By ev’ry change be proved.”
L. E. L.
“I could forgive the miserable1 hours
His falsehood, and his only, taught my heart;
But I can not forgive that for his sake
My faith in good is shaken, and my hopes
Are pale and cold, for they have looked on death.
Why should I love him? he no longer is
That which I loved.”
L. E. L.
“Thou livest! thou livest!
I knew thou couldst not die!”
De Chatillon—Mrs. Hemans.
Nearly two years had elapsed since the death of Reginald De Vere ere any event of sufficient importance occurred in Annie’s life for us to resume the thread of our narrative3. A shock like that, and on such a disposition4, could never be forgotten, though time, the softener5 of all ills, had restored her to some degree of her wonted animation6, and though the elastic7 spirits of the young girl had given way, the woman had become yet more attractive and lovable. The first London season after Reginald’s death she had not accompanied her uncle’s family to the great metropolis8, but spent the period of their absence quietly in Scotland. The second, she did not refuse to join them; but scenes of festivity were so evidently distasteful, that her friends did not urge her entering more into society than her own inclinations10 prompted. But in her uncle’s house she was seen and known only to be admired and loved, receiving, to her extreme astonishment11, an unexceptionable offer of marriage before she had been two months in London. It was declined gratefully, but so decidedly as to give no hope. Some weeks afterwards, Lord St. Clair one morning entered Annie’s room. She was alone, so intently engaged in drawing as not to observe the very peculiar15 expression of countenance16 with which he regarded her some minutes without speaking.
“I would give something to read your thoughts, cousin mine,” she said, playfully, at length raising her eyes to his face, which instantly resumed its usual kind and open expression. “I could hardly believe you were in the room, you were so silent.”
“I was thinking how very wise the world is, Annie. It knows and vouches17 for so many things concerning individuals, of which they are utterly18 ignorant themselves.”
“Why, what is the report now?”
“Only—” he paused for a second, then rallied so quickly, that the huskiness of his first words was unperceived, “that you and I are engaged in marriage, and that I only wait till you are of age, that the disparity of years may seem less.”
“The world must think much too highly of me for such a report to gain credence,” replied Annie, simply, yet gravely, though she did start at the intelligence.
“What can you mean?”
“That they must hold me in much greater respect than I deserve to unite my name, even in thought, with yours.”
“My dear Annie, can you mean that you are undeserving of the regard of any man, however high his worth? How little do you know yourself! Believe me, it is I who should feel proud that the world should believe this so strongly that not even the disparity of years between us is considered an objection.”
“Do not talk so, dear Henry, or I shall fear I am losing one of the truest friends I have. You have always treated me with such regard as never to flatter me; pray do not begin now.”
“Indeed you do me injustice19, Annie; might I not return the charge, and accuse you of flattering me?”
“No, dear cousin. How can I do otherwise than look up to, and venerate20 your worth, associating with you at home, as I have done for nearly three years, and receiving such constant kindness, that had I been your own young sister you could not have shown more? Do I not see you as a son and brother? and if I did not venerate you, should I not be the only one, either at home or in the world, who did not do you the justice you deserve?”
“And may I not equally have learnt to know and love you?”
“Yes, as a child, a sister, but not as the wife you need.”
“Is the disparity of years, then, in your mind so great an obstacle? Do you think it quite impossible a man of eight-and-thirty can love a girl of twenty?”
“No, not impossible.”
“But impossible that a girl of twenty could love a man of eight-and-thirty; is that it?”
“Far less unlikely than the other case,” replied Annie, half smiling, for her complete unconsciousness caused her to be amused at her companion’s pertinacity21.
“Then why should the world’s report be so utterly without foundation, dearest Annie?” inquired Lord St. Clair, with such a sudden change of countenance and tone that it startled her almost into consciousness. The arch and playful look vanished, her cheek paled, and the tears started to her eyes, and laying her hand confidingly22 on his arm, she said, with quivering lip—
“Dearest Henry, do not let me lose the kind brother, the true friend I have so long believed you.”
“You shall not, Annie,” he answered fervently23, “even if to retain such appellatives makes me more miserable than you imagine.”
“Do not, do not say so! my thoughts are all memories, and were the world’s report indeed true, would be faithless every hour; could this make your happiness?”
“But must this always be? Is devotion to the departed a higher duty than giving happiness to the living? So purely24 unselfish as you are, would you not in time better secure your own peace by giving inexpressible happiness as the beloved and cherished wife of the living, who would never expect you to love as you have loved, than by indulging in the luxury of memory and devotedness25 to one who is in heaven? Is not this a question worth considering, Annie?”
“Not now, not now! oh, do not urge me now!” she implored27, bursting into tears; and her companion on the instant banished28 every word and thought of self to soothe29 and calm her.
A month or two afterwards Lord St. Clair, to the astonishment of his friends, by whom he was regarded as a particularly quiet stay-at-home sort of person, accepted a diplomatic embassy to the courts of Germany and Russia, likely to detain him twelve or eighteen months. He had besought30 and received Annie’s permission to correspond with her. Letters from a mind and heart like his could not be otherwise than interesting. His words returned repeatedly to her thoughts; she loved him sufficiently31 to feel a degree of pleasure in the idea of adding to his happiness, and six months after he had left England, her answer to a letter from him, in which generalities had merged32 into personalities33, contained the following words:—
“If, dearest Henry, the gratitude34 and reverence35 of one whose best affections still linger with the dead are indeed of sufficient worth to give you the happiness which you tell me rests with me, I will not refuse to become yours, if a twelvemonth hence you still desire it. Give me that time. The painful feelings with which I now look to marriage, as almost faithlessness to one who, though the actual words never passed his lips, I do believe loved me most truly, will then perhaps, in some degree at least, have subsided36, and I may be able to give you all that your wife should bestow37. I know and feel that time is the comforter as well as the destroyer, and that though it is actual agony to think that my heart will ever so change as to feel less acutely the loss I have sustained, I know it will and must, and that it is right and best it should do so. Give me but time then, dearest Henry—let the memories of the dead be so softened38 that I may do my duty lovingly as well as faithfully to the living; and till that may be, let us continue as we have been to the world and to each other.”
Lord St. Clair did not hesitate to accede39 to this request. Even his letters did not change their tone; he was still the friend more than the lover; but he contrived40 to shorten the period of his voluntary banishment41, and eleven months after he had quitted England beheld42 his return.
There was a change in Annie, however, which alarmed and pained him; she was pale and thin, and strangely and feverishly44 restless. Lady Emily, from being constantly with her, had not remarked the great alteration45, but acknowledged, in answer to St. Clair’s anxious queries46, that she had seemed more unhappy the last four months, that the calm and tranquil47 cheerfulness which had characterised her had given place to alternations of fitful gaiety and more frequent depression; but what had occasioned it she could not tell; she thought it might be physical, as she had had a slight cough hanging about her for weeks, which nothing she took seemed to remove. Four months previous! was it possible that she might regret the promises she had so ingenuously48 given? Lord St. Clair more than once caught her glance fixed49 with a degree of pleading earnestness upon him, as if she failed in courage to speak; and as he was not one to encourage painful doubts where a word might solve them, he took an opportunity of kindly50 and affectionately inquiring why she was so changed.
The cause was soon revealed. About ten days after she had written to him, as we related, she had seen, amongst other despatches directed to Lord St. Clair, which were lying on the library table waiting to be arranged and forwarded, a single letter, the writing of the direction of which had caused such a sudden thrill and subsequent faintness, that it had been with difficulty she refrained from involuntarily tearing it open, to know from whom it came. She said that she had endeavoured to conquer the strange fancy; to reason with herself, that the resemblance to a writing she but too well remembered was mere52 accident. Yet so powerful had been its effect, that even when she recalled the superscription, the same feelings of heart-sickness returned as had overpowered her when it first met her eye. It had been put up with other public despatches—the family having before its arrival closed and sent more private letters; that as he had never alluded53 to it, she had struggled to believe it could have been nothing of interest to her, and yet the subject would not leave her mind, allowing her neither sleep at night nor rest by day. She knew it folly54, she said, but conquer it she could not.
And that fearful state of internal restlessness was fated to continue; for, most unfortunately, the packet of despatches in which that was had been lost, in the overflow55 of a river which the messenger who bore it had to ford56, and Lord St. Clair had never alluded to it, for his letters to Annie had been shorter than he liked, from the annoyance57 and increase of trouble which the loss of this very packet had occasioned him in his political employment. That the post-mark seemed Italian was all she could tell him, and his anxiety became as great as hers, though that it could really be what it was easy to discover Annie really imagined it, he believed impossible.
Meanwhile, the poor girl’s health—under a suspicion which, however imaginary, was very fearful—did not improve, and her relatives rested not till a skilful58 physician had been consulted; his opinion instantly decided13 them, and, despite of Annie’s resistance, a tour on the Continent was resolved on, Lord Ennerdale desiring her not to let him see her again, till she could bring back her own rosy59 smiling self.
The party consisted of only Lord St. Clair, Lady Emily, and Annie; and, making only a brief stay at Paris, they proceeded in a south-easterly direction, crossed the Jura, and fixed their residence for some weeks in the vicinity of Geneva. The complete change of air and scene seemed so to renovate60 Annie, that physical strength gradually returned, and with it more apparent calm of mind. Congeniality of taste in our companions is indispensable for the real enjoyment61 of travelling, and this Annie fully12 possessed62; those three years of intimate association with the apparently63 cold and passionless Lady Emily had deepened Annie’s regard, but not altered her cousin’s chilling manner. But this delicious commune with nature, uninterrupted by intercourse64 with the world, caused her more than once so to relax as to excite even Annie’s surprise, and convince her more than ever that Lady Emily had not always been what she then was.
They were sitting one evening under the projecting roof of a jutting65 gallery belonging to a cottage in the beautiful valley of Chamouni; Lord St. Clair had that day left them to join a party of excursionists, in an expedition somewhat too fatiguing67 for his companions. The cottage, situated68 on a projecting mount or cliff, commanded a more extensive view than the parish of Prieuré itself permits. The rich luxuriance of the vale stretched beneath them, intersected with cliffs covered with foliage69 and large patches of emerald moss70, and variously-tinted lichen71 clothing the grey stones. Here and there a true Alpine72 cottage peeped through dark woods of fir and larch73, and the blue and sparkling Arve glided74 noiselessly along, still more lovely in the evening hour, as the glowing rays of sunset are contrasted with the deep shadows falling all around. Above them towered mountains of every form, blending their separate charms in a whole so sublime75 and extensive that height and breadth were lost in distance; misty76 vapours, or light fleecy clouds, were ever wreathing their snow-capped brows, while Mont Blanc itself stood alone in its sublime grandeur77, and in the unsullied purity of its snowy robe. The sun itself was invisible, but its glowing rays were shed upon the mountain, dyeing it with a deep, rosy flood of light peculiar to that locality, and only to be described by its thrilling resemblance to that fearfully brilliant flush sometimes traced on the countenance of mortal beauty, when life is fading imperceptibly away, and the strange yet perfect loveliness rivets78 not alone the eye but the imagination with a species of fascination79 which we have no power to resist. The period of its continuance might have been from fifteen to twenty minutes, when it suddenly changed into a pale greyish tinge80, of a shade and appearance so peculiar that it affected81 the heart and mind with the same species of awe82 as that with which we regard the sudden change from brilliant life to the ashy hues83 of death.
An exclamation84 of admiration85, even of delight, broke so naturally from the lips of Lady Emily St. Clair, that her young companion looked up in her face with astonishment.
“Have I not surprised you, Annie?” she said, with a quiet smile. “Are you still amongst those who believe that one so cold and silent as I am now can have no feeling for enjoyment, can see no beauty in nature, no poetry in the universe?”
“No,” replied Annie, earnestly; “I know so much of you that mere superficial observers can never know, that I can well believe there is still more which my inexperienced eye can never reach. I wish,” she added, after a short pause, and with some hesitation86, “that I were worthy87 to know you as you are, that you loved me sufficiently to unveil sometimes that which is so studiously concealed88.”
“Do not do me such wrong, dearest Annie, as to doubt that I love you, because I am to you, in general, as to indifferent persons. I cannot change the manner acquired by months, nay89, whole years of suffering, even to those whose affections I would do much to win. There is little of interest and much of suffering in my past life; but you shall hear it if you will.”
“Not if it give you pain, my kind friend,” said Annie; but she looked inquiringly as she seated herself on a cushion at her companion’s feet, and rested her arm on her knee. Lady Emily paused, as if collecting firmness for the task, then briefly90 spoke91 as follows.
“Few, who have only known me the last fifteen or sixteen years, would believe that I was once, Annie, far more enthusiastic and dreamy, and what the world calls romantic, than you were when I first knew you. An ardent93 love for the exalted94 and the beautiful, alike in man and nature; a restless craving95 for the pure and spiritual; an almost loathing96 for all that was mean and earthly: these were the elements of my romance, but carried to an excess, that instead of being beneficial, as they might have been, became indeed the height of folly, which is the world’s meaning for such feelings. I was a poet, a visionary, an enthusiast92, feeding a naturally vivid imagination on the burning dreams of minds whose wings soared even higher than my own. By my family I was regarded with admiration and love, as one whose talents would raise me far higher than my rank. I had the advantage of association with the genius and the student; and their opinion of my powers, their sympathy, urged me on till I was astonished at myself. But there was a blank in the midst of pleasure; I soared too high in the moments of excitement. My mind, unable to sustain itself in the airy realms of an ill-regulated imagination, was fraught97, on its return to earth, with a gloom and void even more exquisitely98 painful than its precious mood had been joyful100. Yet had poetry been my only gift, its pains and pleasures might have been confined to my own breast; but the powers of satire101, mine in no ordinary degree, were far more dangerous to myself in their baneful102 influence upon others. I indulged in the most cutting irony103, careless whom I might wound, regardless of any feeling but my own pleasure; I knew religion only as a name, whose every ordinance104 was fulfilled by attending public service once a week. I heard and read that, to some minds, poetry vitalizes religion, for every throb106 unanswered upon earth lifted up the whole soul to that world where all was love and all was joy. I laughed at such romance, as I termed it, for I could not understand it. In the gloom and void occasionally felt, pride and triumph at my own superiority to my fellows were the constant occupants of my heart, urging me but too often to level the dart107 of venomed108 satire on those whose more worldly sentiments and coarser minds excited my contempt; even the young and gentle often bled beneath that cruel lash109, if in the merest trifle of word or manner they differed from my idea of excellence110. My own family loved me too indulgently to be aware of the dreadful extent of this vice105; Henry, the only one whose noble nature and judicious112 feeling would have guided me aright, was a student in Germany, and I had no one whose counsels might have spared me, in some measure at least, the bitter self-reproach which heightened the chastisement113 preparing for me.
“But I am lingering. Amongst the numerous guests at my father’s was one, combining noble birth, genius, light and ready wit, with all the fascination of sparkling features, graceful114 form, and a manner whose elegance115 I have never yet seen equalled. He courted my society; he did not flatter, for that I ever scorned, but he appreciated. His manner always evinced respect for me, and pleasure at having found one to whom he could converse116 on nobler subjects than the mere chit-chat of a fashionable world. It needs not to enlarge upon our intimacy117, or the means he took to make me believe, without in the least committing himself, that I was to him the object not of esteem118 or admiration alone.
“Why should I hesitate to speak that which is now as if it had never been? I loved him, Annie, how deeply and passionately119! till my whole soul was wrapped in his image, and my very nature so changed, that I looked on this world with gentler feelings, and believed that the earth which contained him could not be as little worth as I had deemed it. All this would be useless to repeat; the blank in my heart was filled up; my woman’s soul, which neither fame nor talent could satisfy, was at rest; the actual words had not passed his lips indeed, but yet I did not, could not doubt him. That is not love in which a doubt can enter. I was visiting a mutual120 friend, and daily in expectation of his arrival; to relieve the yearning121 restlessness of anticipation122, I had taken my tablets to a concealed nook in the garden, and was pouring out my whole soul in burning words, when his voice arrested me. The remark preceding his words I had not heard, but all which followed is written on my brain.
“‘Propose to Emily St. Clair!’ he said, in a tone which, while it retained its beautiful harmony, was so changed in expression that I only knew it his by the agony thrilling through my whole being at the words, ‘Percy, you are mocking me! Marry a blue—a wit! worse still, a poet. Pray procure124 me an admission into a lunatic asylum125 the very hour I make the proposal; for, at least, were I sufficiently mad to say, Will you have me? certain as I am of being accepted, I should escape being rendered more so. No, my good fellow, the lady is agreeable enough as long as I am unchained; but once fettered126, her folly and romance would send me to heaven much sooner than I have the least inclination9 for. Why, were I in such a predicament as marriage with her, how do you suppose I could live for ever the actor I am now, when conversing127 with her, drawing her out as it were, to afford me amusement afterwards? The very idea is exhaustion128!’”
“‘It is well her brothers have not seen the progress of your attentions,’ was the reply. ‘You might have to answer for such species of amusement.’”
“‘Nonsense, man! Were the Courts of Love in vogue129 as they were once, she could allege130 nothing against me to make me her prisoner for life. Why, it was the very effort to keep up the liaison131, and yet not say one word which her romantic fancy could construe132 into an offer, that was so fatiguing. Her delight in my society was so evident, that I was obliged to be on my guard; words meaningless to others would have misericordia!’”
“‘Out upon your consummate133 self-conceit; she never forgot her self-respect,’ was the reply, and the voices faded in the distance.”
“And you heard this!” exclaimed Annie, indignation compelling the interruption. “Gracious heaven! can there be such men?”
“Be thankful you can still ask such a question, dearest Annie. I did hear—and more, remained outwardly calm; at that moment I believe I was conscious but of one feeling, not indignation; no, he might have spoken yet more cruelly, more contemptuously. I heard but one, felt but one truth—that he did not love me—that the deep whelming passion he had excited was unreturned—that he scorned those gifts which I had lately only valued as I believed them valued by him. My brain reeled for the moment; but sense and energy returned, as gradually, but with fearful distinctness, his every word and tone resounded134 in my ear. Anguish135, which had been the first feeling, was as nothing, literally136 nothing, to that chaos137 of misery138 which followed—to disrobe the idol139 my heart had so madly worshipped of the bright colouring of honour and worth, to teach myself he was unworthy, had deceived, wilfully140 deceived. What was the suffering of unrequited love compared with this? He had said, too, that my preference was so evident, I would have grasped the faintest whisper of an offer. I knew the charge was false as himself; but that he should have believed it, added its bitter pang141. How was I to act? My brow was burning, my pulses throbbing142, yet return to my own home I would not; I would not feign143 illness, though God knows it would have been little feigned144. I would meet him, pass in his company the period I had promised to my friend, and then I cared not.”
“And you did this?” asked Annie, clasping Lady Emily’s, hand in both hers, and almost startled at its coldness—the only proof that the narrator told not her tale unmoved.
“I did more, my child. Though poetry and satire were now to me but fearful spectres, from which a tortured spirit shrank—though that very hour I burned every fragment of composition once so precious, yet, during three long weary weeks, I was to him and to all around me as I had always been; perhaps even more sparkling, more animated145, and far more joyous146. Without any visible effort, I so far changed in bearing towards him, that instead of finding in his conversation as before an echo to my own, I questioned, I doubted, and more than once I saw him quail147 beneath my glance or tone, compelled, ere we parted, to doubt the influence which he had boasted he possessed. But what availed all this? It did not, could not quench148 the burning fever within; and when I returned to the quiet of my father’s roof, the tight-strung cord was snapped, and overwrought energies so gave way, that for months, nay, years, the effects of that struggle were visible in a state of health so precarious149, so exhausted150, that I have seen my poor father pace my chamber151 hour by hour in silent agony, without the power to address him. For many months all was to me a blank; yet I believe I was not wholly insensible nor always under the influence of fever. Ere I recovered sufficiently again to mingle152 with the world, he who had so deceived me became the husband of another; and that other, one who had been my dearest friend, and who has shunned154 me since as if she too had deceived, and had courted me from policy, not love. I have had no proof that this really was the case, but my faith in all that was good, and beautiful, and true was so shaken, I believed it as a thing that must be, for such was human nature. This marriage sufficiently accounted to my family for my mysterious illness. Indignation was so generally felt, that had I been awake to outward things, my mind might have been perfectly155 at rest that I had given him no undue156 encouragement: and his manner had indeed been such as to give, not alone to myself, but to all who had observed, no doubt of his apparent meaning; but I knew nothing of all this. While chained to my couch by bodily exhaustion, memories of my past life rose to appal157 me, and to add the bitter agony of unmitigated self-reproach to that of unrequited affection. Precious gifts had been intrusted to me, and what account could I render of them at that awful throne, before which daily, almost hourly, I expected to be summoned? They had estranged158 me from my God, and from His creatures. I learned to feel His words were true. Unguided by either religion or reason, what could I have been but the idle follower159 of folly and romance. No throb of kindness or of gentle feeling had interfered160 to check the contempt I felt for, and breathed in cutting satire upon, others. I had wilfully trampled161 on many a young kind heart, and it was but just that I should have been thus trampled on myself. Presumption162 and self-conceit caused me to smile, to scorn the censure163 of the world, and in all probability my manner had been too unguarded. This bitter self-humiliation only increased the struggle to forget that I had loved. In reproaching myself I ceased to reproach him; the pride that had supported me was gone. These thoughts continually pressing on heart and brain were, I am well aware, the sole sources of my long and incurable164 disease, but I had no power to shake them off; and, fearfully as I suffered, I have never ceased to bless the gracious hand that sent the chastening and recalled me, ere it was too late, unto Himself.”
Lady Emily paused; the quivering of her voice and lip betraying emotion which she evidently struggled to suppress. Annie’s tears were falling on her hand, and ere she spoke again, she bent165 down and kissed her forehead.
“You now know, dearest Annie, more of me than I ever breathed to mortal ear,” she resumed, in her usual calm and quiet tone, “more than I ever thought could pass my lips. But do not weep for me, my child; I am happier, safer now, than I could have been had the wild, misguided feelings of earlier life continued. It was no small portion of my suffering so to control myself as never to give vent2 to the satirical bitterness that, when I rejoined the world, tinged166 my words and thoughts more darkly than ever. The determination never to use that dangerous gift, gave to my words and manner a stiffness and cold reserve which have banished from me all those whose regard I would have done much to win. Many young loving hearts have shrunk from me, perceiving no sympathy in their warm imaginations and glowing feelings; and I dared not undeceive them, for I felt no confidence in myself, and feared again to avow167 sentiments I had buried so deeply in my own heart. Others again shunned me, because terrified at a semblance51 of austerity, which they could not know was exercised only towards myself; and frequently have I wept in secret at the loneliness which seemed to characterise my path on earth. Even you, my Annie, gentle and forbearing as you were, till I could not but love you, have often checked your animated words beneath the cold, withering168 influence of my glance or smile.”
“Do not call it cold and withering, my dear, kind friend,” replied Annie, warmly. “I learned to love you long before I dared hope to win your regard; but could I doubt you in my hour of anguish? Though even then I did you wrong; for I thought I was alone in my misery—and you had suffered doubly more.”
“You needed not such awful chastisement, my love; I brought it on myself. But you are right; fearful as is the death of a beloved one, it is happiness compared to the death of love, to the blasting of our belief in the good and true; the disrobing an idol, till we ask what it is we have loved. My dearest Annie, bless God that this you have been spared.”
Annie was silent several minutes, and then raising her head, she abruptly169 and strangely asked, “Aye, this; but there are other trials. Oh, Lady Emily, what must be the agony of that heart, who, sacrificing for the sake of the living the memories of the supposed dead, finds too late, that circumstances, not death, have come between her and the object of her first affections; that they love each other still, yet must be strangers, parted more completely than by death. What must be her duty then?”
“You ask me a difficult question, my dear child. If the heart clings to such a thought, better never wed123.”
A bright gleam, as of relief, flitted over Annie’s features; but, changing the subject as abruptly as she had entered upon it, she asked, with hesitation, “And that poetic170 talent to which you have alluded, do you never exercise it now?”
“Never,” replied Lady Emily, taking her companion’s arm, and entering the house. “On my first recovery I dared not, for my sinful abuse of the power had been too recent; though I do believe, that as my taste had completely changed in the poets which I read, so too would my writings have done. But year after year passed; gradually I destroyed every memorial of my passed life, and found peace and happiness in the employment which you have seen and aided, until at length even the inclination to write passed away; and I forgot, even as you must, dear girl,” she added, with a smile, “that I had been a poet, and one of no mean grade.”
The silent pressure of Annie’s hand was sufficient guarantee for Lady Emily that her confidence had not been misplaced; and she was happier, for she no longer feared that, misunderstanding, Annie would at length shrink from her.
We will not linger with our travellers while en route. They visited all of interest in Naples and Rome, and resolved on passing the winter at Florence. Many weeks had passed in their delightful172 tour; Annie’s health was decidedly renovated173; but there were still times when her spirits seemed to sink beneath a weight of depression for which neither of her relatives could account. Each month that passed diminished the time specified174 by Annie as the term of mourning, and yet Lord St. Clair vainly tried to rejoice; he saw that, instead of decreasing, the memory of Reginald became stronger—that the extraordinary impression made by the superscription of the letter would remain—and ardently175 he wished that Annie had followed her impulse, and opened it ere it was sent on. He never spoke of love, he never recalled her promise, and Annie so blessed him for his forbearance that, could she but have realized the universal belief in the death of Reginald, she would at once have given him her hand, glad to exchange the torturing doubts which engrossed176 her for the tranquil calm which must, she thought, attend devotion to one who so nobly proved the love he bore herself.
The many interesting works of ancient art in Florence, so riveted177 the attention and occupied the time of our English travellers, that the one subject engrossing178 the whole attention of the Florentines was for some little time unheeded. The town was full of the unrivalled success of a young sculptor179, who had burst into fame, no one knew how or where. He had been studying the last two years, amidst the superb specimens180 of art, in the galleries of Florence, but so silently, so unassumingly, that he was only known as famous. His copies of Canova and other celebrated181 sculptors182 had been pronounced perfect by able judges; but it was not till he had completed an original group that he at all seemed to sue for notice, and when that did appear, the easily-excited Italians received it with such universal admiration, that the unknown artist was sought for on all sides, courted, flattered, and, better far, appreciated by those whose opinions were of value. Italy is indeed the country where talent may rise to eminence183, fostered and cherished by the encouragement for which it so thirsts. In this case, however, the interest excited originally by genius was heightened by the reserved manners of the young sculptor, who rather shrunk from than courted notice, except from the Italians themselves. It was rarely an English soirée could obtain the favour of his presence. His appearance and name declared him Spanish, a supposition which, as he never contradicted it, gained universal belief. That he spoke English, French, and Italian as fluently as Spanish, and was intimately acquainted with their literature, only proved that his mental capabilities184 were not confined merely to his art. How he found time to execute all the orders for busts185, ornamental186 groups, etc., which he received, was a mystery to the idler, and a wonder even to the brethren of his craft, greatly heightened when his first original group appeared. It was not alone the execution, but the daring boldness of his subject which had occasioned such universal notice. Boldly leaving the beaten path of classic subjects, his group, though consisting only of three figures, embodied187 a striking incident in the earliest stage of the French revolution. A young and beautiful girl had flung herself before an aged14 parent, clasping his neck with one hand, and by the attitude of the other, combined with the expression of the face, was evidently imploring188 life for him, even by the sacrifice of her own. On the touching189 and, to the Italian eye, somewhat peculiar beauty of the face, the matchless grace of the attitude, and exquisitely modelled limbs, the sculptor appeared to have lingered till he had out-done himself. The countenance of the father breathed but admiring love for the heroic being whom his arm encircled, as if every thought centred in her, to the total exclusion190 of all terror for himself. Before them, in a crouching191 attitude, as in the act of filling a goblet192 with the loathsome193 fluid which deluged194 the streets, was a half-naked form, whose ruffian features and muscular limbs contrasted well with the graceful beauty and nobleness of form in the other figures. The head was upraised, a withering sneer195 upon the lips, a combination of triumph and barbarity on the whole countenance, which so explained the tale it recorded, that, as an animated Italian told Lord St. Clair, the heart of the gazers throbbed196, and the cheek paled, as if life itself were before them. It stood in an apartment of the Palazzo Vecchio, where he entreated197 his English friends to go and see it. “I will not only see this wonderful group, but make acquaintance with its artist,” he replied; “for, after hearing all this, know him I will.”
“That you will find some difficulty in doing,” was the rejoinder. “He shrinks from all you English; besides, he is, I believe, now at Bologna, and his return is uncertain.”
“Never mind, trust me for making acquaintance with this lion, shy though he be.”
“There is but one fault in his female figure,” observed a gentleman who had joined the group, and was greeted with much warmth by Lord St. Clair, “a fault which we English ought to consider a virtue198, but yet is in contradiction to Signor Castellan’s apparent reserve towards our countrymen. The beauty of the female is too English for a French incident and purely French characters. It is very lovely, I grant, but the loveliness is our own.”
The observation naturally produced a warm discussion, which ended as most discussions do, in each party retaining his own opinion, and Lord St. Clair taking his newly-found old friend home with him, introduced him to Lady Emily and Annie.
“And are you settled down at last, Kenrich, tired of wanderings and adventures? though last time I heard of you, you were actually enjoying the wars and cabals199 of Madrid.”
“I am not very sober yet, St. Clair; but I was fool enough to join the Carlists three or four years ago, and their barbarity to my own countrymen so sickened me of war, that I threw up my commission, and have never drawn200 sword since.”
“What barbarity?” asked Lord St. Clair, catching201 almost by instinct more than look the expression of Annie’s face.
“Why, you must have heard—the English papers were full of it—that fine fellow Captain De Vere was amongst them. He and eight or ten others were taken prisoners, and were all murdered—for it was nothing else.”
“But are you sure he was amongst them? We all knew and loved De Vere, and long hoped he might have escaped, and only been reported amongst the killed.”
“Escaped, my dear fellow! how was that possible? Besides, he was so terribly wounded, that he could not have survived, even had they not so cruelly dealt with him. I could not save him, but I saw him decently interred202, and from that moment loathed203 military service, and left Spain.”
“It was full time, I think,” quietly rejoined Lady Emily. “Annie, will you try if you can match this shade for me among the chenilles in my room? I cannot finish this leaf without it, and your eyes are better than mine.”
Annie took the chenille designated from the frame, over which her cousin was bending so intently in seeming, that she did not even look up as she addressed her, and quietly left the room. The moment she did so, Edward Kenrich burst into lavish204 praises of her beauty, declaring that was the exact style of Castellan’s figure, and therefore he was right, and it must be too English for perfect art, so running on in his usual wild strain, that Lord St. Clair had great difficulty in bringing him back to the point from which he had started, and gathering205 from him every particular of the death of Reginald De Vere.
Annie did not reappear, and Lady Emily’s great desire to finish her leaf seemed to have subsided with her absence, for she made no effort to recall her. Just before dinner, however, Lord St. Clair, noticing the flutter of her white dress between the orange trees, which almost concealed the balcony leading from the drawing-room, hastily rejoined her. She looked up in his face without a word, but he answered her thoughts, tenderly and gently repeating all the information he had gained. There could be no doubt, and for one brief minute the poor girl’s head sunk on his arm, with a sudden burst of tears.
“I know it is all folly, Henry. I had no right to hope; forgive me, I do but distress206 you; and yet that writing—that strange writing, whom could it have been from?”
“Not from Reginald, dearest, or it would have been to you, not to me. Has that never struck you, Annie?”
It had not till that moment, and it convinced her. She remained alone that evening, in deep meditation207 and earnest prayer; and the result was a firm conviction that nothing but a new and solemn duty would restore her to the calm of mind for which she yearned—that devotion to another well worthy of it must draw her from herself. A sleepless208 night confirmed this resolution, and the very next day the promise passed her lips to be the wife of Lord St. Clair, within a week of their return to England. A few days afterwards they went to the celebrated church of Santa Croce, during vesper service. The magnificent interior, heightened in its effect by the light and shadow flung by huge waxen tapers210, the superb monuments, the white-stoled monks211 and dark dresses of the officiating priests, the kneeling and standing171 groups, silent and motionless as the marble monuments around—the deep-toned organ, and swelling212 voices of the choristers, completely enchained the imagination of our travellers. It was strange, excited almost to pain as she was, that Annie at length found her whole attention unconsciously fixed on a single figure, who was leaning against the tomb of Michael Angelo. His face was turned from her, but there was something in his bearing and his attitude which riveted her as by a spell, and the longing66 to look on his face became strangely and indefinably intense. The soft light of a taper209 burning over the tomb brought out in good relief the stranger’s uncovered head, whose small and classic shape was shaded by clustering hair of glossy213 black.
“There he is! there is our sculptor, Renaud Castellan!” whispered one of the Italians who had accompanied them, directing Lord St. Clair’s attention to the very figure on whom Annie’s gaze was so strangely fixed; but even as he spoke, the young man moved his position, and disappeared in one of the aisles214, leaving Annie’s desire to see his face ungratified, and only permitting Lord St. Clair to catch the outline of his figure.
“Was not Mrs. De Vere’s maiden215 name Castellan?” St. Clair asked of Annie, as they walked together from the church to the house of their Italian friend, who had claimed them for a petit souper, and some music. The answer was in the affirmative, and Lord St. Clair remarked it would be strange if this young Spaniard proved to be of the same family. “I must seek him out.”
“See his group first,” was the rejoinder of one of the party; while to Annie the words seemed to disperse216 the miserable doubts again thronging217 round her—being of the same family might account for a casual resemblance.
It was with some little difficulty Annie was prevailed upon to sing; but when once seated at her harp218, timidity gave place to her real love of the art, and the simple purity, the touching pathos219 of her style charmed all who heard. The entrance of a guest had not interrupted her, nor disturbed the listeners. Lord St. Clair was amused at the look of admiring perplexity with which he regarded Annie, not himself perceiving that, where the Italian stood, the light fell upon her countenance, so as to give it a different appearance and expression to that which was generally perceivable.
Approaching her, as soon as the buzz of admiration had somewhat subsided, he engaged her in animated conversation; nor was Lord St. Clair’s curiosity lessened220 by hearing him inquire “if the signorina were not acquainted with the young sculptor, of whom all Florence raved221?” Much surprised, she answered in the negative.
“But surely you have been introduced to him, have you not?”
“No,” replied Annie, smiling at his earnestness. “I never even heard of him till I came here; and he has been at Bologna, till this evening, ever since.”
“Then he has seen you, signora, either in his sleeping or waking dreams,” was the rejoinder, in so animated a tone that it arrested the attention of the whole party; “for never did marble and life so resemble each other as the beauty of your face and of his creation. Surely you must all see it,” he continued, turning to his friends with the sparkling vivacity222 peculiar to his countrymen when excited. “Why, it is not feature alone, but the character, the grace, the similarity is perfect!”
“I told you so, but you would not believe me,” bluntly answered Kenrich. “I told you it was an English face and English character; but you all denied it. I am glad my lovely countrywoman has opened your eyes.”
“Why this is better and better, Annie; do not blush so prettily223 about it,” whispered Lord St. Clair, as, attention once aroused, the similarity was universally acknowledged. “If the resemblance be chance, it is something to marvel224 at; if intentional225, why I shall be jealous of the sculptor.”
“You need not, Henry,” was the reply, in a tone so sad that it pained him.
“Well, well, we will go and see it at least, love, and judge of its merit with our own eyes.”
The next day accordingly they went, and (the most convincing proof of the perfection of the work) were not disappointed. Neither its beauty nor its eloquence226 had been exaggerated, and the resemblance to Annie was so extraordinary that the eyes of all the spectators within the room were attracted towards her; but the expression of the countenance of the father in the group riveted her attention far more than the female figure. It was with a heavy sigh she turned from it, and was pale and silent during their way home; but St. Clair was so engrossed by the beauty of the work, the strange resemblance, and his resolution to leave no stone unturned to gain the acquaintance of the young artist, that it passed unnoticed even by him.
“Why, what ails227 you, Annie? are you not well, dear?” kindly inquired Lady Emily, some hours later. Wondering why her young companion did not join her as usual, she had sought her in her own room, and found her with her face buried in her hands, and her whole attitude denoting suffering. “Henry has gone to seek out this Signor Castellan, to find out, if he can, in what this strange similarity originated, and who and what he is.”
“Shall I tell you?” answered Annie, in a tone so strange that it startled almost as much as the whiteness of her face. “Reginald Castellan De Vere! Was not his mother’s name Castellan? and has he not often and often boasted his descent from Spanish heroes, and from this feeling fought for Spain in preference to any other country? Did he not always love the art of sculpture? Can it be chance that has marked the father and daughter of that group with the characteristics of the revered228 friend and favourite companion of his youth? No, no, no! Oh! Lady Emily, you bade me once thank God that I had never been deceived; teach me how to bear this.”
“Bear what, my poor child?” replied her companion, soothingly229, as Annie threw herself on her neck in fearful agitation230. “If this be indeed as you say, what can there be but happiness for you? It is for another we must feel.”
“Happiness for me! and he has never even so far thought of me as to tell me the report of his death was false, and he still lived—never recalled himself to one whom, when he departed, he so loved—loved! how know I that? he never said it; why should I believe him different to others?”
“My dearest Annie, this is not like yourself. Why, if he have ceased to love you, should the work of his hand—a work which must have employed his mind and heart long days and nights—bear the impress of your face and form?”
“Memory, association, mere casualty—the days of his boyhood may be dear to his mind; but how can affection, even a brothers, have inspired that group, when—when he has allowed me so long to believe him dead?”
“It is all a mystery, my dear child; but I feel convinced it will be solved, if we can really prove his identity. May he not have written, and the letter miscarried?” Annie wildly raised her head. “May he not have been deceived? perhaps—for we can never trace rumours—but may he not have heard that of you which, to a mind like his, would cause him to shrink from recalling himself? He left you such a child, how might he build on having so won your regard that you would remain single for his sake? Dearest Annie, if this indeed be not all imagination, and Reginald really lives, trust me you will be happy yet.”
How will a few judicious words change the whole current of thoughts and feeling! Before Lady Emily ceased to speak, Annie was weeping such blessed tears. The proud, cold mood which, had her companion spoken as her own experience of man’s nature must have dictated231, might have been retained, and made her miserable for life, dissolved before returning trust and hope. She dared not define what it was she hoped; but it was not till she heard Lord St. Clair’s voice, and she tried to spring forwards to meet him and know the truth, that a sudden revulsion of feeling so completely overpowered her that she sunk back upon the couch. How dared she rejoice, even if Reginald lived? what could he be to her who was the promised bride of another?
“Emily!” exclaimed Lord St. Clair, in utter astonishment, as, on his entering the drawing-room, his cold and dignified232 sister hastily met him, and taking both his hands, tried to speak, but failed: and leaning her head against him, he felt that she was in tears. “What is the matter, love? something very dreadful for you to weep.”
She controlled herself with a strong effort, and entered at once into the recital233 of the scene between her and Annie. “Could it possibly be as she supposed?”
“It may be,” was the reply, in a calm firm tone; “there is nothing impossible in it. I went to his lodgings234, but, as I supposed, he was either out or too much engaged to be seen; but I am to meet him to-night at the Contessa Corsini’s, and this strange mystery will be unravelled235.”
“And you, dear Henry—” she could say no more, so holy seemed his feelings.
“And I, my dear sister, will act as that man should whose aim is not the gratification of his own desires, but the happiness of one far dearer than himself. I do not tell you I shall not feel, and deeply; but does the warrior236 shrink from the battle before him because he may be wounded? You may love me more, my Emily, if you will,” he continued, fondly passing his arm round her, and kissing her cheek, “for affection is always balm; but I will have no tears—they are only for the unworthy. Where is Annie? poor child, she must be overwrought, from many causes; let me see her, she will be calmer then.”
He was right. What passed between them it needs not to relate. Our readers can little enter into the high character of Lord St. Clair, if they cannot satisfy themselves as to the manner, as well the nature and extent, of the sacrifice he made. He was not one to wring237 the gentle heart he so unselfishly resigned, by the betrayal of personal suffering; he coveted238 the continuance, nay, the increase of her regard, and nobly he earned it.
It was a brilliant scene on which, a few hours later, he entered, introduced by the same Italian, Signor Lanzi, who had been the first to trace the resemblance between Annie and the female figure of the group. But neither loveliness nor talent, both of which thronged239 the halls, had at that moment attraction for Lord St. Clair; his glance had singled out a tall, slight form, leaning against a marble pillar, and half shaded by the drapery of a curtain. His head was bent down; he seemed in the act of listening and replying to the smiling jests of the countess, who was sitting near him; the cheek and brow were very pale, and the mouth, when still, somewhat stern in expression; but it was a fine face, bearing the stamp of genius too visibly ever to be passed unremarked.
“You may smile, and look incredulous, signor,” were the words that first met the ears of the English nobleman, from the young countess, in Italy’s sweetest tone; “but since you deserted240 us for Bologna, a living likeness241 has appeared of your beautiful Améle.”
“Mademoiselle de Sombreuil herself, perhaps,” he replied, half smiling. “Fancy would indeed have served me well, had such a chance occurred.”
“You are quite wrong. I doubt whether Mademoiselle de Sombreuil would herself resemble your fancy statue, as much as la bella Inglese does.”
“La bella Inglese! who may she be?” inquired the young sculptor, somewhat agitated242.
“A lovely girl, who only appeared in Florence as you left it. Lanzi informed me the resemblance was so perfect, he imagined she must know you; but she had never even heard of you till she came here.”
“And what may be her name.”
“As you seem so interested, I regret that I cannot tell you. It is so truly English that it will bear no Italian accent, therefore I cannot remember it; but find Lanzi, I expect him here to-night, and he will tell you all about her.”
The arrival of new guests, and the attention of the countess called for from himself, the sculptor hastily turned, as in the act of seeking the individual she had named. He had not advanced many yards when he started violently, and with a sudden impulse retreated into a small withdrawing room, near which he had stood.
“Why shun153 me, Signor Castellan?” inquired a frank kind voice in English; and Lord St. Clair’s hand was extended, and, after a moment’s visible hesitation, accepted and almost convulsively pressed. “Why this long, mysterious concealment243, my young friend? were there none, think you, to rejoice that you were still amongst the living?”
“Was not your lordship aware of my existence, insignificant244 as it is, more than a twelvemonth since? My own hand and signature were surely sufficient guarantee,” he answered, in a cold proud tone.
“Then you did write, and Annie was not deceived! Little did I know the precious intelligence contained in the packet, lost on its way to me in Russia, and the want of which, in a political view, caused me such annoyance. But why wait so long, my dear fellow, to give us tidings so many would have rejoiced to hear?”
“So many! There were more, then, to mourn me dead, than to love me living? But forgive me,” he continued, less bitterly; “Your family would have been my friends, and therefore was it I wrote to tell you that I lived.”
“But was there not one, Reginald, who deserved an earlier notice at your hands? why leave her so long to mourn you as dead, and then to learn such joyful tidings from others than yourself? The ties of early youth, of fond associations, I should have thought sufficient of themselves alone to prevent such wrong.”
Reginald’s very lip grew white as he replied, “Was not her husband the fittest person to give Lady St. Clair such tidings?”
“Her husband, Reginald? You speak enigmas245.”
“How!” gasped246 the young man, as he laid his cold and trembling hand on his companion’s arm. “Is not Annie Grey your wife?”
“No!” replied Lord St. Clair, the peculiar expression clouding his noble countenance for the moment passing unnoticed; “her heart was with the dead!”
Reginald De Vere struggled with bursting emotion, but his trembling limbs refused to support him; and sinking powerlessly on a sofa, he covered his face with his hands, and wept such tears as only spring from manhood’s unutterable joy.
It still wanted an hour to midnight, and Lady Emily was in vain endeavouring to prevail on Annie to retire to rest.
“You are feverish43 and worn out already, Annie. How will you be able to support the excitement of to-morrow without rest to-night?”
“It would be no rest if I lie down; I cannot sleep. Only let me know he lives!” and she twined her arms round Lady Emily’s neck, and looked so appealingly, so mournfully, no heart could have urged more.
There was a pause of several minutes, and then Annie started up.
“It is Henry’s step!” she exclaimed and would have sprung forward, but her feet felt rooted to the ground; another moment Lord St. Clair was at her side.
“Promise me to bear the shock of joy better than you did the shock of grief, or I can tell you nothing,” he said, gently; but there was no need for another word. Faint as she was, every object in the room seeming to swim before her eyes, every word to be indistinct, yet one figure was visible, one voice calling her his own, own Annie—beseeching247 her to forgive and bless him! reached her heart, and loosed its icy chains, till she could breathe again. She felt not that strength had entirely248 deserted her, for she was clasped to the heart of Reginald De Vere, and the deadly faintness passed in the gushing249 tears that fell upon his bosom250.
Mysterious as was Reginald de Vere’s silence, its causes may be summed up in a few words. To his own generous deed, recorded in the early part of our tale, he owed the preservation251 of his life. When bleeding and exhausted he was led a prisoner to the Carlist camp, he was instantly recognised by the poor woman whose child he had saved, and whom he had sent on to her husband. The tale of his kindness, his generosity252, his bravery had been repeated again and again by the happy wife, and created amongst the common soldiery a complete sensation in his favour; so that very many were found eager and willing to aid Juan Pacheco in his resolution to return the good conferred, and save his wife’s benefactor253 at the hazard of his own life. He had already been disgusted with his life in the camp; the beauty of his young wife had exposed him and her to insults which, as he had no power to retaliate254, urged him to seize the first opportunity to desert. One by one the prisoners had been led to execution, and one by one had fallen. Reginald, unable to support himself from wounds and exhaustion, though quite conscious he was placed there to die, was loosely bound to a post, as a better mark to the soldiers who fronted him. They fired—the girthings which bound him gave way, and a dead faint succeeded; but they had fired with harmless weapons, and when Reginald awoke from what he fancied death, he found himself in a covered cart, carefully watched and tended by the young mother and her boy, whom he recognised at once; his captain’s uniform placed on the body of a young Spaniard who had fallen in battle, and whose features were not unlike those of De Vere, no doubt causing Edward Kenrich’s belief in his being really Reginald, and his having been in consequence honourably255 interred. Juan Pacheco’s knowledge of the wilds and intricate windings256 of his native country enabled him ably to elude257 the pursuit to which, as a deserter, he was liable; but De Vere suffered so dreadfully from alternate fever and exhaustion, during the journey, that many times his kind preservers feared their care would be in vain, and death would release him ere earthly rest and shelter were obtained. But at length the goal was gained—a small cottage belonging to a monastery258 of Saint Iago, situated in so retired259 a pass of the Pyrenees that none but mountaineers knew of its existence. Under the skilful medical aid of one of the fathers Reginald slowly regained260 health; but it was not till nearly a year after his supposed death that he regained the elasticity261 and entire use of his limbs, such as he had previously262 enjoyed. The severity of monastic discipline did not characterise the monks of Saint Iago. They were but few in number; old and respectable men, who had turned from the distracting turmoils263 of their unhappy country, and sought peace in study and deeds of kindness. In one of these aged men Reginald discovered an uncle of his mother—one who had always mourned her departure to another land, and union with a heretic, but who had loved her to the end, and was willing to receive with affection any of her children. The fearful sufferings and deep melancholy264 of the young Englishman had attracted him, even before the picture of his mother, which Reginald constantly wore discovered the relationship between them. For nearly two years De Vere remained in this solitude265; the fear of drawing down ruin and misery on his preservers prevented his writing to his commanding officer, to state his escape—Padre Felipo alleging266 the state of the country was such, that his letter might not only be seized and himself retaken, but Pacheco exposed to the danger of execution as a deserter and abettor of his escape. After the first year he made many attempts to communicate with his friends in England—Annie Grey amongst the number—but he never heard in return; therefore concluded, and with justice, that his letters had never reached a post.
But the two years of solitude, instead of being a mental blank, was the hinge of circumstances on which his whole after-career turned. To amuse his confinement267 and please the children, he resumed the favourite amusement of his boyhood, carving268 in wood and stone, and with such success as to astonish himself. He found an admirer and instructor269 where he little expected it, in one of the monks; and under his guidance, and emboldened270 by encouragement, made such rapid progress, that his whole soul became wrapt in the desire to visit Italy, and study there. His pantings for fame were now defined—a flash of light seemed to have irradiated his whole being, and to burst the chains of destiny, which still cramped271 energy and life. It was the consciousness of genius, the proud conviction that he might indeed win the object of his love; win, and be worthy of her, and give her a name proud as those of the men of genius whose lives they had read and venerated272 together.
The days when all the fortunes of the monks were devoted26 to their abbeys or to a patron saint were over, and Padre Felipo rejoiced at possessing the means effectually to aid his young relative. He settled on him a sum more than sufficient to gratify all his desires, and Reginald hesitated no longer to concentrate all his energies on this one pursuit. He went to Italy, adopting the name of his benefactor, which was also that of his mother; and the wish not to be known in England, until he had perfected himself in his art, caused him to retain it, even when no danger was attached to the acknowledgment of his existence.
But once in Italy, the yearning to hear of his family and friends became intense, while a strange feeling of dread111 withheld273 him from again addressing Annie. It was two years and a half since they had parted, two since he had been reported dead. What might not have occurred in that interval274? He had left her free, and so child-like, so simple in character, that how could he, how dared he indulge the hope that she had so returned his love, as to remain single for his sake? He had never spoken of love to her; his affection was so pure and true, that it had withheld him from linking, by a too impetuous avowal275, her fate with one so gloomy as his own. His genius seemed now to promise a fairer destiny, but his heart, still darkened by the fearful creed276 of fatalism, believed that his very promise would be dashed with gloom, and from the ascendency of this unhappy feeling, failing in courage to address Annie herself, he wrote to one of his sisters, beseeching a speedy reply, with information of his father, and all she could learn of Miss Grey. The reply was many weeks before it came, pleading the usual excuse for unjustifiable silence—stress of occupation and dislike to letter-writing. Basil De Vere was in America, and Miss Grey on the eve of marriage with Lord St. Clair; the whole London world was full of it, on account of the disparity of years between the parties, and because Lord St. Clair had never seemed a marrying man; but that it was a settled affair there was not the smallest doubt. She wrote as if it could concern Reginald but little; but the pang was such as to confirm his fearful creed of an inexorable fate, and plunge277 him into a despondency, that genius itself seemed unable to remove. At first he worked at his art mechanically, but gradually his mind became aroused, and he tried to forget the heart’s anguish in such persevering278 labour, that though to mere observers its effects were marvellous in so speedy a perfection, it was, in fact, but the natural consequence of unceasing mental and manucipal work. He constantly reproached himself for the agony he felt; what right had he to suppose he had had any hold upon her? Why could he not rejoice in her happy prospects279, and write to tell her so? But weeks merged into months ere he could do this, and then he could not address herself, but wrote to Lord St. Clair, revealing his escape, his concealment, and finally the promised success of his art, with a calm, affectionate message to Annie. The letter cost him a bitter struggle, and with feverish restlessness he awaited the reply; but when none came, bitter thoughts possessed him. He believed himself entirely forgotten and uncared for by his friends; and every energy cramped (save for his art) by his spiritless belief, he determined280 to remain so, and shun alike England and her sons. It was his fate, he inwardly declared, and he must bend to it; and thus, as is ever the case with these dark dreamers, he created for himself the lonely doom281 he imagined his destiny marked out. The death of his aged relative, in the monastery of St. Iago, placed a moderate fortune at his disposal, and enabled him still more successfully and earnestly to pursue his art. For a time the excitement attendant on the creation of his group roused him from himself, but the reaction was plunging282 him still deeper into the dark abyss of misanthropy and gloom when his discovery, through his own beautiful work, the sudden and almost overwhelming happiness bursting through the darkness of his spirit, in the consciousness that Annie was free, that she had ever loved him, completely changed the current of his thoughts, and permitted him a realization283 of joy, before which the dark creed of destiny fled for ever.
It is in a cheerful sitting-room284 of a picturesque285 dwelling286 on the banks of Keswick Lake that our readers may once more look on Annie Grey, ere they bid her farewell—Annie Grey indeed she was not; but there was little change visible, save that her fair cheek bore the rose, and her beautiful form the roundness of more perfect health, than when we last beheld her. The large French windows opened on a small but beautiful garden, where the taste of England and Italy was so combined, as to render its flowers and statues the admiration of every beholder287. The opposite window opened on a conservatory288 of beautiful exotics, and exquisite99 specimens of painting and sculpture adorned289 the room itself. An uncovered harp filled one corner, on which the evening sun, shining full from the stained glass of the western window, flung tints290 as bright and changing as those of the kaleidoscope. A hortus siccus, opened on a group half arranged, was on a table, at which Lady Emily St. Clair was seated, and Annie was standing at her side, with a volume of poems in her hand.
“You idle girl! you would have found what I wanted in five minutes a few years ago. What are you thinking about? Ah, Reginald, you are just in time, or Annie’s restlessness would have invaded your sanctum, depend upon it.”
“And had I not cause? A whole hour, nearly two, after your promised time; and your cheek pale, and your brow burning! Dearest, do not let your art be dearer than your wife!”
“What! jealous of all my marble figures, love? For shame!” replied her husband, playfully, twining his arm round her, and kissing her cheek; “but I will plead guilty to fatigue292 to-night, and you shall cure me by my favourite song.”
Annie flew to her harp, and De Vere, flinging himself on an easy chair, drank in the sounds with an intensity293 of delight which he never believed that song could have had the power to produce. “Yes!” he exclaimed, as her sweet voice ceased, “what are palaces and their pleasures compared to an hour like this? There is, indeed, ‘no place like home;’ what, oh! what would the artist and the student be without it?”
“Why, how is this, Signor Rinaldo? what extraordinary spell has been flung over you, so to change your opinion of a song that once you would not even hear?” laughingly exclaimed Lord St. Clair, springing from the balcony into the room. “Good evening, Mrs. De Vere; I have some inclination to arrest you for using unlawful witchcraft294 on this gentleman, even as I once thought of seizing him for allowing you to die of grief for his loss, when he was all the time in life!”
“Guilty, guilty; we both plead guilty,” replied Reginald, in the same tone; “but my guilt291 is of far deeper dye; my Annie’s witchery has but thrown such a halo over my home, that all which speaks of its charm is as sweet to my ear as to my heart. I am changed, St. Clair, and not merely in loving a song I once despised,” he added, with much feeling, “but in being enabled to trace a hand of love, where once I beheld but remorseless fate; and my wife has done this, so gently, so silently, that I guessed not her influence until I found myself joining her own lowly prayers, and believing in the same sustaining faith.”
“And has she explained its mystery?” inquired Lady Emily, with earnest interest.
“No, dear friend; nor do I need it now. The belief that a God of infinite love and compassion295 ordains296 all things, yet leaves us the perfect exercise of our free will, and in that freedom, and the acts thence ensuing, works out His divine decrees, constraining297 no man, yet bringing our most adverse298 wills to work out His heavenly rule—this is a belief that must be felt, it cannot be explained, and thrice-blessed are they on whom its unspeakable comfort is bestowed299!”
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1
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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softener
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| n.起软化作用的东西，软化剂，柔软剂 | |
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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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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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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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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vouches
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| v.保证( vouch的第三人称单数 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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devotedness
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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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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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30
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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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42
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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43
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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47
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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49
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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50
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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51
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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52
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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53
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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55
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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56
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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57
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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58
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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59
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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60
renovate
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| vt.更新，革新，刷新 | |
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61
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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62
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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65
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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66
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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69
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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70
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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72
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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73
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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74
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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75
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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78
rivets
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| 铆钉( rivet的名词复数 ) | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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80
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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82
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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83
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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84
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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85
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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86
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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91
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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92
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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93
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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94
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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96
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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97
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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98
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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99
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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101
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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102
baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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103
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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104
ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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105
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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106
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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107
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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108
venomed
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| adj.恶毒的，含有恶意的 | |
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109
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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110
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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111
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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112
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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113
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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114
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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115
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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116
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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117
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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118
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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119
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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120
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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121
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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122
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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123
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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124
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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125
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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126
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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128
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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129
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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130
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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131
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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132
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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133
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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134
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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135
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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136
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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137
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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138
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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139
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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140
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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141
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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142
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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143
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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144
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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145
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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146
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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147
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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148
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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149
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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150
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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151
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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152
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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153
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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154
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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155
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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156
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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157
appal
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| vt.使胆寒，使惊骇 | |
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158
estranged
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|
| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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159
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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160
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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161
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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162
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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163
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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164
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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165
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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166
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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168
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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169
abruptly
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|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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170
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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171
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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172
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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173
renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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175
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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176
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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177
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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178
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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179
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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180
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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181
celebrated
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|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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182
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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183
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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184
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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185
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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186
ornamental
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|
| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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187
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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188
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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189
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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190
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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191
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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192
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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193
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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194
deluged
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| v.使淹没( deluge的过去式和过去分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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195
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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196
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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197
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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199
cabals
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| n.（政治）阴谋小集团，（尤指政治上的）阴谋( cabal的名词复数 ) | |
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200
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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201
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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202
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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204
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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205
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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206
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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207
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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208
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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209
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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210
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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211
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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212
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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213
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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214
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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215
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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216
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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217
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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218
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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219
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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220
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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221
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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222
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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223
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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224
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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225
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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226
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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227
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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228
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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229
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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230
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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231
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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232
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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233
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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234
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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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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236
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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237
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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238
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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239
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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240
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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241
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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242
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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243
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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245
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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246
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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247
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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248
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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249
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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250
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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251
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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252
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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253
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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254
retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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255
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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256
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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258
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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261
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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262
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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263
turmoils
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| n.混乱( turmoil的名词复数 )；焦虑 | |
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264
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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266
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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267
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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269
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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272
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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274
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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275
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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276
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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277
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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278
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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279
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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280
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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281
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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282
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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283
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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284
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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285
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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286
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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287
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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288
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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289
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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290
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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291
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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292
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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293
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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294
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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295
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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296
ordains
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的第三人称单数 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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297
constraining
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| 强迫( constrain的现在分词 )； 强使； 限制； 约束 | |
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298
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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299
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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