“Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are to feel,—and know myself a man!”
Gray.
“To lose thee! oh! to lose thee,—to live on
And see the sun, not thee! will the sun shine—
Will the birds sing—flowers bloom, when thou art gone?
Bulwer’s King Arthur.
“Oh, I was sure that you would come,—quite sure! And Ida—my own precious Ida!” The poor young girl clung to her sister as if they had been parted for years.
“My husband!” exclaimed Annabella, trembling lest terrible news should await her.
“He is much the same, but—”
“Where is he—I will fly to him; I—”
“My dear madam,” said the low voice of a stranger, as a tall, bald gentleman in black came forth2 from the interior of the cottage, with his finger raised to his lip, “may I request that no sound be uttered—my patient is in a state of high fever.”
“If, as I suppose, I have the honour of addressing[253] the Countess of Dashleigh, I trust that she will pardon my strictly4 forbidding any one but Mr. Aumerle and the nurse from entering the chamber5 of the earl.”
“It is impossible,” said Dr. G——, “that you should meet without a degree of excitement which might endanger the life or the reason of my patient. The earl is in excellent hands; his friend, and the skilful7 attendant whom I have provided, will watch him night and day. If any new face were to be seen, I would not be answerable for the consequences.”
Dr. G—— had, of course, read “The Precipice8 and the Peer,” and naturally concluded that its authoress was the last person who could with impunity9 be admitted into the sick-room of the excited and fevered patient. From the physician’s decision there was no appeal, though to Annabella it appeared an intolerable sentence of banishment10 from the place to which both duty and affection called her. Always ready to rush to a conclusion, the unhappy wife was convinced that it was the just resentment11 of Dashleigh against her, that rendered her of all beings in the world the one whose presence he could not endure. Utterly12 prostrate13 and helpless in her sorrow, the countess left to Ida all care for the arrangements of the night. To herself it was nothing where she slept, or whether she ever should sleep again; she[254] was like a flower so crushed and bruised14 that it will never more unfold its petals15 to the sun.
The rude cottage of the fisherman offered wretched accommodation for so large a party. The earl occupied one of the two little bed-rooms which were reached by a ladder-like staircase; in the other—an apartment not ten feet square, with bare rafters, sloping roof, and single-paned window engrained with dust and sea salt, and incapable16 of being opened—the countess and her cousins passed the night. The gentlemen had to content themselves with the bare floor of the kitchen below, redolent of the scent17 of fish, and garlanded with nets and tackle,—an accommodation which they shared with their rough, weather-beaten, but hospitable18 host.
Annabella and Ida were so much exhausted19 by previous excitement, fatigue20, and want of rest, that even in the miserable21 hovel they might have slept deeply and long, had it not been for the sounds from the next room, almost as distinctly heard through the slight partition as if the apartments had been one. It was agony to the countess to hear the moans of the fevered sufferer, or the wild words uttered in delirium22. Ida passed the night in vain endeavours to soothe23 and calm a wounded spirit, while the weary Mabel peacefully slumbered24 beside them, unconscious of what was passing around. It was almost as great a relief to Ida as to her afflicted25 cousin when the morning broke at length, and welcome silence on the[255] other side of the partition told that the sufferer had sunk to rest.
Augustine Aumerle, after watching for hours at the bedside of the earl, whom he alone had any power to soothe in the paroxysms of his terrible malady26, now resigned his post to the nurse, and descending27 the steep, narrow staircase, went forth to calm and refresh his spirit by a brief walk on the shore of the sea,—that sea in which he had so lately expected to find a grave. As he stood gazing on the bright expanse of waters, and enjoying the fresh morning breeze that, as it rippled28 the surface of the sea, also brought back the hue29 of health to his pale and careworn30 cheek, he was joined by Lawrence Aumerle.
Kindly31 greeting was exchanged between the brothers; questions were asked and replies were given, and then a silence succeeded. Something seemed pressing on the heart of each, to which the lip would not give ready utterance32. Augustine was the first to speak, but he did so without looking at his brother; he rather seemed to be watching the sea-bird that lightly floated on the wave.
“I have often thought of it since.”
“And so have I,” said Augustine; “I thought of it when I believed that there was but one step between me and death,—when I expected in a brief space to be in that world where we shall know even[256] as we are known,—where ours will not be the wild guess, but the absolute certainty,—not the wild grasping at the shadow, but the laying hold on the substance of truth.”
“You said that experience is the growth of time. Lawrence, I have, then, lived an age in the last forty hours. A wide view of both heaven and earth is gained from the terrible height that I reached!”
“Common experience is the growth of time,” said the vicar; “but spiritual experience—”
“Give it in the words of inspiration,” interrupted Augustine; “I shall no longer ask you to put aside that solemn evidence, even for a moment. Tribulation35 worketh patience; and patience, experience.”
“And experience, hope;” cried the vicar. “Oh, my brother!—that blessed hope shed abroad in the heart by the knowledge that Christ died for the ungodly, that hope that alone maketh not ashamed, is it—oh! is it your own?”
Augustine silently pressed the hand that had been unconsciously extended towards him; it was his only reply to the question. Without another sentence being uttered the brothers turned their steps in the direction of the cottage. But while pacing the shingley beach, Augustine was mentally subscribing36 to the confession37 of one of the brightest geniuses of earth,—that he had hitherto been but as a child[257] gathering38 pebbles39 on the shore of the great ocean of truth; while the vicar was raising to God, from the depths of a grateful heart, a thanksgiving for prayer answered at the very time when, and through the very trial by which his earthly happiness had appeared crushed and destroyed! He was proving, as so many saints have proved, that—
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower!”
As no object could be answered by the prolonged stay of Mr. Aumerle and Mabel in the over-crowded cottage, they departed on that day for their home. The countess could not endure to quit the spot, and Ida remained to bear her company, while Augustine resumed his watch by his suffering friend.
Day after day the once proud Earl of Dashleigh lay on a pallet-bed in the fisherman’s rude hovel, mind and body alike prostrated41 by the fever induced by the fearful trials which he had endured. He was passing indeed through a burning fiery42 furnace, but its flame was consuming the dross43 which had largely mixed with a nobler metal. When the powers of good and evil contend together for the dominion44 over a human soul, it is as in the battles of earth; dark and painful traces are often left behind of the conflict, conquest is not attained45 without suffering. Never, perhaps, is the strife46 more painful than when the enemy to be subdued47 is pride! Then how often[258] a merciful Providence48 sends humiliation49, anguish50, disgrace, first to rouse the soul to a sense of its danger, and then to aid it in the perilous51 war! From how much of suffering is exempted52 the meek53 and quiet spirit that has calmly laid down the shackles54 of pride, not left them till some loving yet terrible dispensation should wrench55 them away from the bleeding soul!
Annabella was deeply humbled56; there was some danger that depression might with her sink into hopeless despondency. Her ardent57 and volatile58 disposition59 was ever prone60 to extremes, and she could not believe it possible that her proud lord could ever forgive one who had wounded his dignity so deeply,—one whose indiscretion had so nearly cost him his life! The forced inaction to which she had to submit greatly increased the trial to Annabella. If it had been possible for her to have done or suffered anything in order to repair the evil that she had wrought61, she would have contemplated62 its effects with less overwhelming remorse63. Had the countess belonged to the Church of Rome, she would have wasted her strength with fasting, lacerated her flesh by the scourge64, or gone on some painful pilgrimage in the hope of redeeming65 her fault. As it was, she had to sit still—useless, helpless, receiving from time to time tidings of her husband’s varying state from the lips of ministering strangers! Annabella’s spirit might have altogether sunk under the lengthened[259] trial, but for the support of Ida’s calmer and more chastened spirit, which had itself found its stay on the Rock of Ages.
On the sixth day of Dashleigh’s illness, his wife received from her home a small packet, containing the little pocket-book which had been her own earliest gift to her betrothed66. The beautiful remembrance had been accidentally discovered at no great distance from the letter which Mabel had dropped; but its comparative weight had made it fall with an impetus67 that had half imbedded it in the sod. Easily identified by the coronet and name upon the shield, which marked it as the property of the unfortunate nobleman, with whose fate the county was ringing, it had been forwarded to Dashleigh Hall, and thence—still stained and clotted68 with dust and mud—it had been sent on by her servants to the countess.
Annabella gazed on the book for some moments without daring to unfasten the clasp. The sight of that little gift brought with it a crowd of recollections of the time when wedded69 life had lain before fancy’s eye as a bright, golden-clasped book, on whose yet blank pages hope, pleasure, and love, would trace nothing but sentences of joy! Why was it that the leaves of that life had been blistered70 and blotted71 with tears,—that the gold had been tarnished72, the beauty marred73, and that the once joyous74 bride now dreaded75 even to look upon what that book might contain!
“Open it for me, Ida, dearest,” murmured Annabella[260] faintly; “I tremble to behold76 what his fingers may have traced in that terrible hour!”
Ida silently obeyed, kneeling at the side of her unhappy cousin, whose cold hand rested upon her shoulder. Ida turned slowly leaf after leaf. There were various memoranda77 in the book, evidently written at an earlier period—addresses of friends, names of books, engagements for days long passed. Little of interest or importance could attach to entries such as these. But almost at the end of the book, on a page otherwise blank, appeared two words in pencil, traced evidently by a hand that had shaken from weakness, excitement, or emotion. The words were barely legible, but such as they were Ida with tremulous eagerness pointed78 them out to her friend. Annabella caught the book from her hand, pressed it convulsively to her lips, and while her eyes overflowed79 with tears and her heart with thanksgiving, repeated again and again the two blessed words which spoke80 forgiveness and peace!
Even while the young wife’s tears were still flowing, a gentle tap was heard at the door. Ida went and unclosed it; there was a low whispering sound, and then the maiden81 returned to her cousin with a gentle smile on her face as she said, laying her hand on that of the countess, “It is my uncle, dearest; he comes to bring you good tidings. The earl is greatly better,—has been speaking to him,—has been questioning him of you; he knows—”
[261]
“Knows that I am here!” exclaimed Annabella, starting eagerly from her seat.
“Yes, and wishes to see you,—nay82, dearest, nay, you must be calm,—for his sake you must still this wild excitement! Remember that he is still very weak,—remember the danger of a relapse!”
“I am quite calm,” replied the young countess, collecting herself by a strong effort, though her quivering voice still betrayed her emotion; “I will do nothing to agitate83 my lord,—he shall not even hear a word from my lips,—but oh! the bliss84 if I may once—but once hear from his those precious words, forgiveness and peace!”
With soft, noiseless step she glided85 to the low rough-hewn door which opened into the room of her husband. Gently Annabella pushed it ajar, and entered with a throbbing86 heart, and a mien87 as reverential and timid as if she were approaching some solemn fane. That low dark room, with uncarpeted floor, unpapered walls, furniture coarse and scanty88 contained what she now felt was all the world to her.
No human friend intruded89 his presence on the sacredness of that scene which ever after, to the memory of Annabella, hallowed that fisherman’s hut. When the penitent90 wife knelt in lowly contrition91 by the pallet of a husband so narrowly rescued from the jaws92 of the grave, and listened breathlessly to the feeble accents which told her that the past was[262] cancelled,—that she was dear as ever to him still, angels may have looked on rejoicing as upon a prodigal’s return, for no looming93 shadow darkened the holy radiance of returning peace and love, no discord94 jarred on the harmony of wedded souls,—the demon95 of pride was not there!
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1
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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5
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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6
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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8
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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9
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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10
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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13
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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14
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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15
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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16
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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17
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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18
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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19
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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20
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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21
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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23
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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24
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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25
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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27
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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28
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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29
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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30
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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31
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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32
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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33
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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34
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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35
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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36
subscribing
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| v.捐助( subscribe的现在分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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37
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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38
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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39
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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40
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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41
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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42
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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43
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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44
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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45
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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46
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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47
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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48
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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49
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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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
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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52
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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54
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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55
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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56
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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57
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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58
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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59
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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60
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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61
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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62
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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64
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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66
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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68
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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71
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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72
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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73
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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74
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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75
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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76
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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77
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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78
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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79
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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80
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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81
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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82
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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83
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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84
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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85
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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86
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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87
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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88
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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89
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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90
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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91
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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92
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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93
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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94
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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