Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness!
LORD BYRON.
In three weeks from the time of his arrival, Captain Clifford was the most admired man in Bath. It is true the gentlemen, who have a quicker tact1 as to the respectability of their own sex than women, might have looked a little shy upon him, had he not himself especially shunned2 appearing intrusive4, and indeed rather avoided the society of men than courted it; so that after he had fought a duel5 with a baronet (the son of a shoemaker), who called him one Clifford, and had exhibited a flea-bitten horse, allowed to be the finest in Bath, he rose insensibly into a certain degree of respect with the one sex as well as popularity with the other. But what always attracted and kept alive suspicion, was his intimacy6 with so peculiar7 and dashing a gentleman as Mr. Edward Pepper. People could get over a certain frankness in Clifford’s address, but the most lenient8 were astounded9 by the swagger of Long Ned. Clifford, however, not insensible to the ridicule10 attached to his acquaintances, soon managed to pursue his occupations alone; nay11, he took a lodging12 to himself, and left Long Ned and Augustus Tomlinson (the latter to operate as a check on the former) to the quiet enjoyment13 of the hairdresser’s apartments. He himself attended all public gayeties; and his mien14, and the appearance of wealth which he maintained, procured15 him access into several private circles which pretended to be exclusive — as if people who had daughters ever could be exclusive! Many were the kind looks, nor few the inviting16 letters, which he received; and if his sole object had been to marry an heiress, he would have found no difficulty in attaining17 it. But he devoted18 himself entirely19 to Lucy Brandon; and to win one glance from her, he would have renounced20 all the heiresses in the kingdom. Most fortunately for him, Mauleverer, whose health was easily deranged21, had fallen ill the very day William Brandon left Bath; and his lordship was thus rendered unable to watch the movements of Lucy, and undermine or totally prevent the success of her lover. Miss Brandon, indeed, had at first, melted by the kindness of her uncle, and struck with the sense of his admonition (for she was no self-willed young lady, who was determined22 to be in love), received Captain Clifford’s advances with a coldness which, from her manner the first evening they had met at Bath, occasioned him no less surprise than mortification23. He retreated, and recoiled24 on the squire25, who, patient and bold, as usual, was sequestered26 in his favourite corner. By accident, Clifford trod on the squire’s gouty digital; and in apologizing for the offence, was so struck by the old gentleman’s good-nature and peculiarity27 of expressing himself, that without knowing who he was, he entered into conversation with him. There was an off-hand sort of liveliness and candour, not to say wit, about Clifford, which always had a charm for the elderly, who generally like frankness above all the cardinal28 virtues29; the squire was exceedingly pleased with him. The acquaintance, once begun, was naturally continued without difficulty when Clifford ascertained31 who was his new friend; and next morning, meeting in the pump-room, the squire asked Clifford to dinner. The entree32 to the house thus gained, the rest was easy. Long before Mauleverer recovered his health, the mischief33 effected by his rival was almost beyond redress34; and the heart of the pure, the simple, the affectionate Lucy Brandon was more than half lost to the lawless and vagrant35 cavalier who officiates as the hero of this tale.
One morning, Clifford and Augustus strolled out together. “Let us,” said the latter, who was in a melancholy36 mood, “leave the busy streets, and indulge in a philosophical37 conversation on the nature of man, while we are enjoying a little fresh air in the country.” Clifford assented38 to the proposal, and the pair slowly sauntered up one of the hills that surround the city of Bladud.
“There are certain moments,” said Tomlinson, looking pensively39 down at his kerseymere gaiters, “when we are like the fox in the nursery rhyme, ‘The fox had a wound, he could not tell where,’— we feel extremely unhappy, and we cannot tell why. A dark and sad melancholy grows over us; we shun3 the face of man; we wrap ourselves in our thoughts like silkworms; we mutter fag-ends of dismal41 songs; tears come into our eyes; we recall all the misfortunes that have ever happened to us; we stoop in our gait, and bury our hands in our breeches-pockets; we say, ‘What is life? — a stone to be shied into a horsepond!’ We pine for some congenial heart, and have an itching42 desire to talk prodigiously43 about ourselves; all other subjects seem weary, stale, and unprofitable. We feel as if a fly could knock us down, and are in a humour to fall in love, and make a very sad piece of business of it. Yet with all this weakness we have at these moments a finer opinion of ourselves than we ever had before. We call our megrims the melancholy of a sublime44 soul, the yearnings of an indigestion we denominate yearnings after immortality45, nay, sometimes ‘a proof of the nature of the soul!’ May I find some biographer who understands such sensations well, and may he style those melting emotions the offspring of the poetical46 character,’ which, in reality, are the offspring of — a mutton-chop!”
[Vide Moore’s “Life of Byron,” in which it is satisfactorily shown that if a man fast forty-eight hours, then eat three lobsters47, and drink Heaven knows how many bottles of claret; if, when he wake the next morning, he sees himself abused as a demon48 by half the periodicals of the country — if, in a word, he be broken in his health, irregular in his habits, unfortunate in his affairs, unhappy in his home, and if then he should be so extremely eccentric as to be low-spirited and misanthropical49, the low spirits and the misanthropy are by no means to be attributed to the above agreeable circumstances, but, God wot, to the “poetical character”!]
“You jest pleasantly enough on your low spirits,” said Clifford; “but I have a cause for mine.”
“What then?” cried Tomlinson. “So much the easier is it to cure them. The mind can cure the evils that spring from the mind. It is only a fool and a quack50 and a driveller when it professes52 to heal the evils that spring from the body. My blue devils spring from the body; consequently my mind, which, as you know, is a particularly wise mind, wrestles53 riot against them. Tell me frankly,” renewed Augustus, after a pause, “do you ever repent54? Do you ever think, if you had been a shop-boy with a white apron55 about your middle, that you would have been a happier and a better member of society than you now are?”
“Repent!” said Clifford, fiercely; and his answer opened more of his secret heart, its motives56, its reasonings, and its peculiarities57 than were often discernible — “repent! that is the idlest word in our language. No; the moment I repent, that moment I reform! Never can it seem to me an atonement for crime merely to regret it. My mind would lead me, not to regret, but to repair! Repent! no, not yet. The older I grow, the more I see of men and of the callings of social life, the more I, an open knave58, sicken at the glossed59 and covert60 dishonesties around. I acknowledge no allegiance to society. From my birth to this hour, I have received no single favour from its customs or its laws; openly I war against it, and patiently will I meet its revenge. This may be crime; but it looks light in my eyes when I gaze around, and survey on all sides the masked traitors61 who acknowledge large debts to society, who profess51 to obey its laws, adore its institutions, and, above all — oh, how righteously! — attack all those who attack it, and who yet lie and cheat and defraud62 and peculate63 — publicly reaping all the comforts, privately64 filching65 all the profits. Repent! — of what? I come into the world friendless and poor; I find a body of laws hostile to the friendless and the poor! To those laws hostile to me, then, I acknowledge hostility66 in my turn. Between us are the conditions of war. Let them expose a weakness — I insist on my right to seize the advantage; let them defeat me, and I allow their right to destroy.”—[The author need not, he hopes, observe that these sentiments are Mr. Paul Clifford’s, not his.]
“Passion,” said Augustus, coolly, “is the usual enemy of reason; in your case it is the friend.”
The pair had now gained the summit of a hill which commanded a view of the city below. Here Augustus, who was a little short-winded, paused to recover breath. As soon as he had done so, he pointed67 with his forefinger68 to the scene beneath, and said enthusiastically, “What a subject for contemplation!”
Clifford was about to reply, when suddenly the sound of laughter and voices was heard behind. “Let us fly!” cried Augustus; “on this day of spleen man delights me not — or woman either.”
“Stay!” said Clifford, in a trembling accent; for among those voices he recognized one which had already acquired over him an irresistible69 and bewitching power. Augustus sighed, and reluctantly remained motionless. Presently a winding70 in the road brought into view a party of pleasure, some on foot, some on horseback, others in the little vehicles which even at that day haunted watering-places, and called themselves “Flies” or “Swallows.”
But among the gay procession Clifford had only eyes for one! Walking with that elastic71 step which so rarely survives the first epoch72 of youth, by the side of the heavy chair in which her father was drawn73, the fair beauty of Lucy Brandon threw — at least in the eyes of her lover — a magic and a lustre74 over the whole group. He stood for a moment, stilling the heart that leaped at her bright looks and the gladness of her innocent laugh; and then recovering himself, he walked slowly, and with a certain consciousness of the effect of his own singularly handsome person, towards the party. The good squire received him with his usual kindness, and informed him, according to that lucidus ordo which he so especially favoured, of the whole particulars of their excursion. There was something worthy75 of an artist’s sketch76 in the scene at that moment: the old squire in his chair, with his benevolent77 face turned towards Clifford, and his hands resting on his cane78, Clifford himself bowing down his stately head to hear the details of the father; the beautiful daughter on the other side of the chair, her laugh suddenly stilled, her gait insensibly more composed, and blush chasing blush over the smooth and peach-like loveliness of her cheek; the party, of all sizes, ages, and attire79, affording ample scope for the caricaturist; and the pensive40 figure of Augustus Tomlinson (who, by the by, was exceedingly like Liston) standing80 apart from the rest, on the brow of the hill where Clifford had left him, and moralizing on the motley procession, with one hand hid in his waistcoat, and the other caressing81 his chin, which slowly and pendulously82 with the rest of his head moved up and down.
As the party approached the brow of the hill, the view of the city below was so striking that there was a general pause for the purpose of survey. One young lady in particular drew forth83 her pencil, and began sketching84, while her mamma looked complacently85 on, and abstractedly devoured86 a sandwich. It was at this time, in the general pause, that Clifford and Lucy found themselves — Heaven knows how! — next to each other, and at a sufficient distance from the squire and the rest of the party to feel in some measure alone. There was a silence in both which neither dared to break; when Lucy, after looking at and toying with a flower that she had brought from the place which the party had been to see, accidentally dropped it; and Clifford and herself stooping at the same moment to recover it, their hands met. Involuntarily, Clifford detained the soft fingers in his own; his eyes, that encountered hers, so spell-bound and arrested them that for once they did not sink beneath his gaze; his lips moved, but many and vehement87 emotions so suffocated88 his voice that no sound escaped them. But all the heart was in the eyes of each; that moment fixed89 their destinies. Henceforth there was an era from which they dated a new existence; a nucleus90 around which their thoughts, their remembrances, and their passions clung. The great gulf91 was passed; they stood on the same shore, and felt that though still apart and disunited, on that shore was no living creature but themselves! Meanwhile Augustus Tomlinson, on finding himself surrounded by persons eager to gaze and to listen, broke from his moodiness92 and reserve. Looking full at his next neighbour, and flourishing his right hand in the air, till he suffered it to rest in the direction of the houses and chimneys below, he repeated that moral exclamation94 which had been wasted on Clifford, with a more solemn and a less passionate95 gravity than before — “What a subject, ma’am, for contemplation!”
“Very sensibly said, indeed, sir,” said the lady addressed, who was rather of a serious turn.
“I never,” resumed Augustus in a louder key, and looking round for auditors96 — “I never see a great town from the top of a hill without thinking of an apothecary97’s shop!”
“Lord, sir!” said the lady. Tomlinson’s end was gained. Struck with the quaintness98 of the notion, a little crowd gathered instantly around him, to hear it further developed.
“Of an apothecary’s shop, ma’am!” repeated Tomlinson. “There lie your simples and your purges99 and your cordials and your poisons — all things to heal and to strengthen and to destroy. There are drugs enough in that collection to save you, to cure you all; but none of you know how to use them, nor what medicines to ask for, nor what portions to take; so that the greater part of you swallow a wrong dose, and die of the remedy!”
“But if the town be the apothecary’s shop, what, in the plan of your idea, stands for the apothecary?” asked an old gentleman, who perceived at what Tomlinson was driving.
“The apothecary, sir,” answered Augustus, stealing his notion from Clifford, and sinking his voice lest the true proprietor100 should overhear him (Clifford was otherwise employed) — “the apothecary, sir, is the LAW! It is the law that stands behind the counter, and dispenses101 to each man the dose he should take. To the poor it gives bad drugs gratuitously102; to the rich, pills to stimulate103 the appetite; to the latter, premiums104 for luxury; to the former, only speedy refuges from life! Alas105! either your apothecary is but an ignorant quack, or his science itself is but in its cradle. He blunders as much as you would do if left to your own selection. Those who have recourse to him seldom speak gratefully of his skill. He relieves you, it is true — but of your money, not your malady107; and the only branch of his profession in which he is an adept108 is that which enables him to bleed you! O mankind!” continued Augustus, “what noble creatures you ought to be! You have keys to all sciences, all arts, all mysteries, but one! You have not a notion how you ought to be governed; you cannot frame a tolerable law, for the life and soul of you! You make yourselves as uncomfortable as you can by all sorts of galling109 and vexatious institutions, and you throw the blame upon ‘Fate.’ You lay down rules it is impossible to comprehend, much less to obey; and you call each other monsters, because you cannot conquer the impossibility! You invent all sorts of vices110, under pretence111 of making laws for preserving virtue30; and the anomalous112 artificialities of conduct yourselves produce, you say you are born with; you make a machine by the perversest art you can think of, and you call it, with a sigh, ‘Human Nature.’ With a host of good dispositions113 struggling at your breasts, you insist upon libelling the Almighty114, and declaring that he meant you to be wicked. Nay, you even call the man mischievous115 and seditious who begs and implores116 you to be one jot117 better than you are. O mankind! you are like a nosegay bought at Covent Garden. The flowers are lovely, the scent118 delicious. Mark that glorious hue119; contemplate120 that bursting petal121! How beautiful, how redolent of health, of nature, of the dew and breath and blessing122 of Heaven, are you all! But as for the dirty piece of string that ties you together, one would think you had picked it out of the kennel123.”
So saying, Tomlinson turned on his heel, broke away from the crowd, and solemnly descended125 the hill. The party of pleasure slowly followed; and Clifford, receiving an invitation from the squire to partake of his family dinner, walked by the side of Lucy, and felt as if his spirit were drunk with the airs of Eden.
A brother squire, who among the gayeties of Bath was almost as forlorn as Joseph Brandon himself, partook of the Lord of Warlock’s hospitality. When the three gentlemen adjourned126 to the drawing-room, the two elder sat down to a game at backgammon, and Clifford was left to the undisturbed enjoyment of Lucy’s conversation. She was sitting by the window when Clifford joined her. On the table by her side were scattered127 books, the charm of which (they were chiefly poetry) she had only of late learned to discover; there also were strewn various little masterpieces of female ingenuity128, in which the fairy fingers of Lucy Brandon were especially formed to excel. The shades of evening were rapidly darkening over the empty streets; and in the sky, which was cloudless and transparently129 clear, the stars came gradually out one by one, until —
“As water does a sponge, so their soft light
Filled the void, hollow, universal air.”
Beautiful evening! (if we, as well as Augustus Tomlinson, may indulge in an apostrophe)— beautiful evening! For thee all poets have had a song, and surrounded thee with rills and waterfalls and dews and flowers and sheep and bats and melancholy and owls130; yet we must confess that to us, who in this very sentimental131 age are a bustling132, worldly, hard-minded person, jostling our neighbours, and thinking of the main chance — to us thou art never so charming as when we meet thee walking in thy gray hood133 through the emptying streets and among the dying sounds of a city. We love to feel the stillness where all, two hours back, was clamour. We love to see the dingy134 abodes135 of Trade and Luxury — those restless patients of earth’s constant fever — contrasted and canopied136 by a heaven full of purity and quietness and peace. We love to fill our thought with speculations137 on man, even though the man be the muffin-man, rather than with inanimate objects — hills and streams — things to dream about, not to meditate138 on. Man is the subject of far nobler contemplation, of far more glowing hope, of a far purer and loftier vein139 of sentiment, than all the “floods and fells” in the universe; and that, sweet evening! is one reason why we like that the earnest and tender thoughts thou excitest within us should be rather surrounded by the labours and tokens of our species than by sheep and bats and melancholy and owls. But whether, most blessed evening! thou delightest us in the country or in the town, thou equally disposest us to make and to feel love! Thou art the cause of more marriages and more divorces than any other time in the twenty-four hours! Eyes that were common eyes to us before, touched by thy enchanting140 and magic shadows, become inspired, and preach to us of heaven. A softness settles on features that were harsh to us while the sun shone; a mellow141 “light of love” reposes142 on the complexion143 which by day we would have steeped “full fathom144 five” in a sea of Mrs. Gowland’s lotion145. What, then, thou modest hypocrite! to those who already and deeply love — what, then, of danger and of paradise dost thou bring?
Silent, and stilling the breath which heaved in both quick and fitfully, Lucy and Clifford sat together. The streets were utterly146 deserted147; and the loneliness, as they looked below, made them feel the more intensely not only the emotions which swelled148 within them, but the undefined and electric sympathy which, in uniting them, divided them from the world. The quiet around was broken by a distant strain of rude music; and as it came nearer, two forms of no poetical order grew visible. The one was a poor blind man, who was drawing from his flute149 tones in which the melancholy beauty of the air compensated150 for any deficiency (the deficiency was but slight) in the execution. A woman much younger than the musician, and with something of beauty in her countenance151, accompanied him, holding a tattered152 hat, and looking wistfully up at the windows of the silent street. We said two forms; we did the injustice153 of forgetfulness to another — a rugged154 and simple friend, it is true, but one that both minstrel and wife had many and moving reasons to love. This was a little wiry terrier, with dark piercing eyes, that glanced quickly and sagaciously in all quarters from beneath the shaggy covert that surrounded them. Slowly the animal moved onward155, pulling gently against the string by which he was held, and by which he guided his master. Once his fidelity156 was tempted157: another dog invited him to play; the poor terrier looked anxiously and doubtingly round, and then, uttering a low growl158 of denial, pursued —
“The noiseless tenour of his way.”
The little procession stopped beneath the window where Lucy and Clifford sat; for the quick eye of the woman had perceived them, and she laid her hand on the blind man’s arm, and whispered him. He took the hint, and changed his air into one of love. Clifford glanced at Lucy; her cheek was dyed in blushes. The air was over; another succeeded — it was of the same kind; a third — the burden was still unaltered; and then Clifford threw into the street a piece of money, and the dog wagged his abridged159 and dwarfed160 tail, and darting161 forward, picked it up in his mouth; and the woman (she had a kind face!) patted the officious friend, even before she thanked the donor162, and then she dropped the money with a cheering word or two into the blind man’s pocket, and the three wanderers moved slowly on. Presently they came to a place where the street had been mended, and the stones lay scattered about. Here the woman no longer trusted to the dog’s guidance, but anxiously hastened to the musician, and led him with evident tenderness and minute watchfulness163 over the rugged way. When they had passed the danger, the man stopped; and before he released the hand which had guided him, he pressed it gratefully, and then both the husband and the wife stooped down and caressed165 the dog. This little scene — one of those rough copies of the loveliness of human affections, of which so many are scattered about the highways of the world — both the lovers had involuntarily watched; and now as they withdrew their eyes — those eyes settled on each other — Lucy’s swam in tears.
“To be loved and tended by the one I love,” said Clifford, in a low voice, “I would walk blind and barefoot over the whole earth!”
Lucy sighed very gently; and placing her pretty hands (the one clasped over the other) upon her knee, looked down wistfully on them, but made no answer. Clifford drew his chair nearer, and gazed on her, as she sat; the long dark eyelashes drooping166 over her eyes, and contrasting the ivory lids; her delicate profile half turned from him, and borrowing a more touching167 beauty from the soft light that dwelt upon it; and her full yet still scarcely developed bosom168 heaving at thoughts which she did not analyze169, but was content to feel at once vague and delicious. He gazed, and his lips trembled; he longed to speak; he longed to say but those words which convey what volumes have endeavoured to express and have only weakened by detail — “I love.” How he resisted the yearnings of his heart, we know not — but he did resist; and Lucy, after a confused and embarrassed pause, took up one of the poems on the table, and asked him some questions about a particular passage in an old ballad170 which he had once pointed to her notice. The passage related to a border chief, one of the Armstrongs of old, who, having been seized by the English and condemned171 to death, vented172 his last feelings in a passionate address to his own home — his rude tower — and his newly wedded173 bride. “Do you believe,” said Lucy, as their conversation began to flow, “that one so lawless and eager for bloodshed and strife174 as this robber is described to be, could be so capable of soft affections?”
“I do,” said Clifford, “because he was not sensible that he was as criminal as you esteem175 him. If a man cherish the idea that his actions are not evil, he will retain at his heart all its better and gentler sensations as much as if he had never sinned. The savage176 murders his enemy, and when he returns home is not the less devoted to his friend or the less anxious for his children. To harden and embrute the kindly177 dispositions, we must not only indulge in guilt178 but feel that we are guilty. Oh! many that the world load with their opprobrium179 are capable of acts — nay, have committed acts — which in others the world would reverence180 and adore. Would you know whether a man’s heart be shut to the power of love — ask what he is, not to his foes181, but to his friends! Crime, too,” continued Clifford, speaking fast and vehemently182, while his eyes flashed and the dark blood rushed to his cheek — “crime — what is crime? Men embody183 their worst prejudices, their most evil passions, in a heterogeneous184 and contradictory185 code; and whatever breaks this code they term a crime. When they make no distinction in the penalty — that is to say, in the estimation — awarded both to murder and to a petty theft imposed on the weak will by famine, we ask nothing else to convince us that they are ignorant of the very nature of guilt, and that they make up in ferocity for the want of wisdom.”
Lucy looked in alarm at the animated186 and fiery187 countenance of the speaker. Clifford recovered himself after a moment’s pause, and rose from his seat, with the gay and frank laugh which made one of his peculiar characteristics. “There is a singularity in politics, Miss Brandon,” said he, “which I dare say you have often observed — namely, that those who are least important are always most noisy, and that the chief people who lose their temper are those who have nothing to gain in return.”
As Clifford spoke188, the doors were thrown open, and some visitors to Miss Brandon were announced. The good squire was still immersed in the vicissitudes189 of his game; and the sole task of receiving and entertaining “the company,” as the chambermaids have it, fell, as usual, upon Lucy. Fortunately for her, Clifford was one of those rare persons who possess eminently191 the talents of society. There was much in his gay and gallant192 temperament193, accompanied as it was with sentiment and ardour, that resembled our beau-ideal of those chevaliers, ordinarily peculiar to the Continent — heroes equally in the drawing-room and the field. Observant, courteous194, witty195, and versed196 in the various accomplishments197 that combine (that most unfrequent of all unions!) vivacity198 with grace, he was especially formed for that brilliant world from which his circumstances tended to exclude him. Under different auspices199, he might have been — Pooh! we are running into a most pointless commonplace; what might any man be under auspices different from those by which his life has been guided? Music soon succeeded to conversation, and Clifford’s voice was of necessity put into requisition. Miss Brandon had just risen from the harpsichord200, as he sat down to perform his part; and she stood by him with the rest of the group while he sang. Only twice his eye stole to that spot which her breath and form made sacred to him; once when he began, and once when he concluded his song. Perhaps the recollection of their conversation inspired him; certainly it dwelt upon his mind at the moment — threw a richer flush over his brow, and infused a more meaning and heartfelt softness into his tone.
Stanzas201.
When I leave thee, oh! ask not the world what that heart
Which adores thee to others may be!
I know that I sin when from thee I depart,
But my guilt shall not light upon thee!
My life is a river which glasses a ray
That hath deigned202 to descend124 from above;
Whatever the banks that o’ershadow its way,
It mirrors the light of thy love.
Though the waves may run high when the night wind awakes,
And hurries the stream to its fall;
Though broken and wild be the billows it makes,
Thine image still trembles on all!”
While this ominous203 love between Clifford and Lucy was thus finding fresh food in every interview and every opportunity, the unfortunate Mauleverer, firmly persuaded that his complaint was a relapse of what he termed the “Warlock dyspepsia,” was waging dire93 war with the remains204 of the beef and pudding, which he tearfully assured his physicians “were lurking205 in his constitution.” As Mauleverer, though complaisant206, like most men of unmistakable rank, to all his acquaintances, whatever might be their grade, possessed207 but very few friends intimate enough to enter his sick-chamber190, and none of that few were at Bath, it will readily be perceived that he was in blissful ignorance of the growing fortunes of his rival; and to say the exact truth, illness, which makes a man’s thoughts turn very much upon himself, banished208 many of the most tender ideas usually floating in his mind around the image of Lucy Brandon. His pill superseded209 his passion; and he felt that there are draughts210 in the world more powerful in their effects than those in the phials of Alcidonis. —[See Marmontel’s pretty tale of “Les Quatres Flacons.”]— He very often thought, it is true, how pleasant it would be for Lucy to smooth his pillow, and Lucy to prepare that mixture; but then Mauleverer had an excellent valet, who hoped to play the part enacted211 by Gil Blas towards the honest Licentiate, and to nurse a legacy212 while he was nursing his master. And the earl, who was tolerably good-tempered, was forced to confess that it would be scarcely possible for any one “to know his ways better than Smoothson.” Thus, during his illness, the fair form of his intended bride little troubled the peace of the noble adorer. And it was not till he found himself able to eat three good dinners consecutively213, with a tolerable appetite, that Mauleverer recollected214 that he was violently in love. As soon as this idea was fully106 reinstated in his memory, and he had been permitted by his doctor to allow himself “a little cheerful society,” Mauleverer resolved to go to the rooms for an hour or two.
It may be observed that most great personages have some favourite place, some cherished Baiae, at which they love to throw off their state, and to play the amiable215 instead of the splendid; and Bath at that time, from its gayety, its ease, the variety of character to be found in its haunts, and the obliging manner in which such characters exposed themselves to ridicule, was exactly the place calculated to please a man like Mauleverer, who loved at once to be admired and to satirize216. He was therefore an idolized person at the city of Bladud; and as he entered the rooms he was surrounded by a whole band of imitators and sycophants218, delighted to find his lordship looking so much better and declaring himself so convalescent. As soon as the earl had bowed and smiled, and shaken hands sufficiently219 to sustain his reputation, he sauntered towards the dancers in search of Lucy. He found her not only exactly in the same spot in which he had last beheld220 her, but dancing with exactly the same partner who had before provoked all the gallant nobleman’s jealousy221 and wrath222. Mauleverer, though not by any means addicted223 to preparing his compliments beforehand, had just been conning224 a delicate speech for Lucy; but no sooner did the person of her partner flash on him than the whole flattery vanished at once from his recollection. He felt himself grow pale; and when Lucy turned, and seeing him near, addressed him in the anxious and soft tone which she thought due to her uncle’s friend on his recovery, Mauleverer bowed, confused and silent; and that green-eyed passion, which would have convulsed the mind of a true lover, altering a little the course of its fury, effectually disturbed the manner of the courtier.
Retreating to an obscure part of the room, where he could see all without being conspicuous225, Mauleverer now employed himself in watching the motions and looks of the young pair. He was naturally a penetrating226 and quick observer, and in this instance jealousy sharpened his talents; he saw enough to convince him that Lucy was already attached to Clifford; and being, by that conviction, fully persuaded that Lucy was necessary to his own happiness, he resolved to lose not a moment in banishing227 Captain Clifford from her presence, or at least in instituting such inquiries228 into that gentleman’s relatives, rank, and respectability as would, he hoped, render such banishment229 a necessary consequence of the research.
Fraught230 with this determination, Mauleverer repaired at once to the retreat of the squire, and engaging him in conversation, bluntly asked him who the deuce Miss Brandon was dancing with.
The squire, a little piqued231 at this brusquerie, replied by a long eulogium on Paul; and Mauleverer, after hearing it throughout with the blandest232 smile imaginable, told the squire, very politely, that he was sure Mr. Brandon’s good-nature had misled him. “Clifford!” said he, repeating the name — “Clifford! It is one of those names which are particularly selected by persons nobody knows — first, because the name is good, and secondly233, because it is common. My long and dear friendship with your brother makes me feel peculiarly anxious on any point relative to his niece; and, indeed, my dear William, overrating, perhaps, my knowledge of the world and my influence in society, but not my affection for him, besought234 me to assume the liberty of esteeming235 myself a friend, nay, even a relation of yours and Miss Brandon’s; so that I trust you do not consider my caution impertinent.”
The flattered squire assured him that he was particularly honoured, so far from deeming his lordship (which never could be the case with people so distinguished236 as his lordship was, especially!) impertinent.
Lord Mauleverer, encouraged by this speech, artfully renewed, and succeeded, if not in convincing the squire that the handsome captain was a suspicious character, at least in persuading him that common prudence237 required that he should find out exactly who the handsome captain was, especially as he was in the habit of dining with the squire thrice a week, and dancing with Lucy every night.
“See,” said Mauleverer, “he approaches you now; I will retreat to the chair by the fireplace, and you shall cross-examine him — I have no doubt you will do it with the utmost delicacy238.”
So saying, Mauleverer took possession of a seat where he was not absolutely beyond hearing (slightly deaf as he was) of the ensuing colloquy239, though the position of his seat screened him from sight. Mauleverer was esteemed240 a man of the most punctilious241 honour in private life, and he would not have been seen in the act of listening to other people’s conversation for the world.
Hemming242 with an air and resettling himself as Clifford approached, the squire thus skilfully243 commenced the attack “Ah, ha! my good Captain Clifford, and how do you do? I saw you (and I am very glad, my friend, as every one else is, to see you) at a distance. And where have you left my daughter?”
“Miss Brandon is dancing with Mr. Muskwell, sir,” answered Clifford.
“Oh! she is! Mr. Muskwell — humph! Good family the Muskwells — came from Primrose244 Hall. Pray, Captain, not that I want to know for my own sake, for I am a strange, odd person, I believe, and I am thoroughly245 convinced (some people are censorious, and others, thank God, are not!) of your respectability — what family do you come from? You won’t think my — my caution impertinent?” added the shrewd old gentleman, borrowing that phrase which he thought so friendly in the mouth of Lord Mauleverer.
Clifford coloured for a moment, but replied with a quiet archness of look, “Family! oh, my dear sir, I come from an old family — a very old family indeed.”
“So I always thought; and in what part of the world?”
“Scotland, sir — all our family come from Scotland; namely, all who live long do — the rest die young.”
“Ay, particular air does agree with particular constitutions. I, for instance, could not live in all countries; not — you take me — in the North!”
“Few honest men can live there,” said Clifford, dryly. “And,” resumed the squire, a little embarrassed by the nature of his task, and the cool assurance of his young friend — “and pray, Captain Clifford, what regiment246 do you belong to?”
“Regiment? — oh, the Rifles!” answered Clifford. (“Deuce is in me,” muttered he, “if I can resist a jest, though I break my neck over it.”)
“A very gallant body of men,” said the squire.
“No doubt of that, sir!” rejoined Clifford.
“And do you think, Captain Clifford,” renewed the squire, “that it is a good corps247 for getting on?”
“It is rather a bad one for getting off,” muttered the Captain; and then aloud, “Why, we have not much interest at court, sir.”
“Oh! but then there is a wider scope, as my brother the lawyer says — and no man knows better — for merit. I dare say you have seen many a man elevated from the ranks?”
“Nothing more common, sir, than such elevation248; and so great is the virtue of our corps, that I have also known not a few willing to transfer the honour to their comrades.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the squire, opening his eyes at such disinterested249 magnanimity.
“But,” said Clifford, who began to believe he might carry the equivoke too far, and who thought, despite of his jesting, that it was possible to strike out a more agreeable vein of conversation —“but, sir, if you remember, you have not yet finished that youthful hunting adventure of yours, when the hounds were lost at Burnham Copse.”
“Oh, very true,” cried the squire, quite forgetting his late suspicions; and forthwith he began a story that promised to be as long as the chase it recorded. So charmed was he, when he had finished it, with the character of the gentleman who had listened to it so delightedly, that on rejoining Mauleverer, he told the earl, with an important air, that he had strictly250 examined the young captain, and that he had fully convinced himself of the excellence251 of his family, as well as the rectitude of his morals. Mauleverer listened with a countenance of polite incredulity; he had heard but little of the conversation that had taken place between the pair; but on questioning the squire upon sundry252 particulars of Clifford’s birth, parentage, and property, he found him exactly as ignorant as before. The courtier, however, seeing further expostulation was in vain, contented253 himself with patting the squire’s shoulder, and saying, with a mysterious urbanity, “Ah, sir, you are too good!”
With these words he turned on his heel, and, not yet despairing, sought the daughter. He found Miss Brandon just released from dancing, and with a kind of paternal254 gallantry, he offered his arm to parade the apartments. After some preliminary flourish, and reference for the thousandth time to his friendship for William Brandon, the earl spoke to her about that “fine-looking young man who called himself Captain Clifford.”
Unfortunately for Mauleverer, he grew a little too unguarded, as his resentment255 against the interference of Clifford warmed with his language, and he dropped in his anger one or two words of caution, which especially offended the delicacy of Miss Brandon.
“Take care how I encourage, my lord!” said Lucy, with glowing cheeks, repeating the words which had so affronted257 her, “I really must beg you —”
“You mean, dear Miss Brandon,” interrupted Mauleverer, squeezing her hand with respectful tenderness, “that you must beg me to apologize for my inadvertent expression. I do most sincerely. If I had felt less interest in your happiness, believe me, I should have been more guarded in my language.”
Miss Brandon bowed stiffly, and the courtier saw, with secret rage, that the country beauty was not easily appeased258, even by an apology from Lord Mauleverer. “I have seen the time,” thought he, “when young unmarried ladies would have deemed an affront256 from me an honour! They would have gone into hysterics at an apology!” Before he had time to make his peace, the squire joined them; and Lucy, taking her father’s arm, expressed her wish to return home. The squire was delighted at the proposition. It would have been but civil in Mauleverer to offer his assistance in those little attentions preparatory to female departure from balls. He hesitated for a moment. “It keeps one so long in those cursed thorough draughts,” thought he, shivering. “Besides, it is just possible that I may not marry her, and it is no good risking a cold (above all, at the beginning of winter) for nothing!” Fraught with this prudential policy, Mauleverer then resigned Lucy to her father, and murmuring in her ear that “her displeasure made him the most wretched of men,” concluded his adieu by a bow penitentially graceful260.
About five minutes afterwards, he himself withdrew. As he was wrapping his corporeal261 treasure in his roquelaire of sables262, previous to immersing himself in his chair, he had the mortification of seeing Lucy, who with her father, from some cause or other, had been delayed in the hall, handed to the carriage by Captain Clifford. Had the earl watched more narrowly than in the anxious cares due to himself he was enabled to do, he would, to his consolation263, have noted264 that Lucy gave her hand with an averted265 and cool air, and that Clifford’s expressive266 features bore rather the aspect of mortification than triumph.
He did not, however, see more than the action; and as he was borne homeward with his flambeaux and footmen preceding him, and the watchful164 Smoothson by the side of the little vehicle, he muttered his determination of writing by the very next post to Brandon all his anger for Lucy and all his jealousy of her evident lover.
While this doughty267 resolve was animating268 the great soul of Mauleverer, Lucy reached her own room, bolted the door, and throwing herself on her bed, burst into a long and bitter paroxysm of tears. So unusual were such visitors to her happy and buoyant temper, that there was something almost alarming in the earnestness and obstinacy269 with which she now wept.
“What!” said she, bitterly, “have I placed my affections upon a man of uncertain character, and is my infatuation so clear that an acquaintance dare hint at its imprudence? And yet his manner — his tone! No, no, there can be no reason for shame in loving him!” And as she said this, her heart smote270 her for the coldness of her manner towards Clifford on his taking leave of her for the evening. “Am I,” she thought, weeping yet more vehemently than before — “am I so worldly, so base, as to feel altered towards him the moment I hear a syllable271 breathed against his name? Should I not, on the contrary, have clung to his image with a greater love, if he were attacked by others? But my father, my dear father, and my kind, prudent259 uncle — something is due to them; and they would break their hearts if I loved one whom they deemed unworthy. Why should I not summon courage, and tell him of the suspicions respecting him? One candid272 word would dispel273 them. Surely it would be but kind in me towards him, to give him an opportunity of disproving all false and dishonouring274 conjectures275. And why this reserve, when so often, by look and hint, if not by open avowal276, he has declared that he loves me, and knows — he must know — that he is not indifferent to me? Why does he never speak of his parents, his relations, his home?”
And Lucy, as she asked this question, drew from a bosom whose hue and shape might have rivalled hers who won Cymon to be wise — [See Dryden’s poem of “Cymon and Iphigenia.”]— a drawing which she herself had secretly made of her lover, and which, though inartificially and even rudely done, yet had caught the inspiration of memory, and breathed the very features and air that were stamped already ineffaceably upon a heart too holy for so sullied an idol217. She gazed upon the portrait as if it could answer her question of the original; and as she looked and looked, her tears slowly ceased, and her innocent countenance relapsed gradually into its usual and eloquent277 serenity278. Never, perhaps, could Lucy’s own portrait have been taken at a more favourable279 moment, The unconscious grace of her attitude; her dress loosened; the modest and youthful voluptuousness280 of her beauty; the tender cheek to which the virgin281 bloom, vanished for a while, was now all glowingly returning; the little white soft hand on which that cheek leaned, while the other contained the picture upon which her eyes fed; the half smile just conjured282 to her full, red, dewy lips, and gone the moment after, yet again restored — all made a picture of such enchanting loveliness that we question whether Shakspeare himself could have fancied an earthly shape more meet to embody the vision of a Miranda or a Viola. The quiet and maiden283 neatness of the apartment gave effect to the charm; and there was a poetry even in the snowy furniture of the bed, the shutters284 partly unclosed and admitting a glimpse of the silver moon, and the solitary285 lamp just contending with the purer ray of the skies, and so throwing a mixed and softened286 light around the chamber.
She was yet gazing on the drawing, when a faint stream of music stole through the air beneath her window, and it gradually rose till the sound of a guitar became distinct and clear, suiting with, not disturbing, the moonlit stillness of the night. The gallantry and romance of a former day, though at the time of our story subsiding287, were not quite dispelled288; and nightly serenades under the casements289 of a distinguished beauty were by no means of unfrequent occurrence. But Lucy, as the music floated upon her ear, blushed deeper and deeper, as if it had a dearer source to her heart than ordinary gallantry; and raising herself on one arm from her incumbent290 position, she leaned forward to catch the sound with a greater and more unerring certainty.
After a prelude291 of some moments a clear and sweet voice accompanied the instrument, and the words of the song were as follows:—
Clifford’s Serenade.
There is a world where every night
My spirit meets and walks with thine;
And hopes I dare not tell thee light,
Like stars of Love, that world of mine!
Sleep! — to the waking world my heart
Hath now, methinks, a stranger grown;
Ah, sleep! that I may feel thou art
Within one world that is my own.
As the music died away, Lucy sank back once more, and the drawing which she held was pressed (with cheeks glowing, though unseen, at the act) to her lips. And though the character of her lover was uncleared, though she herself had come to no distinct resolution even to inform him of the rumours292 against his name, yet so easily restored was her trust in him, and so soothing293 the very thought of his vigilance and his love, that before an hour had passed, her eyes were closed in sleep. The drawing was laid, as a spell against grief, under her pillow; and in her dreams she murmured his name, and unconscious of reality and the future, smiled tenderly as she did so!
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1
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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7
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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8
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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12
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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13
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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14
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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15
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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16
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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18
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entree
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| n.入场权，进入权 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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42
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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43
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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44
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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45
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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46
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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47
lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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49
misanthropical
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50
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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51
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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53
wrestles
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的第三人称单数 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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54
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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57
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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58
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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59
glossed
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| v.注解( gloss的过去式和过去分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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61
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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62
defraud
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| vt.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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peculate
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| vt.挪用公款；盗用；贪污 | |
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64
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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filching
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的现在分词 ) | |
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66
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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68
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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70
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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71
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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73
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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75
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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76
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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77
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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78
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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79
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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80
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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81
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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82
pendulously
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| 吊着的，下垂的，摆动的； 摆式； 悬垂 | |
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83
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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84
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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85
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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86
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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87
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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88
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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89
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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90
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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91
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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92
moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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93
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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94
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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95
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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96
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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97
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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98
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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99
purges
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| 清除异己( purge的名词复数 )； 整肃（行动）； 清洗； 泻药 | |
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100
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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101
dispenses
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| v.分配，分与；分配( dispense的第三人称单数 )；施与；配（药） | |
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102
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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103
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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104
premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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105
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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106
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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107
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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108
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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109
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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110
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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111
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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112
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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113
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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114
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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115
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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116
implores
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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117
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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118
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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119
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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120
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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121
petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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122
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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123
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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124
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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125
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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126
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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128
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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129
transparently
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| 明亮地，显然地，易觉察地 | |
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130
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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131
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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132
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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133
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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134
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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135
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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136
canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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137
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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138
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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139
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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140
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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141
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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142
reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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144
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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145
lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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146
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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147
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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148
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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149
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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150
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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151
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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152
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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153
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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154
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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155
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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156
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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157
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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158
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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159
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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160
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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161
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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162
donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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163
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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164
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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165
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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167
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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168
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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169
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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170
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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171
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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172
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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175
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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176
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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177
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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178
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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179
opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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180
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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181
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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182
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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183
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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184
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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185
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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186
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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187
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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188
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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189
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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190
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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191
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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192
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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193
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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194
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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195
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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196
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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197
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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198
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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199
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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200
harpsichord
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| n.键琴（钢琴前身） | |
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201
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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202
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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204
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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205
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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206
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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207
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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208
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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210
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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211
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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212
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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213
consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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214
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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216
satirize
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| v.讽刺 | |
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217
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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218
sycophants
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| n.谄媚者，拍马屁者( sycophant的名词复数 ) | |
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219
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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220
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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221
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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222
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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223
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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224
conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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225
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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226
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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227
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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228
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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229
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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230
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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232
blandest
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| adj.（食物）淡而无味的( bland的最高级 )；平和的；温和的；无动于衷的 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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234
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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235
esteeming
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| v.尊敬( esteem的现在分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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236
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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237
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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238
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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239
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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240
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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241
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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242
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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243
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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244
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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245
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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246
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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247
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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248
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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249
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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250
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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251
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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252
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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253
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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254
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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255
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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256
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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257
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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258
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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259
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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260
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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261
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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262
sables
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| n.紫貂( sable的名词复数 )；紫貂皮；阴暗的；暗夜 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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264
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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265
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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267
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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268
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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270
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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271
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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272
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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273
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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274
dishonouring
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| 使（人、家族等）丧失名誉（dishonour的现在分词形式） | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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276
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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277
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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278
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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279
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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280
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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281
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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282
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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283
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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284
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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285
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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286
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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287
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；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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288
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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289
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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290
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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291
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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292
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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293
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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