And well my life shall pay;
And stretch me where he lay.”—Goldsmith.
To begin, then, as they say in a novel, without further preface, I was the only child of a country curate, in the southern part of England, who, like his wife, was of a good, but reduced family. Contented2 dispositions4 and an agreeable neighborhood, ready on every occasion to oblige them, rendered them, in their humble5 situations, completely happy. I was the idol6 of both their hearts; every one told my mother I should grow up a beauty, and she, poor simple woman, believed the flattering tale. Naturally ambitious, and somewhat romantic, she expected nothing less than my attaining7, by my charms, an elevated situation; to fit me to it, therefore, according to her idea, she gave me all the showy, instead of solid, advantages of education. My father being a meek8, or rather an indolent man, submitted entirely9 to her direction; thus, without knowing the grammatical part of my own language, I was taught to gabble bad French by myself; and, instead of mending or making my clothes, to flourish upon catgut and embroider10 satin. I was taught dancing by a man who kept a cheap school for that purpose in the village; music I could not aspire12 to, my mother’s finances being insufficient13 to purchase an instrument; she was therefore obliged to content herself with my knowing the vocal14 part of that delightful15 science, and instructed me in singing a few old-fashioned airs, with a thousand graces, in her opinion at least.
To make me excel by my dress, as well as my accomplishments16, all the misses of the village, the remains17 of her finery were cut and altered into every form which art or ingenuity18 could suggest; and, Heaven forgive me, but my chief inducement in going to church on a Sunday was to exhibit my flounced silk petticoat and painted chip hat.
When I attained19 my sixteenth year, my mother thought me, and supposed every one else must do the same, the most perfect creature in the world. I was lively, thoughtless, vain, and ambitious to an extravagant20 degree; yet, truly innocent in my[Pg 118] disposition3, and often, forgetting the appearance I had been taught to assume, indulged the natural gayety of my heart, and in a game of hide-and-go-seek, amongst the haycocks in a meadow, by moonlight, enjoyed perfect felicity.
Once a week, accompanied by my mother, I attended the dancing-master’s school, to practise country dances. One evening we had just concluded a set, and were resting ourselves, when an elegant youth, in a fashionable riding dress, entered the room. His appearance at once excited admiration21 and surprise; never shall I forget the palpitation of my heart at his approach; every girl experienced the same, every cheek was flushed, and every eye sparkled with hope and expectation. He walked round the room, with an easy, unembarrassed air, as if to take a survey of the company; he stopped by a very pretty girl, the miller’s daughter—good heavens! what were my agonies! My mother, too, who sat beside me, turned pale, and would actually, I believe, have fainted, had he taken any farther notice of her; fortunately he did not, but advanced. My eyes caught his; he again paused, looked surprised and pleased, and, after a moment, passed in seeming consideration, bowed with the utmost elegance22, and requested the honor of my hand for the ensuing dance. My politeness had hitherto only been in theory; I arose, dropped him a profound curtsey, assured him the honor would be all on my side, and I was happy to grant his request. He smiled, I thought, a little archly, and coughed to avoid laughing; I blushed, and felt embarrassed; but he led me to the head of the room to call a dance, and my triumph over my companions so exhilarated my spirits, that I immediately lost all confusion.
I had been engaged to a young farmer, and he was enraged24, not only at my breaking my engagement without his permission, but at the superior graces of my partner, who threatened to be a formidable rival to him. “By jingo!” said Clod, coming up to me in a surly manner, “I think, Miss Fanny, you have not used me quite genteelly; I don’t see why this here fine spark should take the lead of us all.” “Creature!” cried I, with an ineffable25 look of contempt, which he could not bear, and retired27 grumbling28. My partner could no longer refrain from laughing; the simplicity29 of my manners, notwithstanding the airs I endeavored to assume, highly delighted him. “No wonder,” cried he, “the poor swain should be mortified31 at losing the hand of his charming Fanny.”
The dancing over, we rejoined my mother, who was on[Pg 119] thorns to begin a conversation with the stranger, that she might let him know we were not to be ranked with the present company. “I am sure, sir,” said she, “a gentleman of your elegant appearance must feel rather awkward in the present party; it is so with us, as, indeed, it must be with every person of fashion; but, in an obscure little village like this, we must not be too nice in our society, except, like a hermit32, we could do without any.” The stranger assented33 to whatever she said, and accepted an invitation to sup with us; my mother instantly sent an intimation of her will to my father, to have, not the fatted calf34, indeed, but the fatted duck prepared; and he and the maid used such expedition, that, by the time we returned, a neat, comfortable supper was ready to lay on the table. Mr. Marlowe, the stranger’s name, as he informed me, was all animation35 and affability: it is unnecessary to say, that my mother, father, and myself, were all complaisance36, delight, and attention. On departing, he asked, and obtained, permission, of course, to renew his visit the next day; and my mother immediately set him down as her future son-in-law.
As everything is speedily communicated in such a small village as we resided in, we learned on the preceding evening he had stopped at the inn, and, hearing music, had inquired from whence it proceeded, and had gone out of curiosity to the dance. We also learned that his attendants reported him to be heir to a large fortune; this report, vain as I was, was almost enough of itself to engage my heart; judge, then, whether it was not an easy conquest to a person, who, besides the above-mentioned attraction, possessed38 those of a graceful39 figure and cultivated mind. He visited continually at our cottage; and I, uncultivated as I was, daily strengthened myself in his affections. In conversing40 with him, I forgot the precepts41 of vanity and affectation, and obeyed the dictates43 of nature and sensibility. He soon declared the motives44 of his visits to me—"to have immediately demanded my hand" he said, “would have gratified the tenderest wish of his soul; but, in his present situation, that was impossible—left, at an early age, destitute46 and distressed47, by the death of his parents, an old whimsical uncle, married to a woman equally capricious, had adopted him as heir to their large possessions—he found it difficult,” he said, “to submit to their ill-humor, and was confident, if he took any step against their inclinations51, he should forever forfeit52 their favor; therefore, if my parents would allow a reciprocal promise to pass between us, binding53 each to each, the moment he became master of expected for[Pg 120]tune, or obtained an independence, he would make me a partaker of it.” They consented, and he enjoined55 us to the strictest secrecy56, saying, one of his attendants was placed about him as a kind of spy. He had hitherto deceived him with respect to us, declaring my father was an intimate friend, and that his uncle knew he intended visiting him. But my unfortunate vanity betrayed the secret it was so material for me to keep. I was bound indeed not to reveal it. One morning a young girl who had been an intimate acquaintance of mine till I knew Marlowe, came to see me, “Why, Fanny,” cried she, “you have given us all up for Mr. Marlowe; take care, my dear, he makes you amends57 for the loss of your other friends.” “I shall take your advice,” said I, with a smile and a conceited60 toss of my head. “Faith, for my part,” continued she, “I think you were very foolish not to secure a good settlement for yourself with Clod.” “With Clod!” repeated I, with the utmost haughtiness61. “Lord, child, you forget who I am!” “Who are you?” exclaimed she, provoked at my insolence62; “oh, yes, to be sure, I forget that you are the daughter of a poor country curate, with more pride in your head than money in your purse.” “Neither do I forget,” said I, “that your ignorance is equal to your impertinence; if I am the daughter of a poor country curate, I am the affianced wife of a rich man, and as much elevated by expectation, as spirit, above you.”
Our conversation was repeated throughout the village, and reached the ears of Marlowe’s attendant, who instantly developed the real motive45 which detained him so long in the village. He wrote to his uncle an account of the whole affair; the consequence of this was a letter to poor Marlowe, full of the bitterest reproaches, charging him, without delay, to return home. This was like a thunder-stroke to us all; but there was no alternative between obeying, or forfeiting63 his uncle’s favor. “I fear, my dear Fanny,” cried he, as he folded me to his bosom64, a little before his departure, “it will be long ere we shall meet again; nay65, I also fear I shall be obliged to promise not to write; if both these fears are realized, impute66 not either absence or silence to a want of the tenderest affection for you.” He went, and with him all my happiness! My mother, shortly after his departure, was attacked by a nervous fever, which terminated her days; my father, naturally of weak spirits and delicate constitution, was so shocked by the sudden death of his beloved and faithful companion, that he sunk beneath his grief. The horrors of my mind I cannot describe; I seemed to stand alone in the world, without one friendly hand to prevent[Pg 121] my sinking into the grave, which contained the dearest objects of my love. I did not know where Marlowe lived, and, even if I had, durst not venture an application, which might be the means of ruining him. The esteem67 of my neighbors I had forfeited68 by my conceit59; they paid no attention but what common humanity dictated69, merely to prevent my perishing; and that they made me sensibly feel. In this distress48, I received an invitation from a school-fellow of mine, who had married a rich farmer about forty miles from our village, to take up my residence with her till I was sufficiently70 recovered to fix on some plan for subsistence. I gladly accepted the offer, and after paying a farewell visit to the grave of my regretted parents, I set off in the cheapest conveyance71 I could find to her habitation, with all my worldly treasure packed in a portmanteau.
With my friend I trusted I should enjoy a calm and happy asylum72 till Marlowe was able to fulfil his promise, and allow me to reward her kindness; but this idea she soon put to flight, by informing me, as my health returned, I must think of some method for supporting myself. I started, as at the utter annihilation of all my hopes; for, vain and ignorant of the world, I imagined Marlowe would never think of me if once disgraced by servitude. I told her I understood little of anything except fancy work. She was particularly glad, she said, to hear I knew that, as it would, in all probability, gain me admittance to the service of a rich old lady in the neighborhood, who had long been seeking for a person who could read agreeably and do fancy works, with which she delighted to ornament73 her house. She was a little whimsical, to be sure, she added, but well-timed flattery might turn those whims49 to advantage; and, if I regarded my reputation, I should not reject so respectable a protection. There was no alternative; I inquired more particularly about her, but how great was my emotion, when I learned she was the aunt of Marlowe. My heart throbbed74 with exquisite75 delight at the idea of being in the same house with him; besides, the service of his aunt would not, I flattered myself, degrade me as much in his eyes as that of another person’s ; it was necessary, however, my name should be concealed76, and I requested my friend to comply with my wish in that respect. She rallied me about my pride, which she supposed had suggested the request, but promised to comply with it; she had no doubt but her recommendation would be sufficient to procure77 me immediate23 admittance, and, accordingly, taking some of my work with me, I proceeded to the habitation of Marlowe. It was an antique mansion78, surrounded with neat-clipped hedges,[Pg 122] level lawns, and formal plantations79. Two statues, cast in the same mould, and resembling nothing either in heaven, earth, or sea, stood grinning horribly upon the pillars of a massy gate, as if to guard the entrance from impertinent intrusion. On knocking, an old porter appeared. I gave him my message, but he, like the statues, seemed stationary80, and would not, I believe, have stirred from his situation to deliver an embassy from the king. He called, however, to a domestic, who, happening to be a little deaf, was full half an hour before he heard him; at last, I was ushered81 up stairs into an apartment, from the heat of which one might have conjectured82 it was under the torrid zone. Though in the middle of July, a heavy hot fire burned in the grate; a thick carpet, representing birds, beasts, and flowers, was spread on the floor, and the windows, closely screwed down, were heavy with woodwork, and darkened with dust. The master and mistress of the mansion, like Darby and Joan, sat in arm-chairs on each side of the fire; three dogs, and as many cats, slumbered83 at their feet. He was leaning on a spider-table, poring over a voluminous book, and she was stitching a counterpane. Sickness and ill-nature were visible in each countenance84. “So!” said she, raising a huge pair of spectacles at my entrance, and examining me from head to foot, “you are come from Mrs. Wilson’s ; why, bless me, child, you are quite too young for any business; pray, what is your name, and where do you come from?” I was prepared for these questions, and told her the truth, only concealing85 my real name, and the place of my nativity. “Well, let me see those works of yours,” cried she. I produced them, and the spectacles were again drawn86 down. “Why, they are neat enough, to be sure,” said she, “but the design is bad—very bad, indeed: there is taste, there is execution!” directing me to some pictures, in heavy gilt87 frames, hung round the room. I told her, with sincerity88, “I had never seen anything like them.” “To be sure, child,” exclaimed she, pleased at what she considered admiration in me, “it is running a great risk to take you; but if you think you can conform to the regulations of my house, I will, from compassion89, and as you are recommended by Mrs. Wilson, venture to engage you; but, remember, I must have no gad-about, no fly-flapper, no chatterer, in my family. You must be decent in your dress and carriage, discreet90 in your words, industrious91 at your work, and satisfied with the indulgence of going to church on a Sunday.” I saw I was about entering upon a painful servitude; but the idea of its being sweetened by the sympathy of Marlowe a little reconciled me to it.
[Pg 123] On promising92 all she desired, everything was settled for my admission into her family, and she took care I should perform the promises I made her. I shall not recapitulate93 the various trials I underwent from her austerity and peevishness94; suffice it to say, my patience, as well as taste, underwent a perfect martyrdom. I was continually seated at a frame, working pictures of her own invention, which were everything that was hideous95 in nature. I was never allowed to go out, except on a Sunday to church, or on a chance evening when it was too dark to distinguish colors.
Marlowe was absent on my entering the family, nor durst I ask when he was expected. My health and spirits gradually declined from my close confinement96. When allowed, as I have before said, of a chance time to go out, instead of enjoying the fresh air, I have sat down to weep over scenes of former happiness. I dined constantly with the old housekeeper97. She informed me, one day, that Mr. Marlowe, her master’s young heir, who had been absent some time on a visit, was expected home on the ensuing day. Fortunately, the good dame98 was too busily employed to notice my agitation99. I retired as soon as possible from the table, in a state of indescribable pleasure. Never shall I forget my emotions, when I heard the trampling100 of his horse’s feet, and saw him enter the house! Vainly I endeavored to resume my work; my hands trembled, and I sunk back on my chair, to indulge the delightful idea of an interview with him, which I believed to be inevitable101. My severe task-mistress soon awakened102 me from me delightful dream; she came to tell me: “I must confine myself to my own and the housekeeper’s room, which, to a virtuous103, discreet maiden104, such as I appeared to be, she supposed would be no hardship, while her nephew, who was a young, perhaps rather a wild young man, remained in the house: when he again left it, which would soon be the case, I should regain105 my liberty.” My heart sunk within me at her words, but, when the first shock was over; I consoled myself by thinking I should be able to elude106 her vigilance. I was, however, mistaken; she and the housekeeper were perfect Arguses. To be in the same house with Marlowe, yet without his knowing it, drove me almost distracted.
I at last thought of an expedient107, which, I hoped, would effect the discovery I wanted. I had just finished a piece of work, which my mistress was delighted with. It was an enormous flower-basket, mounted on the back of a cat, which held beneath its paw a trembling mouse. The raptures108 the old lady[Pg 124] expressed at seeing her own design so ably executed encouraged me to ask permission to embroider a picture of my own designing, for which I had the silks lying by me. She complied, and I set about it with alacrity110. I copied my face and figure as exactly as I could, and, in mourning drapery and a pensive111 attitude, placed the little image by a rustic112 grave, in the church-yard of my native village, at the head of which, half embowered in trees, appeared the lovely cottage of my departed parents. These well-known objects, I thought, would revive, if indeed she was absent from it, the idea of poor Fanny in the mind of Marlowe. I presented the picture to my mistress, who was pleased with the present, and promised to have it framed. The next day while I sat at dinner, the door suddenly opened, and Marlowe entered the room. I thought I should have fainted. My companion dropped her knife and fork with great precipitation, and Marlowe told her he was very ill, and wanted a cordial from her. She rose with a dissatisfied air, to comply with his request. He, taking this opportunity of approaching a little nearer, darted113 a glance of pity and tenderness, and softly whispered—"To-night, at eleven o’clock, meet me in the front parlor114.”
You may conceive how tardily115 the hours passed till the appointed time came, when, stealing to the parlor, I found Marlowe expecting me. He folded me to his heart, and his tears mingled116 with mine, as I related my melancholy117 tale. “You are now, my Fanny!” he cried, “entirely mine; deprived of the protection of your tender parents I shall endeavor to fulfil the sacred trust they reposed118 in my honor, by securing mine to you, as far as lies in my power. I was not mistaken,” continued he, “in the idea I had formed of the treatment I should receive from my flinty-hearted relations on leaving you. Had I not promised to drop all correspondence with you, I must have relinquished119 all hopes of their favor. Bitter, indeed,” cried he, while a tear started in his eye, “is the bread of dependence54. Ill could my soul submit to the indignities120 I received; but I consoled myself throughout them, by the idea of future happiness with my Fanny. Had I known her situation (which, indeed, it was impossible I should, as my uncle’s spy attended me wherever I went), no dictate42 of prudence121 would have prevented my flying to her aid!” “Thank Heaven, then, you were ignorant of it,” said I. “My aunt,” he proceeded, “showed me your work, lavishing122 the highest encomiums on it. I glanced my eye carelessly upon it, but, in a moment, how was that careless eye attracted by the well known objects presented[Pg 125] to it! this, I said to my heart, can only be Fanny’s work. I tried to discover from my aunt whether my conjectures123 were wrong, but without success. When I retired to dress, I asked my servant if there had been any addition to the family during my absence; he said a young woman was hired to do fine works, but she never appeared among the servants.”
Marlowe proceeded to say, “he could not bear I should longer continue in servitude, and that without delay he was resolved to unite his fate to mine.” I opposed this resolution a little; but soon, too self-interested, I fear, acquiesced124 in it. It was agreed I should inform his aunt my health would no longer permit my continuing in her family, and that I should retire to a village six miles off, where Marlowe undertook to bring a young clergyman, a particular friend of his, to perform the ceremony. Our plan, as settled, was carried into execution, and I became the wife of Marlowe. I was now, you will suppose, elevated to the pinnacle125 of happiness; I was so, indeed, but my own folly126 precipitated127 me from it. The secrecy I was compelled to observe mortified me exceedingly, as I panted to emerge from the invidious cloud which had so long concealed my beauty and accomplishments from a world that I was confident, if seen, would pay them the homage128 they merited. The people with whom I lodged130 had been obliged by Marlowe, and, therefore, from interest and gratitude131, obeyed the injunction he gave them, of keeping my residence at their house a secret; they believed, or affected132 to believe, I was an orphan133 committed to his care, whom his uncle would be displeased134 to know he had taken under his protection. Three or four times a week I received stolen visits from Marlowe, when, one day (after a month had elapsed in this manner) standing30 at the parlor window, I saw Mrs. Wilson walking down the village. I started back, but too late to escape her observation; she immediately bolted into the room with all the eagerness of curiosity. I bore her first interrogatories tolerably well, but when she upbraided135 me for leaving the excellent service she had procured136 for me, for duplicity in saying I was going to another, and for my indiscretion in respect to Marlowe, I lost all command of my temper, and, remembering the inhumanity with which she had forced me into servitude, I resolved to mortify137 her completely, by assuming all the airs I had heretofore so ridiculously aspired138 to. Lolling in my chair, with an air of the most careless indifference139, I bid her no longer petrify140 me with her discourse141. This raised all the violence of rage, and she plainly told me, “from my conduct with Marlowe, I was un[Pg 126]worthy her notice.” “Therefore,” cried I, forgetting every dictate of prudence, “his wife will neither desire nor receive it in future.” “His wife!” she repeated, with a look of scorn and incredulity. I produced the certificate of my marriage; thus, from an impulse of vanity and resentment142, putting myself in the power of a woman, a stranger to every liberal feeling, and whose mind was inflamed143 with envy towards me. The hint I forced myself at parting to give her, to keep the affair secret, only determined144 her more strongly to reveal it. The day after her visit, Marlowe entered my apartment—pale, agitated145, and breathless, he sunk into a chair. A pang146, like conscious guilt147, smote148 my heart, and I trembled as I approached him. He repulsed149 me when I attempted to touch his hand. “Cruel, inconsiderate woman!” he said, “to what dreadful lengths has your vanity hurried you; it has drawn destruction upon your own head as well as mine!” Shame and remorse151 tied my tongue; had I spoken, indeed, I could not have vindicated153 myself, and I turned aside and wept. Marlowe, mild, tender, and adoring, could not long retain resentment; he started from his chair, and clasped me to his bosom. “Oh, Fanny!” he cried, “though you have ruined me, you are still dear as ever to me.”
This tenderness affected me even more than reproaches, and tears and sighs declared my penitence154. His expectations relative to his uncle were finally destroyed, on being informed of our marriage, which Mrs. Wilson lost no time in telling him. He burned his will, and immediately made another in favor of a distant relation. On hearing this intelligence, I was almost distracted; I flung myself at my husband’s feet, implored155 his pardon, yet declared I could never forgive myself. He grew more composed upon the increase of my agitation, as if purposely to soothe157 my spirits, assuring me, that, though his uncle’s favor was lost, he had other friends on whom he greatly depended. We set off for London, and found his dependence was not ill-placed; for, soon after his arrival, he obtained a place of considerable emolument158 in one of the public offices. My husband delighted in gratifying me, though I was often both extravagant and whimsical, and almost ever on the wing for admiration and amusement. I was reckoned a pretty woman, and received with rapture109 the nonsense and adulation addressed to me. I became acquainted with a young widow, who concealed a depraved heart under a specious159 appearance of innocence160 and virtue161, and by aiding the vices162 of others, procured the means of gratifying her own; yet so secret were all her transactions,[Pg 127] that calumny163 had not yet attacked her, and her house was the rendezvous164 of the most fashionable people. My husband, who did not dislike her manner, encouraged our intimacy165, and at her parties I was noticed by a young nobleman, then at the head of the ton. He declared I was one of the most charming objects he had ever beheld166, and, for such a declaration, I thought him the most polite I had ever known. As Lord T. condescended167 to wear my chains, I must certainly, I thought, become quite the rage. My transports, however, were a little checked by the grave remonstrances168 of my husband, who assured me Lord T. was a famous, or rather an infamous169 libertine170; and that, if I did not avoid his lordship’s particular attentions, he must insist on my relinquishing171 the widow’s society. This I thought cruel, but I saw him resolute172, and promised to act as he desired—a promise I never adhered to, except when he was present. I was now in a situation to promise an increase of family, and Marlowe wished me to nurse the child. The tenderness of my heart seconding his wish, I resolved on obeying it; but when the widow heard my intention she laughed at it, and said it was absolutely ridiculous, for the sake of a squalling brat173, to give up all the pleasures of life; besides, it would be much better taken care of in some of the villages about London. I denied this; still, however, she dwelt on the sacrifices I must make, the amusements I must give up, and at last completely conquered my resolution. I pretended to Marlowe my health was too delicate to allow me to bear such a fatigue174 and he immediately sacrificed his own inclinations to mine. I have often wondered at the kind of infatuation with which he complied with all my desires. My little girl, almost as soon as born, was sent from me; but, on being able to go out again, I received a considerable shock, from hearing my noble admirer was gone to the Continent, owing to a trifling175 derangement176 in his affairs. The vain pursuits of pleasure and dissipation were still continued. Three years passed in this manner, during which I had a son, and my little girl was brought home. I have since often felt astonished at the cold indifference with which I regarded my Marlowe, and our lovely babe, on whom he doted with all the enthusiasm of tenderness. Alas177! vanity had then absorbed my heart, and deadened every feeling of nature and sensibility; it is the parent of self-love and apathy178, and degrades those who harbor it below humanity.
Lord T. now returned from the Continent; he swore my idea had never been absent from his mind, and that I was more charming than ever; while I thought him, if possible, more[Pg 128] polite and engaging. Again my husband remonstrated179. Sometimes I seemed to regard these remonstrances, sometimes protested I would not submit to such unnecessary control. I knew, indeed, that my intentions were innocent, and I believed I might safely indulge my vanity, without endangering either my reputation or peace. About this time Marlowe received a summons to attend a dying friend four miles from London. Our little girl was then in a slight fever, which had alarmed her father, and confined me most unwillingly180, I must confess, to the house. Marlowe, on the point of departing, pressed me to his breast: “My heart, my beloved Fanny!” said he, “feels unusually heavy. I trust the feeling is no presentiment181 of approaching ill. Oh! my Fanny! on you and my babe, I rest for happiness—take care of our little cherub182, and above all (his meek eye encountering mine), take care of yourself, that, with my accustomed rapture, I may, on my return, receive you to my arms.” There was something so solemn, and so tender, in this address, that my heart melted, and my tears mingled with those which trickled183 down his pale checks. For two days I attended my child assiduously, when the widow made her appearance. She assured me I should injure myself by such close confinement, and that my cheeks were already faded by it. She mentioned a delightful masquerade which was to be given that night, and for which Lord T. had presented her with tickets for me and herself; but she declared, except I would accompany her, she would not go. I had often wished to go to a masquerade; I now, however, declined this opportunity of gratifying my inclination50, but so faintly, as to prompt a renewal184 of her solicitations, to which I at last yielded; and, committing my babe to the care of a servant, set off with the widow to a warehouse185 to choose dresses. Lord T. dined with us, and we were all in the highest spirits imaginable: about twelve we went in his chariot to the Haymarket, and I was absolutely intoxicated186 with his flattery, and the dazzling objects around me. At five we quitted this scene of gayety. The widow took a chair; I would have followed her example, but my Lord absolutely lifted me into his chariot, and there began talking in a strain which provoked my contempt, and excited my apprehensions187. I expressed my displeasure in tears, which checked his boldness, and convinced him he had some difficulties yet to overcome ere he completed his designs. He made his apologies with so much humility188, that I was soon appeased189, and prevailed on to accept them. We arrived at the widow’s house in as much harmony as we left it; the flags were wet, and Lord T. insisted on carrying me into[Pg 129] the house. At the door I observed a man muffled190 up, but as no one noticed him, I thought no more about it. We sat down to supper in high spirits, and chatted for a considerable time about our past amusements. His lordship said: “After a little sleep we should recruit ourselves by a pleasant jaunt191 to Richmond, where he had a charming villa11.” We agreed to his proposal, and retired to rest. About noon we arose; and, while I was dressing192 myself for the projected excursion, a letter was brought in to me. “Good Lord! Halcot!” exclaimed I, turning to the widow, “if Marlowe is returned, what will become of me?” “Oh! read, my dear creature!” cried she impatiently, “and then we can think of excuses.” “I have the letter here,” continued Mrs. Marlowe, laying her hand to her breast, and drawing it forth193 after a short pause, “I laid it to my heart to guard it against future folly.”
THE LETTER.
The presages194 of my heart were but too true—we parted never to meet again. Oh! Fanny, beloved of my soul, how are you lost to yourself and Marlowe! The independence, splendor195, riches, which I gave up for your sake, were mean sacrifices, in my estimation, to the felicity I fondly expected to have enjoyed with you through life. Your beauty charmed my mind, but it was your simplicity captivated my heart. I took, as I thought, the perfect child of innocence and sincerity to my bosom; resolved, from duty, as well as from inclination, to shelter you in that bosom, to the utmost of my power, from every adverse196 storm. Whenever you were indisposed, what agonies did I endure! yet, what I then dreaded197, could I have possibly foreseen, would have been comparative happiness to my present misery198; for, oh! my Fanny, far preferable would it have been to behold199 you in the arms of death than infamy200.
I returned immediately after witnessing the last pangs201 of my friend—oppressed with the awful scene of death, yet cheering my spirits by an anticipation202 of the consolation203 I should receive from my Fanny’s sympathy. Good God! what was my horror, when I found my little babe, instead of being restored to health by a mother’s care, nearly expiring through her neglect! The angel lay gasping204 on her bed, deserted205 by the mercenary wretch206 to whose care she was consigned207. I inquired, and the fatal truth rushed upon my soul; yet, when the first tumult208 of passion had subsided209, I felt that, without yet stronger proofs, I could not abandon you. Alas! too soon did I receive those proofs. I traced you, Fanny, through your giddy round, till I saw you borne in the arms of the vile210 Lord T. into the house of his vile paramour. You will wonder, perhaps, I did not tear you from his grasp. Could such a procedure have restored you to me, with all your unsullied innocence, I should not have hesitated; but that was impossible, and my eyes then gazed upon Fanny for the last time. I returned to my motherless babe, and, I am not ashamed to say, I wept over it with all the agonies of a fond and betrayed heart.
Ere I bid an irrevocable adieu, I would, if possible, endeavor to convince you that conscience cannot always be stifled—that illicit211 love is constantly attended by remorse and disappointment; for, when familiarity, or disease,[Pg 130] has diminished the charms which excited it, the frail212 fetters213 of admiration are broken by him who looks only to an exterior214 for delight; if, indeed, your conscience should not be awakened till this hour of desertion comes, when it does arrive, you may, perhaps, think of Marlowe. Yes, Fanny, when your cheeks are faded by care, when your wit is enfeebled by despondency, you may think of him whose tenderness would have outlived both time and change, and supported you, without abatement215, through every stage of life.
To stop short in the career of vice58 is, they say, the noblest effort of virtue. May such an effort be yours; and may you yet give joy to the angels of heaven, who, we are taught to believe, rejoice over them that truly repent216! That want should strew217 no thorns in the path of penitence, all that I could take from my babe I have assigned to you. Oh! my dear culprit, remember the precepts of your early youth—of those who, sleeping in the dust, are spared the bitter tear of anguish218, such as I now shed—and, ere too late, expiate219 your errors. In the solitude to which I am hastening, I shall continually pray for you; and when my child raises its spotless hands to Heaven, it shall implore156 its mercy for erring220 mortals; yet, think not it shall ever hear your story. Oh! never shall the blush of shame, for the frailties221 of one so dear, tinge222 its ingenuous223 countenance. May the sincerity of your repentance224 restore that peace and brightness to your life, which, at present, I think you must have forfeited, and support you with fortitude225 through its closing period! As a friend, once dear, you will ever exist in the memory of
Marlowe.
As I concluded the letter, my spirits, which had been gradually receding37, entirely forsook226 me, and I fell senseless on the floor. Mrs. Halcot and Lord T. took his opportunity of gratifying their curiosity by perusing227 the letter, and when I recovered, I found myself supported between them. “You see, my dear angel,” cried Lord T., “your cruel husband has entirely abandoned you; but grieve not, for in my arms you shall find a kinder asylum than he ever afforded you.” “True,” said Mrs. Halcot; “for my part, I think she has reason to rejoice at his desertion.”
I shall not attempt to repeat all I had said to them in the height of my distraction228. Suffice it to say, I reproached them both as the authors of my shame and misery; and, while I spurned229 Lord T. indignantly from my feet, accused Mrs. Halcot of possessing neither delicacy230 nor feeling. Alas! accusation231 or reproach could not lighten the weight on my heart—I felt a dreadful consciousness of having occasioned my own misery. I seemed as if awaking from a disordered dream, which had confused my senses; and the more clearly my perception of what was right returned, the more bitterly I lamented232 my deviation233 from it. To be reinstated in the esteem and affection of my husband was all of felicity I could desire to possess. Full of the idea of being able to effect a reconciliation234, I started[Pg 131] up; but, ere I reached the door, sunk into an agony of tears: recollecting235 that ere this he was probably far distant from me. My base companions tried to assuage236 my grief, and make me in reality the wretch poor Marlowe supposed me to be. I heard them in silent contempt, unable to move, till a servant informed me a gentleman below stairs desired to see me. The idea of a relenting husband instantly occurred, and I flew down; but how great was my disappointment only to see a particular friend of his! Our meeting was painful in the extreme. I asked him if he knew anything of Marlowe, and he solemnly assured me he did not. When my confusion and distress had a little subsided, he informed me that in the morning he had received a letter from him, with an account of our separation, and the fatal cause of it. The letter contained a deed of settlement on me of a small paternal237 estate, and a bill of fifty pounds, which Marlowe requested his friend to present himself to me. He also added my clothes were sent to his house, as our lodgings238 had been discharged. I did not find it difficult to convince this gentleman of my innocence, and, putting myself under his protection, was immediately conveyed to lodgings in a retired part of the town. Here he consoled me with assurances of using every effort to discover the residence of my husband. All, alas! proved unsuccessful; and my health gradually declined. As time wore away, my hope yet left still undiminished my desire of seeing him. Change of air was at last deemed requisite239 to preserve my existence, and I went to Bristol. I had the good fortune to lodge129 in the house with an elderly Irish lady, whose sweet and benevolent240 manner soon gained my warmest esteem, and tempted150 me to divulge241 my melancholy tale, where so certain of obtaining pity. She had also suffered severely242 from the pressure of sorrow; but hers, as it proceeded not from imprudence, but the common vicissitudes243 of life, was borne without that degree of anguish mine occasioned. As the period approached for her return to her native country, I felt the deepest regret at the prospect244 of our separation, which she, however, removed, by asking me to reside entirely with her. Eight years had elapsed since the loss of my husband, and no latent hope of his return remained in my heart sufficiently strong to tempt26 me to forego the advantages of such society. Ere I departed, however, I wrote to several of his friends, informing them of the step I intended taking, and, if any tidings of Marlowe occurred, where I was to be found. Five years I passed with my valuable friend in retirement245, and had the pleasure of[Pg 132] thinking I contributed to the ease of her last moments. This cottage, with a few acres adjoining it, and four hundred pounds, was all her wealth, and to me she bequeathed it, having no relations whose wants gave them any claim upon her.
The events I have just related will, I hope, strengthen the moral so many wish to impress upon the minds of youth, namely—that, without a strict adherence246 to propriety247, there can be no permanent pleasure; and that it is the actions of early life must give to old age either happiness and comfort, or sorrow and remorse. Had I attended to the admonitions of wisdom and experience, I should have checked my wanderings from prudence, and preserved my happiness from being sacrificed at the shrine248 of vanity; then, instead of being a solitary249 in the world, I might have had my little fireside enlivened by the partner of my heart, and, perhaps, my children’s children sporting around; but suffering is the proper tax we pay for folly; the frailty250 of human nature, the prevalence of example, the allurements251 of the world, are mentioned by many as extenuations for misconduct. Though virtue, say they, is willing, she is often too weak to resist the wishes they excite. Mistaken idea! and blessed is that virtue which, opposing, ends them. With every temptation we have the means of escape; and woe252 be to us if we neglect those means, or hesitate to disentangle ourselves from the snare253 which vice or folly may have spread around us. Sorrow and disappointment are incident to mortality, and when not occasioned by any conscious imprudence, should be considered as temporary trials from Heaven to improve and correct us, and therefore cheerfully be borne. A sigh stole from Oscar as she spoke152, and a tear trickled down the soft cheek of Adela. “I have,” continued Mrs. Marlowe, “given you, like an old woman, a tedious tale; but that tediousness, with every other imperfection I have acknowledged, I rest upon your friendship and candor254 to excuse.”
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1
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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embroider
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| v.刺绣于(布)上；给…添枝加叶，润饰 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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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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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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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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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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41
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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42
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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43
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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44
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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45
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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46
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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48
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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49
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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50
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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51
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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52
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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53
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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54
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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57
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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58
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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61
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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62
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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63
forfeiting
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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64
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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67
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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70
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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71
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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72
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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73
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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75
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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81
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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84
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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85
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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86
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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87
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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88
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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89
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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90
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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92
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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93
recapitulate
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| v.节述要旨，择要说明 | |
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94
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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95
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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96
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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97
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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98
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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99
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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100
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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101
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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102
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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103
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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104
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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105
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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106
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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107
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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108
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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109
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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110
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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111
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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112
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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113
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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114
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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115
tardily
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| adv.缓慢 | |
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116
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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117
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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118
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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120
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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121
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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122
lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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123
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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124
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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126
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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127
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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128
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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129
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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130
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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131
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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132
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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133
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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134
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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135
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
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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137
mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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138
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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140
petrify
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| vt.使发呆；使…变成化石 | |
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141
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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142
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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143
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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144
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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145
agitated
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|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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146
pang
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|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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147
guilt
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|
| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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148
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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149
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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150
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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151
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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152
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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153
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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154
penitence
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|
| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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155
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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157
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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158
emolument
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| n.报酬，薪水 | |
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159
specious
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|
| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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160
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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161
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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162
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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163
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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164
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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165
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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166
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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167
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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168
remonstrances
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|
| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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169
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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170
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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171
relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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172
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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173
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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174
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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175
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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176
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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177
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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178
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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179
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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180
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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181
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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182
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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183
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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184
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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185
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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186
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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187
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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188
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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189
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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190
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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191
jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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192
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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193
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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194
presages
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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195
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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196
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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197
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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198
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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199
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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200
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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201
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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202
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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203
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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204
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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205
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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206
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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207
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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208
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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209
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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210
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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211
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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212
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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213
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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214
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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215
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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216
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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217
strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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225
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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226
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（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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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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232
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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236
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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238
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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241
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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243
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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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248
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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250
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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251
allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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