O Lieb. O Liebe!
So golden Sch?n
Wie Morganwolken
Auf jenen H?hn.”
G?THE.
RALPH called early the next morning, as he had promised. He was relieved to find, by Marion’s account, that Sybil was fairly well, and that there appeared no necessity for sending for Dr. Bailey. At Sybil’s earnest request her uncle went in to see her, and remained with her some time. When he returned to the drawing-room, he gave Marion and Mrs. Archer2, who had just made her appearance two hours earlier than usual, thanks to her curiosity, a full account of the whole mysterious affair, which, with the additional light thrown upon it by Sybil’s communications this morning, he said he had now got to the bottom of.
This was what he had to tell.
Immediately on the receipt of Marion’s letter (this part of the story was not revealed to Mrs. Archer) he prepared to leave Paris. Some delays arose however, in consequence of which it was not till the evening the eighth day after receiving her summons that he found himself again at Altes. He drove straight to the Rue3 des Lauriers, where he had to wait some time at the door, without any one coming to open it.
Growing impatient, and rather uneasy, for his mind was full of what Marion had written to him about Sybil, he suddenly bethought himself that, as likely as not, the window-door in the drawing-room, which opened on to the garden, might be unlatched. He left the court-yard, and returned to the street, told the driver of the carriage which had brought himself and his luggage from the coach office, to wait a few minutes; and then made his way to the garden at the top of the hilly street, on which opened the drawing-room. The garden gate was fastened, but he easily climbed over the railings, and hastened to the glass door. The blinds were down, but the light inside was low. Evidently no one in the room to be started by his unceremonious entrance! More and more alarmed, he quickly tried the door, found it, as he expected, unlatched; and in another moment was in the room.
The lamp was burning feebly, the fire all but out. What could be the meaning of it all? Thinking of nothing but Sybil, it rushed into his mind that perhaps the child was very ill, dying it might be, and he too late to save her. Half expecting to find the whole house-hold assembled in mournful vigil round her bed, he made his way softly to her room.
As he passed the chamber4 occupied by Miss Vyse he noticed that the door was open and a light on the table. He peeped in but there was no one there. But on the pillow lay as mass of golden curls, all but hiding a round, rosy5 childish thee, which he soon identified as Dotty. Fast asleep, the picture of health and comfort! Somewhat relieved in his mind, but nevertheless surprised at the change in the domestic arrangements which had thus separated the two little sisters, he stepped softly to the other end of the long passage, up from which again a short staircase led to the little vestibule, on to which opened the nursery apartments. All was quiet. There was very little light, only what found its way up from the lamp in the long passage below. The door of the children’s bedroom was nearly closed. He entered the room. The first thing that struck him was that the doors of a large hang-press, close to the entrance of the room, stood wide open, disclosing a row of dresses, evidently the property of Mdlle. Emilie; which, in the faint light, bore a startling resemblance to the headless occupants of the far-famed Bluebeard chamber.
Half smiling at his own fancy, Sir Ralph approached the little bed which he knew to be Sybil’s. But the smile quickly faded from his face at what met him there. At first sight he thought there was no one in the bed. But, looking more closely, he distinguished6 the outlines of a little form, lying perfectly7 motionless under the coverings. Huddled8 up together in a sort of heap it seemed to be.
Ah! How thankful he felt that it lay thus, instead of straightened out into that awful length and stiffness under the white sheet which, once seen, is never, never again forgotten!
Still, though, not so bad as that, there was cause enough for alarm.
“Sybil,” he said, gently, “Sybil, dear, are you asleep? Put down the clothes and look at me. I have got your letter, and have come from Paris as fast as I could.”
But there was no answer, no movement. His eyes were growing accustomed to the dim light and he could have distinguished the least quiver in the little figure. He looked round. An unlighted candle and matches stood on the table. He struck a light, and again spoke9 to the child. But it was no use. So he tenderly removed the clothes and raised the face, which was turned round on to the pillow. It was indeed Sybil, but what a Sybil to greet him on his return! She was perfectly unconscious. In a dead swoon or faint, which for all he knew might already have lasted so long that recovery might be impossible. But he had known her faint before, poor little girl, and was at no loss what remedies to employ. He took her in his arms, chafed10 her cold hands and feet, bathed her forehead, and tried hard to revive her with strong smelling salts, which he found, after a search, in Miss Vyse’s sanctum. He would not, as yet, ring for assistance. He was so sure the child would best recover were she, on regaining11 her senses, to find herself alone with him.
In a few minutes she began to show signs of returning consciousness. At last she opened her eyes, raised herself in his arms, and looked about her with that dazed look peculiar12 to people when recovering from a state of insensibility. He was on the alert for this moment.
“Are you awake now, Sybil dear?” he said. “Are you pleased to see me come back?”
She turned to see his face. Oh! what a look of relief and happiness overspread her poor pale drawn13 features!
“Uncle Ralph,” she whispered; “dear Uncle Ralph, will you send them away?” she went on with, with a thrill of agony in her voice. “Oh, will you send them away?”
“Who, dear? What?” he asked, eagerly.
“Those dreadful people. Those ladies without any heads. They were cut off long ago, down there, in the courtyard, with that dreadful big cutting thing. And they walk about the house at night. And they come to the side of any little girl’s bed if she doesn’t go to sleep quick. And to-night they came again. And, oh! uncle, they’re coming now!” she screamed, as, happening to turn round, she caught sight of the row of headless dresses in the cupboard. And before Ralph could soothe14 or explain away her terror, the little creature was torn with terrible hysterics, screaming and shaking in a way pitiful to see, till she again subsided15 into the death-like faint from which he had but just restored her.
Now he was obliged to summon assistance. In five minutes the house was in a ferment16. Such servants as had not taken advantage of their mistress’s rare absence to amuse themselves elsewhere (among which was not Mdlle. Emilie), were immediately rushing about, some suggesting one thing, some another, till Sir Ralph wished he had managed the child by himself. At last, among them, they succeeded in reviving her. This time her uncle took care to have the cupboard doors shut before she opened her eyes; and he was only too thankful to agree, notwithstanding the amazement17 of the scandalized servants, to her proposal that he should take her away to Miss Freer’s house, where “those dreadful people could not come.”
This was the history of the previous night’s adventures up to the time when Sir Ralph arrived at Mrs. Archer’s door with Sybil in his arms.
Cissy and Marion listened in silence to his recital18, but when, having got so far, he stopped for a moment to take breath, the former had a host of questions ready for him.
“But what in the world did the child mean, Sir Ralph?” she inquired, eagerly. “ ‘Dreadful people without heads’—‘cut of in the court-yard.’ I can’t make it out in the least. And if, as May here suspects, Emilie, the maid, is at the bottom of it, what could be her motive19? What good could it do her to frighten the child to death, as she nearly did? No, I can’t make it out.”
“Nor could I, Mrs. Archer,” replied Sir Ralph, “till I heard what Sybil had to say this morning. During the Revolution it is perfectly true people’s beads20 were cut off in our court-yard, for there stood the guillotine. This is a fact sure enough, and well known at Altes. And I now perfectly remember it’s being mentioned to us when we first came here. Sybil, it appears, heard it too, and from the first it made a strong impression on her sensitive imagination. She tells me she never could bear to look out on the courtyard after it grew dark at night; for then this wicked Emilie told her the decapitated victims might be seen promenading21 about. Some, Emilie told her, with a view to heightening the dramatic effect of her story, might be perceived grubbing about among the stones with which the yard is paved for the lost heads supposed there to be buried. Others, again, would be seen marching along triumphantly22 like St. Denis, with their heads reposing23 under their arms. It is really too absurd,” he said, laughing, “though hideous24 enough to the imagination of a nervous little creature of eight years old.”
“But what in the world did Emilie tell her all this for?” asked Marion, speaking for the first time.
“You may well ask,” he replied “but as far as I can make out she did it, in the first place, simply out of a spirit of low mischief25; for the pure pleasure of teasing the child, whom she evidently does not like, and amusing herself with her terrors. Before long she must have discovered that she could turn Sybil’s fears to useful account. For some time past it appears Miss Vyse has taken it into her head to have Lotty domiciled in her own room. Before this Sybil was comparatively happy; Lotty’s substantial presence appearing to her a sufficient safeguard against ghostly visitants. But when she was left alone in the room at night, her terrors increased so that she could not go to sleep. She begged my mother to let her have a light in the room till Emilie came to bed, but this request was refused, my mother having a notion that it would be bad for the child’s eyes. To make up for this however, Emilie was ordered to sit by Sybil every evening till the child fell asleep. Not the pleasantest of duties apparently26, for Emilie regularly shirked it. Two or three times, on being thus left to herself, Sybil jumped out of bed and ran down stairs to fetch Emilie; conduct which that young person much resented, as it interfered27 with her more entertaining way of spending the evening, and also very nearly, more than once, brought her into disgrace with the authorities below stairs. So she hit on the ingenious expedient28 of telling Sybil that the headless spectres were said to have a special predilection29 for the long passage leading to her room. ‘They come along there every night,’ Sybil informed me, ‘and if they find any little girl awake, they come to the side of her bed and stand in a row.’ Isn’t it really frightful30 to think of the lonely little creature’s agonies?”
“Horrible!” said Marion, “but what about the dresses hanging up?”
“Oh, that was another clever dodge31 of Emilie’s, evidently. I asked Sybil how ever she could be frightened at dresses hanging on pegs32, but she assured me she did not know there were any dresses there; so I suppose Emilie keeps the cupboard locked in the day-time, and opens it at night to prevent Sybil’s venturing to rush past the dreadful row of spectres at the doorway33.”
“But another thing, Sir Ralph,” said Marion, “why was Sybil afraid to tell me?”
“She was afraid to tell any one, I think,” answered he, “except me, because, as she expressed it, I was ‘big and strong’ and ‘they’ couldn’t hurt me. One day, it seems, when much provoked by her complaints, Emilie gave a garbled34 account of the affair to Miss. Vyse; who, Sybil says, for reasons of her own, was very unkind to her, and defended Emilie. Sybil would told you, Miss Freer, but one day when, she was on the point of doing so, Emilie, perceiving, I suppose, that the child’s powers or endurance were all but exhausted35, terrified her into not confiding36 in you, by vague hints of injury that might result to you from her so doing. Sybil is rather misty37 as to what exactly Emilie said; but it seems to have been to the effect that if Sybil set you against her by complaints of her nightly neglect of her duty, she, Emilie, could easily be revenged on you by certain information about you in her possession, which Sybil says ‘if Grandmamma knew would have made her “chasser” Miss Freer away.’ I am not clear about it myself. I only tell it you to warn you to have nothing to say to the girl, out of pity, or any other kindly38 motive. She shall be ‘chasséed,’ and that very quickly. But first I shall make her explain her insolent39 words,” he added, with a dark frown on his face.
But just then the clock struck eleven. Sir Ralph jumped up.
“I must be going,” he said, “I want particularly to be home before my mother and Miss Vyse are visible. I forbade the servants to say anything to them last night, and this morning I counted on their not being very alert after last night’s dissipation.”
“I was just wondering what Lady Severn would think of it all!” remarked Mrs. Archer.
“I know what she shall think of it all,” replied Sir Ralph, “that is to say at least, if I have any spark of influence left,” he added in a lower tone. “In the meantime, Mrs. Archer, will you be so very kind as to keep Sybil her till I have set things straight again at home?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” she replied heartily40. And then he left them. Just as he was outside the room, she exclaimed, “Bye-the-by, Sir Ralph, you must get some one to pack up and send her some clothes.”
But he did not hear her, and Marion ran, after him to repeat the message.
“Very well you thought of it!” he said laughing, and then he stood for a moment if expecting her to say something more.
“Sir Ralph,” she said, “will you do me a favour?”
“What would I not?” he exclaimed.
“Will you be so good as not mention my name at all to that girl, Emilie?” she asked, “never mind if says rude or impertinent things about me. Let them pass. Only don’t set her more against me. I don’t like having enemies.”
“Very well,” she replied, “as you wish it, I will endeavour to do as you ask.” But he looked rather surprised.
“I daresay you think me very silly,” she said, “but”——
“But nothing,” he interrupted, “make your mind quite easy. You are only too good, too gentle.”
“No, indeed, I am not,” she said with a little sigh. “My motive is a selfish one. I cannot afford to have enemies.”
He looked at her searchingly but very kindly, saying however nothing. The thought passed through his mind, “It must be some family disgrace. Something connected with that father. My poor darling, if only I were free! Can she think anything of that sort would influence me? But I am forgetting. She will have some one else soon to fight her battles. Just as well, perhaps, for her chances of happiness that she will be out in India! As well for her—better in every way. But—for me!”
As Marion returned to the drawing-room she said to Cissy anxiously—
“Do you think it possible that that Emilie has found out about me, Cissy?”
“Found out about you,” repeated Mrs. Archer. “How? What do you mean?”
“That Freer is not my real name, and all about it,” answered Marion.
“Nonsense, child. How could she know anything of the sort? Don’t be so silly. Besides, if she did! You speak as if it were a disgrace. I declare, Marion, you provoke me. I wish most sincerely that every one in Altes knew your real name, be the consequences what they might.”
“Oh, Cissy!” said Marion reproachfully; for Cissy had spoken crossly and pettishly42. But Cissy was not repentant43.
“It’s not good your saying, ‘Oh Cissy’ in that way, Marion. I repeat what I said before. I wish every one in Altes knew the true state of the case.”
Her tone was a trifle sharp and unkind, but her heart was full of anxious affection. Of late certain misgivings44 had begun to assail45 her, and she had spoken the truth as to her wish that the whole were known. “That would indeed be carrying it too far,” she said to herself, “risking her life-happiness for the sake or concealing46 that boy’s misdemeanours. No indeed! Rather than that I would brave anything or anybody.”
When Sir Ralph returned to the Rue des Lauriers morning, a council of state—war, rather—was held in his mother’s drawing-room; at which for once in his life, Ralph Severn distinguished himself by proving beyond dispute that he had a will, and a very strong one too, of his own.
Lady Severn was amazed, indignant, but finally submissive; repentant even, for having, as her son phrased it, “allowed such goings-on without finding them out.”
“Rather an Irish way of putting it certainly,” he said with a laugh, for he could afford to now that he was victorious48. He was a man who could fight, and bravely too, for any one in the world but himself!
Miss Vyse escaped scot-free of course; expressing the greatest surprise and disappointment at Emilie’s “shocking behaviour.”
“A girl we all thought so well of,” she said, with an air of most virtuous49 indignation, “to have deceived us so grossly! To think how, all this time, she has been making our poor darling Sybil suffer! Why if I had only known she grudged50 sitting beside the dear child in the evenings how gladly I would have done so myself!” (Florence quite thought she was speaking the truth.) “Oh, Sir Ralph,” she continued, “how fortunate it was you returned last night in that unexpected way! More than fortunate indeed; providential, I may call it.”
“Particularly so,” replied Ralph dryly; “also that you and my mother were out at a ball. By the way, how did you enjoy it?”
“Pretty well,” replied Florence, not quite sure if he had been laughing at her or not. “I missed your waltzing, Sir Ralph. Indeed, I don’t think I have enjoyed any of the balls so much as the second one—the one, you remember, before you went away so suddenly. Still I believe last night’s was considered a good one. It was well attended.”
“So I heard,” said Ralph carelessly.
“So you heard!” said Lady Severn; “news travels fast, it appears. It only took place last night, and you have seen no one this morning, except Mrs. Archer, and she wasn’t at it.”
“No,” he replied; “but I met young Nodouroff this morning on my way to inquire about Sybil. By the by, I wonder why Mrs. Archer wasn’t at it.”
“Oh,” said his mother, “she only went for the sake of that girl, Miss Freer.”
“And she, I suppose, didn’t care about going again,” observed Florence; “she only went to the one. Certainly most of the people they know best have left. The Frasers, and Captain Berwick; he has been away for two or three weeks, but his sister said last night that he is coming back in a week or two.”
“Oh indeed!” said Lady Severn, whereupon the conversation dropped.
Emilie was dismissed on the spot. She at first attempted some vindication51 of her conduct, which, however, Sir Ralph very quickly put a stop to; and further astonished her by some observations on her own behaviour more truthful52 than agreeable.
“Who would have thought so quiet a gentleman could fly out so like?” observed Taylor, the leading authority below stairs.
Of course, as soon as the culprit was “found out,” and punished, the whole of the servants were down upon her. One had “never liked her ways,” another had “always thought as much.” In short, not one of them, by their own account, but had possessed53 evidence enough against her to have led to her dismissal months before; and thus saved an innocent child many weeks of agony, ending in imminent54 risk to her reason, if not to her life.
“So young Berwick has been away! “thought Ralph “and for this reason Miss Freer was supposed not to care about going to the ball. All well, so be it!”
Sybil remained some days at Mrs. Archer’s, by no means to her grandmother’s delight. Indeed, but for Ralph’s unwonted, but none the less strenuous55 opposition56, the child would have been sent for home that same afternoon. He took the whole responsibility, blame if there were any, on himself; religiously refraining from mentioning Miss Freer as having had any share whatever in the affair; though dwelling57 strongly on the ready kindness and hospitality of Mrs. Archer in the emergency. Yet, notwithstanding all his care, the fact of Sybil’s flight annoyed Lady Severn exceedingly, naturally so perhaps. From that time, also, her growing dislike to the young governess increased rapidly, which Miss Vyse was quick to perceive and to rejoice at.
Its seed was of her own sowing, and had been fostered with the greatest care. It was to be expected, therefore, that the sight of its strength and vigour58 should fill her with gratification.
The week that Sybil spent with her kind friends was the happiest she had ever known. Lessons at the Rue des Lauriers were suspended for the time; Lotty was allowed, by her uncle’s intercession, to spend some afternoons with her little sister. She was sorry for Sybil, and anxious to make up to her for her roughness and unkindness.
The two little sisters appeared to cling to each other more fondly and closely than had been the case for long; a state of things the good influences about them were not likely to discourage. With much care Marion and Sir Ralph endeavoured to efface59 from poor Sybil’s mind the recollection of her midnight terrors; and to some extent succeeded. Though so vainly nervous and impressionable, the child was also sensible, and by no means deficient60 in reasoning powers. By the end of the week she perfectly understood and believed that no real grounds for her alarm had existed; though at the same time, she begged that she might not again be asked to sleep in the room where he had passed so many hours or misery61. This request was of course acceded62 to, and her future comfort further ensured by a kindly; and trustworthy young woman, an elder sister of the amiable63 Thérèse, being engaged in the place of the objectionable Emilie.
During this week Sir Ralph was naturally good deal at Mrs. Archer’s house, which, as might have been expected, did not tend to increase his peace of mind. The state of calm equability which, during his absence from Altes, he believed himself to have attained64, lasted only till he was again in Marion’s presence. After much resistance, many struggles, he gave in; resigning himself to his fate and to the intense enjoyment65 of the present.
“After all,” thought he, “I suppose it’s not much worse for me than for other people. I am certainly not likely to go in for this sort or thing twice in my life, and I may as well take the wretched little taste of happiness that has come in my way, for the very short time it can last.”
“For happiness it was, though certainly of curious kind. He perfectly believed her to be engaged to marry another man, one too, whom he could quite imagine it possible that she cared for sincerely, though not perhaps to the full extent that a nature such as hers was capable of. He believed, too, that under any circumstances, it would have been impossible for her to care for him, the man Ralph Severn, to even this same small extent; besides which his circumstances were such that he considered marriage, at least for many years to come, as all but out of the question for him. He knew all this, he repeated it over to himself a dozen times a day—and yet—and yet—he could not stay away from her; it was happiness even to be in the same room with her. She was so sweet, so gentle; and yet so bright and intelligent! A merely sweet and gentle woman would not have contented66 Ralph Severn; would not, though her beauty might have ten times exceeded that of Marion Vere, have made him feel, as she did, that here indeed was one who suited him—yes, “to the innermost fibre of his being.”
So he went on, playing, alas67, with edged tools; knowing full well that the day was not far distant when they would cut him, and deeply too. But thinking not, be it remembered in his defence, that there was the slightest danger of their wounding another as well as himself. Another, not perhaps capable of deeper suffering than he, but a gentle, tender creature. One to whom such suffering would be hard and strange; who would not, improbably, sink altogether beneath it. And one, too, whom he loved—this strong, brave man—loved, though as yet he hardly knew it, so entirely68, so intensely, that to save her, he would gladly have agreed to bear through life the burden of her sorrow in addition to his own.
But for this little space, he went dreaming on. There was not just yet anything exactly to awaken69 him. Besides, he thought himself so particularly wide awake! The remembrance of Frank Berwick’s existence was never absent from him. He looked upon it as a sort of charm, a safeguard against any possible imprudence. Every now and then he used to give himself a little prick70 with it, as a sort of wholesome71 reminder72, as it were. He noticed certainly that the young man was seldom, if ever, named by either Mrs. Archer or Marion; but that, under the circumstances, was not to be wondered at.
The engagement was not as yet a formally announced one, though he had heard it alluded73 to, two or three times in other quarters. Frank’s absence was probably connected with arrangements he might be making in preparation for his marriage. In short there were a hundred reasons why they should not care to talk about him. No doubt it was decidedly pleasanter for Ralph that they should not do so. He fancied himself quite prepared for it at any time; but, in point of fact, pricking74 oneself now and then, in a gingerly manner, by way of testing one’s powers of endurance, is a very different thing from the relentless75 cut of a doctor’s lancet or the deep, piercing stab of an enemy’s poniard!
Still now and then he felt puzzled. Marion herself puzzled him. In some way she was changed from what she had been when he first knew her. She had never seemed robust76 though perfectly healthy, but now she looked at times strangely fragile. Her spirits were less equable. Her colour went and came in a way he did like to see. She was always sweet and cheerful, never more so than now; but it sometimes seemed to him that it cost her an effort to appear so. Then, again, she would be so unaffectedly bright and merry, so almost childishly gay and light-hearted, that all his misgivings, so far as she was concerned, vanished as if by magic. And then he found himself back again in his old place, “middle-aged and dull and dried-up,” utterly78 unsuited to this happy young creature, whom yet, in all her moods, he found so inexpressibly winning and attractive. She liked him—he was sure of that—liked and trusted and respected him, he said to himself, with a mental wry79 face. “I’m not sure but what I would rather she hated me!” he thought more than once.
And then one day came the rude awakening80. All the ruder because he did not know he had been dreaming; or, rather, how unconsciously he had come to live in his dreams, to care more for them than for aught that passed in world of realities!
It was one lovely spring afternoon, early in March, a week or two after Sybil had returned home, and everything in the little world of Altes appeared, for the time being, to be jogging on in its usual course.
Sir Ralph had sauntered into Mrs. Archer’s; a not unprecedented81 occurrence, for her little drawing-room was a pleasant place to spend an hour or two in, these hot afternoons.
Spring, to our northern ears, hardly expresses the warmth and brilliancy of some of these exquisite82 first tastes of the coming summer in the south of France. The loveliest time, indeed, of all the year thereabouts; while the green below, still fresh and radiant, matches in brilliance83 the blue above. Later on in the season trees and herbage look sun-dried and scorched84, and one turns with relief to the thought of our less intense summers at home.
It was very hot already at Altes. Though every one was prophesying85 a week or two of rain before the warm weather should finally set in. This afternoon when Ralph came in, he found both Mrs. Archer and her friend on the terrace, under the shade of the large, over-hanging sun-screen, attached to the windows outside. Soon, however, Cissy got tired, and ensconced herself on her favourite sofa in the coolest corner of the drawing-room. Marion, however, stayed outside. She was busy about some piece of work she seemed to be greatly interested in, and Ralph established himself on the ground near her with a book in his hand, which he professed86 to be reading; now and then favouring his companions with choice bits which struck his fancy. But, in reality, most of his attention wag given to Marion. He watched her from behind his book, and thought how pretty her hands looked, glancing in and out of the bright mazes87 of the many-coloured wools she was working.
It was a deliciously lazy afternoon! Hot enough to excuse one’s not feeling much inclined for exertion88; and yet with all the freshness and novelty of spring about it too. They were all very happy. Marion, in her own way, enjoying the present, and Ralph, all his pricks89 forgotten for the time, in a state of perfect content. He had actually got the length of talking nonsense; he, the learned Sir Ralph Severn, the polyglot90, the antiquary, the “everything-fusty-and-musty-in-one,” as Cissy was impertinent enough to describe him that day—long ago it seemed now—when his name was heard by Marion Vere for the first.
Suddenly there came a little pause, which was broken by Cissy, whose ideas seldom ran in one direction for five minutes together.
“Marion,” she exclaimed from her sofa, “isn’t it to-day that Frank Berwick is expected back? I hope it is, for I am most anxious to see how he has executed our commissions.”
“Your commissions, you mean, Cissy?” said Marion. Something in the tone struck Ralph as unlike the girl’s usual voice. Something slightly sharp, ungentle—he hardly knew what. But he did not look at her just then.
“Nonsense, child,” persisted Cissy, who, in spite of all her quickness, was sometimes marvellously dull; and who, too, like many otherwise most amiable people, would sometimes, to prove her in the right, talk far from cautiously or advisedly; “nonsense, child. It is ridiculous of you to speak that way. Whether they are actually your commissions or mine you know very well it was to oblige you, Frank Berwick offered to execute them. Indeed,” she went on recklessly, “if it was any other girl than you, I should call it very affected77 of you, trying to make out that—”
“Cissy!” said, Marion.
Then Ralph looked at her. From where she sat Mrs. Archer could not see her cousin, but the tone of Marion’s voice stopped her in what more she was going to say, and she muttered some half apology, carelessly, and took up a book that lay beside her. So the sudden silence that followed was never explained to, and, indeed, hardly observed by Mrs. Archer.
Ralph looked up at Marion. For an instant her eyes met, but immediately she turned away. But he had seen enough. She rarely, as a rule, changed colour. The more tell-tale, therefore, appeared to him the flood of crimson91 which now overspread her face. Not face only. Neck, throat, all of the fair, white skin that was visible changed to deep, burning red. Not a merely passing girlish blush, but a hot over-whelming crimson glow, that, to Ralph, told of deep, heart emotion. He was right. But was it all for Frank Berwick?
“Oh,” thought poor Marion, “What a fool I am! Now, if even never before, he is sure to think it is true; to believe those mischievous92 reports.”
Ralph’s glance only rested on her for a moment. Then he looked away, looked out beyond the little terrace where was spread before him as lovely a view as mortal eyes could wish to behold93. The bright smiling landscape in front, of trees and fields and gardens; here and there dotted with graceful94 villas95 or pretty cottages: and far away beyond, the still snow-clad mountains, serene96 and grand in their dazzling purity, their tops melting away in the few soft grey clouds which there alone, at the horizon, broke the deep even azure97 of the sky.
Two minutes before, Ralph had been admiring all this intensely. What had come over it now? The brightness seemed to have suddenly gone out of the sunlight, there was a dull grey look over all. What was it that had thus changed the world to him? Ah! what was it?
He knew it now. Knew for the first time fully41 and clearly, not merely that he loved this girl beside him, but far more than that, knew now in the depth of the agony which it cost him to realize that he must lose her, knew for the first time, how he loved her.
For a minute or two no one spoke. Ralph could not have uttered a word had he tried. A curious feeling, almost of suffocation98, for a few moments oppressed him. But it gradually passed off. Then he rose, said something of it’s being later than he thought, shook hands with Marion, now busy again with her substantial rainbow, and left the little terrace.
As he passed through the drawing-room there lay Mrs. Archer on her comfortable sofa, fast asleep!
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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2
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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3
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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4
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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5
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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6
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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7
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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8
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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9
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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10
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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11
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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12
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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13
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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14
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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15
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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16
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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17
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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18
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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19
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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20
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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21
promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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22
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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23
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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24
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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25
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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27
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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28
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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29
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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30
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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31
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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32
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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33
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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34
garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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36
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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37
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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38
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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39
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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40
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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41
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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42
pettishly
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43
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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44
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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45
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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46
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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47
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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48
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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49
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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50
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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52
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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53
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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54
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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55
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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56
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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57
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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58
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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59
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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60
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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61
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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62
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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63
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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64
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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65
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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66
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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67
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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68
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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69
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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70
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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71
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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72
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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73
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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75
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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76
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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77
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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78
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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79
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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80
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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81
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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82
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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83
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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84
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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85
prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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86
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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87
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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88
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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89
pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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90
polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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91
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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92
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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93
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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94
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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95
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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96
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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97
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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98
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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