However easily the tastes of young men might bend to Lady Wetheral's flattering lips, combined with her daughter's attractions, there was some cleverness required in guiding Sir Foster Kerrison to the desired point. His silent manner, and provoking absence of mind, perpetually defeated the mother's purposes, but her spirit rose superior to all annoyances10. "It might and would take time to throw fetters11 upon a man who forgot every word or engagement of the previous half-hour, but perseverance12 must level every impediment. Clara was very young, and patience must be severely13 taxed, if people were resolved to carry a favourite wish into operation." [305] Clara had not such a provision of that precious gift as her mother possessed14, and it required constant watchfulness15 on her part to subdue16 the appearance of irritability17 before the object of her wishes. Her mother, too, watched over the unquiet spirit, and diverted its attention in the time of need. One day, Clara became impetuous upon the subject. Sir Foster never called at Wetheral without a special invitation; and how was she to manage a great, stupid creature, who neither saw nor felt attentions? Lady Wetheral smiled.
"My dear girl, patience! Sir Foster must be managed, and if you will only leave the affair in my hands, all will be well. Do not, I beseech18 you, look so very cross; the sight of temper drives away all men who are not actually in love, and perpetual good-humour is a perpetual attraction."
"How can I keep any temper with such a heavy mass of human nature?" exclaimed Clara, scornfully.
"Don't call names, my love; I am going to tell you. Do not give yourself any trouble, only look pleased and pleasantly at Sir Foster; I will effect the rest. Some men are rather dull, but absence of mind requires skill only in the [306] parties concerned. I do not think Sir Foster dull; absent only—very absent; but perhaps that may operate in our favour."
"In what way?" asked Clara, inquisitively19.
"Never mind, my love, look pleasantly at Sir Foster, and leave the minuti? to me. We must lead him gently and gradually to make Wetheral a daily resting-place; and while Lucy is here, it can be done. Pray, Clara, endeavour to check your temper before Lucy. I should not wish her to report unfavourably of your manners at Ripley; so much depends upon your trying to appear good-humoured—do, my love."
With evident painful effort, Clara did manage to conceal20 her irritable21 nature from the particular observation of her friend Miss Kerrison, who was the main spring of that machinery22 which was to involve her father. To Lucy Kerrison Lady Wetheral directed the most flattering attentions, and offered the most agreeable series of parties of pleasure; to her young and unsuspicious ear was consigned23 every compliment which could lull24 observation, awaken25 her love, and interest her in all Lady Wetheral's actions. In short, a separation from Clara and the delights of Wetheral was becoming unbearable26 to the heart and imagination of poor Miss [307] Kerrison, and her eyes filled with tears of real sorrow, soon made apparent to her ladyship's quick apprehension27, the regret with which her young guest contemplated28 a return to Ripley. This was, to use her favourite expression, "all in their favour;" and she mentioned the circumstance to Sir John in her own way.
"This poor, dear Lucy Kerrison, my love, is sadly overcome at the thoughts of leaving us. Clara and herself are exceedingly attached; the tears rush to her eyes whenever the subject is alluded to."
"Miss Kerrison is a ladylike, nice girl," replied Sir John.
"Yes, my love, she is quite the companion Clara should have. I approve her good and judicious29 selection. I wish they may often meet."
Sir John did not reply, and a short pause succeeded.
"I could almost wish Lucy was going to remain with us for Clara's sake. If I thought Sir Foster would not object, I would request him not to recall her."
"Isabel is still with us, Gertrude; Clara has her two sisters."
"Yes—to be sure—oh, yes, Mrs. Boscawen [308] is here, but she is never visible till the half-hour bell rings. I see very little of poor Isabel myself, and Clara still less. Bell is shut up, too, in the schoolroom, learning to be over-wise and disagreeable; besides, my love, Bell can be no companion to Clara. I wonder Sir Foster does not call to see his daughter! do you know, my love, he has been but once within this fortnight to see us."
"His company is not particularly acceptable, Gertrude."
"Well, Sir John, I only name the circumstance—I am afraid we are not very attractive; however, my love, I will try to extend Miss Kerrison's leave of absence for Clara's sake."
"Do as you please, my only objection is to her father being obliged to marry Clara. I have nothing to produce against his pretty, elegant daughter: don't let Kerrison marry a daughter of mine, and I shall not interfere30 in your plans."
"Oh! my love, I never compel men to marry. I hope my dear Clara will be my companion for some years. I feel very keenly my dear Lady Ennismore's loss, and so I do poor Mrs. Pynsent."
"Why is Anna Maria 'poor,' Gertrude?—she has married a good man, and a man she likes."
"She is in a manner banished31 Hatton," replied [309] Lady Wetheral, sighing; "I cannot think her happy while she roves about plain Mrs. Pynsent, no style—at least, not the Hatton style—no proper establishment, no home, like Lady Ennismore, who drove off to Bedinfield, like the wife of a nobleman—liveries, carriage—all magnificent! How I long to see Julia in her glory."
Sir John could offer no counsel which might check the eager delight his lady felt towards the good things of the earth; he therefore resumed his book, and her ladyship wrote, privately32, a most polite billet to Sir Foster, upon the strength of her husband's concurrence33 in her wish to detain his daughter at Wetheral.
"My dear sir,
"It will break all our hearts to part with your lovely Lucy, and Clara suffers so much in the idea of parting with her friend, that we have a proposal to make. I will not tell you at this moment its nature, because I wish to see you. Ladies, my dear sir, prefer speaking to principals. May I hope to see you at Wetheral to-morrow morning?
"Yours truly,
"G. Wetheral."
Clara feared Sir Foster would withstand the invitation, so blandly34 expressed, by forgetting [310] its existence; but her mother conceived the ambiguity35 of its expression would raise a germ of curiosity in his mind, which even the inveterate36 disorder37 of his brain might not subdue. The wording of the note was talked over before Isabel, and explained to her. Mrs. Boscawen could only entreat38 Clara not to marry so old a man.
"My dear Clara, Sir Foster will put you into a schoolroom, as Mr. Boscawen has done by me, for old men are alike, I dare say. I assure you, it will be a shocking affair, and I can't give my consent unless you insist upon it. I can't imagine any body marrying an old man, and going to their studies as if they were schoolgirls. Pray take warning by me, Clara, and don't marry Sir Foster."
"My dear Isabel, I am resolved to make the man propose to me. Mamma says I shall lose caste if I am single, for Anna Maria did not marry till she was nineteen, and almost past hope. If I don't take immediately, I shall become passé; for mamma says my style of beauty ought to take effect at once."
"You are very handsome, certainly, dear Clara—very handsome. Mr. Boscawen says you are a very beautiful girl."
"Well," replied Clara, smiling complacently39, [311] "I must be up and be doing. Sir Foster is very rich."
"Oh! Clara, and so is Mr. Boscawen: but I never have any money. Once Mr. Boscawen gave me a guinea, and then took it back again because I would not keep an account of all I spent. I bought a shilling's worth of alicampane, and made myself so ill! However, I did not say I had bought it; so, as I could not account for the shilling, I was obliged to relinquish40 the rest. Don't marry an old man, Clara!"
"Sir Foster lets every body spend his money, Isabel."
"Ah, but remember what Mr. Boscawen promised, Clara! I was promised every thing, and got nothing. You don't know how disagreeable it is to be shut up in a morning, reading and translating."
"I shan't read or translate to please Sir Foster," said Clara, with scornful energy. "I marry upon other principles."
"Well, Clara, only try not to marry an old man, for I assure you it is a very unpleasant thing."
"I wonder if Sir Foster will call to-morrow, Isabel?"
[312]
"Oh, to be sure he will: I am sure I should, if any one asked me."
"Don't name this to Boscawen, Isabel: I don't wish him to know my intentions."
"Certainly not—that is, if I can keep it from him; but he manages to find out all my secrets. However, I will try to keep this all to myself."
So did Mrs. Boscawen resolutely41 intend; but her secret transpired43 at the touch of her husband's mental wand. Mr. Boscawen began to talk of returning to Brierly, the very evening of the conversation which had taken place between his lady and Clara, and, after retiring for the night, he mentioned his intention of leaving Wetheral the following week. Isabel clasped her hands in alarm.
"Oh, Mr. Boscawen, not so soon! must we return so very soon?"
"Why not, Isabel? are you afraid of the dullness of Brierly?"
"Yes—no," cried Isabel, "but I want to watch Clara, Mr. Boscawen: I want to observe something."
"What is it all about?" asked Mr. Boscawen. "Is your sister engaged in some speculation45, or has your mother decided46 upon any one whom your sister is decreed to captivate? I think I [313] have stumbled upon the truth, Isabel, by your countenance47."
"How you find things out, Mr. Boscawen!" cried Isabel, blushing and hesitating; "you never allow me to keep a secret."
"Then there is one, Isabel. Have the kindness to admit me into the mystery: a wife should have no secrets."
"Well, only promise not to tell," said Isabel, awed48 by her husband's grave manner and remark, "and I will not keep the secret to myself, though I promised to do so."
"Who required the promise, Isabel?"
Isabel became alarmed, and disclosed the plot upon Sir Foster. Mr. Boscawen listened in silence, and then coolly made his annotations49 upon the subject.
"When a mother plots for a son-in-law, and her daughter acts upon it, besides implicating50 a young married sister, under promises of secrecy51, it is time to take steps towards withdrawing from such society. I had every intention of leaving Wetheral next week, but now I shall set off to-morrow, at twelve o'clock; therefore, Isabel, give your maid orders accordingly."
Mrs. Boscawen's distress52 was too violent to be controlled. "Oh, Mr. Boscawen, how can you take [314] me away to horrible Brierly so suddenly!—how can you frighten me, and threaten to leave Wetheral before our month is quite over! I shall never be confined at all, I'm sure, and Clara will be so angry!" Isabel sat down, overcome with terror.
Mr. Boscawen patiently and kindly53 explained his line of conduct to his terrified wife. He assured her no notice would be taken of her disclosure, and that no one should suspect the cause of his departure. He expressed his disgust at Clara's conduct, but he was silent upon the abhorrence54 he conceived to the untired man?uvring of the mother. He trusted Isabel would become attached to Brierly in the course of time; it was a safer home than the infected air of Wetheral; and, after her confinement55, if she fancied change of air, he would take her to the sea.
Mr. Boscawen's observations, in some measure, pacified56 the extreme grief of Isabel; but her night's rest was gone, and she was extremely feverish57 in the morning, complaining of painful oppression and headache. Mr. Boscawen was fearful his young wife might suffer from the complicated effects of fear and dislike to returning home; but he was resolved in his purpose: nothing now could alter his determination to carry his lady from Wetheral. He announced his intention openly at breakfast, and Lady Wetheral's [315] polite expression of sorrow fell from her lips upon a cold and barren soil: no flowers rose under her gracious shower of compliments.
"My dear Mr. Boscawen, you surprise and grieve me by your resolution: the absence of Isabel and yourself will throw a deep gloom around us."
"I am obliged to you," quietly replied Mr. Boscawen, as he buttered his piece of dry toast.
"Losing three daughters at one fell swoop58, is a severe trial," continued her ladyship. "I shall miss my dear Isabel every hour."
Mr. Boscawen deigned59 no reply; but Isabel, pale and without appetite, sat dissolved in tears, and dared not trust her voice: she feared to displease60 her husband by any manifestation61 of grief, but her heart was sinking under the fearful anticipations62 of Miss Tabitha, and the gloomy routine of Brierly.
"I suppose Sir John is in his study," observed Mr. Boscawen, rising at the conclusion of breakfast.
"Oh, yes, Sir John breakfasts at seven o'clock, when people are, or ought to be, fast asleep. I can't comprehend such ungenial hours and taste. Surely, if breakfast is ended before eleven o'clock, there is sufficient leisure for the affairs of life."
[316]
Mr Boscawen's disgust rose to his eyes, and overflowed63 in the expression of his countenance; but a strong effort subdued64 the sentence which trembled upon his lips. He rose, and quitted the breakfast-room. When the door closed upon his awful figure, Isabel's misery65 burst forth66: she threw her arms around Clara, who was seated near her, and sobbed67 violently.
"Oh, mamma, I wish I had never, never married!"
"My dear Mrs. Boscawen," replied her mother, in very soothing68 accents, "you are not aware of what you say. I am sure you would have been miserable69 single, and I should have been tormented70 to death with an unmarried daughter always at my elbow. You are very comfortably and happily married, my love."
"Oh, how can you say so, mamma! I wish I was Chrystal, to sit with papa, and never be obliged to do what I did not like! I wish I was you, Clara, happy and unmarried! I wish I was a bird, or the cat, or any thing but what I am!" Poor Isabel wept freely: she proceeded—"I am going to be shut up with Miss Tabitha and Mr. Boscawen, in that large, gloomy Brierly; I must not laugh, or speak to old John, or see any pleasant [317] company. Oh, no one can tell the dullness and frightfulness71 of Brierly!"
"My dear Isabel, reflect upon matrimony, and tell me who you ever saw perfectly72 free from care in that state? I consider it a very proper and natural institution, so very properly arranged, and so particularly enforced, that I confess I have no opinion of a woman who does not marry, if all the comforts of life are secured to her. If a woman is protected by a handsome settlement, and those kind of things, she ought to marry."
"Do you think so?" said Isabel, languidly.
"I do: I think you married extremely well, and you ought to consider yourself peculiarly fortunate. If Mr. Boscawen is rigid74 in exacting75 painful sacrifices from you, remember he was very liberal in making a settlement; there must be trials, my dear children. I am a proof that the happiest matrimony has cares. Your poor father never assisted me in my anxieties about you all: I am certain Lord Ennismore would never have married Julia, if my unwearied efforts had not domesticated76 him at Wetheral."
"Tom Pynsent will never contradict Anna Maria," said Isabel, as the tears sprang again [318] to her eyes—"Tom will never wish my sister to read!"
Mr. Boscawen was heard in the hall, giving orders.
"Oh, we are going, mamma; I hear Mr. Boscawen ordering the carriage. I know the tone of his voice in giving that order so well! how my heart beats!" Isabel clung to her mother's arm.
Mr. Boscawen entered, and gave his arm to his pale, trembling wife. "My dear Isabel, I have arranged every thing; you have only your father to visit before you enter the carriage."
His lady appeared ready to faint. "Don't let me see papa! don't let me see papa!" she exclaimed.
"You are agitated77, my love," observed her husband, putting his arm round her waist, and speaking kindly. "Do not be flurried, my dear Isabel, you shall see and speak to no one. Clara will be kind enough to tell Sir John how you feel. You tremble very much; try to gain firmness, my love."
Poor Isabel was placed in her carriage, half fainting, without the power to speak or move. Mr. Boscawen was hurt and alarmed for the effects of this agitation78 upon his lady's health; [319] but his mind was decided to persevere79 in removing Isabel. He deputed Clara to explain to her father how much emotion her sister evinced at the thoughts of taking leave; and bowing to Lady Wetheral and Miss Kerrison, Mr. Boscawen took his place by the side of Isabel, whose head reclined against the side of the carriage, nor did she raise it to look her adieus. She appeared too exhausted80 and sick at heart to make an effort of any kind. How differently she quitted Wetheral upon her nuptial81 morning!
Sir Foster Kerrison did actually call at Wetheral some hours after the Boscawens' departure. Clara was soothed82 and flattered, her mother charmed, by the visit. Sir Foster sat silent till he was spoken to.
"My dear sir, this is courteous84, indeed," Lady Wetheral began; "I feel much honoured by your polite attention to my wish."
Sir Foster winked85 his eye and tapped his boot, but he did not seem to comprehend the purport86 of her ladyship's speech. "Umph, eh?"
"Papa, you received Lady Wetheral's note, of course?" said Miss Kerrison.
"Eh, what?"
"Lady Wetheral's note, papa—the note you received yesterday from Wetheral!"
[320]
Sir Foster sat winking87, but could not remember any note.
"Oh, papa, you received a note, and I am sure it is in your pocket. Pray, let me look into the recesses88 of your enormous pockets?"
Miss Kerrison playfully emptied her father's pockets, and Lady Wetheral's note appeared with its seal unbroken, accompanied by sundry89 letters, straps90, nails, and a shoeing horn. Clara's eyes flashed indignation, but her mother's smiled sweetly.
"My dear Sir Foster, I must not complain of your very absent mind, since I only suffer with the rest of the world. Upon my word, this is very amusing! See, my dear Lucy, how entertaining this assemblage of articles promises to be!"
Sir Foster stared, while the ladies laughed over the miscellaneous contents of his pocket. Clara alone sat dignified91 and offended. Lady Wetheral explained the purport of her note, and begged the company of Miss Kerrison for a longer and indefinite period. Sir Foster hummed an air and tapped his boot during her complimentary92 and lengthy93 speech.
"Papa always implies consent when he hums and taps, Lady Wetheral, so that is delightfully94 [321] arranged: but why, papa, did you call here this morning?"
"Where's Boscawen?"
"They have left some hours, to return to Brierly, papa. Did you want to see Mr. Boscawen?"
A smile curled Sir Foster's handsome lip.
"I am sorry Mr. Boscawen is gone then, papa. I suppose you had some horse in view?"
Another smile and tap of the boot.
"I thought so. But, papa, you will never read your letters and notes if I do not return to Ripley; will you?"
Sir Foster winked his eye in silence.
"My dear Lucy," said Lady Wetheral, playfully, "Sir Foster must bring his letters here every morning for your perusal95 and advice."
"Oh yes, papa, that is an excellent plan; is it not? You must ride over every morning to be searched, and then you will not require my presence at Ripley."
Sir Foster sat two hours without speaking, or appearing to attend to the conversation which took place between his fair companions. He sat in the most complete absence of mind, tapping his boot, which Clara resented by silent looks of contempt. Miss Kerrison was so intimately [322] acquainted with her father's ways that her chat flowed on undisturbed, till the ormolu clock struck six; Miss Kerrison then approached her father.
"Well, papa, it's time for you to return home; it is six o'clock."
"Eh, umph, what?"
"You must order your horse, papa, and go to Ripley to dinner."
"Oh, Sir Foster surely will not quit us; we shall hope for his company at dinner to-day." Lady Wetheral spoke83 in earnest and bewitching tones.
"No, thank you, dear Lady Wetheral, not to-day. This is papa's way; he always goes on in this way at some person's house, and I dare say, having once called here, papa will be regularly at Wetheral every day."
Her ladyship's quick perceptions saw the advantage of gaining Sir Foster Kerrison as a daily visitor; she caught at once the propriety96 of allowing him to take his own way in the manner and time of his visits: she therefore ceased to pour forth invitations, but, taking at once a comprehensive view of his character and habits, Sir Foster was allowed to depart in the same mechanical form which characterised his [323] entrance. Clara's indignation almost threatened destruction to her plans. She inveighed97 against the excessive stolidity98 of a man who could sit in a fine woman's society, and yet be ignorant of her presence! Such a man as Sir Foster might visit at Wetheral innocently enough, for he had not the use of his senses.
"My dear Clara," argued her mother, "you are wrong in all your conclusions. Sir Foster has peculiar73 ways, it is true, but I consider them altogether in our favour. I wish him to become a daily visitor, under the idea of seeing Lucy, who assists me most materially without being aware of it. I wish him to sit as stupidly as he pleases, and to come whenever he pleases; only, my dear Clara, don't look so indignant."
"I cannot understand your tactics," said Clara, sharply. "I can't comprehend how stupidity and indifference100 can be considered in my favour."
"I dare say not, my love; but when you become a mother, these things will explain themselves. Give me a little credit for foresight101, I beseech you, in the establishments I procured102 your sisters. Be patient, and appear calm, Clara, till I have decided yours."
Clara became impatient and offended, which [324] caused her mother infinite vexation and alarm. She dreaded103 lest Clara's irritable spirit should transpire44 even to Lucy Kerrison: she dreaded lest her own web should become unravelled104 by the very hand she wished to bestow105 upon Sir Foster. It was necessary to deal very gently and delicately with a disposition106 like Clara's. She did not possess the gentleness of manner which was so eminent107 in Anna Maria, or the sprightly108 sweetness of Lady Ennismore. Her beauty was superior to both sisters, which prepossessed many in her favour; but her wayward and powerful temper was known only in her own home. It was her mother's aim to shield it if possible from observation. Thompson, who had ever played a conspicuous109 part in the family, was at this time installed into a kind of confidential110 friend; and to her Lady Wetheral bitterly complained of the fatigue111 and terror attendant upon her own watchfulness.
"I declare, Thompson, Miss Clara gives me infinitely112 more trouble than my three eldest113 daughters combined. I am always fearful of some display of temper occurring in an unfortunate hour to betray her to gentlemen."
"Yes, my lady, that would be sad indeed. [325] I'm sure I am always boasting of Miss Clara's sweet temper, as far as I am concerned."
"I wish her to be silent and calm in appearance, yet I am ever upon the watch to soften114 Miss Clara's remarks, and explain away offensive looks. I don't think, Thompson, Miss Clara will marry soon."
"Oh, my lady, I have heard many remarks about Sir Foster Kerrison's attentions at my young ladies' wedding!"
"What remarks, Thompson? what do foolish people say now?" asked her lady, affecting nonchalance115.
"People say Sir Foster is not a very talkative gentleman, my lady, but then he stood always close to Miss Clara; I heard too he called this morning; so people put two and two together, as they very well may."
"If people calculate so erroneously, they must expect to be wrong in the sum total," replied her ladyship, smiling and internally pleased at remarks having been uttered; "but we shall see, Thompson."
Miss Kerrison's prediction concerning her father's way of sitting hours in silence at people's houses was verified. Having called at Wetheral to see Mr. Boscawen upon some affair [326] connected with horses, and having also remained his usual two hours with the ladies, unnoticed and unbored with attentions which required him to talk, Sir Foster Kerrison, on the following morning, again deposited himself at Wetheral, and was allowed, with the tact99 of a veteran matron, to sit in a lounging chair, tapping his boot, and winking his eye without molestation116. Miss Kerrison took an inventory117 of the stores deposited in his pockets during the first moment of her father's entrance, an employment he never noticed beyond an absent smile; after which ordeal118 he was consigned to a half-dozing kind of existence, till Miss Kerrison warned him to depart, by assuring him the clock had struck six. Day after day Sir Foster was found regularly installed in the ladies' boudoir at Wetheral, and as regularly did he depart at his daughter's summons.
Had Lady Wetheral rashly urged Sir Foster to dine at the Castle, it would have broken through the habit which impelled119 him to move backwards120 and forwards at stated times, and by certain sounds; it might too have drawn121 him towards new people and other houses. Lucy Kerrison was perfectly right in her suggestion [327] that, having called by accident, his visits might continue through habit.
There was another advantage attendant upon Sir Foster's morning lounge. Sir John, who rarely appeared out of the precincts of his study, was ignorant of the events which gilded122 the pleasures of the boudoir. The study was far removed from sights and sounds, and the chapel123 must be traversed to reach its perfect seclusion124. The windows received light from a court, walled round, and closed to curious view by a deep and impervious125 shrubbery of laurels126 and evergreen127 oaks. In this sequestered128 part of the castle, its master loved to pass his mornings; and how could he suppose his wishes, nay129, almost commands, were of non-effect? Sir Foster was not seen at his table—his name was rarely mentioned at Wetheral—no visiting-ticket met his eye—no allusion130 was made to recent visits on the part of his family—every thing appeared regular and in its usual order. Sir John was, therefore, calm, and almost oblivious131 to the existence of Sir Foster Kerrison. This was most favourable132 to his lady's schemes.
For three weeks, consecutively133, this order of things continued; and only once, during that period, did Sir John meet Sir Foster within the [328] domain134 of Wetheral; which was, of course, attributed to an anxiety to see his daughter. Under that impression, Sir John hastened to do him honour; and, on the morning in question, he ushered135 Sir Foster into the boudoir himself, with the politeness and consideration due to a gentleman, and a fond father visiting a beloved child.
Astonishment136 was depicted137 in his countenance, when he beheld138 his guest, sans céremonie, take possession of the lounging chair, and, after placing his hat upon a work-table, begin, as was his wont139, to hum an air and tap his boot, without offering a word of compliment, or even addressing the daughter he had ridden four miles to see. There was something extraordinary, he fancied, in the quiet smile bestowed140 upon Sir Foster by Lady Wetheral, and he was much displeased141 at Miss Kerrison's sudden movement to examine her father's pockets, without bestowing142 a word of filial obeisance143 to a parent she had not seen for some weeks; yet did the truth escape his unsuspicious mind. It never entered into his heart to believe his expressed resolutions were unheeded. His good taste was shocked at the style of Sir Foster's entrance into a lady's sitting-room144, and he did not remain to endure its continuance. He retired145 again to his study; [329] secure, at least, that such a man could never propitiate146 Clara, however strongly his lady's wishes might point that way.
So far all things combined again to favour Lady Wetheral's plans and hopes. It seemed as though Fortune went hand in hand with her thoughts, and that Fate set his seal upon her wish. Sir Foster's constant visits produced much remark, and prepared the way for her last stroke—a stroke which was to end all further suspense147, and decide for ever the happy fortunes of Clara. Every event led the way gently and surely. Sir Foster had walked into the net with his own free will: he came each day to Wetheral, uninvited; and her ladyship could affirm, most seriously and truly, that no effort had been employed on her side to coerce148 Sir Foster's intentions. He had not even been asked to dinner. He had never been alone with Clara. If he came to visit his daughter, a parent possessed a right to demand admittance any where; but no attractions had been held out to allure149 him—no second-hand150 influence detained him. Sir Foster came without invitation, and remained without any inducements beyond his own pleasure. Sir Foster, therefore, prepared his own destiny; for Lady Wetheral, anxious to preserve her daughter's [330] peace of mind, thought it now high time to understand upon what terms they were in future to meet.
To be so very regularly at Wetheral—to sit with herself and daughter daily, uninvited, and without inquiring for Sir John—wore an appearance which the world could express only in its conventional language, as "paying his addresses to Miss Wetheral." Young ladies had feelings, which must be cared for; they had sensibility, which should not be wounded with impunity151. There was a part which every parent should act with firmness towards a young girl, whose affections were trifled with; and she would undertake the painful task of leading Sir Foster to explain his sentiments, herself. Clara was to engage Miss Kerrison, the following morning, in a walk round the garden, at the hour of Sir Foster's visit; and Lady Wetheral would soon penetrate152 his intentions. If all went well, the window of the boudoir was to be thrown open; in which case, Clara was to appear as by accident. If Sir Foster was very resolute42 and ungallant, all would remain closed; but she would not allow a doubt, in her own mind, to arise upon the subject.
At breakfast, on the eventful morning, Lady Wetheral issued her orders to the butler—
"When Sir Foster Kerrison comes, show him into the drawing-room."
Sir Foster was shown into the drawing-room, accordingly.
END OF VOL. I.
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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12
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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13
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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14
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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15
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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16
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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17
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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18
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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19
inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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20
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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21
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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22
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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23
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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24
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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25
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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26
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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27
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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29
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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30
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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31
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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33
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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34
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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35
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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36
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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37
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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38
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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39
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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40
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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41
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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42
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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43
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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44
transpire
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| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
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45
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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46
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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47
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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48
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
annotations
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| n.注释( annotation的名词复数 )；附注 | |
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50
implicating
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| vt.牵涉，涉及（implicate的现在分词形式） | |
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51
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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52
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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53
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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54
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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55
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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56
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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57
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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58
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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59
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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61
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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62
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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63
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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64
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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66
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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67
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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68
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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69
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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70
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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71
frightfulness
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| 可怕； 丑恶； 讨厌； 恐怖政策 | |
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72
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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73
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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74
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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75
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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76
domesticated
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|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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78
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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79
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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80
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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81
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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82
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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83
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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84
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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85
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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86
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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87
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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88
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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89
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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90
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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91
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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92
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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93
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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94
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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95
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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96
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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97
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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99
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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100
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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101
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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102
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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103
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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104
unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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105
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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106
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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107
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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108
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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109
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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110
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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111
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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112
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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113
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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114
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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115
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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116
molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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117
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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118
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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119
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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121
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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122
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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123
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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124
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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125
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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126
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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127
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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128
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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129
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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130
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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131
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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132
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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133
consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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134
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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135
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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137
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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138
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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139
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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140
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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142
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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143
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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144
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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145
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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146
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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147
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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148
coerce
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| v.强迫，压制 | |
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149
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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150
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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151
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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152
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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