How beautiful the landscape kindling3 in the light, and that luxuriant influence passing on like a celestial4 presence, brightening everything! The wood, a sombre mass before, revealed its varied5 tints6 of yellow, green, brown, red: its different forms of trees, with raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling as they fell. The verdant7 meadow-land, bright and glowing, seemed as if it had been blind, a minute since, and now had found a sense of sight wherewith to look up at the shining sky. Corn-fields, hedge-rows, fences, homesteads, and clustered roofs, the steeple of the church, the stream, the water-mill, all sprang out of the gloomy darkness smiling. Birds sang sweetly, flowers raised their drooping8 heads, fresh scents9 arose from the invigorated ground; the blue expanse above extended and diffused10 itself; already the sun’s slanting11 rays pierced mortally the sullen12 bank of cloud that lingered in its flight; and a rainbow, spirit of all the colours that adorned13 the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with its triumphant14 glory.
At such a time, one little roadside Inn, snugly15 sheltered behind a great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house of entertainment ought, and tempted16 him with many mute but significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy sign-board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking17 in the sun, ogled18 the passer-by, from among the green leaves, like a jolly face, and promised good cheer. The horse-trough, full of clear fresh water, and the ground below it sprinkled with droppings of fragrant19 hay, made every horse that passed, prick20 up his ears. The crimson21 curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the little bed-chambers above, beckoned22, Come in! with every breath of air. Upon the bright green shutters23, there were golden legends about beer and ale, and neat wines, and good beds; and an affecting picture of a brown jug24 frothing over at the top. Upon the window-sills were flowering plants in bright red pots, which made a lively show against the white front of the house; and in the darkness of the doorway25 there were streaks26 of light, which glanced off from the surfaces of bottles and tankards.
On the door-step, appeared a proper figure of a landlord, too; for, though he was a short man, he was round and broad, and stood with his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough apart to express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy confidence—too calm and virtuous27 to become a swagger—in the general resources of the Inn. The superabundant moisture, trickling28 from everything after the late rain, set him off well. Nothing near him was thirsty. Certain top-heavy dahlias, looking over the palings of his neat well-ordered garden, had swilled29 as much as they could carry—perhaps a trifle more—and may have been the worse for liquor; but the sweet-briar, roses, wall-flowers, the plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree, were in the beaming state of moderate company that had taken no more than was wholesome30 for them, and had served to develop their best qualities. Sprinkling dewy drops about them on the ground, they seemed profuse31 of innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good where it lighted, softening33 neglected corners which the steady rain could seldom reach, and hurting nothing.
This village Inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon34 sign. It was called The Nutmeg-Grater. And underneath35 that household word, was inscribed36, up in the tree, on the same flaming board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain.
At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face, you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain himself who stood in the doorway—reasonably changed by time, but for the better; a very comfortable host indeed.
‘Mrs. B.,’ said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, ‘is rather late. It’s tea-time.’
As there was no Mrs. Britain coming, he strolled leisurely37 out into the road and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction. ‘It’s just the sort of house,’ said Benjamin, ‘I should wish to stop at, if I didn’t keep it.’
Then, he strolled towards the garden-paling, and took a look at the dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless drowsy38 hanging of their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet dripped off them.
‘You must be looked after,’ said Benjamin. ‘Memorandum, not to forget to tell her so. She’s a long time coming!’
Mr. Britain’s better half seemed to be by so very much his better half, that his own moiety39 of himself was utterly40 cast away and helpless without her.
‘She hadn’t much to do, I think,’ said Ben. ‘There were a few little matters of business after market, but not many. Oh! here we are at last!’
A chaise-cart, driven by a boy, came clattering41 along the road: and seated in it, in a chair, with a large well-saturated umbrella spread out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a matronly woman, with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried on her knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded around her, and a certain bright good nature in her face and contented43 awkwardness in her manner, as she jogged to and fro with the motion of her carriage, which smacked44 of old times, even in the distance. Upon her nearer approach, this relish45 of by-gone days was not diminished; and when the cart stopped at the Nutmeg-Grater door, a pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through Mr. Britain’s open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but Clemency46 Newcome.
In fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy47 comfortable-looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy48 face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown quite dimpled in her improved condition.
‘You’re late, Clemmy!’ said Mr. Britain.
‘Why, you see, Ben, I’ve had a deal to do!’ she replied, looking busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages and baskets: ‘eight, nine, ten—where’s eleven? Oh! my basket’s eleven! It’s all right. Put the horse up, Harry49, and if he coughs again give him a warm mash50 to-night. Eight, nine, ten. Why, where’s eleven? Oh I forgot, it’s all right. How’s the children, Ben?’
‘Bless their precious faces!’ said Mrs. Britain, unbonneting her own round countenance52 (for she and her husband were by this time in the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. ‘Give us a kiss, old man!’
‘I think,’ said Mrs. Britain, applying herself to her pockets and drawing forth54 an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled55 papers: a very kennel56 of dogs’-ears: ‘I’ve done everything. Bills all settled—turnips sold—brewer’s account looked into and paid—’bacco pipes ordered—seventeen pound four, paid into the Bank—Doctor Heathfield’s charge for little Clem—you’ll guess what that is—Doctor Heathfield won’t take nothing again, Ben.’
‘I thought he wouldn’t,’ returned Ben.
‘No. He says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he’d never put you to the cost of a halfpenny. Not if you was to have twenty.’
Mr. Britain’s face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard at the wall.
‘An’t it kind of him?’ said Clemency.
‘Very,’ returned Mr. Britain. ‘It’s the sort of kindness that I wouldn’t presume upon, on any account.’
‘No,’ retorted Clemency. ‘Of course not. Then there’s the pony—he fetched eight pound two; and that an’t bad, is it?’
‘It’s very good,’ said Ben.
‘I’m glad you’re pleased!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘I thought you would be; and I think that’s all, and so no more at present from yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the papers, and lock ’em up. Oh! Wait a minute. Here’s a printed bill to stick on the wall. Wet from the printer’s. How nice it smells!’
‘What’s this?’ said Ben, looking over the document.
‘I don’t know,’ replied his wife. ‘I haven’t read a word of it.’
‘“To be sold by Auction,”’ read the host of the Nutmeg-Grater, ‘“unless previously57 disposed of by private contract.”’
‘They always put that,’ said Clemency.
‘Yes, but they don’t always put this,’ he returned. ‘Look here, “Mansion,” &c.—“offices,” &c., “shrubberies,” &c., “ring fence,” &c. “Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs,” &c., “ornamental portion of the unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden58, Esquire, intending to continue to reside abroad”!’
‘Intending to continue to reside abroad!’ repeated Clemency.
‘Here it is,’ said Britain. ‘Look!’
‘And it was only this very day that I heard it whispered at the old house, that better and plainer news had been half promised of her, soon!’ said Clemency, shaking her head sorrowfully, and patting her elbows as if the recollection of old times unconsciously awakened59 her old habits. ‘Dear, dear, dear! There’ll be heavy hearts, Ben, yonder.’
Mr. Britain heaved a sigh, and shook his head, and said he couldn’t make it out: he had left off trying long ago. With that remark, he applied60 himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar window. Clemency, after meditating61 in silence for a few moments, roused herself, cleared her thoughtful brow, and bustled62 off to look after the children.
Though the host of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him mightily63. Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward64 thrift65, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is, in any degree of life (as the world very often finds it), to take those cheerful natures that never assert their merit, at their own modest valuation; and to conceive a flippant liking66 of people for their outward oddities and eccentricities67, whose innate68 worth, if we would look so far, might make us blush in the comparison!
It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his own condescension69 in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony70 to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition71; and he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept72 that virtue73 is its own reward.
He had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers74 for her day’s proceedings75 in the cupboard—chuckling all the time, over her capacity for business—when, returning with the news that the two Master Britains were playing in the coach-house under the superintendence of one Betsey, and that little Clem was sleeping ‘like a picture,’ she sat down to tea, which had awaited her arrival, on a little table. It was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of bottles and glasses; a sedate76 clock, right to the minute (it was half-past five); everything in its place, and everything furbished and polished up to the very utmost.
‘It’s the first time I’ve sat down quietly to-day, I declare,’ said Mrs. Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night; but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and cut him his bread-and-butter; ‘how that bill does set me thinking of old times!’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Britain, handling his saucer like an oyster77, and disposing of its contents on the same principle.
‘That same Mr. Michael Warden,’ said Clemency, shaking her head at the notice of sale, ‘lost me my old place.’
‘And got you your husband,’ said Mr. Britain.
‘Well! So he did,’ retorted Clemency, ‘and many thanks to him.’
‘Man’s the creature of habit,’ said Mr. Britain, surveying her, over his saucer. ‘I had somehow got used to you, Clem; and I found I shouldn’t be able to get on without you. So we went and got made man and wife. Ha! ha! We! Who’d have thought it!’
‘Who indeed!’ cried Clemency. ‘It was very good of you, Ben.’
‘No, no, no,’ replied Mr. Britain, with an air of self-denial. ‘Nothing worth mentioning.’
‘Oh yes it was, Ben,’ said his wife, with great simplicity78; ‘I’m sure I think so, and am very much obliged to you. Ah!’ looking again at the bill; ‘when she was known to be gone, and out of reach, dear girl, I couldn’t help telling—for her sake quite as much as theirs—what I knew, could I?’
‘You told it, anyhow,’ observed her husband.
‘And Dr. Jeddler,’ pursued Clemency, putting down her tea-cup, and looking thoughtfully at the bill, ‘in his grief and passion turned me out of house and home! I never have been so glad of anything in all my life, as that I didn’t say an angry word to him, and hadn’t any angry feeling towards him, even then; for he repented79 that truly, afterwards. How often he has sat in this room, and told me over and over again he was sorry for it!—the last time, only yesterday, when you were out. How often he has sat in this room, and talked to me, hour after hour, about one thing and another, in which he made believe to be interested!—but only for the sake of the days that are gone by, and because he knows she used to like me, Ben!’
‘Why, how did you ever come to catch a glimpse of that, Clem?’ asked her husband: astonished that she should have a distinct perception of a truth which had only dimly suggested itself to his inquiring mind.
‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Clemency, blowing her tea, to cool it. ‘Bless you, I couldn’t tell you, if you was to offer me a reward of a hundred pound.’
He might have pursued this metaphysical subject but for her catching80 a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape of a gentleman attired81 in mourning, and cloaked and booted like a rider on horseback, who stood at the bar-door. He seemed attentive82 to their conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it.
Clemency hastily rose at this sight. Mr. Britain also rose and saluted83 the guest. ‘Will you please to walk up-stairs, sir? There’s a very nice room up-stairs, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ said the stranger, looking earnestly at Mr. Britain’s wife. ‘May I come in here?’
‘Oh, surely, if you like, sir,’ returned Clemency, admitting him.
‘What would you please to want, sir?’
The bill had caught his eye, and he was reading it.
‘Excellent property that, sir,’ observed Mr. Britain.
He made no answer; but, turning round, when he had finished reading, looked at Clemency with the same observant curiosity as before. ‘You were asking me,’—he said, still looking at her,—‘What you would please to take, sir,’ answered Clemency, stealing a glance at him in return.
‘If you will let me have a draught84 of ale,’ he said, moving to a table by the window, ‘and will let me have it here, without being any interruption to your meal, I shall be much obliged to you.’ He sat down as he spoke85, without any further parley86, and looked out at the prospect87. He was an easy, well-knit figure of a man in the prime of life. His face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a quantity of dark hair; and he wore a moustache. His beer being set before him, he filled out a glass, and drank, good-humouredly, to the house; adding, as he put the tumbler down again:
‘It’s a new house, is it not?’
‘Not particularly new, sir,’ replied Mr. Britain.
‘Between five and six years old,’ said Clemency; speaking very distinctly.
‘I think I heard you mention Dr. Jeddler’s name, as I came in,’ inquired the stranger. ‘That bill reminds me of him; for I happen to know something of that story, by hearsay88, and through certain connexions of mine.—Is the old man living?’
‘Yes, he’s living, sir,’ said Clemency.
‘Much changed?’
‘Since when, sir?’ returned Clemency, with remarkable89 emphasis and expression.
‘Since his daughter—went away.’
‘Yes! he’s greatly changed since then,’ said Clemency. ‘He’s grey and old, and hasn’t the same way with him at all; but, I think he’s happy now. He has taken on with his sister since then, and goes to see her very often. That did him good, directly. At first, he was sadly broken down; and it was enough to make one’s heart bleed, to see him wandering about, railing at the world; but a great change for the better came over him after a year or two, and then he began to like to talk about his lost daughter, and to praise her, ay and the world too! and was never tired of saying, with the tears in his poor eyes, how beautiful and good she was. He had forgiven her then. That was about the same time as Miss Grace’s marriage. Britain, you remember?’
Mr. Britain remembered very well.
‘The sister is married then,’ returned the stranger. He paused for some time before he asked, ‘To whom?’
Clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the tea-board, in her emotion at this question.
‘Did you never hear?’ she said.
‘I should like to hear,’ he replied, as he filled his glass again, and raised it to his lips.
‘Ah! It would be a long story, if it was properly told,’ said Clemency, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and supporting that elbow on her right hand, as she shook her head, and looked back through the intervening years, as if she were looking at a fire. ‘It would be a long story, I am sure.’
‘But told as a short one,’ suggested the stranger.
Told as a short one,’ repeated Clemency in the same thoughtful tone, and without any apparent reference to him, or consciousness of having auditors90, ‘what would there be to tell? That they grieved together, and remembered her together, like a person dead; that they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called her back to one another as she used to be, and found excuses for her! Every one knows that. I’m sure I do. No one better,’ added Clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand.
‘And so,’ suggested the stranger.
‘And so,’ said Clemency, taking him up mechanically, and without any change in her attitude or manner, ‘they at last were married. They were married on her birth-day—it comes round again to-morrow—very quiet, very humble91 like, but very happy. Mr. Alfred said, one night when they were walking in the orchard92, “Grace, shall our wedding-day be Marion’s birth-day?” And it was.’
‘And they have lived happily together?’ said the stranger.
‘Ay,’ said Clemency. ‘No two people ever more so. They have had no sorrow but this.’
She raised her head as with a sudden attention to the circumstances under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly at the stranger. Seeing that his face was turned toward the window, and that he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager signs to her husband, and pointed93 to the bill, and moved her mouth as if she were repeating with great energy, one word or phrase to him over and over again. As she uttered no sound, and as her dumb motions like most of her gestures were of a very extraordinary kind, this unintelligible94 conduct reduced Mr. Britain to the confines of despair. He stared at the table, at the stranger, at the spoons, at his wife—followed her pantomime with looks of deep amazement95 and perplexity—asked in the same language, was it property in danger, was it he in danger, was it she—answered her signals with other signals expressive96 of the deepest distress97 and confusion—followed the motions of her lips—guessed half aloud ‘milk and water,’ ‘monthly warning,’ ‘mice and walnuts’—and couldn’t approach her meaning.
Clemency gave it up at last, as a hopeless attempt; and moving her chair by very slow degrees a little nearer to the stranger, sat with her eyes apparently98 cast down but glancing sharply at him now and then, waiting until he should ask some other question. She had not to wait long; for he said, presently:
‘And what is the after history of the young lady who went away? They know it, I suppose?’
Clemency shook her head. ‘I’ve heard,’ she said, ‘that Doctor Jeddler is thought to know more of it than he tells. Miss Grace has had letters from her sister, saying that she was well and happy, and made much happier by her being married to Mr. Alfred: and has written letters back. But there’s a mystery about her life and fortunes, altogether, which nothing has cleared up to this hour, and which—’
‘And which’—repeated the stranger.
‘Which only one other person, I believe, could explain,’ said Clemency, drawing her breath quickly.
‘Who may that be?’ asked the stranger.
‘Mr. Michael Warden!’ answered Clemency, almost in a shriek100: at once conveying to her husband what she would have had him understand before, and letting Michael Warden know that he was recognised.
‘You remember me, sir?’ said Clemency, trembling with emotion; ‘I saw just now you did! You remember me, that night in the garden. I was with her!’
‘Yes. You were,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ returned Clemency. ‘Yes, to be sure. This is my husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to Miss Grace—run to Mr. Alfred—run somewhere, Ben! Bring somebody here, directly!’
‘Stay!’ said Michael Warden, quietly interposing himself between the door and Britain. ‘What would you do?’
‘Let them know that you are here, sir,’ answered Clemency, clapping her hands in sheer agitation101. ‘Let them know that they may hear of her, from your own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost to them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless her father and her loving sister—even her old servant, even me,’ she struck herself upon the breast with both hands, ‘with a sight of her sweet face. Run, Ben, run!’ And still she pressed him on towards the door, and still Mr. Warden stood before it, with his hand stretched out, not angrily, but sorrowfully.
‘Or perhaps,’ said Clemency, running past her husband, and catching in her emotion at Mr. Warden’s cloak, ‘perhaps she’s here now; perhaps she’s close by. I think from your manner she is. Let me see her, sir, if you please. I waited on her when she was a little child. I saw her grow to be the pride of all this place. I knew her when she was Mr. Alfred’s promised wife. I tried to warn her when you tempted her away. I know what her old home was when she was like the soul of it, and how it changed when she was gone and lost. Let me speak to her, if you please!’
‘I don’t think she can know,’ pursued Clemency, ‘how truly they forgive her; how they love her; what joy it would be to them, to see her once more. She may be timorous104 of going home. Perhaps if she sees me, it may give her new heart. Only tell me truly, Mr. Warden, is she with you?’
‘She is not,’ he answered, shaking his head.
This answer, and his manner, and his black dress, and his coming back so quietly, and his announced intention of continuing to live abroad, explained it all. Marion was dead.
He didn’t contradict her; yes, she was dead! Clemency sat down, hid her face upon the table, and cried.
At that moment, a grey-headed old gentleman came running in: quite out of breath, and panting so much that his voice was scarcely to be recognised as the voice of Mr. Snitchey.
‘Good Heaven, Mr. Warden!’ said the lawyer, taking him aside, ‘what wind has blown—’ He was so blown himself, that he couldn’t get on any further until after a pause, when he added, feebly, ‘you here?’
‘An ill-wind, I am afraid,’ he answered. ‘If you could have heard what has just passed—how I have been besought105 and entreated107 to perform impossibilities—what confusion and affliction I carry with me!’
‘I can guess it all. But why did you ever come here, my good sir?’ retorted Snitchey.
‘Come! How should I know who kept the house? When I sent my servant on to you, I strolled in here because the place was new to me; and I had a natural curiosity in everything new and old, in these old scenes; and it was outside the town. I wanted to communicate with you, first, before appearing there. I wanted to know what people would say to me. I see by your manner that you can tell me. If it were not for your confounded caution, I should have been possessed108 of everything long ago.’
‘Our caution!’ returned the lawyer, ‘speaking for Self and Craggs—deceased,’ here Mr. Snitchey, glancing at his hat-band, shook his head, ‘how can you reasonably blame us, Mr. Warden? It was understood between us that the subject was never to be renewed, and that it wasn’t a subject on which grave and sober men like us (I made a note of your observations at the time) could interfere109. Our caution too! When Mr. Craggs, sir, went down to his respected grave in the full belief—’
‘I had given a solemn promise of silence until I should return, whenever that might be,’ interrupted Mr. Warden; ‘and I have kept it.’
‘Well, sir, and I repeat it,’ returned Mr. Snitchey, ‘we were bound to silence too. We were bound to silence in our duty towards ourselves, and in our duty towards a variety of clients, you among them, who were as close as wax. It was not our place to make inquiries110 of you on such a delicate subject. I had my suspicions, sir; but, it is not six months since I have known the truth, and been assured that you lost her.’
‘By whom?’ inquired his client.
‘By Doctor Jeddler himself, sir, who at last reposed111 that confidence in me voluntarily. He, and only he, has known the whole truth, years and years.’
‘And you know it?’ said his client.
‘I do, sir!’ replied Snitchey; ‘and I have also reason to know that it will be broken to her sister to-morrow evening. They have given her that promise. In the meantime, perhaps you’ll give me the honour of your company at my house; being unexpected at your own. But, not to run the chance of any more such difficulties as you have had here, in case you should be recognised—though you’re a good deal changed; I think I might have passed you myself, Mr. Warden—we had better dine here, and walk on in the evening. It’s a very good place to dine at, Mr. Warden: your own property, by-the-bye. Self and Craggs (deceased) took a chop here sometimes, and had it very comfortably served. Mr. Craggs, sir,’ said Snitchey, shutting his eyes tight for an instant, and opening them again, ‘was struck off the roll of life too soon.’
‘Heaven forgive me for not condoling112 with you,’ returned Michael Warden, passing his hand across his forehead, ‘but I’m like a man in a dream at present. I seem to want my wits. Mr. Craggs—yes—I am very sorry we have lost Mr. Craggs.’ But he looked at Clemency as he said it, and seemed to sympathise with Ben, consoling her.
‘Mr. Craggs, sir,’ observed Snitchey, ‘didn’t find life, I regret to say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it out, or he would have been among us now. It’s a great loss to me. He was my right arm, my right leg, my right ear, my right eye, was Mr. Craggs. I am paralytic113 without him. He bequeathed his share of the business to Mrs. Craggs, her executors, administrators114, and assigns. His name remains115 in the Firm to this hour. I try, in a childish sort of a way, to make believe, sometimes, he’s alive. You may observe that I speak for Self and Craggs—deceased, sir—deceased,’ said the tender-hearted attorney, waving his pocket-handkerchief.
Michael Warden, who had still been observant of Clemency, turned to Mr. Snitchey when he ceased to speak, and whispered in his ear.
‘Ah, poor thing!’ said Snitchey, shaking his head. ‘Yes. She was always very faithful to Marion. She was always very fond of her. Pretty Marion! Poor Marion! Cheer up, Mistress—you are married now, you know, Clemency.’
Clemency only sighed, and shook her head.
‘No. It can’t do that, or it would bring back Mr. Craggs, deceased,’ returned the lawyer. ‘But it may bring some soothing118 circumstances; it may bring some comfort. Wait till to-morrow!’
So Clemency, shaking his proffered119 hand, said she would; and Britain, who had been terribly cast down at sight of his despondent120 wife (which was like the business hanging its head), said that was right; and Mr. Snitchey and Michael Warden went up-stairs; and there they were soon engaged in a conversation so cautiously conducted, that no murmur121 of it was audible above the clatter42 of plates and dishes, the hissing122 of the frying-pan, the bubbling of saucepans, the low monotonous123 waltzing of the jack—with a dreadful click every now and then as if it had met with some mortal accident to its head, in a fit of giddiness—and all the other preparations in the kitchen for their dinner.
To-morrow was a bright and peaceful day; and nowhere were the autumn tints more beautifully seen, than from the quiet orchard of the Doctor’s house. The snows of many winter nights had melted from that ground, the withered124 leaves of many summer times had rustled125 there, since she had fled. The honey-suckle porch was green again, the trees cast bountiful and changing shadows on the grass, the landscape was as tranquil126 and serene127 as it had ever been; but where was she!
Not there. Not there. She would have been a stranger sight in her old home now, even than that home had been at first, without her. But, a lady sat in the familiar place, from whose heart she had never passed away; in whose true memory she lived, unchanging, youthful, radiant with all promise and all hope; in whose affection—and it was a mother’s now, there was a cherished little daughter playing by her side—she had no rival, no successor; upon whose gentle lips her name was trembling then.
The spirit of the lost girl looked out of those eyes. Those eyes of Grace, her sister, sitting with her husband in the orchard, on their wedding-day, and his and Marion’s birth-day.
He had not become a great man; he had not grown rich; he had not forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth; he had not fulfilled any one of the Doctor’s old predictions. But, in his useful, patient, unknown visiting of poor men’s homes; and in his watching of sick beds; and in his daily knowledge of the gentleness and goodness flowering the by-paths of this world, not to be trodden down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing up, elastic128, in its track, and making its way beautiful; he had better learned and proved, in each succeeding year, the truth of his old faith. The manner of his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how often men still entertained angels, unawares, as in the olden time; and how the most unlikely forms—even some that were mean and ugly to the view, and poorly clad—became irradiated by the couch of sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to ministering spirits with a glory round their heads.
He lived to better purpose on the altered battle-ground, perhaps, than if he had contended restlessly in more ambitious lists; and he was happy with his wife, dear Grace.
And Marion. Had he forgotten her?
‘The time has flown, dear Grace,’ he said, ‘since then;’ they had been talking of that night; ‘and yet it seems a long long while ago. We count by changes and events within us. Not by years.’
‘Yet we have years to count by, too, since Marion was with us,’ returned Grace. ‘Six times, dear husband, counting to-night as one, we have sat here on her birth-day, and spoken together of that happy return, so eagerly expected and so long deferred129. Ah when will it be! When will it be!’
Her husband attentively130 observed her, as the tears collected in her eyes; and drawing nearer, said:
‘But, Marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left for you upon your table, love, and which you read so often, that years must pass away before it could be. Did she not?’
She took a letter from her breast, and kissed it, and said ‘Yes.’
‘That through these intervening years, however happy she might be, she would look forward to the time when you would meet again, and all would be made clear; and that she prayed you, trustfully and hopefully to do the same. The letter runs so, does it not, my dear?’
‘Yes, Alfred.’
‘And every other letter she has written since?’
‘Except the last—some months ago—in which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and what I was to learn to-night.’
He looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and said that the appointed time was sunset.
‘Alfred!’ said Grace, laying her hand upon his shoulder earnestly, ‘there is something in this letter—this old letter, which you say I read so often—that I have never told you. But, to-night, dear husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming to soften32 and become hushed with the departing day, I cannot keep it secret.’
‘What is it, love?’
‘When Marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had once left her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a trust in my hands: praying and beseeching131 me, as I loved her, and as I loved you, not to reject the affection she believed (she knew, she said) you would transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return it.’
‘—And make me a proud, and happy man again, Grace. Did she say so?’
‘She meant, to make myself so blest and honoured in your love,’ was his wife’s answer, as he held her in his arms.
‘Hear me, my dear!’ he said.—‘No. Hear me so!’—and as he spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his shoulder. ‘I know why I have never heard this passage in the letter, until now. I know why no trace of it ever showed itself in any word or look of yours at that time. I know why Grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife. And knowing it, my own! I know the priceless value of the heart I gird within my arms, and thank God for the rich possession!’
She wept, but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart. After a brief space, he looked down at the child, who was sitting at their feet playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and how red the sun was.
‘Alfred,’ said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words. ‘The sun is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets.’
‘You are to know the truth of Marion’s history, my love,’ he answered.
‘All the truth,’ she said, imploringly132. ‘Nothing veiled from me, any more. That was the promise. Was it not?’
‘It was,’ he answered.
‘Before the sun went down on Marion’s birth-day. And you see it, Alfred? It is sinking fast.’
‘That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to come from other lips.’
‘From other lips!’ she faintly echoed.
‘Yes. I know your constant heart, I know how brave you are, I know that to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present fortitude134 to bear a trial—a surprise—a shock: and the messenger is waiting at the gate.’
‘What messenger?’ she said. ‘And what intelligence does he bring?’
‘I am pledged,’ he answered her, preserving his steady look, ‘to say no more. Do you think you understand me?’
‘I am afraid to think,’ she said.
There was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze, which frightened her. Again she hid her own face on his shoulder, trembling, and entreated him to pause—a moment.
‘Courage, my wife! When you have firmness to receive the messenger, the messenger is waiting at the gate. The sun is setting on Marion’s birth-day. Courage, courage, Grace!’
She raised her head, and, looking at him, told him she was ready. As she stood, and looked upon him going away, her face was so like Marion’s as it had been in her later days at home, that it was wonderful to see. He took the child with him. She called her back—she bore the lost girl’s name—and pressed her to her bosom135. The little creature, being released again, sped after him, and Grace was left alone.
She knew not what she dreaded136, or what hoped; but remained there, motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared.
Ah! what was that, emerging from its shadow; standing137 on its threshold! That figure, with its white garments rustling138 in the evening air; its head laid down upon her father’s breast, and pressed against it to his loving heart! O God! was it a vision that came bursting from the old man’s arms, and with a cry, and with a waving of its hands, and with a wild precipitation of itself upon her in its boundless139 love, sank down in her embrace!
‘Oh, Marion, Marion! Oh, my sister! Oh, my heart’s dear love! Oh, joy and happiness unutterable, so to meet again!’
It was no dream, no phantom140 conjured141 up by hope and fear, but Marion, sweet Marion! So beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care and trial, so elevated and exalted142 in her loveliness, that as the setting sun shone brightly on her upturned face, she might have been a spirit visiting the earth upon some healing mission.
Clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat and bent143 down over her—and smiling through her tears—and kneeling, close before her, with both arms twining round her, and never turning for an instant from her face—and with the glory of the setting sun upon her brow, and with the soft tranquillity144 of evening gathering145 around them—Marion at length broke silence; her voice, so calm, low, clear, and pleasant, well-tuned to the time.
‘When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again—’
‘Stay, my sweet love! A moment! O Marion, to hear you speak again.’
She could not bear the voice she loved so well, at first.
‘When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again, I loved him from my soul. I loved him most devotedly146. I would have died for him, though I was so young. I never slighted his affection in my secret breast for one brief instant. It was far beyond all price to me. Although it is so long ago, and past, and gone, and everything is wholly changed, I could not bear to think that you, who love so well, should think I did not truly love him once. I never loved him better, Grace, than when he left this very scene upon this very day. I never loved him better, dear one, than I did that night when I left here.’
Her sister, bending over her, could look into her face, and hold her fast.
‘But he had gained, unconsciously,’ said Marion, with a gentle smile, ‘another heart, before I knew that I had one to give him. That heart—yours, my sister!—was so yielded up, in all its other tenderness, to me; was so devoted147, and so noble; that it plucked its love away, and kept its secret from all eyes but mine—Ah! what other eyes were quickened by such tenderness and gratitude148!—and was content to sacrifice itself to me. But, I knew something of its depths. I knew the struggle it had made. I knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his appreciation149 of it, let him love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I had its great example every day before me. What you had done for me, I knew that I could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I prayed with tears to do it. I never laid my head down on my pillow, but I thought of Alfred’s own words on the day of his departure, and how truly he had said (for I knew that, knowing you) that there were victories gained every day, in struggling hearts, to which these fields of battle were nothing. Thinking more and more upon the great endurance cheerfully sustained, and never known or cared for, that there must be, every day and hour, in that great strife150 of which he spoke, my trial seemed to grow light and easy. And He who knows our hearts, my dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is no drop of bitterness or grief—of anything but unmixed happiness—in mine, enabled me to make the resolution that I never would be Alfred’s wife. That he should be my brother, and your husband, if the course I took could bring that happy end to pass; but that I never would (Grace, I then loved him dearly, dearly!) be his wife!’
‘O Marion! O Marion!’
‘I had tried to seem indifferent to him;’ and she pressed her sister’s face against her own; ‘but that was hard, and you were always his true advocate. I had tried to tell you of my resolution, but you would never hear me; you would never understand me. The time was drawing near for his return. I felt that I must act, before the daily intercourse151 between us was renewed. I knew that one great pang152, undergone at that time, would save a lengthened153 agony to all of us. I knew that if I went away then, that end must follow which has followed, and which has made us both so happy, Grace! I wrote to good Aunt Martha, for a refuge in her house: I did not then tell her all, but something of my story, and she freely promised it. While I was contesting that step with myself, and with my love of you, and home, Mr. Warden, brought here by an accident, became, for some time, our companion.’
‘I have sometimes feared of late years, that this might have been,’ exclaimed her sister; and her countenance was ashy-pale. ‘You never loved him—and you married him in your self-sacrifice to me!’
‘He was then,’ said Marion, drawing her sister closer to her, ‘on the eve of going secretly away for a long time. He wrote to me, after leaving here; told me what his condition and prospects154 really were; and offered me his hand. He told me he had seen I was not happy in the prospect of Alfred’s return. I believe he thought my heart had no part in that contract; perhaps thought I might have loved him once, and did not then; perhaps thought that when I tried to seem indifferent, I tried to hide indifference—I cannot tell. But I wished that you should feel me wholly lost to Alfred—hopeless to him—dead. Do you understand me, love?’
Her sister looked into her face, attentively. She seemed in doubt.
‘I saw Mr. Warden, and confided155 in his honour; charged him with my secret, on the eve of his and my departure. He kept it. Do you understand me, dear?’
Grace looked confusedly upon her. She scarcely seemed to hear.
‘My love, my sister!’ said Marion, ‘recall your thoughts a moment; listen to me. Do not look so strangely on me. There are countries, dearest, where those who would abjure156 a misplaced passion, or would strive, against some cherished feeling of their hearts and conquer it, retire into a hopeless solitude157, and close the world against themselves and worldly loves and hopes for ever. When women do so, they assume that name which is so dear to you and me, and call each other Sisters. But, there may be sisters, Grace, who, in the broad world out of doors, and underneath its free sky, and in its crowded places, and among its busy life, and trying to assist and cheer it and to do some good,—learn the same lesson; and who, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to all happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past, the victory long won. And such a one am I! You understand me now?’
‘Oh Grace, dear Grace,’ said Marion, clinging yet more tenderly and fondly to that breast from which she had been so long exiled, ‘if you were not a happy wife and mother—if I had no little namesake here—if Alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond husband—from whence could I derive159 the ecstasy160 I feel to-night! But, as I left here, so I have returned. My heart has known no other love, my hand has never been bestowed161 apart from it. I am still your maiden163 sister, unmarried, unbetrothed: your own loving old Marion, in whose affection you exist alone and have no partner, Grace!’
She understood her now. Her face relaxed: sobs164 came to her relief; and falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled her as if she were a child again.
When they were more composed, they found that the Doctor, and his sister good Aunt Martha, were standing near at hand, with Alfred.
‘This is a weary day for me,’ said good Aunt Martha, smiling through her tears, as she embraced her nieces; ‘for I lose my dear companion in making you all happy; and what can you give me, in return for my Marion?’
‘A converted brother,’ said the Doctor.
‘No, pray don’t,’ said the doctor penitently166.
‘Well, I won’t,’ replied Aunt Martha. ‘But, I consider myself ill used. I don’t know what’s to become of me without my Marion, after we have lived together half-a-dozen years.’
‘You must come and live here, I suppose,’ replied the Doctor. ‘We shan’t quarrel now, Martha.’
‘Or you must get married, Aunt,’ said Alfred.
‘Indeed,’ returned the old lady, ‘I think it might be a good speculation167 if I were to set my cap at Michael Warden, who, I hear, is come home much the better for his absence in all respects. But as I knew him when he was a boy, and I was not a very young woman then, perhaps he mightn’t respond. So I’ll make up my mind to go and live with Marion, when she marries, and until then (it will not be very long, I dare say) to live alone. What do you say, Brother?’
‘I’ve a great mind to say it’s a ridiculous world altogether, and there’s nothing serious in it,’ observed the poor old Doctor.
‘You might take twenty affidavits168 of it if you chose, Anthony,’ said his sister; ‘but nobody would believe you with such eyes as those.’
‘It’s a world full of hearts,’ said the Doctor, hugging his youngest daughter, and bending across her to hug Grace—for he couldn’t separate the sisters; ‘and a serious world, with all its folly—even with mine, which was enough to have swamped the whole globe; and it is a world on which the sun never rises, but it looks upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off against the miseries169 and wickedness of Battle-Fields; and it is a world we need be careful how we libel, Heaven forgive us, for it is a world of sacred mysteries, and its Creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of His lightest image!’
You would not be the better pleased with my rude pen, if it dissected170 and laid open to your view the transports of this family, long severed171 and now reunited. Therefore, I will not follow the poor Doctor through his humbled172 recollection of the sorrow he had had, when Marion was lost to him; nor, will I tell how serious he had found that world to be, in which some love, deep-anchored, is the portion of all human creatures; nor, how such a trifle as the absence of one little unit in the great absurd account, had stricken him to the ground. Nor, how, in compassion for his distress, his sister had, long ago, revealed the truth to him by slow degrees, and brought him to the knowledge of the heart of his self-banished daughter, and to that daughter’s side.
Nor, how Alfred Heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the course of that then current year; and Marion had seen him, and had promised him, as her brother, that on her birth-day, in the evening, Grace should know it from her lips at last.
‘I beg your pardon, Doctor,’ said Mr. Snitchey, looking into the orchard, ‘but have I liberty to come in?’
‘If Mr. Craggs had been alive, my dear Miss Marion,’ said Mr. Snitchey, ‘he would have had great interest in this occasion. It might have suggested to him, Mr. Alfred, that our life is not too easy perhaps: that, taken altogether, it will bear any little smoothing we can give it; but Mr. Craggs was a man who could endure to be convinced, sir. He was always open to conviction. If he were open to conviction, now, I—this is weakness. Mrs. Snitchey, my dear,’—at his summons that lady appeared from behind the door, ‘you are among old friends.’
Mrs. Snitchey having delivered her congratulations, took her husband aside.
‘One moment, Mr. Snitchey,’ said that lady. ‘It is not in my nature to rake up the ashes of the departed.’
‘No, my dear,’ returned her husband.
‘Mr. Craggs is—’
‘Yes, my dear, he is deceased,’ said Snitchey.
‘But I ask you if you recollect,’ pursued his wife, ‘that evening of the ball? I only ask you that. If you do; and if your memory has not entirely174 failed you, Mr. Snitchey; and if you are not absolutely in your dotage175; I ask you to connect this time with that—to remember how I begged and prayed you, on my knees—’
‘Upon your knees, my dear?’ said Mr. Snitchey.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, confidently, ‘and you know it—to beware of that man—to observe his eye—and now to tell me whether I was right, and whether at that moment he knew secrets which he didn’t choose to tell.’
‘Mrs. Snitchey,’ returned her husband, in her ear, ‘Madam. Did you ever observe anything in my eye?’
‘No,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, sharply. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘Because, Madam, that night,’ he continued, twitching176 her by the sleeve, ‘it happens that we both knew secrets which we didn’t choose to tell, and both knew just the same professionally. And so the less you say about such things the better, Mrs. Snitchey; and take this as a warning to have wiser and more charitable eyes another time. Miss Marion, I brought a friend of yours along with me. Here! Mistress!’
Poor Clemency, with her apron177 to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted by her husband; the latter doleful with the presentiment178, that if she abandoned herself to grief, the Nutmeg-Grater was done for.
‘Now, Mistress,’ said the lawyer, checking Marion as she ran towards her, and interposing himself between them, ‘what’s the matter with you?’
‘The matter!’ cried poor Clemency.—When, looking up in wonder, and in indignant remonstrance179, and in the added emotion of a great roar from Mr. Britain, and seeing that sweet face so well remembered close before her, she stared, sobbed180, laughed, cried, screamed, embraced her, held her fast, released her, fell on Mr. Snitchey and embraced him (much to Mrs. Snitchey’s indignation), fell on the Doctor and embraced him, fell on Mr. Britain and embraced him, and concluded by embracing herself, throwing her apron over her head, and going into hysterics behind it.
A stranger had come into the orchard, after Mr. Snitchey, and had remained apart, near the gate, without being observed by any of the group; for they had little spare attention to bestow162, and that had been monopolised by the ecstasies181 of Clemency. He did not appear to wish to be observed, but stood alone, with downcast eyes; and there was an air of dejection about him (though he was a gentleman of a gallant182 appearance) which the general happiness rendered more remarkable.
None but the quick eyes of Aunt Martha, however, remarked him at all; but, almost as soon as she espied183 him, she was in conversation with him. Presently, going to where Marion stood with Grace and her little namesake, she whispered something in Marion’s ear, at which she started, and appeared surprised; but soon recovering from her confusion, she timidly approached the stranger, in Aunt Martha’s company, and engaged in conversation with him too.
‘Mr. Britain,’ said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out a legal-looking document, while this was going on, ‘I congratulate you. You are now the whole and sole proprietor184 of that freehold tenement185, at present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed186 tavern187, or house of public entertainment, and commonly called or known by the sign of the Nutmeg-Grater. Your wife lost one house, through my client Mr. Michael Warden; and now gains another. I shall have the pleasure of canvassing188 you for the county, one of these fine mornings.’
‘Would it make any difference in the vote if the sign was altered, sir?’ asked Britain.
‘Not in the least,’ replied the lawyer.
‘Then,’ said Mr. Britain, handing him back the conveyance189, ‘just clap in the words, “and Thimble,” will you be so good; and I’ll have the two mottoes painted up in the parlour instead of my wife’s portrait.’
‘And let me,’ said a voice behind them; it was the stranger’s—Michael Warden’s; ‘let me claim the benefit of those inscriptions190. Mr. Heathfield and Dr. Jeddler, I might have deeply wronged you both. That I did not, is no virtue of my own. I will not say that I am six years wiser than I was, or better. But I have known, at any rate, that term of self-reproach. I can urge no reason why you should deal gently with me. I abused the hospitality of this house; and learnt by my own demerits, with a shame I never have forgotten, yet with some profit too, I would fain hope, from one,’ he glanced at Marion, ‘to whom I made my humble supplication191 for forgiveness, when I knew her merit and my deep unworthiness. In a few days I shall quit this place for ever. I entreat106 your pardon. Do as you would be done by! Forget and Forgive!’
Time—from whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with whom I have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five-and-thirty years’ duration—informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe192, that Michael Warden never went away again, and never sold his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden means of hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honour of that countryside, whose name was Marion. But, as I have observed that Time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what weight to give to his authority.
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1
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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ogled
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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swilled
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| v.冲洗( swill的过去式和过去分词 )；猛喝；大口喝；（使）液体流动 | |
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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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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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44
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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46
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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47
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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48
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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49
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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50
mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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51
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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52
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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53
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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54
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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55
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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56
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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57
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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58
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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59
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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60
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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61
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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62
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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63
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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64
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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65
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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66
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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67
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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68
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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69
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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70
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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71
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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72
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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73
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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74
vouchers
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| n.凭证( voucher的名词复数 )；证人；证件；收据 | |
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75
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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76
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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77
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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78
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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79
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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81
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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83
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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84
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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85
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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86
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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87
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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88
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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89
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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90
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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91
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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92
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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93
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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94
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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95
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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96
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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97
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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98
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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99
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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100
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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101
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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102
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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103
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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104
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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105
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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106
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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107
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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109
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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110
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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111
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
condoling
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的现在分词 ) | |
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113
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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114
administrators
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| n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 )；有管理（或行政）才能的人；（由遗嘱检验法庭指定的）遗产管理人；奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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115
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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116
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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117
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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118
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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119
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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121
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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122
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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123
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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124
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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125
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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127
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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128
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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129
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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130
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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131
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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132
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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133
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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134
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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135
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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136
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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137
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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138
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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139
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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140
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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141
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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142
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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143
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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144
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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145
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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146
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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147
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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148
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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149
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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150
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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151
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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152
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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153
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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155
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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156
abjure
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| v.发誓放弃 | |
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157
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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158
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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159
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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160
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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161
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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163
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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164
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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165
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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166
penitently
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167
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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168
affidavits
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| n.宣誓书，（经陈述者宣誓在法律上可采作证据的）书面陈述( affidavit的名词复数 ) | |
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169
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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170
dissected
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| adj.切开的，分割的，（叶子）多裂的v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的过去式和过去分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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171
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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172
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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173
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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174
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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175
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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176
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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177
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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178
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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179
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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180
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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181
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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182
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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183
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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185
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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186
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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187
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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188
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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189
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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190
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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191
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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192
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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