Nothing? Yes, a groan3, a long-drawn4 moaning sound, as of infinite pain. This time there was no doubt as to the direction from which the sound came. It came from Lady Maulevrier’s room. The door was ajar, and he could see the faint light of the night-lamp within. That fearful cry had come from her ladyship’s room. She was in peril5 or pain of some kind.
Convinced of this one fact, Mr. Hammond had not an instant’s hesitation6. He pushed open the door without compunction, and entered the room, prepared to behold7 some terrible scene.
But all was quiet as death itself. No midnight burglar had violated the sanctity of Lady Maulevrier’s apartment. The soft, steady light of the night-lamp shone on the face of the sleeper8. Yes, all was quiet in the room, but not in that sleeper’s soul. The broad white brow was painfully contracted, the lips drawn down and distorted, the delicate hand, half hidden by the deep Valenciennes ruffle9, clutched the coverlet with convulsive force. Sigh after sigh burst from the agitated10 breast. John Hammond gazed upon the sleeper in an agony of apprehension11, uncertain what to do. Was this dreaming only; or was it some kind of seizure12 which called for medical aid? At her ladyship’s age the idea of paralysis13 was not too improbable for belief. If this was a dream, then indeed the visions of Lady Maulevrier’s head upon her bed were more terrible than the dreams of common mortals.
In any case Mr. Hammond felt that it was his duty to send some attendant to Lady Maulevrier, some member of the household who was familiar with her ladyship’s habits, her own maid if that person could be unearthed14 easily. He knew that the servants slept in a separate wing; but he thought it more than likely that her ladyship’s personal attendant occupied a room near her mistress.
He went back to the corridor and looked round him in doubt, for a moment or two.
Close against her ladyship’s door there was a swing door, covered with red cloth, which seemed to communicate with the old part of the house. John Hammond pushed this door, and it yielded to his hand, revealing a lamp-lit passage, narrow, old-fashioned, and low. He thought it likely that Lady Maulevrier’s maid might occupy a room in this half-deserted wing. As he pushed open the door he saw an elderly man coming towards him, with a candle in his hand, and with the appearance of having huddled15 on his clothes hastily.
‘You heard that scream?’ said Hammond.
‘Yes. It was her ladyship, I suppose. Nightmare. She is subject to nightmare.’
‘It is very dreadful. Her whole countenance16 was convulsed just now, when I went into her room to see what was wrong. I was almost afraid of a fit of some kind. Ought not her maid to go to her?’
‘She wants no assistance,’ the man answered, coolly. ‘It was only a dream. It is not the first time I have been awakened17 by a shriek like that. It is a kind of nightmare, no doubt; and it passes off in a few minutes, and leaves her sleeping calmly.’
He went to her ladyship’s door, pushed it open a little way, and looked in. ‘Yes, she is sleeping as quietly as an infant,’ he said, shutting the door softly as he spoke18.
‘I am very glad; but surely she ought to have her maid near her at night, if she is subject to those attacks.’
‘It is no attack, I tell you. It is nothing but a dream,’ answered Steadman impatiently.
‘Yet you were frightened, just as I was, or you would not have got up and dressed,’ said Hammond, looking at the man suspiciously.
He had heard of this old servant Steadman, who was supposed to enjoy more of her ladyship’s confidence than any one else in the household; but he had never spoken to the man before that night.
‘Yes, I came. It was my duty to come, knowing her ladyship’s habits. I am a light sleeper, and that scream woke me instantly. If her ladyship’s maid were wanted I should call her. I am a kind of watch-dog, you see, sir.’
‘You seem to be a very faithful dog.’
‘I have been in her ladyship’s service more than forty years. I have reason to be faithful. I know her ladyship’s habits better than any one in the house. I know that she had a great deal of trouble in her early life, and I believe the memory of it comes back upon her sometimes in her dreams, and gets the better of her.’
‘If it was memory that wrung19 that agonised shriek from her just now, her recollections of the past must be very terrible.’
‘Ah, sir, there is a skeleton in every house,’ answered James Steadman, gravely.
This was exactly what Maulevrier had said under the yew20 trees which Wordsworth planted.
‘Good-night, sir,’ said Steadman.
‘Good-night. You are sure that Lady Maulevrier may be left safely — that there is no fear of illness of any kind?’
‘No, sir. It was only a bad dream. Good-night, sir.’
Steadman went back to his own quarters. Mr. Hammond heard him draw the bolts of the swing door, thus cutting off all communication with the corridor.
The eight-day clock on the staircase struck two as Mr. Hammond returned to his room, even less inclined for sleep than when he left it. Strange, that nocturnal disturbance21 of a mind which seemed so tranquil22 in the day. Or was that tranquillity23 only a mask which her ladyship wore before the world: and was the bitter memory of events which happened forty years ago still a source of anguish24 to that highly strung nature?
‘There are some minds which cannot forget,’ John Hammond said to himself, as he meditated25 upon her ladyship’s character and history. ‘The story of her husband’s crime may still be fresh in her memory, though it is only a tradition for the outside world. His crime may have involved some deep wrong done to herself, some outrage26 against her love and faith as a wife. One of the stories Maulevrier spoke of the other day was of a wicked woman’s influence upon the governor — a much more likely story than that of any traffic in British interests or British honour, which would have been almost impossible for a man in Lord Maulevrier’s position. If the scandal was of a darker kind — a guilty wife — the mysterious disappearance27 of a husband — the horror of the thing may have made a deeper impression on Lady Maulevrier than even her nearest and dearest dream of: and that superb calm which she wears like a royal mantle28 may be maintained at the cost of struggles which tear her heart-strings. And then at night, when the will is dormant29, when the nervous system is no longer ruled by the power of waking intelligence, the old familiar agony returns, the hated images flash back upon the brain, and in proportion to the fineness of the temperament30 is the intensity31 of the dreamer’s pain.’
And then he went on to reflect upon the long monotonous32 years spent in that lonely house, shut in from the world by those everlasting33 hills. Albeit34 the house was an ideal house, set in a landscape of infinite beauty, the monotony must be none the less oppressive for a mind burdened with dark memories, weighed down by sorrows which could seek no relief from sympathy, which could never become familiarised by discussion.
‘I wonder that a woman of Lady Maulevrier’s intellect should not have better known how to treat her own malady,’ thought Hammond.
Mr. Hammond inquired after her ladyship’s health next morning, and was told she was perfectly35 well.
‘Grandmother is in capital spirits,’ said Lady Lesbia. ‘She is pleased with the contents of yesterday’s Globe. Lord Denyer, the son of one of her oldest friends, has been making a great speech at Liverpool in the Conservative interest, and her ladyship thinks we shall have a change of parties before long.’
‘A general shuffle36 of the cards,’ said Maulevrier, looking up from his breakfast. ‘I’m sure I hope so. I’m no politician, but I like a row.’
‘I hope you are a Conservative, Mr. Hammond,’ said Lesbia.
‘I had hoped you would have known that ever so long ago, Lady Lesbia.’
Lesbia blushed at his tone, which was almost a reproach.
‘I suppose I ought to have understood from the general tenor37 of your conversation,’ she said; ‘but I am terribly stupid about politics. I take so little interest in them. I am always hearing that we are being badly governed — that the men who legislate38 for us are stupid or wicked; yet the world seems to go on somehow, and we are no worse.’
‘It is just the same with sport,’ said Maulevrier. ‘Every rainy spring we are told that all the young birds have been drowned, or that the grouse-disease has decimated the fathers and mothers, and that we shall have nothing to shoot; but when August comes the birds are there all the same.’
‘It is the nature of mankind to complain,’ said Hammond. ‘Cain and Abel were the first farmers, and you see one of them grumbled39.’
They were rather lively at breakfast that morning — Maulevrier’s last breakfast but one — for he had announced his determination of going to Scotland next day. Other fellows would shoot all the birds if he dawdled40 any longer. Mary was in deep despondency at the idea of his departure, yet she laughed and talked with the rest. And perhaps Lesbia felt a little moved at the thought of losing Mr. Hammond. Maulevrier would come back to Mary, but John Hammond was hardly likely to return. Their parting would be for ever.
‘You needn’t sit quite in my pocket, Molly,’ said Maulevrier to his younger sister.
‘I like to make the most of you, now you are going away,’ sighed Mary. ‘Oh, dear, how dull we shall all be when you are gone.’
‘Not a bit of it! You will have some fox-hunting, perhaps, before the snow is on the hills.’
At the very mention of fox-hounds Lady Mary’s bright young face crimsoned41, and Maulevrier began to laugh in a provoking way, with side-long glances at his younger sister.
‘Did you ever hear of Molly’s fox-hunting, by-the-by, Hammond?’ he asked.
Mary tried to put her hand before his lips, but it was useless.
‘Why shouldn’t I tell?’ he exclaimed. ‘It was quite a heroic adventure. You must know our fox-hunting here is rather a peculiar42 institution — very good in its way, but strictly43 local. No horse could live among our hills, so we hunt on foot, and as the pace is good, and the work hard, nobody who starts with the hounds is likely to be in at the death, except the huntsmen. We are all mad for the sport, and off we go, over the hills and far away, picking up a fresh field as we go. The ploughman leaves his plough, and the shepherd leaves his flock, and the farmer leaves his thrashing, to follow us; in every field we cross we get fresh blood, while those who join us at the start fall off by degrees. Well, it happened one day late in October, when there were long ridges44 of snow on Helvellyn, and patches of white on Fairfield, Mistress Mary here must needs take her bamboo staff and start for the Striding Edge. It was just the day upon which she might have met her death easily on that perilous45 point, but happily something occurred to divert her juvenile46 fancy, for scarcely had she got to the bottom of Dolly Waggon47 Pike — you know Dolly ——’
‘Intimately,’ said Hammond, with a nod.
‘Scarcely had she neared the base of Dolly Waggon when she heard the huntsman’s horn and the hounds at full cry, streaming along towards Dunmail Raise. Off flew Molly, all among the butcher boys, and farmers’ men, and rosy-cheeked squireens of the district — racing48 over the rugged49 fields — clambering over the low stone walls — up hill, down hill — shouting when the others shouted — never losing sight of the waving sterns — winding50 and doubling, and still going upward and upward, till she stood, panting and puffing51 like a young grampus, on the top of Seat Sandal, still all among the butcher boys and the farmer’s men, and the guides and the red-cheeked squireens, her frock torn to ribbons, her hat lost in a ditch, her hair streaming down her back, and every inch of her, from her nose downwards52, splashed and spattered with mire53 and clay. What a spectacle for gods and men, guides and butcher boys. And there she stood with the sun going down beyond Coniston Old Man, and a seven-mile walk between her and Fellside.
‘Poor Lady Mary!’ said Hammond, looking at her very kindly54: but Mary did not see that friendly glance, which betokened55 sympathy rather than scorn. She sat silent and very red, with drooping56 eyelids57, thinking her brother horribly cruel for thus publishing her foolishness.
‘Poor, indeed!’ exclaimed Maulevrier. ‘She came crawling home after dark, footsore and draggled, looking like a beggar girl, and as evil fate would have it, her ladyship, who so seldom goes out, must needs have been taking afternoon tea at the Vicarage upon that particular occasion, and was driving up the avenue as Mary crawled to the gate. The storm that followed may be more easily imagined than described.’
‘It was years and years ago,’ expostulated Mary, looking very angry. ‘Grandmother needn’t have made such a fuss about it.’
‘Ah, but in those days she still had hopes of civilising you,’ answered Maulevrier. ‘Since then she has abandoned all endeavour in that direction, and has given you over to your own devices — and me. Since then you have become a chartered libertine59. You have letters of mark.’
‘I don’t care what you call me,’ said Mary. ‘I only know that I am very happy when you are at home, and very miserable60 when you are away.’
‘It is hardly kind of you to say that, Lady Mary,’ remonstrated61 Fr?ulein Müller, who, up to this point, had been busily engaged with muffins and gooseberry jam.
‘Oh, I don’t mean that any one is unkind to me or uses me badly,’ said Mary. ‘I only mean that my life is empty when Maulevrier is away, and that I am always longing62 for him to come back again.’
‘I thought you adored the hills, and the lake, and the villagers, and your pony63, and Maulevrier’s dogs,’ said, Lesbia faintly contemptuous.
‘Yes, but one wants something human to love,’ answered Mary, making it very obvious that there was no warmth of affection between herself and the feminine members of her family.
She had not thought of the significance of her speech. She was very angry with Maulevrier for having held her up to ridicule64 before Mr. Hammond, who already despised her, as she believed, and whose contempt was more galling65 than it need have been, considering that he was a mere66 casual visitor who would go away and return no more. Never till his coming had she felt her deficiencies; but in his presence she writhed67 under the sense of her unworthiness, and had an almost agonising consciousness of all those faults which her grandmother had told her about so often with not the slightest effect. In those days she had not cared what Lady Maulevrier or any one else might say of her, or think of her. She lived her life, and defied fortune. She was worse than her reputation. To-day she felt it a bitter thing that she had grown to the age of womanhood lacking all those graces and accomplishments68 which made her sister adorable, and which might make even a plain woman charming.
Never till John Hammond’s coming had she felt a pang69 of envy in the contemplation of Lesbia’s beauty or Lesbia’s grace; but now she had so keen a sense of the difference between herself and her sister that she began to fear that this cruel pain must indeed be that lowest of all vices58. Even the difference in their gowns was a source of humiliation70 to her how. Lesbia was looking her loveliest this morning, in a gown that was all lace and soft Madras muslin, flowing, cloud-like; while Mary’s tailor gown, with its trim tight bodice, horn buttons, and kilted skirt, seemed to cry aloud that it had been made for a Tomboy. And this tailor gown was a costume to which Mary had condemned71 herself by her own folly72. Only a year ago, moved by an artistic73 admiration74 for Lesbia’s delicate breakfast gowns, Mary had told her grandmother that she would like to have something of the same kind, whereupon the dowager, who did not take the faintest interest in Mary’s toilet, but who had a stern sense of justice, replied —
‘I do not think Lesbia’s frocks and your habits will agree, but you can have some pretty morning gowns if you like;’ and the order had been given for a confection in muslin and lace for Lady Mary.
Mary came down to breakfast one bright June morning, in the new frock, feeling very proud of herself, and looking very pretty.
‘Fine feathers make fine birds,’ said Fr?ulein Müller. ‘I should hardly have known you.’
‘I wish you would always dress like that,’ said Lesbia; ‘you really look like a young lady;’ and Mary danced about on the lawn, feeling sylph-like, and quite in love with her own elegance76, when a sudden uplifting of canine77 voices in the distance had sent her flying to see what was the matter with the terrier pack.
In the kennel78 there was riot and confusion. Ahab was demolishing79 Angelina, Absalom had Agamemnon in a deadly grip. Dog-whip in hand, Mary rushed to the rescue, and laid about her, like the knights80 of old, utterly82 forgetful of her frock. She soon succeeded in restoring order, but the Madras muslin, the Breton lace had perished in the conflict. She left the kennel panting, and in rags and tatters, some of the muslin and lace hanging about her in strips a yard long, but the greater part remaining in the possession of the terriers, who had mauled and munched83 her finery to their hearts’ content, while she was reading the Riot Act.
She went back to the house, bowed down by shame and confusion, and marched straight to the dowager’s morning-room.
‘Look what the terriers have done to me, grandmother,’ she said, with a sob84. ‘It is all my own fault, of course. I ought not to have gone near them in that stupid muslin. Please forgive me for being so foolish. I am not fit to have pretty frocks.’
‘I think, my dear, you can now have no doubt that the tailor gowns are fittest for you,’ answered Lady Maulevrier, with crushing placidity86. ‘We have tried the experiment of dressing87 you like Lesbia, and you see it does not answer. Tell Kibble to throw your new gown in the rag-bag, and please let me hear no more about it.’
After this dismal88 failure Mary could not feel herself ill-used in having to wear tailor gowns all the year round. She was allowed cotton frocks for very warm weather, and she had pretty gowns for evening wear; but her usual attire89 was cloth or linsey woolsey, made by the local tailor. Sometimes Maulevrier ordered her a gown or a coat from his own man in Conduit Street, and then she felt herself smart and fashionable. And even the local tailor contrived90 to make her gowns prettily91, having a great appreciation92 of her straight willowy figure, and deeming it a privilege to work for her, so that hitherto Mary had felt very well content with her cloth and linsey. But now that John Hammond so obviously admired Lesbia’s delicate raiment, poor Mary began to think her woollen gowns odious93.
After breakfast Mary and Maulevrier went straight off to the kennels94. His lordship had numerous instructions to give on this last day, and his lieutenant95 had to receive and register his orders. Lesbia went to the garden with her book and with Fr?ulein — the inevitable96 Fr?ulein as Hammond thought her — in close attendance.
It was a lovely morning, sultry, summer-like, albeit September had just begun. The tennis lawn, which had been levelled on one side of the house, was surrounded on three sides by shrubberies planted forty years ago, in the beginning of Lady Maulevrier’s widowhood. All loveliest trees grew there in perfection, sheltered by the mighty97 wall of the mountain, fed by the mists from the lake. Larch98 and mountain ash, and Lawsonian cyprus — deodara and magnolia, arbutus, and silver broom, acacia and lilac, flourished here in that rich beauty which made every cottage garden in the happy district a little paradise; and here in a semi-circular recess99 at one end of the lawn were rustic100 chairs and tables and an umbrella tent. This was Lady Lesbia’s chosen retreat on summer mornings, and a favourite place for afternoon tea.
Mr. Hammond followed the two ladies to their bower101.
‘This is to be my last morning,’ he said, looking at Lesbia. ‘Will you think me a great bore if I spend it with you?’
‘We shall think it very nice of you,’ answered Lesbia, without a vestige102 of emotion; ‘especially if you will read to us.’
‘I will do any thing to make myself useful. What shall I read?’
‘Anything you like. What do you say to Tennyson?’
‘That he is a noble poet, a teacher of all good; but too philosophical103 for my present mood. May I read you some of Heine’s ballads104, those songs which you sing so exquisitely105, or rather some you do not sing, and which will be fresher to you. My German is far from perfect, but I am told it is passable, and Fr?ulein Müller can throw her scissors at me when my accent is too dreadful.’
‘You speak German beautifully,’ said Fr?ulein. ‘I wonder where you learned it?’
‘I have been a good deal in Germany, and I had a Hanoverian valet who was quite a gentleman, and spoke admirably, I think I learned more from him than from grammars or dictionaries. I’ll go and fetch Heine.’
‘What a very agreeable person Mr. Hammond is,’ said Fr?ulein, when he was gone. ‘We shall quite miss him.’
‘Yes, I have no doubt we shall miss him,’ said Lesbia, again without the faintest emotion.
The governess began to think that the ordeal106 of an agreeable young man’s presence at Fellside had been passed in safety, and that her pupil was unscathed. She had kept a close watch on the two, as in duty bound. She knew that Hammond was in love with Lesbia; but she thought Lesbia was heart-whole.
Mr. Hammond came back with a shabby little book in his hand and established himself comfortably in one of the two Beaconsfield chairs.
He opened his book at that group of short poems called Heimkehr, and read here and there, as fancy led him. Sometimes the strain was a love-song, brief, passionate107 as the cry of a soul in pain; sometimes the verses were bitter and cynical108; sometimes full of tenderest simplicity109, telling of childhood, and youth and purity; sometimes dark with hidden meanings, grim, awful, cold with the chilling breath of the charnel-house. Sometimes Lesbia’s heart beat a little faster as Mr. Hammond read, for it seemed as if it was he who was speaking to her, and not the dead poet.
An hour or more passed in this way. Fr?ulein Müller was charmed at hearing some of her favourite poems, asking now for this little bit, and anon for another, and expatiating110 upon the merits of German poets in general, and Heine in particular, in the pauses of the lecture. She was quite carried away by her delight in the poet, and was so entirely111 uplifted to the ideal world that, when a footman came with a message from Lady Maulevrier requesting her presence, she tripped gaily112 off at once, without a thought of danger in leaving those two together on the lawn. She had been a faithful watch-dog up to this point; but she was now lulled113 into a false sense of security by the idea that the time of peril was all but ended.
So she left them; but could she have looked hack114 two minutes afterwards she would have perceived the unwisdom of that act.
No sooner had the Fr?ulein turned the corner of the shrubbery than Hammond laid aside his book and drew nearer Lesbia, who sat looking downward, with her eyes upon the delicate piece of fancy work which had occupied her fingers all the morning.
‘Lesbia, this is my last day at Fellside, and you and I may never have a minute alone together again while I am here. Will you come for a little walk with me on the Fell? There is something I must say to you before I go.’
Lesbia’s delicate cheek grew a shade more pale. Instinct told her what was coming, though never mortal man had spoken to her of love. Nor until now had Mr. Hammond ever addressed her by her Christian115 name without the ceremonious prefix116. There was a deeper tone in his voice, a graver look in his eyes, than she had ever noticed before.
She rose, and took up her sunshade, and went with him meekly117 through the cultivated shrubbery of ornamental118 timber to the rougher pathway that wound through a copse of Scotch119 fir, which formed the outer boundary of Lady Maulevrier’s domain120. Beyond the fir trees rose the grassy121 slope of the hill, on the brow of which sheep were feeding. Deep down in the hollow below the lawns and shrubberries of Fellside the placid85 bosom122 of the lake shone like an emerald floor in the sunlight, reflecting the verdure of the hill, and the white sheep dotted about here and there.
There was not a breath in the air around them as those two sauntered slowly side by side in the pine wood, not a cloud in the dazzling blue sky above; and for a little time they too were silent, as if bound by a spell which neither dared to break. Then at last Hammond spoke.
‘Lesbia, you know that I love you,’ he began, in his low, grave voice, tremulous with feeling. ‘No words I can say to-day can tell you of my love more plainly than my heart has been telling you in every hour of this happy, happy time that you and I have spent together. I love you as I never hoped to love, fervently123, completely, believing that the perfection of earthly bliss124 will be mine if I can but win you. Dearest, is there such a sweet hope for me; are you indeed my own, as I am yours, heart and soul, and mind and being, till the last throb125 of life in this poor clay?’
He tried to take her hand, but she drew herself away from him with a frightened look. She was very pale, and there was infinite distress126 in the dark violet eyes, which looked entreatingly127, deprecatingly at her lover.
‘I dare not answer as you would like me to answer,’ she faltered128, after a painful pause. ‘I am not my own mistress. My grandmother has brought me up, devoted129 herself to me almost, and she has her own views, her own plans. I dare not frustrate130 them!’
‘She would like to marry you to a man of rank and fortune — a man who will choose you, perhaps, because other people admire you, rather than because he himself loves you as you ought to be loved; who will choose you because you are altogether the best and most perfect thing of your year; just as he would buy a yearling at Newmarket or Doncaster. Her ladyship means you to make a great alliances — coronets, not hearts, are the counters for her game; but, Lesbia, would you, in the bloom and freshness of youth — you with the pulses of youth throbbing131 at your heart — lend yourself to the calculations of age which has lived its life and forgotten the very meaning of love? Would you submit to be played as a card in the game of a dowager’s ambition? Trust me, dearest, in the crisis of a woman’s life there is one only counsellor she should listen to, and that counsellor is her own heart. If you love me — as I dare to hope you do — trust in me, hold by me, and leave the rest to Heaven. I know that I can make your life happy.’
‘You frighten me by your impetuosity,’ said Lesbia. ‘Surely you forget how short a time we have known each other.’
‘An age. All my life before the day I saw you is a dead, dull blank as compared with the magical hours I have spent with you.’
‘I do not even know who and what you are.’
‘First, I am a gentleman, or I should not be your brother’s friend. A poor gentleman, if you like, with only my own right arm to hew132 my pathway through the wood of life to the temple of fortune; but trust me, only trust me, Lesbia, and I will so hew my path as to reach that temple. Look at me, love. Do I look like a man born to fail?’
She looked up at him shyly, with eyes that were dim with tears. He looked like a demi-god, tall, straight as the pine trunks amongst which he was standing133, a frame formed for strength and activity, a face instinct with mental power, dark eyes that glowed with the fire of intellect and passion. The sunlight gave an almost unearthly radiance to the clear dark of his complexion134, the curly brown hair cut close to the finely shaped head, the broad brow and boldly modelled features.
Lesbia felt in her heart that such a man must be destined135 for success, born to be a conqueror136 in all strifes, a victor upon every field.
‘Have I the thews and sinews of a man doomed137 to be beaten in the battle?’ he asked her. ‘No, dearest; Heaven meant me to succeed; and with you to fight for I shall not be beaten by adverse138 fortune. Can you not trust Providence139 and me?’
‘I cannot disobey my grandmother. If she will consent ——’
‘She will not consent. You must defy Lady Maulevrier, Lesbia, if you mean to reward my love. But I will promise you this much, darling, that if you will be my wife — with your brother’s consent — which I am sure of before I ask for it, within one year of our marriage I will find means of reconciling her ladyship to the match, and winning her entire forgiveness for you and me.’
‘You are talking of impossibilities,’ said Lesbia, frowning. ‘Why do you talk to me as if I were a child? I know hardly anything of the world, but I do know the woman who has reared and educated me. My grandmother would never forgive me if I married a poor man. I should be an outcast.’
‘We would be outcasts together — happy outcasts. Besides, we should not always be poor. I tell you I am predestined to conquer fate.’
‘But we should have to begin from the beginning.’
‘Yes, we should have to begin from the beginning, as Adam and Eve did when they left Paradise.’
‘We are not told in the Bible that they had any happiness after that. It seems to have been all trouble and weariness, and toil75 and death, after the angel with the flaming sword drove them out of Eden.’
‘They were together, and they must have been happy. Oh, Lesbia, if you do not feel that you can face poverty and the world’s contempt by my side, and for my sake, you do not love me. Love never calculates so nicely; love never fears the future; and yet you do love me, Lesbia,’ he said, trying to fold her in his arms; but again she drew herself away from him — this time with a look almost of horror — and stood facing him, clinging to one of the pine trunks, like a scared wood-nymph.
‘You have no right to say that,’ she said.
‘I have the divine right of my own deep love — of heart which cries out to heart. Do you think there is no magnetic power in true love which can divine the answering love in another? Lesbia, call me an insolent140 coxcomb141 if you like, but I know you love me, and that you and I may be utterly happy together. Oh, why — why do you shrink from me, my beloved; why withhold142 yourself from my arms! Oh, love, let me hold you to my heart — let me seal our betrothal143 with a kiss!’
‘Betrothal — no, no; not for the world,’ cried Lesbia. ‘Lady Maulevrier would cast me off for ever; she would curse me.’
‘What would the curse of an ambitious woman weigh against my love? And I tell you that her anger would be only a passing tempest. She would forgive you.’
‘Never — you don’t know her.’
‘I tell you she would forgive you, and all would be well with us before we had been married a year. Why cannot you believe me, Lesbia?’
‘Because I cannot believe impossibilities, even from your lips,’ she answered sullenly144.
She stood before him with downcast eyes, the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, exquisitively lovely in her agitation145 and sorrow. Yes, she did love him; her heart was beating passionately146; she was longing to throw herself on his breast, to be folded upon that manly147 heart, in trust in that brave, bright look which seemed to defy fortune. Yes, he was a man born to conquer; he was handsome, intellectual, powerful in all mental and physical gifts. A man of men. But he was, by his own admission, a very obscure and insignificant148 person, and he had no money. Life with him meant a long fight with adverse circumstances; life for his wife must mean patience, submission149, long waiting upon destiny, and perhaps with old age and grey hairs the tardy150 turning of Fortune’s wheel. And was she for this to resign the kingdom that had been promised to her, the giddy heights which she was born to scale, the triumphs and delights and victories of the great world? Yes, Lesbia loved this fortuneless knight81; but she loved herself and her prospects151 of promotion152 still better.
‘Oh, Lesbia, can you not be brave for my sake — trustful for my sake? God will be good to us if we are true to each other.’
‘God will not be good to me if I disobey my grandmother. I owe her too much; ingratitude153 in me would be doubly base. I will speak to her. I will tell her all you have said, and if she gives me the faintest encouragement ——’
‘She will not; that is a foregone conclusion. Tell her all, if you like; but let us be prepared for the answer. When she denies the right of your heart to choose its own mate, then rise up in the might of your womanhood and defy her. Tell her, “I love him, and be he rich or poor, I will share his fate;” tell her boldly, bravely, nobly, as a true woman should; and if she be adamant154 still, proclaim your right to disobey her worldly wisdom rather than the voice of your own heart. And then come to me, darling, and be my own, and the world which you and I will face together shall not be a bad world. I will answer for that. No trouble shall come near you. No humiliation shall ever touch you. Only believe in me.’
‘I can believe in you, but not in the impossible,’ answered Lesbia, with measured accents.
The voice was silver-sweet, but passing cold. Just then there was a rustling155 among the pine branches, and Lesbia looked round with a startled air.
‘Is there any one listening?’ she exclaimed. ‘What was that?’
‘Only the breath of heaven. Oh, Lesbia, if you were but a little less wise, a little more trustful. Do not be a dumb idol156. Say that you love me, or do not love me. If you can look me in the face and say the last, I will leave you without another word. I will take my sentence and go.’
But this was just what Lesbia could not do. She could not deny her love; and yet she could not sacrifice all things for her love. She lifted the heavy lids which veiled those lovely eyes, and looked up at him imploringly157.
‘Give me time to breathe, time to think,’ she said.
‘And then will you answer me plainly, truthfully, without a shadow of reserve, remembering that the fate of two lives hangs on your words.’
‘I will.’
‘Let it be so, then. I’ll go for a ramble158 over the hills, and return in time for afternoon tea. I shall look for you on the tennis lawn at half-past four.’
He took her in his arms, and this time she yielded herself to him, and the beautiful head rested for a few moments upon his breast, and the soft eyes looked up at him in confiding159 fondness. He bent160 and kissed her once only, but a kiss that meant for life and death. In the next moment he was gone, leaving her alone among the pine trees.
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1
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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2
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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3
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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7
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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10
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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12
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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13
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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14
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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16
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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17
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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18
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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19
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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20
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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21
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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22
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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23
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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24
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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25
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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26
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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27
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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28
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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29
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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30
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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31
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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32
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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33
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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34
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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35
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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36
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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37
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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38
legislate
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| vt.制定法律；n.法规，律例；立法 | |
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39
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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40
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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43
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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44
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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45
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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46
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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47
waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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48
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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49
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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50
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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51
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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52
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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53
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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54
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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55
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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57
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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58
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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59
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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60
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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61
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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62
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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63
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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64
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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65
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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66
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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67
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
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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69
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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70
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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71
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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72
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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73
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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74
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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75
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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76
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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77
canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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78
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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79
demolishing
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| v.摧毁( demolish的现在分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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80
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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81
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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82
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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83
munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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85
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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86
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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87
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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88
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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89
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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91
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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92
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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93
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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94
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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95
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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96
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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98
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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100
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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101
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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102
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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103
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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104
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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105
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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106
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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107
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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108
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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109
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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110
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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111
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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112
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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113
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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114
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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115
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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116
prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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117
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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118
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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119
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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120
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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121
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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122
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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123
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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124
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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125
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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126
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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127
entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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128
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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129
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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130
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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131
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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132
hew
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| v.砍；伐；削 | |
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133
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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134
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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135
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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136
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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137
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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138
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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139
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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140
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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141
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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142
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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143
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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144
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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145
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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146
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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147
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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148
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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149
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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150
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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151
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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152
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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153
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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154
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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155
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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156
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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157
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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158
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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159
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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160
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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