Framed for the tender offices of love,
Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty?
When in a bed of straw we shrink together,
Fitzalan, the father of Amanda, was the descendant of an ancient Irish family, which had, however, unfortunately attained5 the summit of its prosperity long before his entrance into life; so that little more than a name, once dignified7 by illustrious actions, was left to its posterity8. The parents of Fitzalan were supported by an employment under government, which enabled them to save a small sum for their son and only child, who at an early period became its sole master, by their dying within a short period of each other. As soon as he had in some degree recovered the shock of such calamities9, he laid out his little pittance10 in the purchase of a commission, as a profession best suiting his inclinations12 and finances.
The war between America and France had then just commenced; and Fitzalan’s regiment13 was amongst the first forces sent to the aid of the former. The scenes of war, though dreadfully affecting to a soul of exquisite16 sensibility, such as he possessed17, had not power to damp the ardor18 of his spirit; for, with the name, he inherited the hardy19 resolution of his progenitors20.
He had once the good fortune to save the life of a British soldier; he was one of a small party, who, by the treachery of their guides, were suddenly surprised in a wood, through[Pg 10] which they were obliged to pass to join another detachment of the army. Their only way in this alarming exigence was to retreat to the fort from whence they had but lately issued: encompassed21 as they were by the enemy, this was not achieved without the greatest difficulty. Just as they had reached it, Fitzalan saw far behind them, a poor soldier, who had been wounded at the first onset22, just overtaken by two Indians. Yielding to the impulse of compassion23 in which all idea of self was lost, Fitzalan hastily turned to his assistance, and flinging himself between the pursued and the pursuers, he kept them at bay till the poor creature had reached a place of safety. This action, performed at the imminent24 hazard of his life, secured him the lasting25 gratitude26 of the soldier, whose name was Edwin; the same that now afforded an asylum27 to his daughter.
Edwin had committed some juvenile28 indiscretions, which highly incensed29 his parents; in despair at incurring30 their resentment31, he enlisted32 with a recruiting party in their neighborhood: but, accustomed all his life to peace and plenty, he did not by any means relish33 his new situation. His gratitude to Fitzalan was unbounded; he considered him as the preserver of his life; and, on the man’s being dismissed, who had hitherto attended him as a servant, entreated34 he might be taken in his place. This entreaty35 Fitzalan complied with; he was pleased with Edwin’s manner; and, having heard the little history of his misfortunes, promised, on their return to Europe, to intercede36 with his friends for him.
During his stay abroad, Fitzalan was promoted to a captain-lieutenancy; his pay was his only support, which, of necessity, checked the benevolence37 of a spirit “open as day to melting charity.”
On the regiment’s return to Europe, he obtained Edwin’s discharge, who longed to re-enter upon his former mode of life. He accompanied the penitent38 himself into Wales, where he was received with the truest rapture39.
In grief for his loss, his parents had forgotten all resentment for his errors, which, indeed, had never been very great: they had lost their two remaining children during his absence, and now received him as the sole comfort and hope of their age.
His youthful protector was blest with the warmest gratitude: tears filled his fine eyes, as he beheld40 the pleasure of his parents, and the contrition41 of the son; and he departed with that heartfelt pleasure, which ever attends and rewards an action of humanity.
[Pg 11] He now accompanied his regiment into Scotland; they were quartered at a fort in a remote part of that kingdom.
Near the fort was a fine old abbey, belonging to the family of Dunreath; the high hills which nearly encompassed it, were almost all covered with trees, whose dark shades gave an appearance of gloomy solitude42 to the building.
The present possessor, the Earl of Dunreath, was now far advanced in life; twice had he married, in expectation of a male heir to his large estates, and twice he had been disappointed. His first lady had expired immediately after the birth of a daughter. She had taken under her protection a young female, who, by unexpected vicissitudes44 in her family, was left destitute45 of support. On the demise46 of her patroness, she retired47 from the Abbey to the house of a kinswoman in its vicinity; the Earl of Dunreath, accustomed to her society, felt his solitude doubly augmented48 by her absence. He had ever followed the dictates49 of inclination11, and would not disobey them now: ere the term of mourning was expired, he offered her his hand, and was accepted.
The fair orphan50, now triumphant51 mistress of the Abbey, found there was no longer occasion to check her natural propensities52. Her soul was vain, unfeeling, and ambitious; and her sudden elevation53 broke down all the barriers which prudence54 had hitherto opposed to her passions.
She soon gained an absolute ascendancy55 over her lord—she knew how to assume the smile of complacency, and the accent of sensibility.
Forgetful of the kindness of her late patroness, she treated the infant she had left with the most cruel neglect; a neglect which was, if possible, increased, on the birth of her own daughter, as she could not bear that Augusta (instead of possessing the whole) should only share the affection and estates of her father. She contrived57 by degrees to alienate58 the former from the innocent Malvina; and she trusted, she should find means to deprive her of the latter.
Terrified by violence, and depressed59 by severity, the child looked dejected and unhappy; and this appearance, Lady Dunreath made the Earl believe, proceeded from sulkiness and natural ill-humor. Her own child, unrestrained in any wish of her heart, was, from her playful gayety, a constant source of amusement to the Earl; her mother had taken care to instruct her in all the little endearments60 which, when united with infantine sweetness, allure61 almost imperceptibly the affections.
[Pg 12] Malvina, ere she knew the meaning of sorrow, thus became its prey62; but in spite of envy or ill treatment, she grew up with all the graces of mind and form that had distinguished63 her mother; her air was at once elegant and commanding; her face replete64 with sweetness; and her fine eyes had a mixture of sensibility and languor65 in them, which spoke66 to the feeling soul.
Augusta was also a fine figure; but unpossessed of the winning graces of elegance67 and modesty68 which adorned69 her sister, her form always appeared decorated with the most studied art, and her large eyes had a confident assurance in them, that seemed to expect and demand universal homage70.
The warriors71 of the fort were welcome visitants at the Abbey, which Lady Dunreath contrived to render a scene of almost constant gayety, by keeping up a continual intercourse72 with all the adjacent families, and entertaining all the strangers who came into its neighborhood.
Lord Dunreath had long been a prey to infirmities, which at this period generally confined him to his room; but though his body was debilitated73, his mind retained all its active powers.
The first appearance of the officers at the Abbey was at a ball given by Lady Dunreath, in consequence of their arrival near it; the gothic apartments were decorated, and lighted up with a splendor74 that at once displayed taste and magnificence; the lights, the music, the brilliancy, and unusual gayety of the company, all gave to the spirits of Malvina an agreeable flutter they had never before experienced; and a brighter bloom than usual stole over her lovely cheek.
The young co-heiresses were extremely admired by the military heroes. Malvina, as the eldest75, opened the ball with the colonel; her form had attracted the eyes of Fitzalan, and vainly he attempted to withdraw them, till the lively conversation of Augusta, who honored him with her hand, forced him to restrain his glances, and pay her the sprightly77 attentions so generally expected—when he came to turn Malvina, he involuntarily detained her hand for a moment: she blushed, and the timid beam that stole from her half-averted eyes, agitated78 his whole soul.
Partners were changed in the course of the evening, and he seized the first opportunity that offered for engaging her; the softness of her voice, the simplicity79 yet elegance of her language, now captivated his heart, as much as her form had charmed his eyes.
Never had he before seen an object he thought half so[Pg 13] lovely or engaging; with her he could not support that lively strain of conversation he had done with her sister. Where the heart is much interested, it will not admit of trifling80.
Fitzalan was now in the meridian81 of manhood; his stature82 was above the common size, and elegance and dignity were conspicuous83 in it; his features were regularly handsome, and the fairness of his forehead proved what his complexion84 had been, till change of climate and hardship had embrowned it; the expression of his countenance85 was somewhat plaintive86: his eyes had a sweetness in them that spoke a soul of the tenderest feelings; and the smile that played around his mouth, would have adorned a face of female beauty.
When the dance with Lady Malvina was over, Lady Augusta took care for the remainder of the evening to engross87 all his attention. She thought him by far the handsomest man in the room, and gave him no opportunity of avoiding her; gallantry obliged him to return her assiduities, and he was by his brother officers set down in the list of her adorers. This mistake he encouraged: he could bear raillery on an indifferent subject; and joined in the mirth, which the idea of his laying siege to the young heiress occasioned.
He deluded88 himself with no false hopes relative to the real object of his passion; he knew the obstacles between them were insuperable; but his heart was too proud to complain of fate; he shook off all appearance of melancholy89, and seemed more animated90 than ever.
His visits at the Abbey became constant; Lady Augusta took them to herself, and encouraged his attentions: as her mother rendered her perfect mistress of her own actions, she had generally a levee of redcoats every morning in her dressing-room. Lady Malvina seldom appeared; she was at those times almost always employed in reading to her father; when that was not the case, her own favorite avocations91 often detained her in her room; or else she wandered out, about the romantic rocks on the sea-shore; she delighted in solitary92 rambles93, and loved to visit the old peasants, who told her tales of her departed mother’s goodness, drawing tears of sorrow from her eyes, at the irreparable loss she had sustained by her death.
Fitzalan went one morning as usual to the Abbey to pay his customary visit; as he went through the gallery which led to Lady Augusta’s dressing-room, his eyes were caught by two beautiful portraits of the Earl’s daughters; an artist, by his express desire, had come to the Abbey to draw them; they were but just finished, and that morning placed in the gallery.
[Pg 14] Lady Augusta appeared negligently94 reclined upon a sofa, in a verdant95 alcove96; the flowing drapery of the loose robe in which she was habited, set off her fine figure; little Cupids were seen fanning aside her dark-brown hair, and strewing97 roses on her pillow.
Lady Malvina was represented in the simple attire98 of a peasant girl, leaning on a little grassy99 hillock, whose foot was washed by a clear stream, while her flocks browsed100 around, and her dog rested beneath the shade of an old tree, that waved its branches over her head, and seemed sheltering her from the beams of a meridian sun.
“Beautiful portrait!” cried Fitzalan, “sweet resemblance of a seraphic form!”
He heard a soft sigh behind him; he started, turned, and perceived Lady Malvina; in the utmost confusion he faltered101 out his admiration102 of the pictures; and not knowing what he did, fixed103 his eyes on Lady Augusta’s, exclaiming, “How beautiful!” “’Tis very handsome indeed,” said Malvina, with a more pensive104 voice than usual, and led the way to her sister’s drawing-room.
Lady Augusta was spangling some ribbon; but at Fitzalan’s entrance she threw it aside, and asked him if he had been admiring her picture?—“Yes,” he said, “’twas that alone had prevented his before paying his homage to the original.” He proceeded in a strain of compliments, which had more gallantry than sincerity106 in them. In the course of their trifling he snatched a knot of the spangled ribbon, and pinning it next his heart, declared it should remain there as a talisman107 against all future impressions.
He stole a glance at Lady Malvina; she held a book in her hand; but her eyes were turned towards him, and a deadly paleness overspread her countenance.
Fitzalan’s spirits vanished; he started up, and declared he must be gone immediately. The dejection of Lady Malvina dwelt upon his heart; it flattered his fondness, but pained its sensibility. He left the fort in the evening, immediately after he had retired from the mess; he strolled to the sea-side, and rambled108 a considerable way among the rocks. The scene was wild and solemn; the shadows of evening were beginning to descend4; the waves stole with low murmurs110 upon the shore, and a soft breeze gently agitated the marine111 plants that grew amongst the crevices112 of the rocks; already were the sea-fowl, with harsh and melancholy cries, flocking to their nests, some lightly skimming over the water, while others were seen, like[Pg 15] dark clouds arising from the long heath on the neighboring hills. Fitzalan pursued his way in deep and melancholy meditation113, from which a plaintive Scotch114 air, sung by the melting voice of harmony itself, roused him. He looked towards the spot from whence the sound proceeded, and beheld Lady Malvina standing115 on a low rock, a projection116 of it affording her support. Nothing could be more picturesque117 than her appearance: she looked like one of the beautiful forms which Ossian so often describes: her white dress fluttered in the wind, and her dark hair hung dishevelled around her. Fitzalan moved softly, and stopped behind her; she wept as she sung, and wiped away her tears as she ceased singing; she sighed heavily. “Ah! my mother,” she exclaimed, “why was Malvina left behind you?”—“To bless and improve mankind,” cried Fitzalan. She screamed, and would have fallen, had he not caught her in his arms; he prevailed on her to sit down upon the rock, and allow him to support her till her agitation118 had subsided119. “And why,” cried he, “should Lady Malvina give way to melancholy, blest as she is with all that can render life desirable? Why seek its indulgence, by rambling120 about those dreary121 rocks; fit haunts alone, he might have added, for wretchedness and me? Can I help wondering at your dejection (he continued), when to all appearance (at least) I see you possessed of everything requisite123 to constitute felicity?”
“Appearances are often deceitful,” said Malvina, forgetting in that moment the caution she had hitherto inviolably observed, of never hinting at the ill treatment she received from the Countess of Dunreath and her daughter. “Appearances are often deceitful,” she said, “as I, alas124! too fatally experience. The glare, the ostentation125 of wealth, a soul of sensibility would willingly resign for privacy and plainness if they were to be attended with real friendship and sympathy.”
“And how few,” cried Fitzalan, turning his expressive126 eyes upon her face, “can know Lady Malvina without feeling friendship for her virtues127, and sympathy for her sorrows!” As he spoke, he pressed her hand against his heart, and she felt the knot of ribbon he had snatched from her sister: she instantly withdrew her hand, and darting128 a haughty129 glance at him, “Captain Fitzalan,” said she, “you were going, I believe, to Lady Augusta; let me not detain you.”
Fitzalan’s passions were no longer under the dominion130 of reason; he tore the ribbon from his breast and flung it into the sea. “Going to Lady Augusta!” he exclaimed, “and is her lovely sister then really deceived? Ah! Lady Malvina, I now[Pg 16] gaze on the dear attraction that drew me to the Abbey. The feelings of a real, a hopeless passion could ill support raillery or observation: I hid my passion within the recesses131 of my heart, and gladly allowed my visits to be placed to the account of an object truly indifferent, that I might have opportunities of seeing an object I adored.” Malvina blushed and trembled: “Fitzalan,” cried she after a pause, “I detest132 deceit.”
“I abhor133 it too, Lady Malvina,” said he; “but why should I now endeavor to prove my sincerity, when I know it is so immaterial? Excuse me for what I have already uttered, and believe that though susceptible134, I am not aspiring135.” He then presented his hand to Malvina; she descended136 from her seat, and they walked towards the Abbey. Lady Malvina’s pace was slow, and her blushes, had Fitzalan looked at her, would have expressed more pleasure than resentment: she seemed to expect a still further declaration; but Fitzalan was too confused to speak; nor indeed was it his intention again to indulge himself on the dangerous subject. They proceeded in silence; at the Abbey gate they stopped, and he wished her good-night. “Shall we not soon see you at the Abbey?” exclaimed Lady Malvina in a flurried voice, which seemed to say she thought his adieu rather a hasty one. “No, my lovely friend,” cried Fitzalan, pausing, while he looked upon her with the most impassioned tenderness,—“in future I shall confine myself chiefly to the fort.” “Do you dread14 an invasion?” asked she, smiling, while a stolen glance of her eyes gave peculiar137 meaning to her words. “I long dreaded138 that,” cried he in the same strain, “and my fears were well founded; but I must now muster139 all my powers to dislodge the enemy.” He kissed her hand, and precipitately140 retired.
Lady Malvina repaired to her chamber141, in such a tumult142 of pleasure as she had never before experienced. She admired Fitzalan from the first evening she beheld him; though his attentions were directed to her sister, the language of his eyes, to her, contradicted any attachment143 these attentions might have intimated; his gentleness and sensibility seemed congenial to her own. Hitherto she had been the slave of tyranny and caprice; and now, for the first time, experienced that soothing144 tenderness her wounded feelings had so long sighed for. She was agitated and delighted; she overlooked every obstacle to her wishes; and waited impatiently a further explanation of Fitzalan’s sentiments.
Far different were his feelings from hers: to know he was beloved, could scarcely yield him pleasure, when he reflected[Pg 17] on his hopeless situation, which forbad his availing himself of any advantage that knowledge might have afforded. Of a union indeed he did not dare to think, since its consequences, he knew, must be destruction; for rigid145 and austere146 as the Earl was represented, he could not flatter himself he would ever pardon such a step; and the means of supporting Lady Malvina, in any degree of comfort, he did not possess himself. He determined147, as much as possible, to avoid her presence, and regretted continually having yielded to the impulse of his heart and revealed his love, since he believed it had augmented hers.
By degrees he discontinued his visits at the Abbey; but he often met Lady Malvina at parties in the neighborhood: caution, however, always sealed his lips, and every appearance of particularity was avoided. The time now approached for the departure of the regiment from Scotland, and Lady Malvina, instead of the explanation she so fondly expected, so ardently148 desired, saw Fitzalan studious to avoid her.
The disappointment this conduct gave rise to, was too much for the tender and romantic heart of Malvina to bear without secretly repining. Society grew irksome; she became more than ever attached to solitary rambles, which gave opportunities of indulging her sorrows without restraint: sorrows, pride often reproached her for experiencing.
It was within a week of the change of garrison149, when Malvina repaired one evening to the rock where Fitzalan had disclosed his tenderness; a similarity of feeling had led him thither150; he saw his danger, but he had no power to retreat; he sat down by Malvina, and they conversed151 for some time on indifferent subjects; at last, after a pause of a minute, Malvina exclaimed, “You go then, Fitzalan, never, never, I suppose, to return here again!” “’Tis probable I may not indeed,” said he. “Then we shall never meet again,” cried she, while a trickling152 tear stole down her lovely cheek, which, tinged153 as it was with the flush of agitation, looked now like a half-blown rose moistened with the dews of early morning.
“Yes, my lovely friend,” said he, “we shall meet again—we shall meet in a better place; in that heaven,” continued he, sighing, and laying his cold, trembling hand upon hers, “which will recompense all our sufferings.” “You are melancholy to-night, Fitzalan,” cried Lady Malvina, in a voice scarcely articulate.
“Oh! can you wonder at it?” exclaimed he, overcome by her emotion, and forgetting in a moment all his resolutions[Pg 18]—“Oh! can you wonder at my melancholy, when I know not but that this is the last time I shall see the only woman I ever loved—when I know, that in bidding her adieu I resign all the pleasure, the happiness of my life.”
Malvina could no longer restrain her feelings; she sunk upon his shoulder and wept. “Good heavens!” cried Fitzalan, almost trembling beneath the lovely burden he supported—“What a cruel situation is mine! But, Malvina, I will not, cannot plunge154 you in destruction. Led by necessity, as well as choice, to embrace the profession of a soldier, I have no income but what is derived155 from that profession; though my own distresses157 I could bear with fortitude158, yours would totally unman me; nor would my honor be less injured than my peace, were you involved in difficulties on my account. Our separation is therefore, alas! inevitable159.”
“Oh! no,” exclaimed Malvina, “the difficulties you have mentioned will vanish. My father’s affections were early alienated160 from me; and my fate is of little consequence to him—nay161, I have reason to believe he will be glad of an excuse for leaving his large possessions to Augusta; and oh! how little shall I envy her those possessions, if the happy destiny I now look forward to is mine.” As she spoke, her mild eyes rested on the face of Fitzalan, who clasped her to his bosom162 in a sudden transport of tenderness. “But though my father is partial to Augusta,” she continued, “I am sure he will not be unnatural163 to me; and though he may withhold164 affluence165, he will, I am confident, allow me a competence166; nay, Lady Dunreath, I believe, in pleasure at my removal from the Abbey, would, if he hesitated in that respect, become my intercessor.”
The energy with which Malvina spoke convinced Fitzalan of the strength of her affection. An ecstasy167 never before felt pervaded168 his soul at the idea of being so beloved; vainly did prudence whisper, that Malvina might be deluding169 herself with false hopes, the suggestions of love triumphed over every consideration; and again folding the fair being he held in his arms to his heart, he softly asked, would she, at all events, unite her destiny with his.
Lady Malvina, who firmly believed what she had said to him would really happen, and who deemed a separation from him the greatest misfortune which could possibly befall her, blushed, and faltering170 yielded a willing consent.
The means of accomplishing their wishes now occupied their thoughts. Fitzalan’s imagination was too fertile not soon to suggest a scheme which had a probability of success; he[Pg 19] resolved to intrust the chaplain of the regiment with the affair, and request his attendance the ensuing night in the chapel171 of the Abbey, where Lady Malvina promised to meet them with her maid, on whose secrecy172 she thought she could rely.
It was settled that Fitzalan should pay a visit the next morning at the Abbey, and give Malvina a certain sign, if he succeeded with the chaplain.
The increasing darkness at length reminded them of the lateness of the hour. Fitzalan conducted Malvina to the Abbey gate, where they separated, each involved in a tumult of hopes, fears, and wishes.
The next morning Lady Malvina brought her work into her sister’s dressing-room; at last Fitzalan entered; he was attacked by Augusta for his long absence, which he excused by pleading regimental business. After trifling some time with her, he prevailed on her to sit down to the harpsichord173; and then glancing to Malvina, he gave her the promised signal.
Her conscious eyes were instantly bent174 to the ground; a crimson175 glow was suddenly succeeded by a deadly paleness; her head sunk upon her bosom; and her agitation must have excited suspicions had it been perceived; but Fitzalan purposely bent over her sister, and thus gave her an opportunity of retiring unnoticed from the room. As soon as she had regained176 a little composure, she called her maid, and, after receiving many promises of secrecy, unfolded to her the whole affair. It was long past the midnight hour ere Malvina would attempt repairing to the chapel; when she at last rose for that purpose she trembled universally; a kind of horror chilled her heart; she began to fear she was about doing wrong, and hesitated; but when she reflected on the noble generosity178 of Fitzalan, and that she herself had precipitated179 him into the measure they were about taking, her hesitation180 was over; and leaning on her maid, she stole through the winding181 galleries, and lightly descending182 the stairs, entered the long hall, which terminated in a dark arched passage, that opened into the chapel.
This was a wild and gloomy structure, retaining everywhere vestiges183 of that monkish184 superstition185 which had erected186 it; beneath were the vaults187 which contained the ancestors of the Earl of Dunreath, whose deeds and titles were enumerated188 on gothic monuments; their dust-covered banners waving around in sullen189 dignity to the rude gale190, which found admittance through the broken windows.
The light, which the maid held, produced deep shadows, that heightened the solemnity of the place.
[Pg 20] “They are not here,” said Malvina, casting her fearful eyes around. She went to the door, which opened into a thick wood; but here she only heard the breeze rustling191 amongst the trees; she turned from it, and sinking upon the steps of the altar, gave way to an agony of tears and lamentations. A low murmur109 reached her ear; she started up; the chapel door was gently pushed open, and Fitzalan entered with the chaplain; they had been watching in the wood for the appearance of light. Malvina was supported to the altar, and a few minutes made her the wife of Fitzalan.
She had not the courage, till within a day or two previous to the regiment’s departure from Scotland, to acquaint the Earl with her marriage; the Countess already knew it, through the means of Malvina’s woman, who was a creature of her own. Lady Dunreath exulted192 at the prospect193 of Malvina’s ruin; it at once gratified the malevolence194 of her soul, and the avaricious195 desire she had of increasing her own daughter’s fortune; she had, besides, another reason to rejoice at it; this was, the attachment Lady Augusta had formed for Fitzalan, which, her mother feared, would have precipitated her into a step as imprudent as her sister’s, had she not been beforehand with her.
This fear the impetuous passions of Lady Augusta naturally excited. She really loved Fitzalan; a degree of frantic196 rage possessed her at his marriage; she cursed her sister in the bitterness of her heart, and joined with Lady Dunreath in working up the Earl’s naturally austere and violent passions into such a paroxysm of fury and resentment, that he at last solemnly refused forgiveness to Malvina, and bid her never more appear in his presence.
She now began to tread the thorny197 path of life; and though her guide was tender and affectionate, nothing could allay198 her anguish199 for having involved him in difficulties, which his noble spirit could ill brook200 or struggle against. The first year of their union she had a son, who was called after her father, Oscar Dunreath; the four years that succeeded his birth were passed in wretchedness that baffles description. At the expiration201 of this period their debts were so increased, Fitzalan was compelled to sell out on half-pay. Lady Malvina now expected an addition to her family; her situation, she hoped, would move her father’s heart, and resolved to essay everything, which afforded the smallest prospect of obtaining comfort for her husband and his babes; she prevailed on him, therefore, to carry her to Scotland.
They lodged202 at a peasant’s in the neighborhood of the[Pg 21] Abbey; he informed them the Earl’s infirmities were daily increasing; and that Lady Dunreath had just celebrated203 her daughter’s marriage with the Marquis of Roseline. This nobleman had passionately204 admired Lady Malvina; an admiration the Countess always wished transferred to her daughter. On the marriage of Malvina he went abroad; his passion was conquered ere he returned to Scotland, and he disdained205 not the overtures206 made for his alliance from the Abbey. His favorite propensities, avarice207 and pride, were indeed gratified by the possession of the Earl of Dunreath’s sole heiress.
The day after her arrival Lady Malvina sent little Oscar, with the old peasant, to the Abbey; Oscar was a perfect cherubim—
“The bloom of opening flowers, unsullied beauty,
And looked like nature in the world’s first spring.”
Lady Malvina gave him a letter for the Earl, in which, after pathetically describing her situation, she besought209 him to let the uplifted hands of innocence plead her cause. The peasant watched till the hour came for Lady Dunreath to go out in her carriage, as was her daily custom: he then desired to be conducted to the Earl, and was accordingly ushered210 into his presence: he found him alone, and briefly211 informed him of his errand. The Earl frowned and looked agitated; but did not by any means express that displeasure which the peasant had expected; feeling for himself, indeed, had lately softened212 his heart; he was unhappy; his wife and daughter had attained the completion of their wishes, and no longer paid him the attention his age required. He refused, however, to accept the letter: little Oscar, who had been gazing on him from the moment he entered the apartment, now ran forward; gently stroking his hand, he smiled in his face, and exclaimed, “Ah! do pray take poor mamma’s letter.” The Earl involuntarily took it; as he read, the muscles of his face began to work, and a tear dropped from him. “Poor mamma cries too,” said Oscar, upon whose hand the tear fell. “Why did your mamma send you to me?” said the Earl. “Because she said,” cried. Oscar, “that you were my grandpapa—and she bids me love you, and teaches me every day to pray for you.” “Heaven bless you, my lovely prattler213!” exclaimed the Earl, with sudden emotion, patting his head as he spoke. At this moment Lady Dunreath rushed into the apartment: one of her favorites had followed her, to relate the scene that was going forward[Pg 22] within it: and she had returned, with all possible expedition, to counteract214 any dangerous impression that might be made upon the Earl’s mind. Rage inflamed215 her countenance: the Earl knew the violence of her temper; he was unequal to contention216, and hastily motioned for the peasant to retire with the child. The account of his reception excited the most flattering hopes in the bosom of his mother: she counted the tedious hours, in expectation of a kind summons to the Abbey; but no such summons came. The next morning the child was sent to it; but the porter refused him admittance, by the express command of the Earl, he said. Frightened at his rudeness, the child returned weeping to his mother, whose blasted expectations wrung217 her heart with agony, and tears and lamentations broke from her. The evening was far advanced, when suddenly her features brightened: “I will go,” cried she, starting up—“I will again try to melt his obduracy218. Oh! with what lowliness should a child bend before an offended parent! Oh! with what fortitude, what patience, should a wife, a mother, try to overcome difficulties which she is conscious of having precipitated the objects of her tenderest affections into!”
The night was dark and tempestuous219; she would not suffer Fitzalan to attend her; but proceeded to the Abbey, leaning on the peasant’s arm. She would not be repulsed221 at the door, but forced her way into the hall: here Lady Dunreath met her, and with mingled222 pride and cruelty, refused her access to her father, declaring it was by his desire she did so. “Let me see him but for a moment,” said the lovely suppliant223, clasping her white and emaciated224 hands together—“by all that is tender in humanity, I beseech225 you to grant my request.”
“Turn this frantic woman from the Abbey,” said the implacable Lady Dunreath, trembling with passion—“at your peril226 suffer her to continue here. The peace of your lord is too precious to be disturbed by her exclamations227.”
The imperious order was instantly obeyed, though, as Cordelia says, “it was a night when one would not have turned an enemy’s dog from the door.” The rain poured in torrents228; the sea roared with awful violence; and the wind roared through the wood, as if it would tear up the trees by their roots. The peasant charitably flung his plaid over Malvina: she moved mechanically along; her senses appeared quite stupefied. Fitzalan watched for her at the door: she rushed into his extended arms, and fainted; it was long ere she showed any symptoms of returning life. Fitzalan wept over her in the anguish and distraction229 of his soul; and scarcely could he forbear execra[Pg 23]ting the being who had so grievously afflicted230 her gentle spirit: by degrees she revived; and, as she pressed him feebly to her breast, exclaimed, “The final stroke is given—I have been turned from my father’s door.”
The cottage in which they lodged afforded but few of the necessaries, and none of the comforts of life; such, at least, as they had been accustomed to. In Malvina’s present situation, Fitzalan dreaded the loss of her life, should they continue in their present abode231; but whither could he take her wanderer, as he was upon the face of the earth? At length the faithful Edwin occurred to his recollection: his house, he was confident, would afford them a comfortable asylum, where Lady Malvina would experience all that tenderness and care her situation demanded.
He immediately set about procuring232 a conveyance233, and the following morning Malvina bid a last adieu to Scotland.
Lady Dunreath, in the mean time, suffered torture: after she had seen Malvina turned from the Abbey, she returned to her apartment: it was furnished with the most luxurious234 elegance, yet could she not rest within it. Conscience already told her, if Malvina died, she must consider herself her murderer; her pale and woe-worn image seemed still before her; a cold terror oppressed her heart, which the horrors of the night augmented; the tempest shook the battlements of the Abbey; and the winds, which howled through the galleries, seemed like the last moans of some wandering spirit of the pile, bewailing the fate of one of its fairest daughters. To cruelty and ingratitude235 Lady Dunreath had added deceit: her lord was yielding to the solicitations of his child, when she counteracted237 his intentions by a tale of falsehood. The visions of the night were also dreadful; Malvina appeared expiring before her, and the late Lady Dunreath, by her bedside, reproaching her barbarity. “Oh cruel!” the ghastly figure seemed to say, “is it you, whom I fostered in my bosom, that have done this deed—driven forth238 my child, a forlorn and wretched wanderer?”
Oh, conscience, how awful are thy terrors! thou art the vicegerent of Heaven, and dost anticipate its vengeance239, ere the final hour of retribution arrives. Guilt240 may be triumphant, but never, never can be happy: it finds no shield against thy stings and arrows. The heart thou smitest bleeds in every pore, and sighs amidst gayety and splendor.
The unfortunate travellers were welcomed with the truest hospitality by the grateful Edwin; he had married, soon after his return from America, a young girl, to whom, from his ear[Pg 24]liest youth, he was attached. His parents died soon after his union, and the whole of their little patrimony241 devolved to him. Soothed242 and attended with the utmost tenderness and respect, Fitzalan hoped Lady Malvina would here regain177 her health and peace: he intended, after her recovery, to endeavor to be put on full pay; and trusted he should prevail on her to continue at the farm.
At length the hour came, in which she gave a daughter to his arms. From the beginning of her illness the people about her were alarmed; too soon was it proved their alarms were well founded: she lived after the birth of her infant but a few minutes, and died embracing her husband, and blessing243 his children.
Fitzalan’s feelings cannot well be described: they were at first too much for reason, and he continued some time in perfect stupefaction. When he regained his sensibility, his grief was not outrageous244; it was that deep, still sorrow, which fastens on the heart, and cannot vent105 itself in tears or lamentations: he sat with calmness by the bed, where the beautiful remains245 of Malvina lay; he gazed without shrinking on her pale face, which death, as if in pity to his feelings, had not disfigured; he kissed her cold lips, continually exclaiming, “Oh! had we never met, she might still have been living.” His language was something like that of a poet of her own country:—
“Wee, modest crimson-tipped flower,
I met thee in a luckless hour.”
It was when he saw them about removing her that all the tempest of his grief broke forth. Oh! how impossible to describe the anguish of the poor widower’s heart, when he returned from seeing his Malvina laid in her last receptacle: he shut himself up in the room where she had expired, and ordered no one to approach him; he threw himself upon the bed; he laid his cheek upon her pillow, he grasped it to his bosom, he wetted it with tears, because she had breathed upon it. Oh, how still, how dreary, how desolate246, did all appear around him! “And shall this desolation never more be enlightened,” he exclaimed, “by the soft music of Malvina’s voice? Shall these eyes never more be cheered by beholding248 her angelic face?” Exhausted249 by his feelings, he sunk into a slumber250: he dreamt of Malvina, and thought she lay beside him: he awoke with sudden ecstasy, and under the strong impression of the dream, stretched out his arms to enfold her. Alas! all was empty void: he started up—he groaned251 in the bitterness of his [Pg 25]soul he traversed the room with a distracted pace—he sat him down in a little window, from whence he could view the spire252 of the church (now glistening253 in the moonbeams) by which she was interred254. “Deep, still, and profound,” cried he, “is now the sleep of my Malvina—the voice of love cannot awake her from it; nor does she now dream of her midnight mourner.”
The cold breeze of night blew upon his forehead, but he heeded255 it not; his whole soul was full of Malvina, whom torturing fancy presented to his view, in the habiliments of the grave. “And is this emaciated form, this pale face,” he exclaimed, as if he had really seen her, “all that remain of elegance and beauty, once unequalled!”
A native sense of religion alone checked the transports of his grief; that sweet, that sacred power, which pours balm upon the wounds of sorrow, and saves its children from despair; that power whispered to his heart, a patient submission256 to the will of heaven was the surest means he could attain6 of again rejoining his Malvina.
She was interred in the village church-yard: at the head of her grave a stone was placed, on which was rudely cut,
MALVINA FITZALAN,
ALIKE LOVELY AND UNFORTUNATE.
Fitzalan would not permit her empty title to be on it: “She is buried,” he said, “as the wife of a wretched soldier, not as the daughter of a wealthy peer.”
She had requested her infant might be called after her own mother; her request was sacred to Fitzalan, and it was baptized by the united names of Amanda Malvina. Mrs. Edwin was then nursing her first girl; but she sent it out, and took the infant of Fitzalan in its place to her bosom.
The money, which Fitzalan had procured257 by disposing of his commission, was now nearly exhausted; but his mind was too enervated259 to allow him to think of any project for future support. Lady Malvina was deceased two months, when a nobleman came into the neighborhood, with whom Fitzalan had once been intimately acquainted: the acquaintance was now renewed; and Fitzalan’s appearance, with the little history of his misfortunes, so much affected260 and interested his friend, that, without solicitation236, he procured him a company in a regiment, then stationed in England. Thus did Fitzalan again enter into[Pg 26] active life; but his spirits were broken, and his constitution injured. Four years he continued in the army; when, pining to have his children (all that now remained of a woman he adored) under his own care, he obtained, through the interest of his friend, leave to sell out. Oscar was then eight, and Amanda four; the delighted father, as he held them to his heart, wept over them tears of mingled pain and pleasure.
He had seen in Devonshire, where he was quartered for some time, a little romantic solitude, quite adapted to his taste and finances; he proposed for it, and soon became its proprietor261. Hither he carried his children, much against the inclinations of the Edwins, who loved them as their own: two excellent schools in the neighborhood gave them the usual advantages of genteel education; but as they were only day scholars, the improvement, or rather forming of their morals, was the pleasing task of their father. To his assiduous care too they were indebted for the rapid progress they made in their studies, and for the graceful262 simplicity of their manners: they rewarded his care, and grew up as amiable263 and lovely as his fondest wishes could desire. As Oscar advanced in life, his father began to experience new cares; for he had not the power of putting him in the way of making any provision for himself. A military life was what Oscar appeared anxious for: he had early conceived a predilection264 for it, from hearing his father speak of the services he had seen; but though he possessed quite the spirit of a hero, he had the truest tenderness, the most engaging softness of disposition265; his temper was, indeed, at once mild, artless, and affectionate. He was about eighteen, when the proprietor of the estate, on which his father held his farm, died, and his heir, a colonel in the army, immediately came down from London to take formal possession: he soon became acquainted with Fitzalan, who, in the course of conversation, one day expressed the anxiety he suffered on his son’s account. The Colonel said he was a fine youth, and it was a pity he was not provided for. He left Devonshire, however, shortly after this, without appearing in the least interested about him.
Fitzalan’s heart was oppressed with anxiety; he could not purchase for his son, without depriving himself of support. With the nobleman who had formerly266 served him so essentially267, he had kept up no intercourse, since he quitted the army; but he frequently heard of him, and was told he had become quite a man of the world, which was an implication of his having lost all feeling: an application to him, therefore, he feared, would[Pg 27] be unavailing, and he felt too proud to subject himself to a repulse220.
From this disquietude he was unexpectedly relieved by a letter from the Earl of Cherbury, his yet kind friend, informing him he had procured an ensigncy for Oscar, in Colonel Belgrave’s regiment, which he considered a very fortunate circumstance, as the colonel, he was confident, from personally knowing the young gentleman, would render him every service in his power. The Earl chided Fitzalan for never having kept up a correspondence with him, assured him he had never forgotten the friendship of their earlier years; and that he had gladly seized the first opportunity which offered, of serving him in the person of his son; which opportunity he was indebted to Colonel Belgrave for.
Fitzalan’s soul was filled with gratitude and rapture; he immediately wrote to the Earl, and the Colonel, in terms expressive of his feelings. Colonel Belgrave received his thanks as if he had really deserved them; but this was not by any means the case: he was a man devoid268 of sensibility, and had never once thought of serving Fitzalan or his son; his mentioning them was merely accidental.
In a large company, of which the Earl of Cherbury was one, the discourse269 happened to turn on the Dunreath family, and by degrees led to Fitzalan, who was severally blamed and pitied for his connection with it; the subject was, in the opinion of Colonel Belgrave, so apropos270, he could not forbear describing his present situation, and inquietude about his son, who, he said he fancied, must, like a second Cincinnatus, take the plough-share instead of the sword.
Lord Cherbury lost no part of his discourse; though immersed in politics, and other intricate concerns, he yet retained, and was ready to obey, the dictates of humanity, particularly when they did not interfere271 with his own interests; he therefore directly conceived the design of serving his old friend.
Oscar soon quitted Devonshire after his appointment, and brought a letter from his father to the Colonel, in which he was strongly recommended to his protection, as one unskilled in the ways of men.
And now all Fitzalan’s care devolved upon Amanda; and most amply did she recompense it. To the improvement of her genius, the cultivation272 of her talents, the promotion273 of her father’s happiness, seemed her first incentive274; without him no amusement was enjoyed, without him no study entered upon; he was her friend, guardian275, and protector; and no language[Pg 28] can express, no heart (except a paternal276 one) conceive, the rapture he felt, at seeing a creature grow under
his forming hand.
—————So fair
That what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now
Mean, or in her contained.
Some years had elapsed since Oscar’s departure, ere Colonel Belgrave returned into their neighborhood; he came soon after his nuptials277 had been celebrated in Ireland, with a lady of that country, whom Oscar’s letters described as possessing every mental and personal charm which could please or captivate the heart. Colonel Belgrave came unaccompanied by his fair bride. Fitzalan, who believed him his benefactor278, and consequently regarded him as a friend (still thinking it was through his means Lord Cherbury had served him), immediately waited upon him, and invited him to his house. The invitation, after some time, was accepted; but had he imagined what an attraction the house contained, he would not have long hesitated about entering it: he was a man, indeed, of the most depraved principles; and an object he admired, no tie or situation, however sacred, could guard from his pursuit.
Amanda was too much a child, when he was last in the country, to attract his observation; he had, therefore, no idea that the blossom he then so carelessly overlooked, had since expanded into such beauty. How great, then, was his rapture and surprise, when Fitzalan led into the room where he had received him, a tall, elegantly-formed girl, whose rosy279 cheeks were dimpled with the softest smile of complacence, and whose fine blue eyes beamed with modesty and gratitude upon him! He instantly marked her for his prey; and blessed his lucky stars which had inspired Fitzalan with the idea of his being his benefactor, since that would give him an easier access to the house than he could otherwise have hoped for.
From this time he became almost an inmate280 of it, except when he chose to contrive56 little parties at his own for Amanda. He took every opportunity that offered, without observation, to try to ingratiate himself in her favor: those opportunities the unsuspecting temper of Fitzalan allowed to be frequent—he would as soon have trusted Amanda to the care of Belgrave, as to that of her brother; and never, therefore, prevented her walking out with him, when he desired it, or receiving him in the morning, while he himself was absent about the affairs of his farm—delighted to think the conversation or talents of his daughter (for Amanda frequently sung and played for the[Pg 29] Colonel) could contribute to the amusement of his friend. Amanda innocently increased his flame, by the attention she paid which she considered but a just tribute of gratitude for his services: she delighted in talking to him of her dear Oscar, and often mentioned his lady; but was surprised to find he always waived281 the latter subject.
Belgrave could not long restrain the impetuosity of his passions: the situation of Fitzalan (which he knew to be a distressed282 one) would, he fancied, forward his designs on his daughter; and what those designs were, he, by degrees, in a retired walk one day, unfolded to Amanda. At first she did not perfectly283 understand him; but when, with increased audacity284, he explained himself more fully15, horror, indignation, and surprise took possession of her breast; and, yielding to their feelings, she turned and fled to the house, as if from a monster. Belgrave was provoked and mortified285; the softness of her manners had tempted76 him to believe he was not indifferent to her, and that she would prove an easy conquest.
Poor Amanda would not appear in the presence of her father, till she had, in some degree, regained composure, as she feared the smallest intimation of the affair might occasion fatal consequences. As she sat with him, a letter was brought her; she could not think Belgrave would have the effrontery286 to write, and opened it, supposing it came from some acquaintance in the neighborhood. How great was the shock she sustained, on finding it from him! Having thrown off the mask, he determined no longer to assume any disguise. Her paleness and confusion alarmed her father, and he instantly demanded the cause of her agitation. She found longer concealment287 was impossible; and, throwing herself at her father’s feet, besought him, as she put the letter into his hands, to restrain his passion. When he perused288 it, he raised her up, and commanded her, as she valued his love or happiness, to inform him of every particular relative to the insult she had received. She obeyed, though terrified to behold247 her father trembling with emotion. When she concluded, he tenderly embraced her; and, bidding her confine herself to the house, rose, and took down his hat. It was easy to guess whither he was going; her terror increased; and, in a voice scarcely articulate, she besought him not to risk his safety. He commanded her silence, with a sternness never before assumed. His manner awed289 her; but, when she saw him leaving the room, her feelings could no longer be controlled—she rushed after him, and flinging her arms round his neck, fainted on it. In this situation the unhappy father was com[Pg 30]pelled to leave her to the care of a maid, lest her pathetic remonstrances290 should delay the vengeance he resolved to take on a wretch122 who had meditated291 a deed of such atrocity292 against his peace; but Belgrave was not to be found.
Scarcely, however, had Fitzalan returned to his half-distracted daughter ere a letter was brought him from the wretch, in which he made the most degrading proposals; and bade Fitzalan beware how he answered them, as his situation had put him entirely293 into his power. This was a fatal truth: Fitzalan had been tempted to make a large addition to his farm, from an idea of turning the little money he possessed to advantage: but he was more ignorant of agriculture than he had imagined; and this ignorance, joined to his own integrity of heart, rendered him the dupe of some designing wretches294 in his neighborhood: his whole stock dwindled295 away in unprofitable experiments, and he was now considerably296 in arrears297 with Belgrave. The ungenerous advantage he strove to take of his situation, increased, if possible, his indignation; and again he sought him, but still without success.
Belgrave soon found no temptation of prosperity would prevail on the father or daughter to accede298 to his wishes; he therefore resolved to try whether the pressure of adversity would render them more complying, and left the country, having first ordered his steward299 to proceed directly against Fitzalan.
The consequence of this order was an immediate43 execution on his effects; and, but for the assistance of a good-natured farmer, he would have been arrested. By his means, and under favor of night, he and Amanda set out for London; they arrived there in safety, and retired to obscure lodgings300. In this hour of distress156, Fitzalan conquered all false pride, and wrote to Lord Cherbury, entreating301 him to procure258 some employment which would relieve his present distressing302 situation. He cautiously concealed303 everything relative to Belgrave—he could not bear that it should be known that he had ever been degraded by his infamous304 proposals. Oscar’s safety, too, he knew depended on his secrecy; as he was well convinced no idea of danger, or elevation of rank, would secure the wretch from his fury, who had meditated so great an injury against his sister.
He had the mortification305 of having the letter he sent to Lord Cherbury returned, as his lordship was then absent from town; nor was he expected for some months, having gone on an excursion of pleasure to France. Some of these months had lingered away in all the horrors of anxiety and distress, when Fitzalan formed the resolution of sending Amanda into[Pg 31] Wales, whose health had considerably suffered, from the complicated uneasiness and terror she experienced on her own and her father’s account.
Belgrave had traced the fugitives306; and though Fitzalan was guarded against all the stratagems307 he used to have him arrested, he found means to have letters conveyed to Amanda, full of base solicitations and insolent308 declarations, that the rigor309 he treated her father with was quite against his feelings, and should instantly be withdrawn310, if she acceded311 to the proposals he made for her.
But though Fitzalan had determined to send Amanda into Wales, with whom could he trust his heart’s best treasure? At last the son of the worthy312 farmer who had assisted him in his journey to London, occurred to his remembrance; he came often to town, and always called on Fitzalan. The young man, the moment it was proposed, expressed the greatest readiness to attend Miss Fitzalan. As every precaution was necessary, her father made her take the name of Dunford, and travel in the mail-coach, for the greater security. He divided the contents of his purse with her; and recommending this lovely and most beloved child to the protection of heaven, saw her depart, with mingled pain and pleasure; promising313 to give her the earliest intelligence of Lord Cherbury’s arrival in town, which, he supposed, would fix his future destiny. Previous to her departure, he wrote to the Edwins, informing them of her intended visit, and also her change of name for the present. This latter circumstance, which was not satisfactorily accounted for, excited their warmest curiosity; and not thinking it proper to ask Amanda to gratify it, they, to use their own words, sifted314 her companion, who hesitated not to inform them of the indignities315 she had suffered from Colonel Belgrave, which were well known about his neighborhood.
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1
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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3
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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4
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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5
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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6
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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7
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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8
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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9
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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10
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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11
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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12
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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13
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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14
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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15
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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16
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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17
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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18
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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19
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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20
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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21
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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22
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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23
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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25
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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26
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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27
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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28
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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29
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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30
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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32
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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34
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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37
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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38
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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39
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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40
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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41
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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42
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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45
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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46
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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47
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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48
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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50
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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51
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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52
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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53
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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54
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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55
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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56
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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57
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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58
alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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59
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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60
endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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61
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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62
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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63
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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64
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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65
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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66
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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67
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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68
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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69
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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70
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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71
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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72
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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73
debilitated
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| adj.疲惫不堪的，操劳过度的v.使（人或人的身体）非常虚弱( debilitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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75
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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76
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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77
sprightly
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|
| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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78
agitated
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|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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79
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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80
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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81
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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82
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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83
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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84
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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85
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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86
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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87
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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88
deluded
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|
| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
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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90
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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91
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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92
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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93
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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94
negligently
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95
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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96
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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97
strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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98
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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99
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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100
browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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101
faltered
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|
| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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102
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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103
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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104
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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105
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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106
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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107
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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108
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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109
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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110
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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111
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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112
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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113
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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114
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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115
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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116
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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117
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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118
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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119
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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120
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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121
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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122
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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123
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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124
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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125
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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126
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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127
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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128
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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129
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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130
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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131
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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132
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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133
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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134
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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135
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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136
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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137
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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138
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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139
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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140
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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141
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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142
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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143
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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144
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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145
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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146
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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147
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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148
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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149
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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150
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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151
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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152
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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153
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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155
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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156
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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157
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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158
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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159
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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160
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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161
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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162
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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163
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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164
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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165
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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166
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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167
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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168
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
deluding
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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170
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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171
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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172
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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173
harpsichord
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| n.键琴（钢琴前身） | |
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174
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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175
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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176
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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177
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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178
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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179
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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180
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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181
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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182
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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183
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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184
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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185
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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186
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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187
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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188
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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190
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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191
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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192
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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194
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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195
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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196
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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197
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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198
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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199
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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200
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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201
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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202
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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203
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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204
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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205
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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206
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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207
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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208
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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209
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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210
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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212
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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213
prattler
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| n.空谈者 | |
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214
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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215
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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217
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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218
obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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219
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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220
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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221
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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222
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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223
suppliant
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|
| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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224
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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225
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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226
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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227
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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228
torrents
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|
| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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229
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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230
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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231
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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232
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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233
conveyance
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|
| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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234
luxurious
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|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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235
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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236
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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237
counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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238
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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239
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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240
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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241
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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242
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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243
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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244
outrageous
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|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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245
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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246
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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247
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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248
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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249
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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250
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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251
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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252
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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253
glistening
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|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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254
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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255
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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257
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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258
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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259
enervated
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|
| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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260
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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261
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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262
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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263
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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264
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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265
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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266
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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267
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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268
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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269
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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270
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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271
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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272
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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273
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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274
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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275
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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276
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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277
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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278
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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279
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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280
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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281
waived
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|
| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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282
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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283
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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284
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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285
mortified
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|
| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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286
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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287
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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288
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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289
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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290
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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291
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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292
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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293
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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294
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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295
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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296
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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297
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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298
accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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299
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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300
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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301
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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302
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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303
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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304
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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305
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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306
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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307
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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308
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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309
rigor
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| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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310
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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311
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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312
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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313
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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314
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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315
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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