Their humid beams into the opening flowers.
Or when she thought—
Of what her faithless fortune promised once,
They, like the dewy star
Of evening, shone in tears.”—Thomson.
Adela, on the death of her father, was taken by Belgrave to England, though the only pleasure he experienced in removing her was derived4 from the idea of wounding her feelings, by separating her from Mrs. Marlowe, whom he knew she was tenderly attached to. From his connections in London, she was compelled to mix in society—compelled, I say, for the natural gayety of her soul was quite gone, and that solitude5, which permitted her to brood over the remembrance of past days, was the only happiness she was capable of enjoying. When the terrors of Belgrave drove him from the kingdom, he had her removed to Woodhouse, to which, it may be remembered, he had once brought Amanda, and from which the imperious woman who then ruled was removed; but the principal domestic was equally harsh and insolent6 in her manner, and to her care the unfortunate Adela was consigned7, with strict orders that she should not be allowed to receive any company, or correspond with any being. Accustomed from her earliest youth to the greatest tenderness, this severity plunged8 her in the deepest despondency, and life was a burden she would gladly have resigned. Her melancholy9, or rather her patient sweetness, at[Pg 574] least softened10 the flinty nature of her governante, and she was permitted to extend her walks beyond the gardens, to which they had hitherto been confined; but she availed herself of this permission only to visit the church-yard belonging to the hamlet, whose old yew-trees she had often seen waving from the windows. Beneath their solemn gloom she loved to sit, while evening closed around her; and in a spot sequestered11 from every human eye, weep over the recollection of that father she had lost, that friend she was separated from. She remained in the church-yard one night beyond her usual hour. The soft beams of the moon alone prevented her from being involved in darkness, and the plaintive13 breathings of a flute14 from the hamlet just stole upon her ear. Lost in sadness, her head resting upon her hand, she forgot the progress of time, when suddenly she beheld15 a form rising from a neighboring grave. She started up, screamed, but had no power to move. The form advanced to her. It was the figure of a venerable man, who gently exclaimed, “Be not afraid!” His voice dissipated the involuntary fears of Adela: but still she trembled so much she could not move. “I thought,” cried he, gazing on her, “this place had been alone the haunt of wretchedness and me.” “If sacred to sorrow,” exclaimed Adela, “I well may claim the privilege of entering it.” She spoke16 involuntarily, and her words seemed to affect the stranger deeply. “So young,” said he; “it is melancholy, indeed; but still the sorrows of youth are more bearable than those of age, because, like age it has not outlived the fond ties, the sweet connections of life.” “Alas!” cried Adela unable to repress her feelings, “I am separated from all I regarded.” The stranger leaned pensively17 against a tree for a few minutes, and then again addressed her: “’Tis a late hour,” said he; “suffer me to conduct you home, and also permit me to ask if I may see you here to-morrow night? Your youth, your manner, your dejection, all interest me deeply. The sorrows of youth are often increased by imagination. You will say that nothing can exceed its pains; ’tis true, but it is a weakness to yield to them—a weakness which, from a sensible mind, will be eradicated19 the moment it hears of the real calamities20 of life. Such a relation I can give you if you meet me to-morrow night in this sad, this solitary21 spot—a spot I have visited every closing evening, without ever before meeting a being in it.”
His venerable looks, his gentle, his pathetic manner, affected22 Adela inexpressibly. She gazed on him with emotions somewhat similar to those with which she used to contemplate23 the mild features of her father. “I will meet you,” cried she, “but[Pg 575] my sorrows are not imaginary.” She refused to let him attend her home; and in this incident there was something affecting and romantic, which soothed24 and engrossed25 the mind. She was punctual the next evening to the appointed hour. The stranger was already in the church-yard. He seated her at the head of the grave from which she had seen him rise the preceeding night, and which was only distinguished26 from the others by a few flowering shrubs27 planted round it, and began his promised narrative28. He had not proceeded far ere Adela began to tremble with emotion—as he continued it increased. At last, suddenly catching29 his hand with wildness, she exclaimed, “She lives—the wife so bitterly lamented30 still lives, a solitary mourner for your sake. Oh, never! never did she injure you as you suppose. Oh, dear, inestimable Mrs. Marlowe, what happiness to the child of your care, to think that through her means you will regain32 the being you have so tenderly regretted—regain him with a heart open to receive you.” The deep convulsive sobs33 of her companion now pierced her ear. For many minutes he was unable to speak—at last, raising his eyes, “Oh, Providence34! I thank Thee,” he exclaimed; “again shall my arms fold to my heart its best beloved object. Oh, my Fanny, how have I injured thee! Learn from me,” he continued, turning to Adela, “oh! learn from me never to yield to rashness. Had I allowed myself time to inquire into the particulars of my wife’s conduct; had I resisted, instead of obeying, the violence of passion, what years of lingering misery35 should I have saved us both! But tell me where I shall find my solitary mourner, as you call her?” Adela gave him the desired information, and also told him her own situation. “The wife of Belgrave!” he repeated; “then I wonder not,” continued he, as if involuntarily, “at your sorrows.” It was, indeed, to Howel, the unfortunate father of Juliana, the regretted husband of Mrs. Marlowe, that Adela had been addressing herself. He checked himself, however, and told her that the being, by whose grave they sat, had been hurried, through the villany of Belgrave, to that grave. Adela told him of the prohibition36 against her writing; but at the same time assured him, ere the following night, she would find an opportunity of writing a letter, which he should bring to Mrs. Marlowe, who by its contents would be prepared for his appearance, as it was to be sent in to her. But Adela was prevented from putting her intention into execution by an event as solemn as unexpected.
The ensuing morning she was disturbed from her sleep by a violent noise in the house, as of people running backwards37 and[Pg 576] forwards in confusion and distress38. She was hurrying on her clothes to go and inquire into the occasion of it, when a servant rushed into the room, and in a hasty manner told her that Colonel Belgrave was dead. Struck with horror and amazement39, Adela stood petrified40, gazing on her. The maid repeated her words, and added that he had died abroad, and his remains41 were brought over to Woodhouse for interment, attended by a French gentleman, who looked like a priest. The various emotions which assailed42 the heart of Adela at this moment were too much for her weak frame, and she would have fallen to the floor but for the maid. It was some time ere she recovered her sensibility, and when she did regain it, she was still so agitated43 as to be unable to give those directions, which the domestics, who now looked up to her in a light very different from they had hitherto done, demanded from her. All she could desire was that the steward45 should pay every respect and attention to the gentleman who had attended the remains of his master, and have every honor that was due shown to those remains. To suppose she regretted Belgrave would be unnatural46; but she felt horror, mingled with a degree of pity, for his untimely fate at the idea of his dying abroad, without one connection, one friend near him. His last moments were indeed more wretched than she could conceive. Overwhelmed with terror and grief, he had quitted England—terror at the supposition of a crime which in reality he had not committed, and grief for the fate of Amanda. He sought to lose his horrors in inebriety47; but this, joined to the agitations49 of his mind, brought on a violent fever by the time he had landed at Calais, in the paroxysms of which, had the attendants understood his language, they would have been shocked at the crimes he revealed. His senses were restored a short time before he died: but what excruciating anguish50, as well as horror, did he suffer from their restoration! He knew from his own feelings, as well as from the looks of his attendants, that his last moments were approaching: and the recollection of past actions made him shudder51 at those moments. Oh, Howel! now were you amply avenged52 for all the pangs54 he made you suffer. Now did the pale image of your shrouded55 Juliana seem to stand beside his bed reproaching his barbarity. Every treacherous56 action now rose to view, and, trembling, he groaned57 with terror at the spectres which a guilty conscience raised around him. Death would have been a release, could he have considered it an annihilation of all existence; but that future world he had always derided58, that world was opening in all its awful horrors to his view. Already he saw himself be[Pg 577]fore its sacred Judge, surrounded by the accusing spirits of those he had injured. He desired a clergyman to be brought to him. A priest was sent for. Their faiths were different, but still, as a man of God, Belgrave applied59 to him for an alleviation60 of his tortures. The priest was superstitious61, and ere he tried to comfort he wished to convert; but scarcely had he commenced the attempt ere the wretched being before him clasped his hands together, in a strong convulsion, and expired. The English servant who attended Belgrave informed the people of the hotel of his rank and fortune, and the priest offered to accompany his remains to England. He was, by the direction of Adela, who had not resolution to see him, amply rewarded for his attention: and in two days after their arrival at Woodhouse, the remains of Belgrave were consigned to their kindred earth. From a sequestered corner of the church-yard Howel witnessed his interment. When all had departed, he approached the grave of his daughter—"He is gone!” he exclaimed; “my Juliana, your betrayer is gone; at the tribunal of his God he now answers for his cruelty to you. But, oh! may he find mercy from that God; may He pardon him, as in this solemn moment I have done—my enmity lives not beyond the grave.”
Adela now sent for Howel; and, after their first emotions had subsided62, informed him she meant immediately to return to Ireland. The expectation of her doing so had alone prevented his going before. They accordingly commenced their journey the ensuing day, and in less than a week reached the dear and destined64 spot so interesting to both. They had previously65 settled on the manner in which the discovery should be revealed to Mrs. Marlowe, and Adela went alone into her cottage. Sad and solitary, as Mrs. Marlowe said in her letter to Oscar, did Adela find her in her parlor66; but it was a sadness which vanished the moment she beheld her. With all the tenderness of a mother she clasped Adela to her breast, and, in the sudden transports of joy and surprise, for many minutes did not notice her dress; but when she did observe it, what powerful emotions did it excite in her breast! Adela, scarcely less agitated than she was, could not for many minutes relate all that had happened. At last the idea of the state in which she had left Howel made her endeavor to compose herself. Mrs. Marlowe wept while she related her sufferings; but when she mentioned Howel, surprise suspended her tears—a surprise, increased when she began the story; but when she came to that part where she herself had betrayed such emotion while[Pg 578] listening to Howel, Mrs. Marlowe started and turned pale. “Your feelings are similar to mine,” said Adela; “at this period I became agitated. Yes,” she continued, “it was at this period I laid my trembling hand on his, and exclaimed, she lives!” “Merciful Heaven!” cried Mrs. Marlowe, “what do you mean?” “Oh, let me now,” cried Adela, clasping her arms round her, “repeat to you the same expression. He lives! that husband, so beloved and regretted, lives!” “Oh, bring him to me!” said Mrs. Marlowe, in a faint voice; “let me behold67 him while I have reason myself to enjoy the blessing68.” Adela flew from the room. Howel was near the door. He approached, he entered the room, he tottered69 forward, and in one moment was at the feet and in the arms of his wife, who, transfixed to the chair, could only open her arms to receive him. The mingled pain and pleasure of such a reunion, cannot be described. Both, with tears of grateful transport, blessed the Power which had given such comfort to their closing days. “But, my children,” exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe, suddenly, “ah! when shall I behold my children? Why did not they accompany you? Ah! did they deem me then unworthy of bestowing71 a mother’s blessing?” Howel trembled and turned pale. “I see,” said Mrs. Marlowe, interpreting his emotion, “I am a wife, but not a mother.” Howel, recovering his fortitude73, took her hand and pressed it to his bosom74. “Yes,” he replied, “you are a mother; one dear, one amiable75 child remains, Heaven be praised!” He paused, and a tear fell to the memory of Juliana. “But Heaven,” he resumed, “has taken the other to its eternal rest. Inquire not concerning her at present, I entreat76; soon will I conduct you to the grave; there will I relate her fate, and together will we mourn it. Then shall the tears that never yet bedewed her grave, the precious tears of a mother, embalm77 her sacred dust.” Mrs. Marlowe wept, but she complied with her husband’s request. She inquired, in a broken voice, about her son, and the knowledge of his happiness gradually cheered her mind.
Adela consented to stay that night in the cottage; but the next day she determined78 on going to Woodlawn. To think she should again wander through it, again linger in the walks she had trodden with those she loved, gave to her mind a melancholy pleasure. The next morning, attended by her friend, she repaired to it, and was inexpressibly affected by reviewing scenes endeared by the tender remembrance of happier hours. The house, from its closed windows, appeared quite neglected and melancholy, as if pleasure had forsaken79 it with the poor de[Pg 579]parted general. Standard, his favorite horse, grazed in the lawn; and beside him, as if a secret sympathy endeared them to each other, stood the dog that had always attended the general in his walks. It instantly recollected80 Adela, and running to her licked her hand, and evinced the utmost joy. She patted him on the head, while her tears burst forth81 at the idea of him who had been his master. The transports of the old domestics, particularly of the gray-headed butler, at her unexpected return, increased her tears. But when she entered the parlor, in which her father usually sat, she was quite overcome, and motioning with her hand for her friends not to mind her, she retired82 to the garden. There was a little romantic root-house at the termination of it, where she and Oscar had passed many happy hours together. Thither83 she repaired, and his idea, thus revived in her mind, did not lessen84 its dejection. While she sat within it indulging her sorrow, her eye caught some lines inscribed85 on one of its windows. She hastily arose, and examining them, instantly recollected the hand of Oscar. They were as follows:—
“Adieu, sweet girl, a last adieu!
We part to meet no more;
Adieu to peace, to hope, to you,
And to my native shore.
“If fortune had propitious86 smiled,
My love had made me blest;
But she, like me, is Sorrow’s child,
“I go to India’s sultry clime,
Oh! never to return;
“No kindred spirit there shall weep,
And Grief’s soft tribute pay.”
Oscar, previous to his going to England, with the expectation of being sent to the West Indies, had paid a secret visit to, Woodlawn, to review and bid adieu to every well-known and beloved spot, and had, one morning at early day, inscribed these lines on a window in the root-house, prompted by a tender melancholy he could not resist.
“His love is then unfortunate,” said Adela, pensively, leaning her head upon her hand. “Oh, Oscar! how sad a simil[Pg 580]tude is there between your fate and mine!” She returned to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Howel (for so we shall in future call Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe, that name being only assumed while her husband had a prospect89 of inheriting his uncle’s fortune) had consented to stay some time with her. Oscar’s lines ran in her head the whole day; and in the evening she again stole out to read them.
She had been absent some time, when Mrs. Howel came out to her. Adela blushed and started at being caught at the window. “’Tis a long time, my dear Adela,” said Mrs. Howel, “since we had a ramble90 in this delightful91 garden together. Indulge me in taking one, and let us talk of past times.” "Past times,” cried Adela, with a faint smile, “are not always the pleasantest to talk about.” “There are some, at least one friend,” cried Mrs. Howel, “whom you have not yet inquired after.” Adela’s heart suddenly palpitated; she guessed who that one friend was. “Oscar Fitzalan, surely,” continued Mrs. Howel, “merits an inquiry92. I have good news to tell you of him; therefore, without chiding93 you for any seeming neglect, I will reveal it.” She accordingly related his late reverse of situation. Adela heard her with deep attention. “Since fortune, then, is propitious at last,” cried she, “his love will no longer be unfortunate.” “’Tis time, indeed,” said Mrs. Howel, looking at her with pleasure, “that love, so pure, so constant as his, should be rewarded. Oh! Adela,” she continued, suddenly taking her hand, “sweet daughter of my care, how great is my happiness at this moment, to think of that about to be your portion.” “My happiness!” exclaimed Adela in a dejected voice. “Yes,” replied Mrs. Howel, “in your union with a man every way worthy70 of possessing you; a man who, from the first moment he beheld you, has never ceased to love—in short, with Oscar Fitzalan himself.” “Impossible!” cried Adela, trembling with emotion as she spoke. “Did not—how humiliating is the remembrance—did not Oscar Fitzalan reject me, when the too generous and romantic spirit of my beloved father offered my hand to his acceptance?” “For once,” said Mrs. Howel, “I must disturb the sacred ashes of the dead to prevent the innocent from being unhappy. Oh! Adela, you were cruelly deceived: and the moment which gave you to Belgrave, rendered Oscar the most wretched of mankind. My heart was the repository of all his griefs, and how many are the bitter tears I have shed over them! Be composed,” continued she, seeing Adela’s agitation48, “and a few moments will explain everything to you.” She then led her back to the root-house,[Pg 581] and in a most explicit94 manner informed her of Belgrave’s treachery. Adela burst into tears as she concluded. She wept on Mrs. Howel’s bosom, and acknowledged she had removed a weight of uneasiness from her mind. “Poor Oscar!” she continued, “how much would the knowledge of his misery have aggravated95 mine!” “He acted nobly,” said Mrs. Howel, “in concealing96 it; and amply will he be rewarded for such conduct.” She then proceeded to inform Adela that she soon expected a visit from him. There was something in her look and manner which instantly excited the suspicion of Adela, who, blushing, starting, trembling, exclaimed—"He is already come!” Mrs. Howel smiled, and a tear fell from her upon the soft hand of Adela. “He is already come,” she repeated, “and he waits, oh! how impatiently, to behold his Adela.”
We may believe his patience was not put to a much longer test. But when Adela in reality beheld him as she entered the parlor where she had left Mr. Howel, and where he waited for the reappearance of her friend, she sunk beneath her emotion, upon that faithful bosom which had so long suffered the most excruciating pangs on her account; and it was many minutes ere she was sensible of the soft voice of Oscar. Oh! who shall paint his transports, after all his sufferings, to be thus rewarded! But in the midst of his happiness, the idea of the poor general, who had so generously planned it, struck upon his heart with a pang53 of sorrow. “Oh, my Adela!” he cried, clasping her to his heart, as if doubly endeared by the remembrance, “is Oscar at last permitted to pour forth the fulness of his soul before you, to reveal its tenderness, to indulge the hope of calling you his—a hope which affords the delightful prospect of being able to contribute to your felicity?” “Yes, most generous of friends!” he exclaimed, raising his eyes to a picture of the general, “I will endeavor to evince my gratitude97 to you by my conduct to your child.” Oh! how did the tear he shed to the memory of her father interest the heart of Adela! her own fell with it, and she felt that the presence of that being to whom they were consecrated98 was alone wanting to complete their happiness. It was long ere she was sufficiently99 composed to inquire the reason of Oscar’s sudden appearance, and still longer ere he could inform her. Mrs. Marlowe’s melancholy letter, he at last said, had brought him over, with the hope of being able to cheer her solitude, and also, he acknowledged, his own dejection, by mutual100 sympathy; from her cottage he had been directed to Woodlawn, and at Woodlawn received particulars, not only of her happiness, but[Pg 582] his own. Adela, who had never yet deviated101 from propriety102, would not now infringe103 it, and resolutely104 determined, till the expiration105 of her mourning, not to bestow72 her hand on Oscar; but permitted him to hope, that in the intervening space, most of his time might be devoted106 to her. It was necessary, however, to sanction that hope by having proper society. She could not flatter herself with much longer retaining Mr. and Mrs. Howel, as the latter particularly was impatient to behold her son. Oscar therefore requested, and obtained permission from Adela, to write in her name to Lord and Lady Cherbury, and entreat their company at Woodlawn, promising107 she would then accompany them to Castle Carberry, and from thence to Dunreath Abbey, a tour which, previous to Oscar’s leaving Wales, had been agreed on. The invitation was accepted, and in a few days Oscar beheld the two beings most valued by him in the world introduced to each other. Tears of rapture108 started to his eyes, as he saw his Adela folded to the bosom of his lovely sister, who called her the sweet restorer of her brother’s happiness! Lord Cherbury was already acquainted with her, and, next to his Amanda, considered her the loveliest of human beings; and Lady Martha and Lady Araminta, who were also invited to Woodlawn, regarded her in the same light. A few days after their arrival Mrs. Howel prepared for her departure. Adela, who considered her as a second mother, could not behold those preparations without tears of real regret. “Oh, my Adela!” she exclaimed, “these tears flatter, yet distress me. I am pleased to think the child of my care regards me with such affection, but I am hurt to think she should consider my loss such an affliction. Oh, my child! may the endearments109 of the friends who surround you steal from you all painful remembrances! nature calls me from you; I sigh to behold my child; I sigh,” she continued, with eyes suffused110 in tears, “to behold the precious earth which holds another.”
About three weeks after her departure the whole party proceeded to Castle Carberry. Amanda could not re-enter it without emotions of the most painful nature. She recollected the moment in which she had quitted it, oppressed with sorrow and sickness, and to attend the closing period of a father’s life. She wept, sighed to think, that the happiness he had prayed for he could not behold. Lord Cherbury saw her emotions, and soothed them with the softest tenderness; it was due to that tenderness to conquer her dejection, and in future the remembrance of her father was only attended with a pleasing melancholy. She did not delay visiting the convent. The good[Pg 583] natured nuns111 crowded around her, and cried, laughed, and wished her joy, almost in the same moment; particularly Sister Mary. The prioress’s pleasure was of a less violent, but more affecting nature. An almost constant scene of gayety was kept up at the Castle, a gayety, however, which did not prevent Lord and Lady Cherbury from inspecting into the situation of their poor tenants112, whose wants they relieved, whose grievances113 they redressed114, and whose hearts they cheered, by a promise of spending some months in every year at the Castle. After continuing at it six weeks, they crossed over to Port-Patrick, and from thence proceeded to Dunreath Abbey, which had been completely repaired, and furnished in a style equally modern and elegant; and here it was determined they should remain till the solemnization of Lord Dunreath’s nuptials115. The time which intervened till the period appointed for them was agreeably diversified116 by parties amongst the neighboring families, and excursions about the country; but no hours were happier than those which the inhabitants of the Abbey passed when free from company, so truly were they united to each other by affection. Lord Dunreath, soon after his return, waited upon the Marquis of Roslin, and, by his sister’s desire, signified to him that if a visit from her would be agreeable to the marquis she would pay it. This, however, was declined; and about the same period Lady Dunreath died. Mrs. Bruce, whom from long habit she was attached to, then retired to another part of Scotland, ashamed to remain where her conduct was known—a conduct which deeply affected her niece, whom Amanda visited immediately after her arrival, and found settled in a neat house near the town she had lodged117 in. She received Lady Cherbury with every demonstration118 of real pleasure, and both she and her little girls spent some time with her at the Abbey.
The happy period for completing the felicity of Oscar at last arrived. In the chapel119 where his parents were united, he received from the hand of Lord Cherbury the lovely object of his long-tried affections. The ceremony was only witnessed by his own particular friends; but at dinner all the neighboring families were assembled, and the tenants were entertained in the great hall, where dancing commenced at an early and was continued till a late hour.
And now having (to use the words of Adam) brought our story to the sum of earthly bliss120, we shall conclude, first giving a brief account of the characters connected with it.
Lady Greystock, as one of the most distinguished, we shall[Pg 584] first mention. After the death of Lady Euphrasia, she found her company no longer desired at the marquis’s, and accordingly repaired to Bath. Here she had not been long ere she became acquainted with a set of female Puritans, who soon wrought121 a total change (I will not say a reformation) in her ladyship’s sentiments; and to give a convincing proof of this change, she was prevailed on to give her hand to one of their spruce young preachers, who shortly taught her, what indeed she had long wanted to learn, the doctrine122 of repentance123; for most sincerely did she repent124 putting herself into his power. Vexation, disappointment, and grief, brought on a lingering illness, from which she never recovered. When convinced she was dying, she sent for Rushbrook, and made a full confession125 of her treachery and injustice126 to him, in consequence of which he took immediate63 possession of his uncle’s fortune; and thus, in the evening of his life, enjoyed a full recompense for the trials of its early period. Lady Greystock died with some degree of satisfaction at the idea of disappointing her husband of the fortune she was convinced he had married her for.
Mrs. Howel, after visiting her son, retired to her husband’s cottage, where their days glide127 on in a kind of pleasing melancholy. The happiness of that son, and his Emily, is as perfect as happiness can be in this sublunary state.
Sir Charles Bingley, after studiously avoiding Lord and Lady Cherbury for above two years, at last, by chance, was thrown in their way, and then had the pleasure of finding he was not so agitated by the sight of Amanda as he had dreaded128. He did not refuse the invitations of Lord Cherbury. The domestic happiness he saw him enjoying, rendered his own unconnected and wandering life more unpleasant than ever to him. Lady Araminta Dormer was almost constantly in his company. No longer fascinated by Amanda, he could now see and admire her perfections. He soon made known his admiration129. The declaration was not ungraciously received, and he offered his hand, and was accepted—an acceptance which put him in possession of happiness fully130 equal to Lord Cherbury’s.
The Marquis and Marchioness of Roslin pass their days in gloomy retirement131, regretful of the past and hopeless of the future. Freelove flutters about every public place, boasts of having carried off a Scotch132 heiress, and thinks, from that circumstance, he may now lay siege to any female heart with a certainty of being successful.
To return once more to the sweet descendants of the Dunreath family. The goodness of heart, the simplicity133 of manners[Pg 585] which ever distinguished them, they still retain. From having been children of sorrow themselves, they feel for all who come under that denomination134, and their charity is at once bestowed135 as a tribute from gratitude to Heaven, and from humanity to want; from gratitude to that Being who watched their unsheltered youth, who guarded them through innumerable perils136, who placed them on the summit of prosperity, from whence, by dispensing137 his gifts around, they trust to be translated to a still greater height of happiness. Lady Dunreath’s wish is fulfilled. To use her words, their past sorrows are only remembered to teach them pity for the woes138 of others. Their virtues have added to the renown139 of their ancestors, and entailed140 peace upon their own souls. Their children, by all connected with them, are considered as blessings141. Gratitude has already consecrated their names, and their example inspires others with emulation142 to pursue their courses.
The End
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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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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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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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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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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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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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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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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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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14
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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15
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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16
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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17
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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18
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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19
eradicated
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| 画着根的 | |
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20
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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21
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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22
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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23
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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24
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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25
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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26
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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27
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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28
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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29
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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30
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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31
urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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32
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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33
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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34
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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35
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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36
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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37
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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38
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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39
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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40
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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41
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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42
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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43
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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44
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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45
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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46
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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47
inebriety
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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48
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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49
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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50
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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51
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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52
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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53
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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54
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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55
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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56
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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57
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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58
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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60
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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61
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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62
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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63
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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64
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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65
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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66
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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67
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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68
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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69
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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70
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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71
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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72
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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73
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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74
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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75
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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76
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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77
embalm
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| v.保存（尸体）不腐 | |
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78
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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79
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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80
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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82
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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83
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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84
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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85
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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86
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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87
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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88
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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89
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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90
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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91
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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92
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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93
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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94
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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95
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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96
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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97
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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98
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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99
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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100
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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101
deviated
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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103
infringe
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| v.违反，触犯，侵害 | |
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104
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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105
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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106
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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107
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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108
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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109
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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110
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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112
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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113
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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114
redressed
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| v.改正( redress的过去式和过去分词 )；重加权衡；恢复平衡 | |
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115
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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116
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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117
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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118
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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119
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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120
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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121
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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122
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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123
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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124
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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125
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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126
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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127
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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128
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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129
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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130
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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131
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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132
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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133
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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134
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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135
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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137
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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138
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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139
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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140
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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141
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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142
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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