our last meeting, and which, but for a providential interposition, might never have been even so far atoned87 for and mitigated88 as it was before his death. It would be difficult to account for this estrangement; it is impossible to excuse it; there never was any reproach on either side,--indeed there could not have been on mine, for the fault was all my own,--and there never was any explanation. My father doubtless believed, as he was justified89 in believing, that any wish of his would have little weight with me;--he seldom expressed one; and I am convinced that one thing on which he had set his heart very strongly, one paramount90 desire, he cautiously abstained91 from expressing, that he might, by keeping me ignorant of it during his lifetime, give it the additional chance of realization92 which it might derive93 from the sanctity of a posthumous94 appeal to the feelings of an undutiful and careless son, when those feelings should be intensified95 by unavailing regret. I did learn, dear Helen, after the barrier of eternal silence had been placed between my father and me, that he had cherished one paramount desire, and that he had resorted to such an expedient96 in order to induce me to respect and to fulfil it.
"My amazement97 and discomfiture98 when I found that my father's will was of so far distant a date that it made no mention of you were great. I could not understand why he had not supplemented the will which existed by another, in which you would be amply provided for, and his wishes concerning your future fully30 explained. My long and wilful99 absence from my father had prevented my having any real acquaintance with you. To me you were merely a name, seldom heard, hardly remembered. Had I not gone to Knockholt when I did, you would have remained so; and there was no one else who could be supposed to take an obligatory100 interest in you. How came it, I thought, that my father had taken no precaution against such a contingency101--which, in fact, had so nearly been a reality? You will say he trusted to the honour and the gentlemanly feeling of his son; and so I read the riddle102 also; but reflection showed me that I was wrong. A more strictly103 just man never lived than my father; and he must have been strictly unjust had he allowed the future fortunes of a young girl whom he had reared and educated--who had been to him as a daughter for years--to depend upon the caprice or the generosity104 of a man to whom she was an utter stranger, and between whom and herself the tie of blood was of the slightest description. Nor was delicacy105 less characteristic of my father than justice. (Ah, Helen, how keenly I can see all these things now that he is gone!) He would have shrunk as sensitively as you would from anything that would have obliged you and me to meet for the first time in the characters of pensioned and pensioner106. I knew all this; and I was utterly107 confounded at the absence of any later will. I had the most complete and diligent108 search made; but in vain. There was no will, Helen, but there was a letter. In the drawer of the desk which my father always used, there was a letter. How do you think it was addressed? Not to 'my son'--not to 'Colonel Alsager;' but to 'Sir Laurence Alsager, Bart.'! It was a painful letter--painful and precious; painful because a tone of sadness, of disappointment, of content in feeling that the writer had nearly reached his term of life, pervaded109 it; precious because it was full of pardon and peace, of the fulness of love for his only son. I cannot let you see the letter,--it is too sacred for any eyes but those for which it was intended; but I can tell you some of its contents, and I can make you understand its tone. As a mother speaks to her son going forth into the arena110 of life, the night before their parting, in the dark, on her knees, by his bedside, with her head upon his pillow; as she speaks of the time to come, when she will watch and wait for him, of the time that is past, whose memories are so precious, which she bids him remember and be brave and true; as she makes light of all his faults and shortcomings,--so did my dear old father--my father who had grown gray and old; alone, when I might have been with him, and was not--write to me. God bless him, and God forgive me! He never reproached me, living; what punishment he has inflicted111 upon me, dead! The letter was long; and it varied112, I think, through every key in which human tenderness can be sung. But enough of this.
"A portion of the contents concerned you nearly, my dear Helen. I can repeat them to you briefly113. I knew, and you know, that your father and my father--very distant relatives--had been playmates in boyhood, and attached friends in manhood. We knew that your father died on his voyage home from India, and just after he had consigned114 you and your black nurse to the care of the captain of the ship, to be sent, on landing, to Knockholt Park. I believe you have your father's letter to my father, in which he solemnly, but fearlessly, entreats115 his protection for the orphan child, whose credentials116 it is to form. He had left your mother and her baby in an alien grave at Barrackpore, and I suppose he had not the strength to live for you only, 'little Nelly,' as they called you then. At all events, he died; and I knew in a vague kind of way about that, and my father's care of you, and how you grew up with him, and made his home cheerful and happy, which his only son left carelessly, and forsook117 for long. The letter recapitulated118 all this, and told me besides, that your mother had been my father's first love. Perhaps she was also his only love--God knows. He was a good husband to my mother during their brief married life, I am sure; for I remember her well; and she was always smiling and happy. But the girl he loved had preferred Robert Manningtree with nothing but his commission, to Peregrine Alsager with a large estate and a baronetcy for his fortunate future. My father, preux chevalier that he was, did not forget to tell me that she never repented119 or had reason to regret that preference. Thus, Helen, you were a legacy120 to him, bequeathed not alone by friendship, but by love. As such he accepted you; as such he prized you, calm and undemonstrative as he was; as such it was the cherished purpose of his life to intrust you to me--not that I was to be your guardian in his place, but that I was to be your husband. He thought well of me, in spite of all, you see; he did not despair of his ungracious son, or he never would have dreamed of conferring so great a privilege on me, of suffering you to incur so great a risk. He had had this darling project so strongly in his mind, and yet had been so convinced that any betrayal of it to me would only prevent my seeking you, that my persistent121 neglect of the old home had a double bitterness for him; and at length, two years ago, hearing a rumour122 that I was about to marry one of the beauties of the season, he relinquished123 it, and determined124 to make a will, bequeathing to you the larger portion of his unentailed property. The rumour was true as to my intentions, but false as to my success. The lady in question jilted me for a richer marriage, thank God! I don't say this from pique125, but from conviction; for I have seen her and her husband, and I have seen her since her husband's death. She did not hold her perjured126 state long; nor did she win the prize for which she jilted me. I am a much richer man than her husband ever was, and he has left her comparatively poor. In a storm of rage and disgust I left England, without going to Knockholt--without having seen you since your childhood--without bidding my father farewell. This grieved him much: but I was free; I was not married. I was labouring under angry and bitter feelings towards all womankind. I should come home again, my father thought, still unmarried, and his hope would be fulfilled. He did not make the will. I remained away much longer than he supposed I should have done, and not nearly so long as in my anger and mortification127 I had determined to remain. You know the rest, dear Helen--you know that I lingered and dallied128 with time and duty, and did not go to Knockholt until it was all but too late. A little while before he met with the accident, my father had written a letter somewhat similar in purport129; but he had not seen me then, and I suppose it was not warmly affectionate enough for the old man's liking130, and he wrote that which I now mention at many, and, I fear, painful, intervals131 of his brief convalescence132. It was finished just a week before he died.
"You will have read all this with emotion, Helen; and I daresay at this point your feelings will be very painful. Mine are little less so, and the task of fully explaining them to you is delicate and difficult. The truthfulness133, the candour of your nature will come to my assistance when you read, as their remembrance aids me while I write. My first impulse on reading my father's letter was to exult63 in the thought that there was anything possible to me by which his wishes could be respected. My second--and it came speedily--was to feel that the marriage he desired between us never could take place. Are you reassured134, Helen? Have you been frightened at the image your fancy has created, of a debt of gratitude135 to be discharged to Sir Peregrine at the cost of your own happiness, or disavowed at the cost of seeming cold, ungrateful, and undutiful? Have you had a vision of me in the character of an importunate137 suitor, half imploring138 a concession139, half pressing a right, and wholly distasteful to you? If you have, dismiss it, for it is only a vision, and never will be realized to distress140 you. Why do I say this? Because I know that not only do you not love me, but that you do love Cuthbert Farleigh. Forgive the plainness and directness with which I allude141 to a fact yet perhaps unavowed to him, but perfectly142 well known by and acknowledged to yourself. No betrothal143 could make you more truly his than you have been by the tacit promise of your own heart--I know not for how long, but before I came to Knockholt Park, I am sure. If I had not seen the man, I should equally have discerned the fact, for I am observant; and though I have, I hope, outlived the first exuberance144 of masculine conceit55, I did not err58 in imputing145 the tranquil146, ladylike indifference147 with which you received me to a preoccupied mind, rather than to an absence of interest or curiosity about the almost unknown son of your guardian. Life at Knockholt Park has little variety or excitement to offer; and the advent148 of a Guardsman, a demi-semi-cousin, and an heir-apparent, would have made a little more impression, would it not, had not the Church secured its proper precedence of the Army? I perceived the state of things with satisfaction; for I liked you very much from the first, and I thought Cuthbert a very good fellow; just the man to hold your respect all his life long and to make you happy. In my reflections on your share, then, in the impossibility of the fulfilment of my father's request, I experienced little pain. My own was not so easily disposed of after his death as during his life. I was destined to frustrate149 his wishes. Had you and I met, as we ought to have done, long before; had I had the good fortune to have seen you and learned to contrast you with the meretricious150 and heartless of your sex, who had frittered away my heart and soured my temper, perhaps, Helen, I might have won you, and the old man might have been made happy.
"We met under circumstances which made any such destiny for us impossible, for reasons which equally affected both. My preoccupation was of a different sort from yours; it had neither present happiness nor future hope in it,--it had much of the elements of doubt and fear; but it was powerful, far more powerful than I then thought, and powerful it will always be. All this is enigmatical to you, dear Helen, and it must remain so. I would not have said anything about it, but that I owed it to you, to the friendship which I trust will never know a chill, to prevent your supposing that your share in the frustration151 of my father's wishes is disproportionate to mine. I would not have you think--as without this explanation you might justly think--that I magnanimously renounce152 my claims, my pretensions153 to your love in favour of the actual possessor. No, Helen; for us both our meeting was too late. We were not to love each other; I was not to be suffered to win the heart of a true and priceless woman, such as you are, when I had not a heart to give her in exchange. But though we were not to love each other, we were destined to be friends--friends in the fullest and firmest sense; and believe me, friendship between a man and woman, with its keen sympathy, its unrestrained, confidence, and its perfect toleration, is a tie as valuable as it is rare.
"Now I have told you almost all I have to tell about my father's letter. I suppose we shall both feel, and continue always to feel, that there was something hard, something almost cruel in the fate which marked him out for disappointment, and you and me for its ministers. But this must be; and we must leave it so, and turn to the present and vital interests of our lives. We shall think of him and mourn for him none the less that we will speak of this no more.
"Strong as was my father's desire for our marriage, dear Helen, and his persuasion154 that it would come to pass, in his abstraction and his want of observation he failed to take Farleigh into account; or perhaps, like all old people, he did not realize the fact that the child, the girl, had grown into a woman. He did not quite forget to provide for the contingency of its non-fulfilment. 'If, for any reason, it may not be. Lance,' he wrote--'if Florence Hillyard's child is not to be the mistress of the home which might have been her mother's, see that she has a dowry befitting my daughter and your sister.' No sentence in his letter touched me more with its simple trust than did that.
"I have seen very clearly into the state of your feelings, as I am sure you allow, and I don't think I have blundered about that of Farleigh's. He has not told you in formal words the fact patent to every one's observation, that he entirely reciprocates155 your devotion (don't be vexed156, Helen; one may pet a curate, you know), because he's poor, and you were likely to be rich. He believes, as every one believes, that you are as poor as himself; a belief, by the way, which does not say much for the general estimate of my character--but that does not matter; and in that faith he will not hesitate any longer. Will you be discreet157, and say nothing at all of my intention of carrying out this privately-expressed wish of my father? Will you prove your possession of the qualities I give you credit for, by leaving Cuthbert in the belief that he will have in you a portionless bride, save for your dowry of beauty and worth? I really almost think you will, Helen; especially as, though you do not need any further confirmation158 of Farleigh's nobility of mind than the silence he has hitherto kept, and the alacrity159 with which he will now doubtless break it, it will be well for Mrs. Chisholm and for myself, your only friends, to know how amply he fulfils our expectations. I almost think you will; but I intend to make assurance doubly sure by not giving you the slightest satisfaction on the subject of my intentions. When your marriage is near, you shall learn how I mean to fulfil my father's last injunction, but not till then; and if you tell Farleigh anything about it until I give you leave, I vow136 I won't give you a shilling.
"You see I have written myself into good spirits, dear Helen; the thought of you cheers me almost as your kindly presence would do. What more have I to say? Not much more of myself, or of yourself, save that the dearest and warmest wish I entertain is for your welfare.
"I shall send from my first halting-place on the Continent full instructions to Todd, in case my absence should be much prolonged. I cannot speak with any certainty of its duration; it does not depend on my own inclination160.
"And now, in conclusion, I am going to ask you to do something for me, which I shall take as the truest proof that the friendship I prize and rely upon is really mine. I am sure you have not forgotten the friend I mentioned to you--Lady Mitford. I have seen her in town, and found her in much grief and perplexity. The cause of her sorrow is not one on which I can venture to enter to you; but it is deep-seated, incurable161. I am much distressed162 for her, and can in no way defend or comfort her. She was an only child, motherless, and brought up in seclusion163 by her father,--an exemplary country clergyman, but a man whose knowledge of the world was quite theoretical and elementary, and who could not have trained her so that she would know how to encounter such trials as hers; he probably did not know that such could exist. As I told you at Knockholt, she has no female friend; unfortunately she has female enemies--one in particular. My great wish is to procure164 her the one, and defend her from the other. I may fail in the latter object; but you, Helen, can aid me, if you will, to fulfil the former. I have spoken to her about you, and have assured her that she might trust in your kindliness165, though your inexperience is far greater than her own. I cannot bring you together now--there is no time or opportunity; but I want you to promise me that, if at any time during my absence from England Lady Mitford asks you to come to her, you will go promptly166, and will be to her all that is in you to be to one unjustly oppressed, cruelly betrayed, and sorely afflicted167. Will you do this for me, Helen? and will you give me an assurance that I may rely upon you to do it (this is the only portion of my letter which you need reply to, if you have any feeling that you would rather not) before next Wednesday, and addressed to me at the Hotel Meurice, Paris?--Always affectionately yours,
"Laurance Alsager."
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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7
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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8
suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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9
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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10
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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11
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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12
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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14
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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15
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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16
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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17
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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18
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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19
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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20
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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21
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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22
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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23
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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24
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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25
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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26
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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27
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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28
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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29
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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30
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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31
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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32
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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33
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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35
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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36
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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37
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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38
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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39
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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40
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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41
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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42
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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43
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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44
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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45
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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46
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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47
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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48
accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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49
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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50
rectification
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| n. 改正, 改订, 矫正 | |
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51
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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52
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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53
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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54
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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55
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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56
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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57
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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58
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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59
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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61
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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62
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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63
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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64
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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65
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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66
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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68
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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69
remonstrating
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
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70
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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71
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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72
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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73
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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74
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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75
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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76
enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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77
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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78
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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79
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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80
preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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81
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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82
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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83
impelled
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|
| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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85
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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86
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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87
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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88
mitigated
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|
| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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90
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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91
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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92
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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93
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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94
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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95
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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97
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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98
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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99
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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100
obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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101
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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102
riddle
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|
| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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103
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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104
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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105
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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106
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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107
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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108
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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109
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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111
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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113
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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114
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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115
entreats
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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117
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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118
recapitulated
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| v.总结，扼要重述( recapitulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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121
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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122
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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123
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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124
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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125
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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126
perjured
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| adj.伪证的，犯伪证罪的v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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128
dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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129
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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130
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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131
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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132
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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133
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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134
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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135
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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136
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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137
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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138
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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139
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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140
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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141
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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142
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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143
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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144
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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145
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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146
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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147
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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148
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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149
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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150
meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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151
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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152
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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153
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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154
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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155
reciprocates
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| n.报答，酬答( reciprocate的名词复数 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的第三人称单数 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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156
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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157
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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158
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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159
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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160
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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161
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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162
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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163
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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164
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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165
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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166
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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167
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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