So seven years had sped, and there was little variation in the life of our heroine for her biographer to record. Her constant prayer was heard. Her name had become a household word, coupled with love, from the pure high feelings and ennobling sympathies which her writings had called forth13. Her works had made her beloved and revered14, though her person, nay15, her very place of residence and all concerning her were, as she desired, utterly16 unknown. This in itself was happiness, inexpressibly heightened by her present domestic duties, lightening Mrs. Langley’s household cares; giving part of every day to that lady’s pupils; teaching them not only to be accomplished17 and domestic, but to be thinkers; training the heart, even more than the mind; making nature alike a temple and a school: all the sweet charities of home were now hers, and her heart was indeed happy and once more at rest.
And was Granville Dudley, then, forgotten? When we say that Clara might have married more than once, and most happily, but that she had refused, simply because she could not permit an unloved reality to usurp18 the place of a still loved shadow—all doubts, we think, are answered.
Of Granville Dudley she could never hear; all trace of him seemed lost. Within the last few years the newspapers had indeed often teemed19 with the praises and speeches of a Sir Dudley Granville; but, though the conjunction of names had at first riveted20 her eye and made her heart turn strangely sick, she banished21 the thought as folly22. It was a Granville Dudley, not a Dudley Granville, whom she had too fondly loved.
Miss Stanley had resided about seven years with Mrs. Langley, when application was made to the latter lady to receive the only child of Sir Dudley Granville as her pupil. The child was motherless, and in such very precarious23 health, that the milder climate of Devonshire had been advised, as, combined with extreme care, the only chance of rearing her to womanhood. Mrs. Langley’s establishment was full, six being her allotted24 number, which no persuasion25 had as yet ever induced her to increase. There was something, however, in the appearance of the little Laura which so unconsciously won upon Clara, that she could not resist pleading in the child’s behalf; and as one of the pupils was to leave the next half year, Mrs. Langley acceded26. Clara’s name, however, had not been mentioned in this transaction. The lady who had the charge of Laura had indeed conversed27 with her, and had been charmed with her manner; but little imagined she was enjoying the often-coveted honour of conversing28 with an authoress, and one so popular as Clara Stanley. She said that Laura, though eight years old, literally29 knew nothing. Lady Granville had been the belle30 of her time, but one who had the greatest horror of all learning in woman, and in consequence possessing nothing of herself but showy accomplishment31, which told in society. She had neglected the poor child, wasted alike her own health and her husband’s income in the sole pursuit of pleasure, and hurried herself to an early grave. Laura’s health had been so delicate since then, that her father feared to commence her studies, even while he was most anxious she should become a sensible and accomplished woman, with resources for happiness within herself.
“And she shall be, if I can make her so,” was Clara’s inward thought, as she looked on the sweet face of the child, and a new chord in her heart was touched she knew not wherefore. It was impossible to analyse the feeling, even to one long accustomed to analysing hearts, and Clara gave it up in despair; but affection and interest alike clung round the child, who gave back all she received. Her weak health prevented her entering into all the routine of the schoolroom, and she became Clara’s constant companion and pupil. Repeatedly the artless letters of the child to her doting32 father teemed with the goodness, the gentleness, the tenderness of Miss Stanley; soon convincing Sir Dudley how quick and ready were her powers of comprehension, and filling his heart with gratitude33 towards that kind friend, whom he knew not, guessed not was the authoress of the same name whose gentle eloquence34 in her sex’s cause had even now his admiration.
Laura Granville had been with Mrs. Langley about eight months, when she became extremely ill, from an epidemic35 that had suddenly broken out in the village; all Mrs. Langley’s household were attacked by it in a greater or less degree, but in Laura alone did it threaten to be fatal. Careless of her own fatigue36, Clara devoted37 herself, day and night, to the young sufferer. Her affections had never before been so warmly enlisted38; not one of her young friends had ever become so completely part of herself, and as she watched and tended her morning prayers for her recovery, it seemed as if the child must be something nearer to her than in reality she was.
An express had been sent off for Sir Dudley Granville; but, from his having gone unexpectedly to visit a friend in Germany, it was unavoidably delayed on its way, and nearly three weeks elapsed ere the baronet reached Ashford. From the haste with which he had travelled, no account of her progress could reach him; and it was in a state of agony and suspense40 no words can describe that the father flung himself from his carriage at Mrs. Langley’s gate, and rushed into her presence.
“Your child lives; is rapidly recovering—may be stronger than she has been yet,” were the first words he heard, for his look and manner were all-sufficient introduction; and the benevolent41 physician, who had that instant quitted his little patient, grasped Sir Dudley’s hand with reassuring42 pressure. The baronet tried to return it with a smile, but his quivering lip could only gasp43 forth an ejaculation of thankfulness, and sinking on a chair, he covered his face with his hand.
“Let me see this incomparable young woman, the preserver of my child!” he passionately44 exclaimed, as Dr. Bernard and Mrs. Langley, after describing the progress and crisis of Laura’s illness, attributed her unexpected recovery, under Providence45, to the incessant46 care and watchfulness47 of Miss Stanley, the physician declaring his utmost skill had been, without it, of no avail whatever. Being assured his appearance would not injure Laura, who was, in truth, daily expecting him, he eagerly followed Mrs. Langley to the room, and paused a moment on the threshold unobserved.
Laura was sitting up in her little bed, supported by pillows, looking pale and delicate, indeed, but smiling with that joyous48 animation49 which, in childhood, is so sure a sign of returning health; and dressing50, with the greatest zest51, a beautiful doll, which, with its plentifully-supplied wardrobe, lay beside her. Near the bed, and seated by a small table, covered with books and writings, was Clara, who, by the rapid movement of her pen, and her immovable attention, was evidently deeply engrossed52 in her employment. Sir Dudley could not see her face, for it was bent53 down, and even its profile turned from him, but a strange thrill shot through him as he gazed.
“Oh! look, Miss Stanley, how beautiful your work shows, now she is dressed. How kind you were to make her all these pretty things. I can do it all but these buttons, will you do them for me?”
Clara laid down her pen with a smile, to comply with the child’s request; and as she did so, Laura laid her little head caressingly54 on her bosom55, saying, fondly, “Dear, dear, Miss Stanley, I wish papa would come; he would thank you for all your goodness much better than I can.”
“I wish he would come, for your sake and his own, dearest—not to thank me, though I shall not love you the less for being so grateful, Laura,” was the reply, in a voice, whose low, musical tones brought back, as by a flash of light to Sir Dudley’s heart, feelings, thoughts, memories, of past years, which he thought were hushed for ever.
“Miss Stanley! Clara! inscrutable Providence!—is it to you I owe my child?” he exclaimed, springing suddenly forward, and clasping his little child to his heart—one moment covering Laura’s upturned face with kisses, the next turning his earnest, grateful gaze on the astonished Clara.
For an instant her heart grew faint, for the fatigue of long-continued nursing had weakened her; nor could she realize in that agitating56 moment the lapse39 of ten years, since she had last looked on his face, or listened to its richly expressive57 voice. Time had passed over her heart, leaving its early dream unchanged, and vainly she strove to feel how long a period had flown. All seemed a thick and traceless mist; but when she succeeded in shaking off that prostrating58 weakness, forcing herself to remember it was Sir Dudley Granville, not Granville Dudley, who had thus addressed her, still one fact was certain, the object of her first, her only affection was at her side once more—it was his child her care had saved.
Day after day did Clara Stanley and Sir Dudley Granville pass hours together by the couch of Laura. Though conscious her secret was still her own, and grateful that, after the first burst of natural feeling, Granville’s manner to her was only that of an obliged and appreciating friend, Clara’s peculiarly delicate feelings would have kept her from Laura’s room during the visits of her father; but the child was restless and uncomfortable whenever she was absent, and Granville so evidently entreated60 her continued presence, that to keep away was impossible. It was during these pleasant interviews Sir Dudley related the cause of his change of name. He had become, most unexpectedly, the heir to his godfather, Sir William Granville, who had left him all his estates, on the sole condition of his adopting, for himself and his heirs, the name of Granville—Sir Granville Granville, he added, with a smile, was not sufficiently61 euphonious62, and so he had placed the Dudley first instead of last. He alluded63 in terms of the warmest admiration to her works, and wondered at his own stupidity in never connecting the Miss Stanley of his Laura’s letters with the authoress he had once known. A very peculiar59 smile beamed on the lips of Clara as he thus spoke11, but she did not say its meaning.
One day, some six or seven weeks after Granville’s appearance at Ashford, Clara had just comfortably seated herself at her desk, after seeing Laura ensconced in her little pony64 chaise, when she was startled by hearing Sir Dudley’s voice, in accents of unusual seriousness, close beside her.
“Will you tell me, Miss Stanley, how you can possibly contrive65 to unite so perfectly66 the literary with the domestic characters? I have watched, but cannot find you fail in either—how is this?”
“Simply, Sir Dudley, because, in my opinion, it is impossible to divide them. Perfect in them, indeed, I am not; but though I know it is possible for woman to be domestic without being literary—as we are all not equally endowed by Providence—to my feelings, it is not possible to be more than usually gifted without being domestic. The appeal to the heart must come from the heart; and the quick sensibility of the imaginative woman must make her feel for others, and act for them, more particularly for the loved of home. To write, we must think, and if we think of duty, we, of all others, must not fail in its performance, or our own words are bitter with reproach. It is from want of thought most failings spring, alike in duty as in feeling. From this want the literary and imaginative woman must be free.”
Granville’s eyes never moved from the fair, expressive face of the gentle woman who thus spoke, till she ceased, and then he paced the room in silence; till, seating himself beside her, he besought67 her to listen to him, and pity and forgive him, and prove that she forgave him; and, ere she could reply, he poured forth the tale of his earlier love—how truly he loved her, even when his idle prejudices against literary women caused him to fly from her influence, and enter into a hurried engagement with one, beautiful indeed, but, from having no resources within herself, the mere68 votaress of pleasure and outward excitement. How bitterly he had repented69 through seven weary years the misery70 he had brought upon himself—how constantly he had yearned71 for a companion of his home and of his mind—and how repeatedly, as he glanced over her pages, where pure fresh feeling breathed in every line, and the love of home and its sacred ties were so forcibly inculcated, he had cursed his own folly. How he had sought to drown thought in a public career, but had still felt desolate72; and now that he looked on her again, not only in her own character, but as the preserver of his child, how completely he felt that happiness was gone from him for ever, unless she would give it in herself!
Clara’s face was turned from him as he spoke, but, ere he concluded, the quick, bright tears were falling in her lap; and when she tried to meet his glance and speak, her lip so quivered that no words came. It was an effort ere she could tell her tale; but it was told at length, though Granville’s ardent73 gratitude was for the moment checked by her serious rejoinder.
“It is no shame now, dear Granville, to confess how deeply and constantly I have returned your affection; but listen to me ere you proceed further. I do not doubt what you say, that your prejudices are all removed; but are you certain, quite certain, that a woman who has resources of mind as well as of heart can make you happy, as you believe? At one-and-twenty you could have moulded me to what you pleased. I doubt whether I should have written another line, had you not approved of my doing it. At one-and-thirty this cannot be. My character—my habits are formed. I cannot draw back from my literary path, for I feel it accomplishes good. Can I indeed make your happiness as I am? Dearest Granville, do not let feeling alone decide.”
“Feeling! sense! reason! Clara—my own Clara—all speak and have spoken long. Make my child but like yourself, and with two such blessings74 I dare not picture what life would be—too, too much joy.”
And joy it was. Joy as it seemed. Granville has felt that for once imagination fell short of reality, for his path is indeed one of sunshine; and as Lady Granville, the authoress, continues her path of literary and domestic usefulness, proving to the full how very possible it is for woman to unite the two, and that our great poet[3] is right when, in contradiction to Moore’s shallow theory of the unfitness of genius to domestic happiness, he answered—“It is not because they possess genius that they make unhappy homes, but because they do not possess genius enough. A higher order of mind would enable them to see and feel all the beauty of domestic ties.”
3. Wordsworth.
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1
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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euphonious
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| adj.好听的，悦耳的，和谐的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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