Tchernigow had been popular in Paris before he had gratified it by bringing a new princess to sparkle and glitter, by her beauty and her splendour, in the Bois, at the Opera, at the balls, and at the Court. Paris admired the Calmuck; first because he was so immensely rich because there was nothing in the place, which contains everything in the world worth having, that he could not buy; and secondly3 because he was odd, so bizarre; because his character was as much out of the common as his wealth, and his eccentricities4 afforded them an increasing source of remark and speculation5. He was the most polished Russian that had ever appeared in Parisian society--the most widely removed from the train-oil-drinking and no-shirt-wearing tradition of the Muscovites.
And the Princess? She had not been by any means unknown to fame in Paris. She had visited that city during her first bridal tour, and she had had a great success. The freshness and perfection of her beauty, which owed nothing to artificial means, but could bear any kind or degree of light; the piquancy6 of her manner, her first-rate seat on horseback, her dancing,--all these things had captivated the Parisians. Then, was she not so interesting, this beautiful little English lady, whose husband was so far from young? It was so charming to see them together, because one knew that in England marriages of reason had no place; and this fair creature must have reposed7 her affections in the feeble elderly gentleman, to whom she was so delightfully8 devoted11, and who was so proud of her. She had had a train of admirers then, naturally; but it was early days, and there was nothing very prononcé.
Mrs. Hammond had been in Paris again and again after that first successful appearance; and if her devotion to the feeble elderly gentleman had been less conspicuous12, her beauty and her vivacity13 had been more so. Of course she was "talked about;" but that mysterious and terrible word has one signification and effect in London, and quite another in Paris; and Mrs. Hammond's reign14 was undimmed.
When the Prince and Princess Tchernigow made their appearance on the scene in their attractive character of bride and bridegroom, considerable curiosity had been excited about them, quite apart from the legitimate15 interest to which they were entitled on their separate merits, and to which their union added vigour16 and intensity17. The Baden story had of course got about, with more or less correctness of time, place, and circumstances; and the combination of a duel19, involving the death of his adversary20, with a wedding, in which the bride had been affichée to the slain21 man, was an irresistibly22 piquant23 anecdote,--and "so like" Tchernigow.
The Princess came off remarkably24 well in the innumerable discussions to which the affair gave rise. In the first place Mitford was dead, which was a great point; and in the second, the catalogue of the Prince's luxuries including some useful and devoted toadies25, who made it their business to spread abroad a report which gained ample credence26, that the unfortunate Englishman was a violent fellow, who had no manners, and who had assumed a tone towards Mrs. Hammond wholly unjustified by their antecedents; in fact, had persecuted27 that lady, and been excessivement brutale.
So it was all plain sailing with the Prince and Princess, and even the women took the liveliest interest in the latter. Poor dear creature, they said, how very sad, but how charmingly romantic it was! To think that she had been quite ignorant of the duel, and had not had the least idea that her bridegroom had shot a man just before he had married her! When she discovered it, how strange she must have felt! They wondered if it made her experience for a moment a very little of repulsion. But no, probably not,--the Prince was really such a gentleman; and the other deplorable person it was impossible to pity.
Prince Tchernigow possessed28 a mansion29 in the Champs Elysées; and thither30, a short time after the arrival of the pair, all Paris (presentable Paris, of course) flocked to pay their respects, and inspect the magnificence of the possessions in the midst of which Tchernigow had installed his bride--doubtless the most precious of them all. Then came brilliant entertainments, and the Princess achieved at one stroke the almost incredible eminence31 of being declared by common consent the best-dressed woman in Europe--Paris meaning that continent, of course.
It was at the second of these entertainments that Madame de Soubise remarked to Madame de Somme, in a pregnant little sentence, beginning with the invariable "dites-donc, chère Adèle," that Madame la Princesse seemed a little distraite, and had begun to wear rouge33 like the rest of the world. Madame de Somme acquiesced34 in her friend's remark, and further added on her own account, that the English complexions35, undeniably charming, were very evanescent, and that really the Princess had no longer the appearance of being young. It was on the same occasion that several of the company had asked who was the "petite dame32," so beautifully dressed, so quiet, and yet so spirituelle, to whom the Princess was so caressing36, and the "best" men were invariably presented. The "petite dame" was small and slight, pale-faced, and rather plain, perhaps, than pretty. Her features had nothing remarkable37 about them, and her figure was redeemed38 from insignificance39 only by the taste and richness of her dress. But she was eminently41 attractive; and before long rumours42 circulated about the salons43 to the effect that the little lady--the close, the inseparable friend of the Princess; a charming Irish widow, who spoke44 French remarkably well, but with perhaps the slightest defect in the accent (it is so difficult to be certain that one is taught by persons who are comme il faut)--was as witty45, as brilliant, as her friend was beautiful. She was so completely at her ease, and she enjoyed herself so much; and how delightful9 it was to see the affection which subsisted46 between the little lady and the Princess! Did one hint to the former that the Princess looked a little fatigued47, she would be all concern and agitation48; she would fly to her cherished Laura, and ask her in fervent49 tones if the pleasures, the delights of this evening of Paradise had been too much for her; and the two women would form the prettiest tableau50 in the world.
Did any of the worshippers at Laura's canapé, beside which the Prince, most attentive51 of bridegrooms, most devoted of men, kept his place steadily52 all the evening, admire the vivacity, the wit, the grace of the little lady, the Princess would reply warmly, that her dear Lucy was fortunate in possessing such a charming flow of spirits; and Tchernigow would remark that Madame Seymour was indeed a captivating islander, but that he understood the Irish ladies resembled the French in wit and vivacity.
When the season in Paris approached its termination, the beau monde was distressed53 to learn that the health of the Princess was not in so satisfactory a condition as the host of friends who were desolated55 by the intelligence could have desired. She was as much seen as ever; she was the gayest of the gay, the richest of the rich, the most brilliant of the brilliant; but she was not as beautiful at the close of the season as she had been at the beginning; and it was not to be denied that Lady Walford and Mrs. Fane--the last new brides and beauties from the English capital--had as many admirers, if not more.
The Princess still dressed better than any woman in Europe, conventionally defined; and her diamonds at least were unapproachable, though there might possibly be brighter eyes to be now seen under the Paris moonlight and waxlight.
"Going to St. Petersburg, are they?" said Lord Dollamore to his bosom-friend the Malacca cane56, as he retreated gracefully57 from the side of the Princess's carriage, after a brief conversation with her. "Going to St. Petersburg, are they? She does not look enchanted58; on the contrary, rather frightened, I thought. And that little devil Marcelline, doing her beloved compatriots with such perfect composure and success! I would not have lost seeing that for a good deal. Gad59, the bow she bestowed60 upon me when the Princess introduced me would have done credit to a duchess! Madame Seymour, hey?--and Irish! By Jove, I have not enjoyed anything so much for an age!"
Lord Dollamore walked on chuckling61 and tapping his ear in his old manner. After a little his face grew graver and his confidences with his cane were resumed in a different tone.
"What the deuce has come over her, I wonder?" he said. "I see a change; but I don't know where it is. Is it in her face? is it in her manner? She's very handsome--she's wonderfully handsome still, though she rouges62; but that's of course here-every one does it; though it's not a case of painting the lily, so far as the Parisiennes are concerned. Stop, though: there's such a thing as an orange-lily--forgot that. It's something in the expression, I fancy--something which gives one an impression that she's thinking of one thing and talking of another, which was never la belle63 Laura's way: she knew her monde better than to shock their self-love by anything of that kind. Yes: that's it, by Jove!" and Lord Dollamore struck himself quite a sharp little blow on the ear; "I've hit it: the expression in her face is fear!"
When Lord Dollamore had stepped back from the side of her carriage, and the horses were once more whirling it along, to the admiration64 of the multitude, the Princess sank back upon the luxurious65 cushions with a deep sigh. Madame Seymour looked at her with steady composure and not a little contempt.
"Agitated66, are you?" she said; "and quite upset by old memories and all that sort of thing? What a weak fool you are! you are thinking of the last time you and that very estimable nobleman met, I daresay, and feeling quite sentimental67. If you would remember, in addition, what you intended to do when that interesting interview took place (I remember it: I thought I never saw anything cooler or cleverer than his polite unconsciousness of the identity of your dame de compagnie; he used to walk with me in the shrubberies at Redmoor, and I've given him a kiss occasionally for a guinea),--if you would remember what you intended to do, and how completely you have done it, it would be more to the purpose."
The Princess turned towards her companion, and said in a hurried broken voice:
"You are wrong, Marcelline,--you are quite wrong; I was not thinking of anything of the kind. I was only thinking of this horrible journey to Russia. It terrifies me."
"Yes; but everything terrifies you, you know. How odd that Madame la Princesse should not be enthousiasmé at the prospect68 of beholding70 the ancestral home of Monsieur le Prince, of being presented to the gracious and urbane71 monarch72 who rules the Russias and the Russians! They are a little difficult to rule as individuals, I fear; but as a nation, no doubt, charming. I should have thought madame would have seized the occasion with transport."
"Marcelline," pleaded Laura, "don't laugh at me; I am in deadly terror of this journey. You can save me from it if you will. Do, do, Marcelline! It is all dreadful enough even here, where I have some protection--where at least he dares not kill me. But if I am taken there, to his dreadful country, I shall be quite helpless in his hands. He might kill me there, and none would interfere--no one would even know, perhaps."
"How ignorant she is!" thought Mademoiselle Marcelline, "and how cowardly! He has impressed himself upon her tolerably effectually, this lacquered savage73, and she has succumbed74. These Englishwomen are very shallow after all, no matter how bad they may be."
The Princess still pleaded, and Mademoiselle Marcelline, having derived75 sufficient amusement just then from her companion's weakness, and being somewhat fatigued by her importunity76, told her at length, and shortly, that she desired to enjoy the drive, and therefore intended to change the subject. For her part, she did not particularly care about going to Russia; she understood that travelling in that empire had not been sufficiently77 systematized on that scale of comfort indispensable to persons of condition; and, on the whole, she rather thought they were not likely to go to Russia just then.
Madame Seymour's apartments in the H?tel Tchernigow were among the most luxurious and elegant which that palatial78 edifice79 contained. They were inferior to those of the Princess in size alone; in every detail of comfort and sybarite ease they equalled hers. A tiny and delicious little boudoir made one of the suite80; and this beautiful retreat was the scene that same evening of a rather remarkable conversation. The speakers were the mistress of the gem-like apartment and Prince Tchernigow. The former-dressed in the most tasteful and becoming evening dress it was possible for human milliners to concoct81, and adorned82 with jewels, which also differed from those worn by the Princess chiefly by their size-and the latter, in his usual faultless attire83, had met in the boudoir previous to accompanying the Princess to the very last entertainment at which they intended to appear.
"Well, Marcelline," said the Prince, "you did me the honour to summon me. What is it? Merely that I should tell you that you never looked so charming?"
"For nothing of the sort," said she, putting aside the compliment as beneath her notice and beside the question; "I sent for you to tell you that the Princess does not wish to go to St. Petersburg. She is nervous, I believe, and has some strange notions of the impunity85 of Russian princes on their own versts. At all events, she does not wish to go."
"I am perfectly86 aware of that fact, Madame Seymour," said the Prince, with a peculiar87 smile; "but we are going to St. Petersburg, quand même."
"Very well," said Marcelline; and she held her wrist towards the Prince as a tacit intimation that he was to button her dainty glove. "Then we shall not meet for some time, for I have not the most remote intention of going to St. Petersburg."
"What!" said the Prince, with an angry start; "you will not come? You are not serious, Marcelline?"
"I am perfectly serious, Prince Tchernigow. I have no intention whatever of going to St. Petersburg at present, and I beg I may hear no more on the subject. Have the goodness to ascertain88 if the Princess is ready!" She sat down and turned over the leaves of a book.
The Prince walked two or three times up and down the little apartment, and swore a Cossack oath or two under his breath. Then he stopped opposite to her and said:
"Where will you consent to go then, Marcelline?"
"H-m!" She paused, with an exasperating89 air of indecision. "I don't exactly know; I think I shouldn't mind the Mediterranean90."
As she took her place beside the Princess, whose beauty was less brilliant than ever that evening, and whose depression her attendants had not failed to mark, she said, "Don't look so wretchedly subdued92 and terrified, Madame la Princesse; you are not going to behold69 your princely spouse93 in the cradle of his race and the midst of a grateful peasantry. You are going to the Mediterranean instead."
And then she said to herself, "Poor wretch91! I am glad I saved her from that for the present. I really object to torturing her, when there's nothing to gain."
Another season, and another, and the H?tel Tchernigow opened its hospitable94 doors, and maintained its reputation for splendour, profusion95, and fashion. But the health of the Princess afforded more and more reason for solicitude96 to the hosts of friends who were desolated by the intelligence that she was indisposed; and the beauty of the Princess began to require that adornment97 from dress which it had hitherto bestowed upon the utmost resources of decoration. Ugly rumours regarding the princely ménage had begun to circulate; and a few, a very few, of those in high places had abated98 the alacrity99 with which they had been wont100 to welcome the appearance of the Muscovite magnate in their salons. French society does not tolerate overt101 brutality102; and there had been a story about a fall, and a broken arm; and though no doubt both circumstances were purely103 accidental, and indeed the fullest particulars were given to the numerous callers who were so anxious to hear of the dear Princess's progress towards recovery, the matter left an unpleasant impression, which all the efforts made by the Princess to convince the world that she was not only the richest, but the happiest, woman in Paris did not succeed in removing.
What efforts they were! How she rouged104, and dressed, and danced, and talked! How she drove out with the Prince, and talked to him, and smiled at him! How she playfully wore the injured arm in a very conspicuous sling105, and lamented107 that she was obliged to let "Alexis" drive her darling ponies108 for her, until her tiresome109 arm should be quite well, and how he perfectly ruined them! How she talked about the polished parquets110 as being so charming, but then so dangerous,--"witness my poor arm, you know,"--and held the beautiful limb out for pity and admiration! How she complained that she could not ride any more that season, the injury having been inflicted111 on the "bridle-arm;" and exulted112 in the promise of "Alexis" that if she would only take good care of herself, and get quite well, she should hunt in Leicestershire next season!
It was all very clever, but it did not do; and Tchernigow knew that it did not; and the Princess knew it also and better.
One night, at the Italiens, an Englishman who had known the Princess in former days saw her in her box, sitting radiantly in the front, while Madame Seymour occupied a less prominent position, and a couple of the most fashionable dandies of the day occupied the background. This gentleman had left a party of ladies in the boxes, and gone down to the stalls, and he now remarked to his companion:
"How awfully113 she is altered! I never saw such a wreck114 in so short a time. And surely that lady with her is some one I have seen before. Do you know who she is, Dollamore?"
"Yes, I do, of course. That lady is Madame Seymour, an Irish lady, a widow of large fortune, who is devotedly115 attached to the Princess Tchernigow. She lives with her,--for her, it almost appears; and she speaks French so like a native, that it is difficult to distinguish any difference."
"Ah, then, I am wrong; and we don't know her," said the gentleman, still looking curiously116 at the party.
"Well, perhaps you don't exactly know her," said Dollamore; "but you are right in thinking you had seen her. Madame Seymour used to be known at Redmoor as Mademoiselle Marcelline, and she was Mrs. Hammond's maid."
His hearer's exclamation117 of astonishment118 was checked by a sudden commotion119 in the Princess's box. She had recognized the English party at the moment when his companion addressed his last question to Lord Dollamore. She had fought hard for a moment against her overwhelming emotion; but the days of Laura's strength and self-mastery were over, and she fell fainting from her chair.
Very shortly after this occurrence the paternal120 yearnings of the Czar to behold Prince Tchernigow once more in the land of his birth proved too strong for his resistance. The Prince and Princess left France for Holy Russia; and that was the last that was seen of them in Paris.
Miss Constance Greenwood, Miss Gillespie, Lizzie Ponsford,--which you will--never saw Lady Mitford after that memorable122 occasion on which she yielded up possession of the forged bill. A considerable time afterwards Lady Mitford wrote to her a long and sweet letter, in which she reiterated123 her thanks for the great service which Miss Gillespie--so she still called her--had intended doing her; but she said, "even had the talisman124 which you left with me possessed the powers which you wished to invest it with, it was useless--it was too late." Lady Mitford added, that she had not forgotten the name under which Miss Gillespie had told her she was pursuing a theatrical125 career; that she had made inquiries126, and found that "Miss Constance Greenwood" was spoken of in the highest terms, not merely for her transcendent abilities, but for the rectitude of her conduct. In conclusion, Lady Mitford invited her correspondent to come and stay with her when she would, and not to fail to apply immediately and directly to her when she was in strait or difficulty of any kind.
People had said that Miss Constance Greenwood's stage-tears were the most natural throughout the profession. They were not nearly so natural as those which welled up hot and blinding into her eyes as she perused127 Lady Mitford's letter, and which showered down thick and heavy on to the paper as she pressed it to her lips. That letter is yellow with age now; but, all stained and tear-blurred as it is, it is the choicest object in that delicate little desk in which Miss Constance Greenwood keeps all her treasures.
Not that she was Miss Constance Greenwood very long after the receipt of that letter. She had risen to the very height of popularity with the public, and had drawn128 a large amount of money into Mr. Wuff's treasury129, when Mr. Wuff sent for her one day to his room, and told her in confidence that Mr. Frank Likely was going to give up the Parthenium next week and go into the Queen's Bench, where he would remain until he was "whitewashed130;" after undergoing which process he and Mrs. Likely would undertake an engagement at the Hatton-Garden Theatre. "And the worst of it is," said Mr. Wuff,--"the worst of it is, my dear, that Mrs. Likely says she won't have any better-looking woman than herself playing leading business in the theatre. That's a compliment to you, my dear; but it seems that you must go; and as I've made an engagement with the Likelys, I am afraid you and I must part at the end of the season."
Miss Greenwood shrugged131 her shoulders and bowed her head. She knew that with her present prestige any manager in London would be glad to engage her. She was in no hurry, therefore, to seek for work. The Parthenium closed; Mr. Frank Likely's body was seized by the myrmidons of the sheriff; Mr. Wuff's season came to an end; and still Miss Greenwood had not looked after another engagement, though she had innumerable offers of terms.
How did Sir Laurence Alsager, so far away from England, keep au courant with London theatrical matters? Just as Miss Greenwood was weighing two offers in her mind, doubtful which to accept, she had a visit from an old gentleman, who announced himself as Sir Laurence Alsager's solicitor132, and handed her a letter--a letter which said that the writer had never forgotten her intended kindness to a certain person; that he had heard of her theatrical success, and desired to serve her. Would she not like to be the lessee133 of the Parthenium--then, as he understood, vacant? If so, his lawyer had instructions to act in any way she wished; to draw what money she required, and to carry through the arrangement for her. Miss Greenwood gave a little cry of delight; her old love of fun sprung up in her. How glorious it would be to beat the Likelys with their own weapons and in their own den18! She accepted Sir Laurence Alsager's kind proposition, she said; and while the lawyer went to work at his business, she went to work at hers. She set the eminent40 Spofforth to work on a new piece; she engaged Dacre Pontifex, who was as distasteful to Mr. Frank Likely as was Miss Greenwood to his wife. She got together a capital stock-company, and took the town by storm. Everything prospered134 with her, and at the end of each season she found large gains. She has long since repaid Sir Laurence Alsager's advance; and she has now great wealth, and some one to share it with her. Dacre Pontifex, who had so long made love to her on the stage, at length made love to her in earnest; and as he had always proved himself a thoroughly135 good fellow, she accepted him, And there is no happier couple in England. They have almost given up acting136 now; but they still retain the theatre, and are thought highly of by all who know them.
And Lord Dollamore? Lord Dollamore still lives, as well as, and in some respects better than, ever. He superintended all the arrangements for sending Sir Charles Mitford's body to England under the charge of Banks--a duty which that functionary137 performed with the greatest reluctance138, declaring that he had not been engaged to "wait upon corpses139;" and then Dollamore had a long and serious consultation140 with his stick, the subject of which was whether it would be expedient141 for him to make any change in his mode of life. The idea of marriage had never entered his head; but now that he knew Lady Mitford was free, he began to experience a curious sensation at his heart, which caused him at first the wildest astonishment, and then a considerable amount of trouble. He had watched Georgie through all her trials and temptations, and the sight had impressed him deeply. For the first time since manhood he confessed (to himself) a belief in virtue142, bravery, and selflessness; for the first time in his life he felt an irrepressible yearning121 towards the possessor of these qualities; and he thought how the companionship of such a woman would illumine the decline of his aimless, purposeless life.
He was for some days in doubt whether he should not return at once to England, and after a decent interval143 proceed tentatively to see whether an offer of his hand to Lady Mitford would be likely to be successful; but he finally decided144 otherwise. He was no longer young, his manner of life was formed; and he doubted whether he should have strength to keep to all his good resolutions--in which case, and in the event of his marriage with Georgie, her old troubles would be renewed when she had less strength to bear them.
There is no doubt, however, that the mere84 fact of his indulging in such thoughts proved that he was to a certain extent an altered man. His tongue is much less bitter, his manner much less rough, his thoughts much less cynical145 than they were. The person who suffers most from him now is the chef of the Maecenas, when Dollamore rules the House-Committee. When that unfortunate Frenchman hears from the house-steward that Lord Dollamore has been seen whispering to his stick about an entrée or an omelette, he knows what to expect the next day.
* * * * *
When Lady Mitford was told by Captain Bligh, who executed his task with great feeling, if not with profound skill, that her waiting was all in vain,--that her letter had never reached her unfortunate husband, but had been carefully enclosed with the effects of the deceased, and consigned146 to the custody147 of Mr. Banks, she was not so completely overwhelmed as might have been expected. She listened patiently to all the details which it was considered necessary to give her, and bore herself with a gentle fortitude148 which surprised all who saw her.
The remains149 of the unfortunate Baronet arrived in due time; the funeral was "performed;" and Sir Charles Mitford rested in the family burial-place--the most unfortunate of a race who had been generally rather uninterestingly prosperous.
Lady Mitford found herself very rich. Not only did she come into possession of an ample jointure, but the entire sum destined150 for a provision for younger children was bequeathed to her, in case of the non-existence or death of such children. She was very much surprised to find that Sir Charles had made a will, not many months prior to his death, by which he had left her considerable personal property also; so that her position was an enviable one, as far as pecuniary151 affairs were concerned. How far that was, she had yet to learn. She had courage, resignation, and patience; and she had the good gift of common sense, enabling her to lay plans and make arrangements with judgment152 and foresight153; but she was not cold-hearted, nor callous154, and the time lay yet a good way distant at which she could reckon her riches and feel her freedom.
The next heir to the title and entailed155 estates was a boy named Edward Mitford, whom Lady Mitford had never seen, and who, with his widowed mother, lived in an obscure village in Warwickshire, where the heir to so much wealth and position picked up a very indifferent education at a school of fourth-rate pretensions156 and sixth-rate performances. No mention of this youth had been made by Sir Charles, who had, very naturally, bestowed no thought upon the distant contingency157 of his succession. The house in London had been rented by Sir Charles for a term of years; and Lady Mitford determined158 to retain it in her own possession. Having formed this resolution, and ascertained159 all that was necessary relative to her position, Lady Mitford wrote to the Reverend Cuthbert Farleigh. She recalled herself to his recollection, and appealed to his kindness. She was very friendless, she said, and wanted advice. Sir Laurence Alsager had told her that the kindness of heart which had been so distinguishing a characteristic of Cuthbert Farleigh in his boyhood was no less conspicuous in his more advanced and responsible years, and she asked him to come to her. She did not make any mention of Helen in the letter; she would defer160 that until they could talk it over, she thought; and then he would perhaps make her an offer of Helen's society, which she would gladly accept.
The Reverend Cuthbert answered the letter in person; and the meeting between the former friends and companions under such altered circumstances could hardly have failed to be affecting. Georgie thanked him with all her heart, and felt less lonely and desolate54 that evening than she had felt since the day on which Sir Laurence Alsager had left her. He had arrived late; and they agreed to postpone161 the discussion of the serious matters on which Georgie desired his advice until the following day.
As Lady Mitford sat alone that night before the bright fire in her dressing-room, she passed her life before her in mental review. She questioned herself concerning the grief which she felt so keenly, and yet blamed herself for not feeling with still greater acuteness. The oppression, the vague gloom of a great change, of a tremendous shock, from whose first effects she had not suffered so much as from that which succeeded, were on her. The dreadful death of her husband appalled162 her; less because it was he who had been killed, and because he had been killed in so awful manner, than because it seemed to set the seal of the curse upon their marriage. She saw that marriage now as it was,--a mistake first; then a disaster; finally a catastrophe;--and she recoiled163 with horror from the awful lesson of life thus opened out before her.
"Swift and sure," she thought, "punishment has followed wrong in his case. It seems hard, too; he was not the only man beguiled164 by a wanton woman, not the only man who betrayed and deserted165 his wife. Little as I have seen of the world, I have seen instances of the same thing; but these men, who had as little conscience, had more self-control, more judgment, more self-respect, and did not expose themselves to the risks which he dared, and which have been fatal to him. Poor fellow! poor Charley!"
Her reveries always ended thus, in sweet womanly compassion166 and forgiveness. She did not deceive herself; she did not lament106 for Sir Charles with the intense and passionate167 grief of bereavement168; she did not make any false estimate of her loss, or give way to any sentiment in which the perfect truth did not abide169; but she shrank appalled and miserable170 from the contemplation of so total a wreck as her wretched husband's life had been, from the possibilities of sin and suffering which it revealed to her.
Lord Dollamore had written to her,--Banks had brought the letter; and so she learned that the last thought of the dying man had been of her, the last word he had spoken had been her name. Georgie did not attach greater importance to this fact than it deserved. She knew how to discriminate171 between remorse172 and repentance173 too well to make a mistake; but she was very thankful for the message, very thankful that her husband had been permitted to utter it. She knew that in the future, as long as she should live, those words would be a comforting recollection to her; and she fully10 comprehended how much harder it would all have been to endure, had the silence which had subsisted between her and Sir Charles for several days before he left town never been broken, even by those two gasping174, hardly-articulate sounds.
Cuthbert Farleigh and Lady Mitford held a long consultation, as they had agreed to do; and during its progress the curate learned that she was acquainted with the fact of his engagement to Helen Manningtree; and Lady Mitford imparted to him the permission and counsel Sir Laurence Alsager had given her to ask Helen to come to her in any time of need.
"You have had more than one such time of need, dear Lady Mitford," said Cuthbert, "since Sir Laurence wrote to you and to Helen; and why have you never made a sign, why have you never asked Helen to come to you?"
"Because I could not think it right, Cuthbert. The trouble I was in was of a peculiar kind,--my sorrow was the result of another's sin; and I don't think it would have been right to have brought a young girl like Helen in contact with it. When I think of my own girlhood, when I remember how far I was from the mere knowledge of such perversities in human relations being possible, I am sure I was right."
Cuthbert Farleigh remembered his own words to Helen,--"You are better without the confidence of an unhappy wife,"--and admired the directness with which the instinct and the principle of this woman had guided her to a similar conclusion.
"But now," she said, "that is all over. When you and I come to the end of our conversation, let the days which preceded the dark and terrible one of his death"--she paused for a moment to command her voice,-"let them be consigned to oblivion. There are no faults in the grave; all is so trifling175, so small, so contemptible176 in the presence of that great mystery. I think it is a happy thing, Cuthbert, that the death of a person who has ever been beloved blots177 out not only anger, but dulls remembrance. I know this is the truth, that many and many a day I sat brooding over small offences, little slights, trifling but significant departures from the courtesies and the graces of love; and oh how miserable such brooding made me! Well, I forget them all now; every trace of bitterness has disappeared,--I remember only all the good there was in my poor Charley, Yes, Cuthbert, he is mine again now; he had ceased to be hers before he was slain; now he is mine again, and I am not going to dwell on his faults."
Cuthbert Farleigh was privately178 of opinion that Lady Mitford proposed to herself an exceedingly limited sphere of contemplation in respect to her late estimable lord; but he admired, he reverenced179, as every man with the heart of a gentleman must, the simple, beautiful, unreasoning instinct of womanly tenderness.
"So now," she went on, "there can be no harm in Helen's coming to me. I am a widow so much sadder and more pitiable than other widows, that I cannot talk of him whom I have lost with that free outspoken180 pride which is so instinctive181 in other women, and which must be so sweet and so bitter too, so precious and so terrible. I am truly widowed; for life robbed me of my husband before death came to hide him from my eyes. The world will cease to talk about him soon, and it will forget me when it does not see me. There will be nothing objectionable in the quiet life which I shall ask Helen to share with me until you ask her to leave my home for yours."
Helen Manningtree obeyed Lady Mitford's summons; and from the first hours of their mutual182 association Sir Laurence Alsager's hopes and expectations were fulfilled. They "suited each other" exactly, and their companionship was beneficial to both.
Helen Manningtree and Mrs. Chisholm corresponded with great regularity183 with Sir Laurence, now travelling somewhere in the East, and furnishing the most inscrutable addresses for their letters, the attempt to decipher which they ordinarily gave up in despair and pasted them bodily on the envelopes. Their letters were written from London and from Knockholt respectively, and furnished the recipient184 with the fullest particulars respecting their writers, and the most accurate details of the few events which marked the first year of Lady Mitford's widowhood.
Thus from Helen Sir Laurence learned that the young Sir Edward and his mother had come to town on Lady Mitford's invitation, and that Georgie and the quiet little lady from the country soon became great friends; that the young baronet was a promising185 boy enough, but given to idleness, the avoidance of soap-and-water, and the pursuit of useless amusements, such as cricket and fishing, as contra-distinguished from classical and useful learning; that his mother and Lady Mitford having duly consulted the family advisers186, and received from them the simple counsel that they had better manage the boy as they thought proper, had considered that the very best way of managing him would be to establish him comfortably under the charge of a private tutor of unusually desirable attainments187.
When Ellen next wrote she informed Sir Laurence that the private tutor of unusually desirable attainments had been found in the person of Cuthbert Farleigh, who had, moreover, been provided with a very comfortable living not very far distant from Knockholt, by virtue of a mysterious arrangement whereby somebody gave up this piece of preferment at the present, in consideration of some other "good thing" of a similar kind which would be at the young baronet's disposal in the future. Helen did not understand the arrangement very clearly, but she had a perfect appreciation188 of its results; and though her account of the transaction, as written "out" to Sir Laurence (who, though he wrote vaguely189 of coming soon, was still beyond the reach of civilization and spelling), was remarkably confused, two facts appeared with unmistakable clearness. The one was that the family lawyers were satisfied with the arrangements ("There's no simony in it, then, or bedevilment of that kind," thought Sir Laurence, relieved when he ascertained this first fact); the second was that Helen's marriage could not take place so early as she and Cuthbert had hoped, because since Cuthbert had ceased to be a curate, the cares of property and position had fallen upon him, involving the repairing and altering of his parsonage-house, new furnishing, &c., &c. "So now, as it is so far off, dear Laurence," wrote Helen, "you really must come home in time for my wedding. I think we should have put the event off, at all events, in order to admit of Lady Mitford's being present; and now, as her year's deep mourning will have more than expired, she has promised to come. Indeed, I rather think our marriage will take place here. You would be much surprised, if you could see her, at her cheerfulness. I am sure it must arise from her perfect forgetfulness of self. She lives entirely190 for others, and her serenity191 and sweetness tell that peace is the result. Sir Edward is greatly attached to her; he and Cuthbert also get on very well together. As usual, Lady Mitford sends her kindest regards."
From Mrs. Chisholm Sir Laurence received good tidings of affairs at Knockholt Park. That excellent lady prided herself upon her letter-writing, fondly flattering herself, at times, that she turned her sentences in something of the same manner in which her gifted Augustine had rounded those flowing periods which had been so effective when the departed curate occupied the pulpit at St. Parable's. She liked writing letters, and especially to Sir Laurence; and though she furnished him with plentiful192 details concerning individuals of whose identity he had the most vague and confused ideas; and though she was very pathetic indeed on the theme of Cuthbert's removal "to a sphere of, I trust, greatly extended usefulness, but that usefulness to others to be purchased at the price of a relapse into spiritual destitution193 here very sad to contemplate,"--Sir Laurence liked receiving her letters.
The truth was, his heart yearned194 towards England And home. He had imposed upon himself a fixed195 term of absence, and nothing would have induced him to abridge196 that period; but all his resolution did not check his imagination, did not arrest his fancy, did not quell197 his longing198 for its expiration199. The smallest details which reached him from the distant households in which he was held in such affectionate remembrance had ineffable200 charm for him. He found himself, under the most unpropitious circumstances and in the most unheard-of places, writing lengthy201 epistles to Mrs. Chisholm--letters full of almost feminine inquisitiveness202, and enjoining203 the immediate1 despatch204 of voluminous replies. He rejoiced the good lady's heart by the sympathy which he expressed in all the local matters which she detailed205; and he soothed206 her sorrows concerning the departure of Cuthbert by so dexterous207 an argument in favour of the almost inevitable208 eligibility209 of the curate destined to succeed him, that Mrs. Chisholm actually prepared to receive him with a gracious and hopeful welcome. Sir Laurence was right; only a young man of exemplary piety210 and conscientious211 intentions in the direction of parish-work would be at all likely to accept so poor a provision as the curacy at Laneham,--no doubt all would be well; and she hoped dear Cuthbert would not be led away by his preferment. It was, however, melancholy212 to observe how great a contrast sometimes existed between the lowly and hard-working curate and the proud, lazy, and worldly-minded rector. She trusted such a contrast might never exist in the case of dear Cuthbert.
The simple-minded lady was thinking, as she thus expressed her guileless hopes and fears, of one curate to whom preferment never came, and whom it never could have spoiled. She had a strong conviction that if there should prove to be any celestial213 institution at all resembling a bench of bishops214 in a future state, she should find her Augustine occupying a very prominent place among its occupants.
So the time passed on, and the period appointed for Helen's marriage drew near. The wedding was to be a very quiet one, as Lady Mitford had insisted on its taking place at her house, and the first year of her widowhood would have expired only a few weeks before the time for the marriage.
Mrs. Chisholm, Mrs. Mitford, the young baronet, and the Reverend Cuthbert Farleigh (rector of Everingham and principal on this auspicious215 occasion), Helen, and her hostess, were assembled at Lady Mitford's house on the last evening but one before the event. They were all together in the drawing-room, and were engaged in discussing the chances for and against the arrival of Sir Laurence Alsager in time for the wedding.
"I am afraid he has made a mistake," said Cuthbert, "about a steamer to Trieste. I can find no announcement of one for a week to come."
"No, no," said Helen; "Laurence said he would come, and Laurence will be here. I would not give him up if we were all in the church."
"What do you think, Lady Mitford?" asked Sir Edward; "I'm awfully anxious to see this Sir Laurence you and Helen are for ever jawing216 about,--I'm sure he's awfully jolly, though I suppose he's no end of a swell217."
The Reverend Cuthbert Farleigh considered it his duty to correct the young gentleman's vernacular218 at this juncture219, and Lady Mitford did not appear to have heard the question. At all events she allowed it to remain unanswered.
At this moment a servant brought Helen a note. "Come by hand from the Clarendon, ma'am," he explained.
Helen exclaimed rapturously:
"It's from Laurence! He's in London! We shall see him to-morrow! There, Cuthbert, you incredulous person, will you ever doubt Laurence's promise or dispute my opinion again?"
"Certainly not, after the day after to-morrow, Nelly," replied Cuthbert.
There was a small enclosure in Sir Laurence's note to Helen, which she had slipped into her pocket unperceived. It bore Lady Mitford's name; but Helen waited until she was about to take leave of her, as usual, for the night at the door of her own room before she handed it to her. When she was alone Georgie opened the note. It was very brief; it contained only three words. They were:
"FORTITER--FIDELITER--FELICITER?"
THE END.
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1
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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10
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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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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13
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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14
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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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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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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18
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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19
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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20
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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25
toadies
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| n.谄媚者，马屁精( toady的名词复数 )v.拍马，谄媚( toady的第三人称单数 ) | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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27
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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28
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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30
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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33
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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37
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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38
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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39
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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40
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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42
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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43
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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44
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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45
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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46
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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48
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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49
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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50
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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51
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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52
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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53
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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54
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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55
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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56
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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57
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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58
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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59
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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60
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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62
rouges
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的名词复数 ) | |
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63
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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64
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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65
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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66
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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68
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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69
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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70
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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71
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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72
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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73
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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74
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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75
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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76
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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77
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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78
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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79
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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80
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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81
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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82
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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83
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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84
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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85
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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86
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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87
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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88
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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89
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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90
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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91
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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92
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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93
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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94
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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95
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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96
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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97
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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98
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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99
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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100
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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101
overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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102
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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103
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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104
rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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106
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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107
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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109
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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110
parquets
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| v.镶木地板( parquet的第三人称单数 )；（剧场的）正厅后排 | |
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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
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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114
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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115
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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116
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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117
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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118
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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119
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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120
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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121
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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122
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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123
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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125
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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126
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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127
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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128
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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129
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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130
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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132
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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133
lessee
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| n.（房地产的）租户 | |
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134
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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136
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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137
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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138
reluctance
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|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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139
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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140
consultation
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|
| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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141
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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142
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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143
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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144
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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145
cynical
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|
| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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146
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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147
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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148
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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149
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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150
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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151
pecuniary
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|
| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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152
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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153
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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154
callous
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|
| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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155
entailed
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|
| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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156
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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157
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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158
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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159
ascertained
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|
| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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161
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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162
appalled
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|
| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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163
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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164
beguiled
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|
| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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165
deserted
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|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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166
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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167
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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168
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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169
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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170
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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171
discriminate
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|
| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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172
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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173
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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174
gasping
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|
| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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175
trifling
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|
| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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176
contemptible
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|
| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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177
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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178
privately
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|
| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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179
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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180
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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181
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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182
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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183
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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184
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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185
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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186
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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187
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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188
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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189
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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190
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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191
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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192
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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193
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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194
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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196
abridge
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| v.删减，删节，节略，缩短 | |
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197
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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198
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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199
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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200
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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201
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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202
inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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203
enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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204
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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205
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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206
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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207
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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208
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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209
eligibility
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| n.合格，资格 | |
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210
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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211
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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212
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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213
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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214
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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215
auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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216
jawing
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| n.用水灌注 | |
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217
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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218
vernacular
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|
| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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219
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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