‘It is a dull, horrid2 place, and I was bored to death there!’ she said, when Mary asked how she had enjoyed herself. ‘There was no question of enjoyment3. Grandmother took it into her head that I was looking ill, and sent me to the sea; but I should have been just as well at Fellside.’
This meant that between Lesbia and that distinctly inferior being, her younger sister, there was to be no confidence. Mary had watched the life-drama acted under her eyes too closely not to know all about it, and was not inclined to be so put off.
That pale perturbed4 countenance5 of John Hammond’s, those eager inquiring eyes looking to the door which opened not, had haunted Mary’s waking thoughts, had even mingled6 with the tangled7 web of her dreams. Oh, how could any woman scorn such love? To be so loved, and by such a man, seemed to Mary the perfection of earthly bliss8. She had never been educated up to those wider and loftier views of life, which teach a woman that houses and lands, place and power, are the supreme9 good.
‘I can’t understand how you could treat that noble-minded man so badly,’ she exclaimed one day, when she and Lesbia were alone in the library, and after she had sat for ever so long, staring out of the window, meditating10 upon her sister’s cruelty.
‘Of whom are you speaking, pray?’
‘As if you didn’t know! Of Mr. Hammond.’
‘And pray, how do you know that he is noble-minded, or that I treated him badly?’
‘Well, as to his being noble-minded, that jumps to the eyes, as French books say. As for your treatment of him, I was looking on all the time, and I know how unkind you were, and I heard him talking to you in the fir-copse that day.’
‘You Were listening’ cried Lesbia indignantly.
‘I was not listening! I was passing by. And if people choose to carry on their love affairs out of doors they must expect to be overheard. I heard him pleading to you, telling you how he would work for you, fight the battle of life for you, asking you to be trustful and brave for his sake. But you have a heart of stone. You and grandmother both have hearts of stone. I think she must have taken out your heart when you were little, and put a stone in its place.’
‘Really,’ said Lesbia, trying to carry things with a high hand, albeit11 her very human heart was beating passionately12 all the time, ‘I think you ought to be very grateful to me — and grandmother — for refusing Mr. Hammond.’
‘Why grateful?’
‘Because it leaves you a chance of getting him for yourself; and everybody can see that you are over head and ears in love with him. That jumps to the eyes, as you say.’
Mary turned crimson13, trembled with rage, looked at her sister as if she would kill her, for a moment or so, and finally burst into tears.
‘That is not true, and it is shameful14 for you to say such a thing,’ she cried.
‘Why, what a virago15 you are, Mary. Well, I’m very glad it is not true. Mr. Hammond is — yes, I will be quite candid16 with you — he is the only man I am ever likely to admire for his own sake. He is good, brave, clever, all that you think him. But you and I do not live in a world in which girls are free to follow their own inclinations18. I should break Lady Maulevrier’s heart if I were to make a foolish marriage; and I owe her too much to set her wishes at naught19, or to make her declining years unhappy. I must obey her, at any cost to my own feelings. Please never mention Mr. Hammond’s name. I’m sure I’ve had quite enough unhappiness about him.’
‘I see,’ said Mary, bitterly. ‘It is your own pain you think of, not his. He may suffer, so long as you are not worried.’
‘You are an impertinent chit,’ retorted Lesbia, ‘and you know nothing about it.’
After this there was no more said about Mr. Hammond; but Mary did not forget him. She wrote long letters to her brother, who was still in Scotland, shooting, deer-stalking, fishing, killing20 something or other daily, in the most approved fashion of an Englishman taking his pleasure. Maulevrier occasionally repaid her with a telegram; but he was not a good correspondent. He declared that life was too short for letter-writing.
Summer was gone; the lake was no longer a shining emerald floor, dotted with the reflection of the flock upon the verdant21 slopes above it, but dull and grey of hue22, and broken by white-edged wavelets. Patches of snow gleamed on the misty23 heights of Helvellyn, and the autumn winds howled and shrieked24 around Fellside in the evenings, when all the shutters25 were shut, and the outside world seemed little more than an idea: that mystic hour when the sheep are slumbering26 under the starry27 sky, and when, as the Westmoreland peasant believes, the fairies help the housewife at her spinning-wheel.
Those October evenings were very long and weary for Lesbia and her sister. Lady Maulevrier read and mused29 in her low chair beside the fire, with her books piled upon her own particular table, and lighted by her own particular lamp. She talked very little, but she was always gracious to her granddaughters and their governess, and she liked them to be with her in the evening. Lesbia played or sang, or sat at work at her basket-table, which occupied the other side of the fireplace; and Fr?ulein and Mary had the rest of the room to themselves, as it were, those two places by the hearth30 being sacred, as if dedicated31 to household gods. Mary read immensely in those long evenings, devouring32 volume after volume, feeding her imagination with every kind of nutriment, good, bad, and indifferent. Fr?ulein Müller knitted a woollen shawl, which seemed to have neither beginning, middle, nor end, and was always ready for conversation, but there were times when silence brooded over the scene for long intervals33, and when every sound of the light wood-ashes dropping on the tiled hearth was distinctly audible.
This state of things went on for about three weeks after Lesbia’s return from St. Bees, Lady Maulevrier watchful35 of her granddaughter all the time, though saying nothing. She saw that Lesbia was not happy, not as she had been in the time before the coming of John Hammond. She had never been particularly gay or light-hearted, never gifted with the wild spirits and buoyancy which make girlhood so lovely a season to some natures, a time of dance and song and joyousness36, a morning of life steeped in the beauty and gladness of the universe. She had never been gay as young lambs and foals and fawns37 and kittens and puppy dogs are gay, by reason of the well-spring of delight within them, needing no stimulus38 from the outside world. She had been just a little inclined to murmur39 at the dulness of her life at Fellside; yet she had borne herself with a placid40 sweetness which had been Lady Maulevrier’s delight. But now there was a marked change in her manner. She was not the less submissive and dutiful in her bearing to her grandmother, whom she both loved and feared; but there were moments of fretfulness and impatience41 which she could not conceal42. She was captious43 and sullen44 in her manner to Mary and the Fr?ulein. She would not walk or drive with them, or share in any of their amusements. Sometimes of an evening that studious silence of the drawing-room was suddenly broken by Lesbia’s weary sigh, breathed unawares as she bent45 over her work.
Lady Maulevrier saw, too, that Lesbia’s cheek was paler than of old, her eyes less bright. There was a heavy look that told of broken slumbers46, there was a pinched look in that oval check. Good heavens! if her beauty were to pale and wane47, before society had bowed down and worshipped it; if this fair flower were to fade untimely; if this prize rose in the garden of beauty were to wither48 and decay before it won the prize.
Her ladyship was a woman of action, and no sooner did this fear shape itself in her mind than she took steps to prevent the evil her thoughts foreshadowed.
Among those friends of her youth and allies of her house with whom she had always maintained an affectionate correspondence was Lady Kirkbank, the fashionable wife of a sporting baronet, owner of a castle in Scotland, a place in Yorkshire, a villa49 at Cannes, and a fine house in Arlington Street, with an income large enough for their enjoyment. When Lady Diana Angersthorpe shone forth50 in the West End world as the acknowledged belle51 of the season, the star of Georgina Lorimer was beginning to wane. She was the eldest52 daughter of Colonel Lorimer, a man of good old family, and a fine soldier, who had fought shoulder to shoulder with Gough and Lawrence, and who had contrived53 to make a figure in society with very small means. Georgina’s sisters had all married well. It was a case of necessity, the Colonel told them; they must either marry or gravitate ultimately to the workhouse. So the Miss Lorimers made the best use of their youth and freshness, and ‘no good offer refused’ was the guiding rule of their young lives. Lucy married an East India merchant, and set up a fine house in Porchester Terrace. Maud married wealth personified in the person of a leading member of the Tallow Chandlers’ Company, and had her town house and country house, and as fine a set of diamonds as a duchess.
But Georgina, the eldest, trifled with her chances, and her twenty-seventh birthday beheld55 her pouring out her father’s tea in a small furnished house in a street off Portland Place, which the Colonel had hired on his return from India, and which he declared himself unable to maintain another year.
‘Directly the season is over I shall give up housekeeping and take a lodging56 at Bath,’ said Colonel Lorimer. ‘If you don’t like Bath all the year round you can stay with your sisters.’
‘That is the last thing I am likely to do,’ answered Georgina; ‘my sisters were barely endurable when they were single and poor. They are quite intolerable now they are married and rich. I would sooner live in the monkey-house at the Zoological than stay with either Lucy or Maud.’
‘That’s rank envy,’ retorted her father ‘You can’t forgive them for having done so much better than you.’
‘I can’t forgive them for having married snobs57. When I marry I shall marry a gentleman.’
‘When!’ echoed the parent, with a sneering58 laugh. ‘Hadn’t you better say “if”’?
At this period Georgina’s waning59 good looks were in some measure counterbalanced by the cumulative60 effects of half a dozen seasons in good society, which had given style to her person, ease to her manners, and sharpness to her tongue. Nobody in society said sharper or more unpleasant things than Miss Lorimer, and by virtue61 of this gift she got invited about a great deal more than she might have done had she been distinguished62 for sweetness of speech and manner. Georgie Lorimer’s presence at a dinner table gave just that pungent63 flavour which is like the faint suspicion of garlic in a fricassee or of tarragon in a salad.
Now in this very season, when Colonel Lorimer was inclined to speak of his daughter, as Sainte Beuve wrote of Musset, as a young woman with a very brilliant past, a lucky turn of events gave Georgina a fresh start in life, which may be called a new departure. Lady Diana Angersthorpe, the belle of the season, took a fancy to her, was charmed with her sharp tongue and acute sense of the ridiculous. The two became fast friends, and were seen everywhere together. The best men all flocked round the beauty, and all talked to the beauty’s companion: and before the season was over, Sir George Kirkbank, who had had half made up his mind to propose to Lady Diana, found himself engaged to that uncommonly64 jolly girl, Lady Diana’s friend. Georgina spent August and September with Lady Di, at the Marchioness of Carisbroke’s delightful65 villa in the Isle66 of Wight, and Sir George kept his yacht at Cowes all the time, and was in constant attendance upon his fiancée. It was George and Georgie everywhere. In October Colonel Lorimer had the profound pleasure of giving away his daughter, before the altar in St. George’s, Hanover Square, and it may be said of him that nothing in his relations with that young lady became him better than his manner of parting with her.
So the needy67 Colonel’s daughter became Lady Kirkbank, and in the following spring Diana Angersthorpe was married at the same St. George’s to the Earl of Maulevrier. The friends were divided by distance and by circumstance as the years rolled on; but friendship was steadily68 maintained; and a regular correspondence with Lady Kirkbank, whose pen was as sharp as her tongue, was one of the means by which Lady Maulevrier had kept herself thoroughly69 posted in all those small events, unrecorded by newspapers, which make up the secret history of society.
It was of her old friend Georgie that her ladyship thought in her present anxiety. Lady Kirkbank had more than once suggested that Lady Maulevrier’s granddaughters should vary the monotony of Fellside by a visit to her place near Doncaster, or her castle north of Aberdeen; but her ladyship had evaded70 these friendly suggestions, being very jealous of any strange influence upon Lesbia’s life. Now, however, there had come a time when Lesbia must have a complete change of scenery and surroundings, lest she should pine and dwindle71 in sullen submission72 to fate, or else defy the world and elope with John Hammond.
Now, therefore, Lady Maulevrier decided73 to accept Lady Kirkbank’s hospitality. She told her friend the whole story with perfect frankness, and her letter was immediately answered by a telegram.
‘I start for Scotland to-morrow, will break my journey by staying a night at Fellside, and will take Lady Lesbia on to Kirkbank with me next day, if she can be ready to go.’
‘She shall be ready,’ said Lady Maulevrier.
She told Lesbia that she had accepted an invitation for her, and that she was to go to Kirkbank Castle the day after to-morrow. She was prepared for unwillingness74, resistance even; but Lesbia received the news with evident pleasure.
‘I shall be very glad to go,’ she said, ‘this place is so dull. Of course I shall be sorry to leave you, grandmother, and I wish you would go with me; but any change will be a relief. I think if I had to stay here all the winter, counting the days and the hours, I should go out of my mind.’
The tears came into her eyes, but she wiped them away hurriedly, ashamed of her emotion.
‘My dearest child, I am so sorry for you,’ murmured Lady Maulevrier. ‘But believe me the day will come when you will be very glad that you conquered the first foolish inclination17 of your girlish heart.’
‘Yes, I daresay, when I am eighty,’ Lesbia answered, impatiently. She had made up her mind to submit to the inevitable75. She had loved John Hammond — had been as near breaking her heart for him as it was in her nature to break her heart for anybody; but she wanted to make a great marriage, to be renowned76 and admired. She had been reared and trained for that; and she was not going to belie28 her training.
A visitor from the great London world was so rare an event that there was naturally a little excitement in the idea of Lady Kirkbank’s arrival. The handsomest and most spacious77 of the spare bedrooms was prepared for the occasion. The housekeeper78 was told that the dinner must be perfect. There must be nothing old-fashioned or ponderous79; there must be mind as well as matter in everything. Rarely did Lady Maulevrier look at a bill of fare; but on this particular morning she went carefully through the menu, and corrected it with her own hand.
A pair of post-horses brought Lady Kirkbank and her maid from Windermere station, in time for afternoon tea, and the friends who had only met twice within the last forty years, embraced each other on the threshold of Lady Maulevrier’s morning-room.
‘My dearest Di,’ cried Lady Kirkbank, ‘what a delight to see you again after such ages; and what a too lovely spot you have chosen for your retreat from the world, the flesh, and the devil. If I could be a recluse81 anywhere, it would be amongst just such delicious surroundings.’
Without, twilight82 shades were gathering83; within, there was only the light of a fire and a shaded lamp upon the tea table; there was just light enough for the two women to see each other’s faces, and the change which time had wrought84 there.
Never did womanhood in advanced years offer a more striking contrast than that presented by the woman of fashion and the recluse. Lady Maulevrier was almost as handsome in the winter of her days as she had been when life was in its spring. The tall, slim figure, erect85 as a dart86, the delicately chiselled87 features and alabaster88 complexion89, the soft silvery hair, the perfect hand, whiter and more transparent90 than the hand of girlhood, the stately movements and bearing, all combined to make Lady Maulevrier a queen among woman. Her brocade gown of a deep shade of red, with a border of dark sable91 on cuffs92 and collar, suggested a portrait by Velasquez. She wore no ornaments93 except the fine old Brazilian diamonds which flashed and sparkled upon her slender fingers.
If Lady Maulevrier looked like a picture in the Escurial, Lady Kirkbank resembled a caricature in La Vie Parisienne. Everything she wore was in the very latest fashion of the Parisian demi-monde, that exaggerated elegance94 of a fashion plate which only the most exquisite95 of women could redeem96 from vulgarity. Plush, brocade, peacock’s feathers, golden bangles, mousquetaire gloves, a bonnet97 of purple plumage set off by ornaments of filagree gold, an infantine little muff of lace and wild flowers, buttercups and daisies; and hair, eyebrows98 and complexion as artificial as the flowers on the muff.
All that art could do to obliterate99 the traces of age had been done for Georgina Kirkbank. But seventy years are not to be obliterated100 easily, and the crow’s feet showed through the bloom de Ninon, and the eyes under the painted arches were glassy and haggard, the carnation101 lips had a withered102 look. Age was made all the more palpable by the artifice103 which would have disguised it.
Lady Maulevrier suffered an absolute shock at beholding104 the friend of her youth. She had not accustomed herself to the idea that women in society could raddle their cheeks, stain their lips, and play tricks before high heaven with their eyebrows and eyelashes. In her own youth painted faces had been the ghastly privilege of a class of womankind of which the women of society were supposed to know nothing. Persons who showed their ankles and rouged106 their cheeks were to be seen of an afternoon in Bond Street; but Lady Diana Angersthorpe had been taught to pass them by as if she saw them not, to behold105 without seeing these creatures outside the pale. And now she saw her own dearest friend, a person distinctly within the pale, plastered with bismuth and stained with carmine107, and wearing hair of a colour so obviously false and inharmonious, that child-like faith could hardly accept it as reality. Forty years ago Lady Kirkbank’s long ringlets had been darkest glossiest109 brown, to-day she wore a tousled fringe of bright yellow, piquantly110 contrasting with Vandyke brown eyebrows.
It took Lady Maulevrier some moments to get over the shock. She drew a chair to the fire and established her friend in it, and then, with a little gasp111, she said:
‘I am charmed to see you again, Georgie!’
‘You darling, I was sure you would be glad. But you must find me awfully112 changed — awfully.’
For worlds Lady Maulevrier could not have denied this truth. Happily Lady Kirkbank did not wait for an answer.
‘Society is so wearing, and George and I never seem to get an interval34 of quiet. Kirkbank is to be full of men next week. Your granddaughter will have a good time.’
‘There will be a few women, of course?’
‘Oh, yes, there’s no avoiding that; only one doesn’t reckon them. Sir George only counts his guns. We expect a splendid season. I shall send you some birds of my own shooting.’
‘You shoot!’ exclaimed Lady Maulevrier, amazed.
‘Shoot! I should think I do. What else is there to amuse one in Scotland, after the salmon113 fishing is over? I have never missed a season for the last thirty years, unless we have been abroad.’
‘Please, don’t innoculate Lesbia with your love of sport.’
‘What! you wouldn’t like her to shoot? Well, perhaps you are right. It is hardly the thing for a pretty girl with her fortune to make. It spoils the delicacy114 of the skin. But I’m afraid she’ll find Kirkbank dull if she doesn’t go out with the guns. She can meet us with the rest of the women at luncheon115. We have some capital picnic luncheons116 on the moor117, I can assure you.’
‘I know she will enjoy herself with you. She has been accustomed to a very quiet life here.’
‘It is a lovely spot; but I own I cannot understand how you can have lived here exclusively during all these years — you who used to be all life and fire, loving change, action, political and diplomatic society, to dance upon the crest118 of the wave, as it were. Your whole nature must have suffered some curious change.’
Their close intimacy119 of the past warranted freedom of speech in the present.
‘My nature did undergo a change, and a severe one,’ answered Lady Maulevrier, gloomily.
‘It was that horrid — and I daresay unfortunate scandal about his lordship; and then the sad shock of his death,’ murmured Lady Kirkbank, sympathetically. ‘Most women, with your youth and beauty, would have forgotten the scandal and the husband in a twelvemonth, and would have made a second marriage more brilliant than the first. But no Indian widow who ever performed suttee was more worthy120 of praise than you, or even that person of Ephesus, whose story I have heard somewhere. Indeed, I have always spoken of your life as a long suttee. But you mean to re-appear in society next season, I hope, when you present your granddaughter?’
‘I shall certainly go up to London to present her, and possibly I may spend the season in town; but I shall feel like Rip Van Winkle.’
‘No, no, you won’t, my dear Di. You have kept yourself au courant, I know. Even my silly gossiping letters may have been of some use.’
‘They have been most valuable. Let me give you another cup of tea,’ said Lady Maulevrier, who had been officiating at her own exquisite tea-table, an arrangement of inlaid woods, antique silver, and modern china, which her friend pronounced a perfect poem.
Indeed, the whole room was poetic121, Lady Kirkbank declared, and there are many highly praised scenes which less deserve the epithet122. The dark red walls and cedar123 dado, the stamped velvet124 curtains, of an indescribable shade between silver-grey and olive, the Sheraton furniture, the parqueterie floor and Persian prayer-rugs, the deep yet brilliant hues125 of crackle porcelain126 and Chinese cloisonné enamel127, the artistic128 fireplace, with dog-stove, low brass129 fender, and ingle-nook recessed130 under the high mantelpiece, all combined to form a luxurious131 and harmonious108 whole.
Lady Kirkbank admired the tout132 ensemble133 in the fitful light of the fire, the dim grey of deepening twilight.
‘There never was a more delicious cell!’ she exclaimed, ‘but still I should feel it a prison, if I had to spend six weeks in the year in it. I never stay more than six weeks anywhere out of London; and I always find six weeks more than enough. The first fortnight is rapture134, the third and fourth weeks are calm content, the fifth is weariness, the sixth a fever to be gone. I once tried a seventh week at Pontresina, and I hated the place so intensely that I dared not go back there for the next three years. But now tell me. Diana, have you really performed suttee, have you buried yourself alive in this sweet spot deliberately135, or has the love of retirement136 grown upon you, and have you become a kind of lotus-eater?’
‘I believe I have become a kind of lotus-eater. My retirement here has been no sentimental137 sacrifice to Lord Maulevrier’s memory.’
‘I am glad to hear that; for I really think the worst possible use a woman can make of her life is in wasting it on lamentation138 for a dead and gone husband. Life is odiously140 short at the best, and it is mere80 imbecility to fritter away any of our scanty141 portion upon the dead, who can never be any the better for our tears.’
‘My motive142 in living at Fellside was not reverence143 for the dead. And now let us talk of the gay world, of which you know all the secrets. Have you heard anything more about Lord Hartfield?’
‘Ah, there is a subject in which you have reason to be interested. I have not forgotten the romance of your youth — that first season in which Ronald Hollister used to haunt every place at which you appeared. Do you remember that wet afternoon at the Chiswick flower-show, when you and he and I took shelter in the orange house, and you two made love to each other most audaciously in an atmosphere of orange-blossoms that almost stifled144 me? Yes, those were glorious days!’
‘A short summer of gladness, a brief dream,’ sighed Lady Maulevrier. ‘Is young Lord Hartfield like his father?’
‘No, he takes after the Ilmingtons; but still there is a look of your old sweetheart — yes, I think there is an expression. I have not seen him for nearly a year. He is still abroad, roaming about somewhere in search of adventures. These young men who belong to the Geographical145 and the Alpine146 Club are hardly ever at home.’
‘But though they may be sometimes lost to society, they are all the more worthy of society’s esteem147 when they do appear,’ said Lady Maulevrier. ‘I think there must be an ennobling influence in Alpine travel, or in the vast solitudes148 of the Dark Continent. A man finds himself face to face with unsophisticated nature, and with the grandest forces of the universe. Professor Tyndall writes delightfully150 of his Alpine experiences; his mind seems to have ripened151 in the solitude149 and untainted air of the Alps. And I believe Lord Hartfield is a young man of very high character and of considerable cultivation152, is he not?’
‘He is a splendid young fellow. I never heard a word to his disparagement153, even from those people who pretend to know something bad about everybody. What a husband he would make for one of your girls!’
‘Admirable! But those perfect arrangements, which seem predestined by heaven itself, are so rarely realised on earth,’ answered the dowager, lightly.
She was not going to show her cards, even to an old friend.
‘Well, it would be very sweet if they were to meet next season and fall in love with each other,’ said Lady Kirkbank. ‘He is enormously rich, and I daresay your girls will not be portionless.’
‘Lesbia may take a modest place among heiresses,’ answered Lady Maulevrier. ‘I have lived so quietly during the last forty years that I could hardly help saving money.’
‘How nice!’ sighed Georgie. ‘I never saved sixpence in my life, and am always in debt.’
‘The little fortune I have saved is much too small for division. Lesbia will therefore have all I can leave her. Mary has the usual provision as a daughter of the Maulevrier house.’
‘And I suppose Lesbia has that provision also?’
‘Of course.’
‘Lucky Lesbia. I only wish Hartfield were coming to us for the shooting. I would engage he should fall in love with her. Kirkbank is a splendid place for match-making. But the fact is I am not very intimate with him. He is almost always travelling, and when he is at home he is not in our set. And now, my dear Diana, tell me more about yourself, and your own life in this delicious place.’
‘There is so little to tell. The books I have read, the theories of literature and art and science which I have adopted and dismissed, learnt and forgotten — those are the history of my life. The ideas of the outside world reach me here only in books and newspapers; but you who have been living in the world must have so much to say. Let me be the listener.’
Lady Kirkbank desired nothing better. She rattled154 on for three-quarters of an hour about her doings in the great world, her social triumphs, the wonderful things she had done for Sir George, who seemed to be as a puppet in her hands, the princes and princelings she had entertained, the songs she had composed, the comedy she had written, for private representation only, albeit the Haymarket manager was dying to produce it, the scathing155 witticisms156 with which she had withered her social enemies. She would have gone on much longer, but for the gong, which reminded her that it was time to dross157 for dinner.
Half-an-hour later Lady Kirkbank was in the drawing-room, where Mary had retired158 to the most shadowy corner, anxious to escape the gaze of the fashionable visitor.
But Lady Kirkbank was not inclined to take much notice of Mary. Lesbia’s brilliant beauty, the exquisite Greek head, the faultless complexion, the deep, violet eyes, caught Georgina Kirkbank’s eye the moment she had entered the room, and she saw that this girl and no other must be the beauty, the beloved and chosen grandchild.
‘How do you do, my dear?’ she said, taking Lesbia’s hand, and then, as if with a gush159 of warm feeling, suddenly drawing the girl towards her and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘I am going to be desperately160 fond of you, and I hope you will soon contrive54 to like me — just a little.’
‘I feel sure that I shall like you very much,’ Lesbia answered sweetly. ‘I am prepared to love you as grandmother’s old friend.’
‘Oh, my dear, to think that I should ever be the old friend of anybody’s grandmother!’ sighed Lady Kirkbank, with unaffected regret. ‘When I was your age I used to think all old people odious139. It never occurred to me that I should live to be one of them.’
‘Then you had no dear grandmother whom you loved,’ said Lesbia, ‘or you would have liked old people for her sake.’
‘No, my love, I had no grandparents. I had a father, and he was all-sufficient — anything beyond him in the ancestral line would have been a burden laid upon me greater than I could bear, as the poet says.’
Dinner was announced, and Mary came shyly out of her corner, blushing deeply.
‘And this is Lady Mary, I suppose?’ said Lady Kirkbank, in an off-hand way, ‘How do you do, my dear? I am going to steal your sister.’
‘I am very glad,’ faltered161 Mary. ‘I mean I am glad that Lesbia should enjoy herself.’
‘And some fine day, when Lesbia is married and a great lady, I shall ask you to come to Scotland,’ said Lady Kirkbank, condescendingly, and than she murmured in her friend’s ear, as they went to the dining-room, ‘Quite an English girl. Very fresh and frank and nice,’ which was great praise for such a second-rate young person as Lady Mary.
‘What do you think of Lesbia?’ asked Lady Maulevrier, in the same undertone.
‘She is simply adorable. Your letters prepared me to expect beauty, but not such beauty. My dear, I thought the progress of the human race was all in a downward line since our time; but your granddaughter is as handsome as you were in your first season, and that is going very far.’
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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11
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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12
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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13
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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14
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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15
virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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16
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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17
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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18
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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19
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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20
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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21
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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22
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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23
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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24
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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26
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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27
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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28
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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29
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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30
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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31
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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32
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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33
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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34
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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35
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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36
joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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37
fawns
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| n.（未满一岁的）幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 )；浅黄褐色；乞怜者；奉承者v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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38
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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39
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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40
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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41
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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42
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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43
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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44
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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47
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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48
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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49
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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50
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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52
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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53
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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54
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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55
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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56
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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57
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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58
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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59
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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60
cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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61
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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62
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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63
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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64
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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65
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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66
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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67
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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68
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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69
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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70
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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71
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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72
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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73
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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74
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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75
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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76
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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77
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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78
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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79
ponderous
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|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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80
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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81
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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82
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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83
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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84
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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85
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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86
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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87
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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88
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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89
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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90
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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91
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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92
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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93
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
elegance
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|
| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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95
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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96
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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97
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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98
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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99
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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100
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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101
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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102
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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103
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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104
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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105
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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106
rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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108
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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109
glossiest
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| 光滑的( glossy的最高级 )； 虚有其表的； 浮华的 | |
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110
piquantly
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111
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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112
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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113
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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114
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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115
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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116
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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117
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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118
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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119
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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120
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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121
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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122
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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123
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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124
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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125
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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126
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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127
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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128
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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129
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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130
recessed
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| v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的过去式和过去分词 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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131
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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132
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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133
ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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134
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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135
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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136
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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137
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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138
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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139
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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140
odiously
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| Odiously | |
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141
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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142
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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143
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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144
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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145
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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146
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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148
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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149
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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150
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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151
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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153
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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154
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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155
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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156
witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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157
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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158
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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159
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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160
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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161
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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