June 20th.--Eight o'clock. The sun is shining in a clear sky. I have not been near my bed--I have not once closed my weary wakeful eyes. From the same window at which I looked out into the darkness of last night, I look out now at the bright stillness of the morning.
I count the hours that have passed since I escaped to the shelter of this room by my own sensations--and those hours seem like weeks.
How short a time, and yet how long to ME--since I sank down in the darkness, here, on the floor--drenched to the skin, cramped2 in every limb, cold to the bones, a useless, helpless, panic-stricken creature.
I hardly know when I roused myself. I hardly know when I groped my way back to the bedroom, and lighted the candle, and searched (with a strange ignorance, at first, of where to look for them) for dry clothes to warm me. The doing of these things is in my mind, but not the time when they were done.
Can I even remember when the chilled, cramped feeling left me, and the throbbing3 heat came in its place?
Surely it was before the sun rose? Yes, I heard the clock strike three. I remember the time by the sudden brightness and clearness, the feverish4 strain and excitement of all my faculties5 which came with it. I remember my resolution to control myself, to wait patiently hour after hour, till the chance offered of removing Laura from this horrible place, without the danger of immediate6 discovery and pursuit. I remember the persuasion7 settling itself in my mind that the words those two men had said to each other would furnish us, not only with our justification8 for leaving the house, but with our weapons of defence against them as well. I recall the impulse that awakened9 in me to preserve those words in writing, exactly as they were spoken, while the time was my own, and while my memory vividly11 retained them. All this I remember plainly: there is no confusion in my head yet. The coming in here from the bedroom, gith my pen and ink and paper, before sunrise--the sitting down at the widelyopened window to get all the air I could to cool me--the ceaseless writing, faster and faster, hotter and hotter, driving on more and more wakefully, all through the dreadful interval13 before the house was astir again--how clearly I recall it, from the beginning by candle-light, to the end on the page before this, in the sunshine of the new day!
Why do I sit here still? Why do I weary my hot eyes and my burning head by writing more? Why not lie down and rest myself, and try to quench14 the fever that consumes me, in sleep?
I dare not attempt it. A fear beyond all other fears has got possession of me. I am afraid of this heat that parches15 my skin. I am afraid of the creeping and throbbing that I feel in my head. If I lie down now, how do I know that I may have the sense and the strength to rise again?
Oh, the rain, the rain--the cruel rain that chilled me last night!
Nine o'clock. Was it nine struck, or eight? Nine, surely? I am shivering again--shivering, from head to foot, in the summer air. Have I been sitting here asleep? I don't know what I have been doing.
Oh, my God! am I going to be ill?
Ill, at such a time as this!
My head--I am sadly afraid of my head. I can write, but the lines all run together. I see the words. Laura--I can write Laura, and see I write it. Eight or nine--which was it?
So cold, so cold--oh, that rain last night!--and the strokes of the clock, the strokes I can't count, keep striking in my head---
' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '
Note [At this place the entry in the Diary ceases to be legible. The two or three lines which follow contain fragments of words only, mingled16 with blots17 and scratches of the pen. The last marks on the paper bear some resemblance to the first two letters (L and A) of the name of Lady Glyde.
On the next page of the Diary, another entry appears. It is in a man's handwriting, large, bold, and firmly regular, and the date is "June the 21st." It contains these lines--]
POSTSCRIPT18 BY A SINCERE FRIEND
The illnesc of our excellent Miss Halcombe has afforded me the opportunity of enjoying an unexpected intellectual pleasure.
I refer to the perusal19 (which I have just completed) of this interesting Diary.
There are many hundred pages here. I can lay my hand on my heart, and declare that every page has charmed, refreshed, delighted me.
To a man of my sentiments it is unspeakably gratifying to be able to say this.
Admirable woman!
Stupendous effort!
I refer to the Diary.
Yes! these pages are amazing. The tact21 which I find here, the discretion22, the rare courage, the wonderful power of memory, the accurate observation of character, the easy grace of style, the charming outbursts of womanly feeling, have all inexpressibly increased my admiration23 of this sublime24 creature, of this magnificent Marian. The presentation of my own character is masterly in the extreme. I certify25, with my whole heart, to the fidelity26 of the portrait. I feel how vivid an impression I must have produced to have been painted in such strong, such rich, such massive colours as these. I lament27 afresh the cruel necessity which sets our interests at variance28, and opposes us to each other. Under happier circumstances how worthy29 I should have been of Miss Halcombe--how worthy Miss Halcombe would have been of ME.
The sentiments which animate30 my heart assure me that the lines I have just written express a Profound Truth.
Those sentiments exalt31 me above all merely personal considerations. I bear witness, in the most disinterested32 manner, to the excellence33 of the stratagem34 by which this unparalleled woman surprised the private interview between Percival and myself-also to the marvellous accuracy of her report of the whole aonversation from its beginning to its end.
Those sentiments have induced me to offer to the unimpressionable doctor who attends on her my vast knowledge of chemistry, and my luminous35 experience of the more subtle resources which medical and magnetic science have placed at the disposal of mankind. He has hitherto declined to avail himself of my assistance. Miserable36 man!
Finally, those sentiments dictate37 the lines--grateful, sympathetic, paternal38 lines--which appear in this place. I close the book. My strict sense of propriety39 restores it (by the hands of my wife) to its place on the writer's table. Events are hurrying me away. Circumstances are guiding me to serious issues. Vast perspectives of success unroll themselves before my eyes. I accomplish my destiny with a calmness which is terrible to myself. Nothing but the homage40 of my admiration is my own. I deposit it with respectful tenderness at the feet of Miss Halcombe.
I breathe my wishes for her recovery.
I condole41 with her on the inevitable42 failure of every plan that she has formed for her sister's benefit. At the same time, I entreat43 her to believe that the information which I have derived45 from her Diary will in no respect help me to contribute to that failure. It simply confirms the plan of conduct which I had previously46 arranged. I have to thank these pages for awakening48 the finest sensibilities in my nature--nothing more.
To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will explain and excuse everything.
Miss Halcombe is a person of similar sensibility.
In that persuasion I sign myself, Fosco.
THE STORY CONTINUED BY FREDERICK FAIRLIE, ESQ., OF LIMMERIDGE HOUSE[2]
[2] The manner in which Mr. Fairlie's Narrative49 and other Narratives50 that are shortly to follow it, were originally obtained, forms the subject of an explanation which will appear at a later period.
It is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me alone.
Why--I ask everybody--why worry ME? Nobody answers that question, and nobody lets me alone. Relatives, friends, and strangers all combine to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my servant, Louis, fifty times a day--what have I done? Neither of us can tell. Most extraordinary!
The last annoyance51 that has assailed52 me is the annoyance of being called upon to write this Narrative. Is a man in my state of nervous wretchedness capable of writing narratives? When I put this extremely reasonable objection, I am told that certain very serious events relating to my niece have happened within my experience, and that I am the fit person to describe them on that account. I am threatened if I fail to exert myself in the manner required, with consequences which I cannot so much as think of without perfect prostration53. There is really no need to threaten me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family troubles, I am incapable54 of resistance. If you insist, you take your unjust advantage of me, and I give way immediately. I will endeavour to remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also under protest), and what I can't remember and can't write, Louis must remember and write for me. He is an ass1, and I am an invalid55, and we are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between us. How humiliating!
I am told to remember dates. Good heavens! I never did such a thing in my life--how am I to begin now?
I have asked Louis. He is not quite such an ass as I have hitherto supposed. He remembers the date of the event, within a ueek or two--and I remember the name of the person. The date was towards the end of June, or the beginning of July, and the name (in my opinion a remarkably56 vulgar one) was Fanny.
At the end of June, or the beginning of July, then, I was reclining in my customary state, surrounded by the various objects of Art which I have collected about me to improve the taste of the barbarous people in my neighbourhood. That is to say, I had the photographs of my pictures, and prints, and coins, and so forth57, all about me, which I intend, one of these days, to present (the photographs, I mean, if the clumsy English language will let me mean anything) to present to the institution at Carlisle (horrid58 place!), with a view to improving the tastes of the members (Goths and Vandals to a man). It might be supposed that a gentleman who was in course of conferring a great national benefit on his countrymen was the last gentleman in the world to be unfeelingly worried about private difficulties and family affairs. Quite a mistake, I assure you, in my case.
However, there I was, reclining, with my art-treasures about me, and wanting a quiet morning. Because I wanted a quiet morning, of course Louis came in. It was perfectly60 natural that I should inquire what the deuce he meant by making his appearance when I had not rung my bell. I seldom swear--it is such an ungentlemanlike habit--but when Louis answered by a grin, I think it was also perfectly natural that I should damn him for grinning. At any rate, I did.
This rigorous mode of treatment, I have observed, invariably brings persons in the lower class of life to their senses. It brought Louis to HIS senses. He was so obliging as to leave off grinning, and inform me that a Young Person was outside wanting to see me. He added (with the odious61 talkativeness of servants), that her name was Fanny.
"Who is Fanny?"
"Lady Glyde's maid, sir."
"What does Lady Glyde's maid want with me .
"A letter, sir----"
"Take it."
"She refuses to give it to anybody but you, sir."
"Who sends the letter?"
"Miss Halcombe, sir."
The moment I heard Miss Halcombe's name I gave up. It is a habit of mine always to give up to Miss Halcombe. I find, by experience, that it saves noise. I gave up on this occasion. Dear Marian!
"Let Lady Glyde's maid come in, Louis. Stop! Do her shoes creak?"
I was obliged to ask the question. Creaking shoes invariably upset me for the day. I was resigned to see the Young Person, but I was NOT resigned to let the Young "erson's shoes upset me. There is a limit even to my endurance.
Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended upon. I waved my hand. He introduced her. Is it necessary to say that she expressed her sense of embarrassment62 by shutting up her mouth and breathing through her nose? To the student of female human nature in the lower orders, surely not.
Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did NOT creak. But why do Young Persons in service all perspire63 at the hands? Why have they all got fat noses and hard cheeks? And why are their faces so sadly unfinished, especially about the corners of the eyelids64? I am not strong enough to think deeply myself on any subject, but I appeal to professional men, who are. Why have we no variety in our breed of Young Persons?
"You have a letter for me, from Miss Halcombe? Put it down on the table, please, and don't upset anything. How is Miss Halcombe?"
"Very well, thank you, sir."
"And Lady Glyde?"
I received no answer. The Young Person's face became more unfinished than ever, and I think she began to cry. I certainly saw something moist about her eyes. Tears or perspiration65? Louis (whom I have just consulted) is inclined to think, tears. He is in her class of life, and he ought to know best. Let us say, tears.
Except when the refining process of Art judiciously66 removes from them all resemblance to Nature, I distinctly object to tears. Tears are scientifically described as a Secretion68. I can understand that a secretion may be healthy or unhealthy, but I cannot see the interest of a secretion from a sentimental69 point of view. Perhaps my own secretions70 being all wrong together, I am a little prejudiced on the subject. No matter. I behaved, on this occasion, with all possible propriety and feeling. I closed my eyes and said to Louis-
"Endeavour to ascertain71 what she means."
Louis endeavoured, and the Young Person endeavoured. They succeeded in confusing each other to such an extent that I am bound in common gratitude72 to say, they really amused me. I think I shall send for them again when I am in low spirits. I have just mentioned this idea to Louis. Strange to say, it seems to make him uncomfortable. Poor devil!
Surely I am not expected to repeat my niece's maid's explanation of her tears, interpreted in the English of my Swiss valet? The thing is manifestly impossible. I can give my own impressions and feelings perhaps. Will that do as well? Please say, Yes.
My idea is that she began by telling me (through Louis) that her master had dismissed her from her mistress's service. (Observe, throughout, the strange irrelevancy73 of the Young Person. Was it my fault that she had lost her place?) On her dismissal, she had gone to the inn to sleep. (I don't keep the inn--why mention it to ME?) Between six o'clock and seven Miss Halcombe had come to say good-bye, and had given her two letters, one for me, and one for a gentleman in London. (I am not a gentleman in London--hang the gentleman in London!) She had carefully put the two letters into her bosom74 (what have I to do with her bosom?); she had been very unhappy, when Miss Halcombe had gone away again; she had not had the heart to put bit or drop between her lips till it was near bedtime, and then, when it was close on nine o'clock, she had thought she should like a cup of tea. (Am I responsible for any of these vulgar fluctuations75, which begin with unhappiness and end with tea?) Just as she was WARMING THE POT (I give the words on the authority of Louis, who says he knows what they mean, and wishes to explain, but I snub him on principle)--just as she was warming the pot the door opened, and she was STRUCK OF A HEAP (her own words again, and perfectly unintelligible76 this time to Louis, as well as to myself) by the appearance in the inn parlour of her ladyship the Countess. I give my niece's maid's description of my sister's title with a sense of the highest relish77. My poor dear sister is a tiresome78 woman who married a foreigner. To resume: the door opened, her ladyship the Countess appeared in the parlour, and the Young Person was struck of a heap. Most remarkable79!
I must really rest a little before I can get on any farther. When I have reclined for a few minutes, with my eyes closed, and when Louis has refreshed my poor aching temples with a little eau-deCologne, I may be able to proceed.
Her ladyship the Countess---
No. I am able to proceed, but not to sit up. I will recline and dictate. Louis has a horrid accent, but he knows the language, and can write. How very convenient!
Her ladyship, the Countess, explained her unexpected appearance at the inn by telling Fanny that she had come to bring one or two little messages which Miss Halcombe in her hurry had forgotten. The Young Person thereupon waited anxiously to hear what the messages were, but the Countess seemed disinclined to mention them (so like my sister's tiresome way!) until Fanny had had her tea. Her ladyship was surprisingly kind and thoughtful about it (extremely unlike my sister), and said, "I am sure, my poor girl, you must want your tea. We can let the messages wait till afterwards. Come, come, if nothing else will put you at your ease, I'll make the tea and have a cup with you." I think those were the words, as reported excitably, in my presence, by the Young Person. At any rate, the Countess insisted on making the tea, and carried her ridiculous ostentation80 of humility81 so far as to take one cup herself, and to insist on the girl's taking the other. The girl drank the tea, and according to her own account, solemnised the extraordinary occasion five minutes afterwards by fainting dead away for the first time in her life. Here again I use her own words. Louis thinks they were accompanied by an increased secretion of tears. I can't say myself. The effort of listening being quite as much as I could manage, my eyes were closed.
Where did I leave off? Ah, yes--she fainted after drinking a cup of tea with the Countess--a proceeding82 which might have interested me if I had been her medical man, but being nothing of the sort I felt bored by hearing of it, nothing more. When she came to herself in half an hour's time she was on the sofa, and nobody was with her but the landlady83. The Countess, finding it too late to remain any longer at the inn, had gone away as soon as the girl showed signs of recovering, and the landlady had been good enough to help her upstairs to bed.
Left by herself, she had felt in her bosom (I regret the necessity of referring to this part of the subject a second time), and had found the two letters there quite safe, but strangely crumpled84. She had been giddy in the night, but had got up well enough to travel in the morning. She had put the letter addressed to that obtrusive85 stranger, the gentleman in London into the post, and had now delivered the other letter into my hands as she was told. This was the plain truth, and though she could not blame herself for any intentional86 neglect, she was sadly troubled in her mind, and sadly in want of a word of advice. At this point Louis thinks the secretions appeared again. Perhaps they did, but it is of infinitely87 greater importance to mention that at this point also I lost my patience, opened my eyes, and interfered88.
"What is the purport89 of all this?" I inquired.
My niece's irrelevant90 maid stared, and stood speechless.
"Endeavour to explain," I said to my servant. "Translate me, Louis."
Louis endeavoured and translated. In other words, he descended91 immediately into a bottomless pit of confusion, and the Young Person followed him down. I really don't know when I have been so amused. I left them at the bottom of the pit as long as they diverted me. When they ceased to divert me, I exerted my intelligence, and pulled them up again.
It is unnecessary to say that my interference enabled me, in due course of time, to ascertain the purport of the Young Person's remarks.
I discovered that she was uneasy in her mind, because the train of events that she had just described to me had prevented her from receiving those supplementary92 messages which Miss Halcombe had intrusted to the Countess to deliver. She was afraid the messages might have been of great importance to her mistress's interests. Her dread12 of Sir Percival had deterred93 her from going to Blackwater Park late at night to inquire about them, and Miss Halcombe's own directions to her, on no account to miss the train in the morning, had prevented her from waiting at the inn the next day. She was most anxious that the misfortune of her fainting-fit should not lead to the second misfortune of making her mistress think her neglectful, and she would humbly94 beg to ask me whether I would advise her to write her explanations and excuses to Miss Halcombe, requesting to receive the messages by letter, if it was not too late. I make no apologies for this extremely prosy paragraph. I have been ordered to write it. There are people, unaccountable as it may appear, who actually take more interest in what my niece's maid said to me on this occasion than in what I said to my niece's maid. Amusing perversity95!
"I should feel very much obliged to you, sir, if you would kindly96 tell me what I had better do," remarked the Young Person.
"Let things stop as they are," I said, adapting my language to my listener. "I invariably let things stop as they are. Yes. Is that all?"
"If you think it would be a liberty in me, sir, to write, of course I wouldn't venture to do so. But I am so very anxious to do all I can to serve my mistress faithfully----"
People in the lower class of life never know when or how to go out of a room. They invariably require to be helped out by their betters. I thought it high time to help the Young Person out. I did it with two judicious67 words-
"Good-morning."
Something outside or inside this singular girl suddenly creaked. Louis, who was looking at her (which I was not), says she creaked when she curtseyed. Curious. Was it her shoes, her stays, or her bones? Louis thinks it was her stays. Most extraordinary!
As soon as I was left by myself I had a little nap--I really wanted it. When I awoke again I noticed dear Marian's letter. If I had had the least idea of what it contained I should certainly not have attempted to open it. Being, unfortunately for myself, quite innocent of all suspicion, I read the letter. It immediately upset me for the day.
I am, by nature, one of the most easy-tempered creatures that ever lived--I make allowances for everybody, and I take offence at nothing. But as I have before remarked, there are limits to my endurance. I laid down Marian's letter, and felt myself--justly felt myself--an injured man.
I am about to make a remark. It is, of course, applicable to the very serious matter now under notice, or I should not allow it to appear in this place.
Nothing, in my opinion, sets the odious selfishness of mankind in such a repulsively97 vivid light as the treatment, in all classes of society, which the Single people receive at the hands of the Married people. When you have once shown yourself too considerate and self-denying to add a family of your own to an already overcrowded population, you are vindictively98 marked out by your married friends, who have no similar consideration and no similar self-denial, as the recipient99 of half their conjugal100 troubles, and the born friend of all their children. Husbands and wives TALK of the cares of matrimony, and bachelors and spinsters BEAR them. Take my own case. I considerately remain single, and my poor dear brother Philip inconsiderately marries. What does he do when he dies? He leaves his daughter to ME. She is a sweet girl--she is also a dreadful responsibility. Why lay her on my shoulders? Because I am bound, in the harmless character of a single man, to relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. I do my best with my brother's responsibility--I marry my niece, with infinite fuss and difficulty, to the man her father wanted her to marry. She and her husband disagree, and unpleasant consequences follow. What does she do with those consequences? She transfers them to ME. Why transfer them to ME? Because I am bound, in the harmless character of a single man, to relieve my married connections of all their own troubles. Poor single people! Poor human nature!
It is quite unnecessary to say that Marian's letter threatened me. Everybody threatens me. All sorts of horrors were to fall on my devoted101 head if I hesitated to turn Limmeridge House into an asylum102 for my niece and her misfortunes. I did hesitate, nevertheless.
I have mentioned that my usual course, hitherto, had been to submit to dear Marian, and save noise. But on this occasion, the consequences involved in her extremely inconsiderate proposal were of a nature to make me pause. If I opened Limmeridge House as an asylum to Lady Glyde, what security had I against Sir Percival Glyde's following her here in a state of violent resentment103 against ME for harbouring his wife? I saw such a perfect labyrinth104 of troubles involved in this proceeding that I determined105 to feel my ground, as it were. I wrote, therefore, to dear Marian to beg (as she had no husband to lay claim to her) that she would come here by herself, first, and talk the matter over with me. If she could answer my objections to my own perfect satisfaction, then I assured her that I would receive our sweet Laura with the greatest pleasure, but not otherwise.
I felt, of course, at the time, that this temporising on my part would probably end in bringing Marian here in a state of virtuous106 indignation, banging doors. But then, the other course of proceeding might end in bringing Sir Percival here in a state of virtuous indignation, banging doors also, and of the two indignations and bangings I preferred Marian's, because I was used to her. Accordingly I despatched the letter by return of post. It gained me time, at all events--and, oh dear me! what a point that was to begin with.
When I am totally prostrated107 (did I mention that I was totally prostrated by Marian's letter?) it always takes me three days to get up again. I was very unreasonable--I expected three days of quiet. Of course I didn't get them.
The third day's post brought me a most impertinent letter from a person with whom I was totally unacquainted. He described himself as the acting108 partner of our man of business--our dear, pig-headed old Gilmore--and he informed me that he had lately received, by the post, a letter addressed to him in Miss Halcombe's handwriting. On opening the envelope, he had discovered, to his astonishment109, that it contained nothing but a blank sheet of notepaper. This circumstance appeared to him so suspicious (as suggesting to his restless legal mind that the letter had been tampered110 with) that he had at once written to Miss Halcombe, and had received no answer by return of post. In this difficulty, instead of acting like a sensible man and letting things take their proper course, his next absurd proceeding, on his own showing, was to pester111 me by writing to inquire if I knew anything about it. What the deuce should I know about it? Why alarm me as well as himself? I wrote back to that effect. It was one of my keenest letters. I have produced nothing with a sharper epistolary edge to it since I tendered his dismissal in writing to that extremely troublesome person, Mr. Walter Hartright.
My letter produced its effect. I heard nothing more from the lawyer.
This perhaps was not altogether surprising. But it was certainly a remarkable circumstance that no second letter reached me from Marian, and that no warning signs appeared of her arrival. Her unexpected absence did me amazing good. It was so very soothing112 and pleasant to infer (as I did of course) that my married connections had made it up again. Five days of undisturbed tranquillity113, of delicious single blessedness, quite restored me. On the sixth day I felt strong enough to send for my photographer, and to set him at work again on the presentation copies of my arttreasures, with a view, as I have already mentioned, to the improvement of taste in this barbarous neighbourhood. I had just dismissed him to his workshop, and had just begun coquetting with my coins, when Louis suddenly made his appearance with a card in his hand.
"Another Young Person?" I said. "I won't see her. In my state of health Young Persons disagree with me. Not at home."
"It is a gentleman this time, sir "
A gentleman of course made a difference. I looked at the card.
Gracious Heaven! my tiresome sister's foreign husband, Count Fosco.
Is it necessary to say what my first impression was when I looked at my visitor's card? Surely not! My sister having married a foreigner, there was but one impression that any man in his senses could possibly feel. Of course the Count had come to borrow money of me.
"Louis," I said, "do you think he would go away if you gave him five shillings?"
Louis looked quite shocked. He surprised me inexpressibly by declaring that my sister's foreign husband was dressed superbly, and looked the picture of prosperity. Under these circumstances my first impression altered to a certain extent. I now took it for granted that the Count had matrimonial difficulties of his own to contend with, and that he had come, like the rest of the family, to cast them all on my shoulders.
"Did he mention his business?" I asked.
"Count Fosco said he had come here, sir, because Miss Halcombe was unable to leave Blackwater Park."
Fresh troubles, apparently114. Not exactly his own, as I had supposed, but dear Marian's. Troubles, anyway. Oh dear!
"Show him in," I said resignedly.
The Count's first appearance really startled me. He was such an alarmingly large person that I quite trembled. I felt certain that he would shake the floor and knock down my art-treasures. He did neither the one nor the other. He was refreshingly115 dressed in summer costume--his manner was delightfully116 self-possessed and quiet--he had a charming smile. My first impression of him was highly favourable117. It is not creditable to my penetration118--as the sequel will show--to acknowledge this, but I am a naturally candid119 man, and I DO acknowledge it notwithstanding.
"Allow me to present myself, Mr. Fairlie," he said. "I come from Blackwater Park, and I have the honour and the happiness of being Madame Fosco's husband. Let me take my first and last advantage of that circumstance by entreating120 you not to make a stranger of me. I beg you will not disturb yourself--I beg you will not move."
"You are very good," I replied. "I wish I was strong enough to get up. Charmed to see you at Limmeridge. Please take a chair."
"I am afraid you are suffering to-day," said the Count.
"As usual," I said. "I am nothing but a bundle of nerves dressed up to look like a man."
"I have studied many subjects in my time," remarked this sympathetic person. "Among others the inexhaustible subject of nerves. May I make a suggestion, at once the simplest and the most profound? Will you let me alter the light in your room?
"Certainly--if you will be so very kind as not to let any of it in on me."
He walked to the window. Such a contrast to dear Marian! so extremely considerate in all his movements!
"Light," he said, in that delightfully confidential121 tone which is so soothing to an invalid, "is the first essential. Light stimulates122, nourishes, preserves. You can no more do without it, Mr. Fairlie, than if you were a flower. Observe. Here, where you sit, I close the shutters123 to compose you. There, where you do NOT sit, I draw up the blind and let in the invigorating sun. Admit the light into your room if you cannot bear it on yourself. Light, sir, is the grand decree of Providence124. You accept Providence with your own restrictions125. Accept light on the same terms."
I thought this very convincing and attentive126. He had taken me in up to that point about the light, he had certainly taken me in.
"You see me confused," he said, returning to his place--"on my word of honour, Mr. Fairlie, you see me confused in your presence."
"Shocked to hear it, I am sure. May I inquire why?"
"Sir, can I enter this room (where you sit a sufferer), and see you surrounded by these admirable objects of Art, without discovering that you are a man whose feelings are acutely impressionable, whose sympathies are perpetually alive? Tell me, can I do this?"
If I had been strong enough to sit up in my chair I should, of course, have bowed. Not being strong enough, I smiled my acknowledgments instead. It did just as well, we both understood one another.
"Pray follow my train of thought," continued the Count. "I sit here, a man of refined sympathies myself, in the presence of another man of refined sympathies also. I am conscious of a terrible necessity for lacerating those sympathies by referring to domestic events of a very melancholy127 kind. What is the inevitable consequence? I have done myself the honour of pointing it out to you already. I sit confused."
Was it at this point that I began to suspect he was going to bore me? I rather think it was.
"Is it absolutely necessary to refer to these unpleasant matters?" I inquired. "In our homely128 English phrase, Count Fosco, won't they keep?"
The Count, with the most alarming solemnity, sighed and shook his head.
"Must I really hear them?"
He shrugged129 his shoulders (it was the first foreign thing he had done since he had been in the room), and looked at me in an unpleasantly penetrating130 manner. My instincts told me that I had better close my eyes. I obeyed my instincts.
"Please break it gently," I pleaded. "Anybody dead?"
"Dead!" cried the Count, with unnecessary foreign fierceness. "Mr. Fairlie, your national composure terrifies me. In the name of Heaven, what have I said or done to make you think me the messenger of death?"
"Pray accept my apologies," I answered. "You have said and done nothing. I make it a rule in these distressing132 cases always to anticipate the worst. It breaks the blow by meeting it half-way, and so on. Inexpressibly relieved, I am sure, to hear that nobody is dead. Anybody ill?"
I opened my eyes and looked at him. Was he very yellow when he came in, or had he turned very yellow in the last minute or two? I really can't say, and I can't ask Louis, because he was not in the room at the time.
"Anybody ill?" I repeated, observing that my national composure still appeared to affect him.
"That is part of my bad news, Mr. Fairlie. Yes. Somebody is ill."
"Grieved, I am sure. Which of them is it?"
"To my profound sorrow, Miss Halcombe. Perhaps you were in some degree prepared to hear this? Perhaps when you found that Miss Halcombe did not come here by herself, as you proposed, and did not write a second time, your affectionate anxiety may have made you fear that she was ill?"
I have no doubt my affectionate anxiety had led to that melancholy apprehension133 at some time or other, but at the moment my wretched memory entirely134 failed to remind me of the circumstance. However, I said yes, in justice to myself. I was much shocked. It was so very uncharacteristic of such a robust135 person as dear Marian to be ill, that I could only suppose she had met with an accident. A horse, or a false step on the stairs, or something of that sort.
"Is it serious?" I asked.
"Serious--beyond a doubt," he replied. "Dangerous--I hope and trust not. Miss Halcombe unhappily exposed herself to be wetted through by a heavy rain. The cold that followed was of an aggravated136 kind, and it has now brought with it the worst consequence--fever."
When I heard the word fever, and when I remembered at the same moment that the unscrupulous person who was now addressing me had just come from Blackwater Park, I thought I should have fainted on the spot.
"Good God!" I said. "Is it infectious?"
"Not at present," he answered, with detestable composure. "It may turn to infection--but no such deplorable complication had taken place when I left Blackwater Park. I have felt the deepest interest in the case, Mr. Fairlie--I have endeavoured to assist the regular medical attendant in watching it--accept my personal assurances of the uninfectious nature of the fever when I last saw it."
Accept his assurances! I never was farther from accepting anything in my life. I would not have believed him on his oath. He was too yellow to be believed. He looked like a walking-West-Indianepidemic. He was big enough to carry typhus by the ton, and to dye the very carpet he walked on with scarlet137 fever. In certain emergencies my mind is remarkably soon made up. I instantly determined to get rid of him.
"You will kindly excuse an invalid," I said--"but long conferences of any kind invariably upset me. May I beg to know exactly what the object is to which I am indebted for the honour of your visit?"
I fervently138 hoped that this remarkably broad hint would throw him off his balance--confuse him--reduce him to polite apologies--in short, get him out of the room. On the contrary, it only settled him in his chair. He became additionally solemn, and dignified139, and confidential. He held up two of his horrid fingers and gave me another of his unpleasantly penetrating looks. What was I to do? I was not strong enough to quarrel with him. Conceive my situation, if you please. Is language adequate to describe it? I think not.
"The objects of my visit," he went on, quite irrepressibly, "are numbered on my fingers. They are two. First, I come to bear my testimony140, with profound sorrow, to the lamentable141 disagreements between Sir Percival and Lady Glyde. I am Sir Percival's oldest friend--I am related to Lady Glyde by marriage--I am an eyewitness142 of all that has happened at Blackwater Park. In those three capacities I speak with authority, with confidence, with honourable143 regret. Sir, I inform you, as the head of Lady Glyde's family, that Miss Halcombe has exaggerated nothing in the letter which she wrote to your address. I affirm that the remedy which that admirable lady has proposed is the only remedy that will spare you the horrors of public scandal. A temporary separation between husband and wife is the one peaceable solution of this difficulty. Part them for the present, and when all causes of irritation144 are removed, I, who have now the honour of addressing you--I will undertake to bring Sir Percival to reason. Lady Glyde is innocent, Lady Glyde is injured, but--follow my thought here!-she is, on that very account (I say it with shame), the cause of irritation while she remains145 under her husband's roof. No other house can receive her with propriety but yours. I invite you to open it."
Cool. Here was a matrimonial hailstorm pouring in the South of England, and I was invited, by a man with fever in every fold of his coat, to come out from the North of England and take my share of the pelting146. I tried to put the point forcibly, just as I have put it here. The Count deliberately147 lowered one of his horrid fingers, kept the other up, and went on--rode over me, as it were, without even the common coach-manlike attention of crying "Hi!" before he knocked me down.
"Follow my thought once more, if you please," he resumed. "My first object you have heard. My second object in coming to this house is to do what Miss Halcombe's illness has prevented her from doing for herself. My large experience is consulted on all difficult matters at Blackwater Park, and my friendly advice was requested on the interesting subject of your letter to Miss Halcombe. I understood at once--for my sympathies are your sympathies--why you wished to see her here before you pledged yourself to inviting148 Lady Glyde. You are most right, sir, in hesitating to receive the wife until you are quite certain that the husband will not exert his authority to reclaim149 her. I agree to that. I also agree that such delicate explanations as this difficulty involves are not explanations which can be properly disposed of by writing only. My presence here (to my own great inconvenience) is the proof that I speak sincerely. As for the explanations themselves, I--Fosco--I, who know Sir Percival much better than Miss Halcombe knows him, affirm to you, on my honour and my word, that he will not come near this house, or attempt to communicate with this house, while his wife is living in it. His affairs are embarrassed. Offer him his freedom by means of the absence of Lady Glyde. I promise you he will take his freedom, and go back to the Continent at the earliest moment when he can get away. Is this clear to you as crystal? Yes, it is. Have you questions to address to me? Be it so, I am here to answer. Ask, Mr. Fairlie--oblige me by asking to your heart's content."
He had said so much already in spite of me, and he looked so dreadfully capable of saying a great deal more also in spite of me, that I declined his amiable150 invitation in pure self-defence.
"Many thanks," I replied. "I am sinking fast. In my state of health I must take things for granted. Allow me to do so on this occasion. We quite understand each other. Yes. Much obliged, I am sure, for your kind interference. If I ever get better, and ever have a second opportunity of improving our acquaintance "
He got up. I thought he was going. No. More talk, more time for the development of infectious influences--in my room, too-remember that, in my room!
"One moment yet," he said, "one moment before I take my leave. I ask permission at parting to impress on you an urgent necessity. It is this, sir. You must not think of waiting till Miss Halcombe recovers before you receive Lady Glyde. Miss Halcombe has the attendance of the doctor, of the housekeeper151 at Blackwater Park, and of an experienced nurse as well--three persons for whose capacity and devotion I answer with my life. I tell you that. I tell you, also, that the anxiety and alarm of her sister's illness has already affected152 the health and spirits of Lady Glyde, and has made her totally unfit to be of use in the sick-room. Her position with her husband grows more and more deplorable and dangerous every day. If you leave her any longer at Blackwater Park, you do nothing whatever to hasten her sister's recovery, and at the same time, you risk the public scandal, which you and I, and all of us, are bound in the sacred interests of the family to avoid. With all my soul, I advise you to remove the serious responsibility of delay from your own shoulders by writing to Lady Glyde to come here at once. Do your affectionate, your honourable, your inevitable duty, and whatever happens in the future, no one can lay the blame on you. I speak from my large experience--I offer my friendly advice. Is it accepted--Yes, or No?"
I looked at him--merely looked at him--with my sense of his amazing assurance, and my dawning resolution to ring for Louis and have him shown out of the room expressed in every line of my face. It is perfectly incredible, but quite true, that my face did not appear to produce the slightest impression on him. Born without nerves--evidently born without nerves.
"You hesitate?" he said. "Mr. Fairlie! I understand that hesitation153. You object--see, sir, how my sympathies look straight down into your thoughts!--you object that Lady Glyde is not in health and not in spirits to take the long journey, from Hampshire to this place, by herself. Her own maid is removed from her, as you know, and of other servants fit to travel with her, from one end of England to another, there are none at Blackwater Park. You object, again, that she cannot comfortably stop and rest in London, on her way here, because she cannot comfortably go alone to a public hotel where she is a total stranger. In one breath, I grant both objections--in another breath, I remove them. Follow me, if you please, for the last time. It was my intention, when I returned to England with Sir Percival, to settle myself in the neighbourhood of London. That purpose has just been happily accomplished154. I have taken, for six months, a little furnished house in the quarter called St. John's Wood. Be so obliging as to keep this fact in your mind, and observe the programme I now propose. Lady Glyde travels to London (a short journey)--I myself meet her at the station--I take her to rest and sleep at my house, which is also the house of her aunt--when she is restored I escort her to the station again--she travels to this place, and her own maid (who is now under your roof) receives her at the carriagedoor. Here is comfort consulted--here are the interests of propriety consulted--here is your own duty--duty of hospitality, sympathy, protection, to an unhappy lady in need of all three-smoothed and made easy, from the beginning to the end. I cordially invite you, sir, to second my efforts in the sacred interests of the family. I seriously advise you to write, by my hands, offering the hospitality of your house (and heart), and the hospitality of my house (and heart), to that injured and unfortunate lady whose cause I plead to-day."
He waved his horrid hand at me--he struck his infectious breast-he addressed me oratorically, as if I was laid up in the House of Commons. It was high time to take a desperate course of some sort. It was also high time to send for Louis, and adopt the precaution of fumigating155 the room.
In this trying emergency an idea occurred to me--an inestimable idea which, so to speak, killed two intrusive156 birds with one stone. I determined to get rid of the Count's tiresome eloquence157, and of Lady Glyde's tiresome troubles, by complying with this odious foreigner's request, and writing the letter at once. There was not the least danger of the invitation being accepted, for there was not the least chance that Laura would consent to leave Blackwater Park while Marian was lying there ill. How this charmingly convenient obstacle could have escaped the officious penetration of the Count, it was impossible to conceive--but it HAD escaped him. My dread that he might yet discover it, if I allowed him any more time to think, stimulated158 me to such an amazing degree, that I struggled into a sitting position--seized, really seized, the writing materials by my side, and produced the letter as rapidly as if I had been a common clerk in an office. "Dearest Laura, Please come, whenever you like. Break the journey by sleeping in London at your aunt's house. Grieved to hear of dear Marian's illness. Ever affectionately yours." I handed these lines, at arm's length, to the Count--I sank back in my chair--I said, "Excuse me--I am entirely prostrated--I can do no more. Will you rest and lunch downstairs? Love to all, and sympathy, and so on. Good-morning."
He made another speech--the man was absolutely inexhaustible. I closed my eyes--I endeavoured to hear as little as possible. In spite of my endeavours I was obliged to hear a great deal. My sister's endless husband congratulated himself, and congratulated me, on the result of our interview--he mentioned a great deal more about his sympathies and mine--he deplored159 my miserable health--he offered to write me a prescription--he impressed on me the necessity of not forgetting what he had said about the importance of light--he accepted my obliging invitation to rest and lunch--he recommended me to expect Lady Glyde in two or three days' time--he begged my permission to look forward to our next meeting, instead of paining himself and paining me, by saying farewell--he added a great deal more, which, I rejoice to think, I did not attend to at the time, and do not remember now. I heard his sympathetic voice travelling away from me by degrees--but, large as he was, I never heard him. He had the negative merit of being absolutely noiseless. I don't know when he opened the door, or when he shut it. I ventured to make use of my eyes again, after an interval of silence--and he was gone.
I rang for Louis, and retired160 to my bathroom. Tepid161 water, strengthened with aromatic162 vinegar, for myself, and copious163 fumigation164 for my study, were the obvious precautions to take, and of course I adopted them. I rejoice to say they proved successful. I enjoyed my customary siesta165. I awoke moist and cool.
My first inquiries166 were for the Count. Had we really got rid of him? Yes--he had gone away by the afternoon train. Had he lunched, and if so, upon what? Entirely upon fruit-tart and cream. What a man! What a digestion167!
Am I expected to say anything more? I believe not. I believe I have reached the limits assigned to me. The shocking circumstances which happened at a later period did not, I am thankful to say, happen in my presence. I do beg and entreat that nobody will be so very unfeeling as to lay any part of the blame of those circumstances on me. I did everything for the best. I am not answerable for a deplorable calamity168, which it was quite impossible to foresee. I am shattered by it--I have suffered under it, as nobody else has suffered. My servant, Louis (who is really attached to me in his unintelligent way), thinks I shall never get over it. He sees me dictating169 at this moment, with my handkerchief to my eyes. I wish to mention, in justice to myself, that it was not my fault, and that I am quite exhausted170 and heartbroken. Need I say more?
THE STORY CONTINUED BY ELIZA MICHELSON (Housekeeper at Blackwater Park)
I
I am asked to state plainly what I know of the progress of Miss Halcombe's illness and of the circumstances under which Lady Glyde left Blackwater Park for London.
The reason given for making this demand on me is, that my testimony is wanted in the interests of truth. As the widow of a clergyman of the Church of England (reduced by misfortune to the necessity of accepting a situation), I have been taught to place the claims of truth above all other considerations. I therefore comply with a request which I might otherwise, through reluctance171 to connect myself with distressing family affairs, have hesitated to grant.
I made no memorandum172 at the time, and I cannot therefore be sure to a day of the date, but I believe I am correct in stating that Miss Halcombe's serious illness began during the last fortnight or ten days in June. The breakfast hour was late at Blackwater Park-sometimes as late as ten, never earlier than half-past nine. On the morning to which I am now referring, Miss Halcombe (who was usually the first to come down) did not make her appearance at the table. After the family had waited a quarter of an hour, the upper housemaid was sent to see after her, and came running out of the room dreadfully frightened. I met the servant on the stairs, and went at once to Miss Halcombe to see what was the matter. The poor lady was incapable of telling me. She was walking about her room with a pen in her hand, quite light-headed, in a state of burning fever.
Lady Glyde (being no longer in Sir Percival's service, I may, without impropriety, mention my former mistress by her name, instead of calling her my lady) was the first to come in from her own bedroom. She was so dreadfully alarmed and distressed173 that she was quite useless. The Count Fosco, and his lady, who came upstairs immediately afterwards, were both most serviceable and kind. Her ladyship assisted me to get Miss Halcombe to her bed. His lordship the Count remained in the sitting-room174, and having sent for my medicine-chest, made a mixture for Miss Halcombe, and a cooling lotion175 to be applied176 to her head, so as to lose no time before the doctor came. We applied the lotion, but we could not get her to take the mixture. Sir Percival undertook to send for the doctor. He despatched a groom177, on horseback, for the nearest medical man, Mr. Dawson, of Oak Lodge178.
Mr. Dawson arrived in less than an hour's time. He was a respectable elderly man, well known all round the country, and we were much alarmed when we found that he considered the case to be a very serious one.
His lordship the Count affably entered into conversation with Mr. Dawson, and gave his opinions with a judicious freedom. Mr. Dawson, not over-courteously, inquired if his lordship's advice was the advice of a doctor, and being informed that it was the advice of one who had studied medicine unprofessionally, replied that he was not accustomed to consult with amateur physicians. The Count, with truly Christian179 meekness180 of temper, smiled and left the room. Before he went out he told me that he might be found, in case he was wanted in the course of the day, at the boat-house on the banks of the lake. Why he should have gone there, I cannot say. But he did go, remaining away the whole day till seven o'clock, which was dinner-time. Perhaps he wished to set the example of keeping the house as quiet as possible. It was entirely in his character to do so. He was a most considerate nobleman.
Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and going, and getting worse towards the morning instead of better. No nurse fit to wait on her being at hand in the neighbourhood, her ladyship the Countess and myself undertook the duty, relieving each other. Lady Glyde, most unwisely, insisted on sitting up with us. She was much too nervous and too delicate in health to bear the anxiety of Miss Halcombe's illness calmly. She only did herself harm, without being of the least real assistance. A more gentle and affectionate lady never lived--but she cried, and she was frightened, two weaknesses which made her entirely unfit to be present in a sick-room.
Sir Percival and the Count came in the morning to make their inquiries.
Sir Percival (from distress131, I presume, at his lady's affliction and at Miss Halcombe's illness) appeared much confused and unsettled in his mind. His lordship testified, on the contrary, a `ecoming composure and interest. He had his straw hat in one hand, and his book in the other, and he mentioned to Sir Percival in my hearing that he would go out again and study at the lake. "Let us keep the house quiet," he said. "Let us not smoke indoors, my friend, now Miss Halcombe is ill. You go your way, and I will go mine. When I study I like to be alone. Good-morning, Mrs. Michelson."
Sir Percival was not civil enough--perhaps I ought in justice to say, not composed enough--to take leave of me with the same polite attention. The only person in the house, indeed, who treated me, at that time or at any other, on the footing of a lady in distressed circumstances, was the Count. He had the manners of a true nobleman--he was considerate towards every one. Even the young person (Fanny by name) who attended on Lady Glyde was not beneath his notice. When she was sent away by Sir Percival, his lordship (showing me his sweet little birds at the time) was most kindly anxious to know what had become of her, where she was to go the day she left Blackwater Park, and so on. It is in such little delicate attentions that the advantages of aristocratic birth always show themselves. I make no apology for introducing these particulars--they are brought forward in justice to his lordship, whose character, I have reason to know, is viewed rather harshly in certain quarters. A nobleman who can respect a lady in distressed circumstances, and can take a fatherly interest in the fortunes of an humble181 servant girl, shows principles and feelings of too high an order to be lightly called in question. I advance no opinions--I offer facts only. My endeavour through life is to judge not that I be not judged. One of my beloved husband's finest sermons was on that text. I read it constantly--in my own copy of the edition printed by subscription182, in the first days of my widowhood--and at every fresh perusal I derive44 an increase of spiritual benefit and edification.
There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night was even worse than the first. Mr. Dawson was constant in his attendance. The practical duties of nursing were still divided between the Countess and myself, Lady Glyde persisting in sitting up with us, though we both entreated183 her to take some rest. "My place is by Marian's bedside," was her only answer. "Whether I am ill, or well, nothing will induce me to lose sight of her."
Towards midday I went downstairs to attend to some of my regular duties. An hour afterwards, on my way back to the sick-room, I saw the Count (who had gone out again early, for the third time) entering the hall, to all appearance in the highest good spirits. Sir Percival, at the same moment, put his head out of the library door, and addressed his noble friend, with extreme eagerness, in these words-
"Have you found her?"
His lordship's large face became dimpled all over with placid184 smiles, but he made no reply in words. At the same time Sir Percival turned his head, observed that I was approaching the stairs, and looked at me in the most rudely angry manner possible.
"Come in here and tell me about it," he said to the Count. "Whenever there are women in a house they're always sure to be going up or down stairs."
"My dear Percival," observed his lordship kindly, "Mrs. Michelson has duties. Pray recognise her admirable performance of them as sincerely as I do! How is the sufferer, Mrs. Michelson?"
"No better, my lord, I regret to say."
"Sad--most sad!" remarked the Count. "You look fatigued185, Mrs. Michelson. It is certainly time you and my wife had some help in nursing. I think I may be the means of offering you that help. Circumstances have happened which will oblige Madame Fosco to travel to London either to-morrow or the day after. She will go away in the morning and return at night, and she will bring back with her, to relieve you, a nurse of excellent conduct and capacity, who is now disengaged. The woman is known to my wife as a person to be trusted. Before she comes here say nothing about her, if you please, to the doctor, because he will look with an evil eye on any nurse of my providing. When she appears in this house she will speak for herself, and Mr. Dawson will be obliged to acknowledge that there is no excuse for not employing her. Lady Glyde will say the same. Pray present my best respects and sympathies to Lady Glyde."
I expressed my grateful acknowledgments for his lordship's kind consideration. Sir Percival cut them short by calling to his noble friend (using, I regret to say, a profane186 expression) to come into the library, and not to keep him waiting there any longer.
I proceeded upstairs. We are poor erring59 creatures, and however well established a woman's principles may be she cannot always keep on her guard against the temptation to exercise an idle curiosity. I am ashamed to say that an idle curiosity, on this occasion, got the better of my principles, and made me unduly187 inquisitive188 about the question which Sir Percival had addressed to his noble friend at the library door. Who was the Count expected to find in the course of his studious morning rambles189 at Blackwater Park? A woman, it was to be presumed, from the terms of Sir Percival's inquiry190. I did not suspect the Count of any impropriety--I knew his moral character too well. The only question I asked myself was--Had he found her?
To resume. The night passed as usual without producing any change for the better in Miss Halcombe. The next day she seemed to improve a little. The day after that her ladyship the Countess, without mentioning the object of her journey to any one in my hearing, proceeded by the morning train to London--her noble husband, with his customary attention, accompanying her to the station.
I was now left in sole charge of Miss Halcombe, with every apparent chance, in consequence of her sister's resolution not to leave the bedside, of having Lady Glyde herself to nurse next.
The only circumstance of any importance that happened in the course of the day was the occurrence of another unpleasant meeting between the doctor and the Count.
His lordship, on returning from the station, stepped up into Miss Halcombe's sitting-room to make his inquiries. I went out from the bedroom to speak to him, Mr. Dawson and Lady Glyde being both with the patient at the time. The Count asked me many questions about the treatment and the symptoms. I informed him that the treatment was of the kind described as "saline," and that the symptoms, between the attacks of fever, were certainly those of increasing weakness and exhaustion191. Just as I was mentioning these last particulars, Mr. Dawson came out from the bedroom.
"Good-morning, sir," said his lordship, stepping forward in the most urbane192 manner, and stopping the doctor, with a high-bred resolution impossible to resist, "I greatly fear you find no improvement in the symptoms to-day?"
"I find decided193 improvement," answered Mr. Dawson.
"You still persist in your lowering treatment of this case of fever?" continued his lordship.
"I persist in the treatment which is justified194 by my own professional experience," said Mr. Dawson.
"Permit me to put one question to you on the vast subject of professional experience," observed the Count. "I presume to offer no more advice--I only presume to make an inquiry. You live at some distance, sir, from the gigantic centres of scientific activity--London and Paris. Have you ever heard of the wasting effects of fever being reasonably and intelligibly195 repaired by fortifying196 the exhausted patient with brandy, wine, ammonia, and quinine? Has that new heresy197 of the highest medical authorities ever reached your ears--Yes or No?"
"When a professional man puts that question to me I shall be glad to answer him," said the doctor, opening the door to go out. "You are not a professional man, and I beg to decline answering you."
Buffeted198 in this inexcusably uncivil way on one cheek, the Count, like a practical Christian, immediately turned the other, and said, in the sweetest manner, "Good-morning, Mr. Dawson."
If my late beloved husband had been so fortunate as to know his lordship, how highly he and the Count would have esteemed199 each other!
Her ladyship the Countess returned by the last train that night, and brought with her the nurse from London. I was instructed that this person's name was Mrs. Rubelle. Her personal appearance, and her imperfect English when she spoke10, informed me that she was a foreigner.
I have always cultivated a feeling of humane200 indulgence for foreigners. They do not possess our blessings201 and advantages, and they are, for the most part, brought up in the blind errors of Popery. It has also always been my precept202 and practice, as it was my dear husband's precept and practice before me (see Sermon XXIX. in the Collection by the late Rev47. Samuel Michelson, M.A.), to do as I would be done by. On both these accounts I will not say that Mrs. Rubelle struck me as being a small, wiry, sly person, of fifty or thereabouts, with a dark brown or Creole complexion203 and watchful204 light grey eyes. Nor will I mention, for the reasons just alleged205, that I thought her dress, though it was of the plainest black silk, inappropriately costly206 in texture207 and unnecessarily refined in trimming and finish, for a person in her position in life. I should not like these things to be said of me, and therefore it is my duty not to say them
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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cramped
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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faculties
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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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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vividly
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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parches
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| v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的第三人称单数 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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postscript
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perusal
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allude
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tact
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discretion
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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24
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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25
certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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26
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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27
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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28
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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29
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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30
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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31
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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32
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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33
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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34
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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35
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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36
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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37
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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38
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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39
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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40
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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41
condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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42
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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43
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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44
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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45
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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46
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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47
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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48
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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49
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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50
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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51
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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52
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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53
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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54
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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55
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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56
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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57
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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59
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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60
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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61
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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62
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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63
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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64
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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65
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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66
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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67
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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68
secretion
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| n.分泌 | |
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69
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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70
secretions
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| n.分泌（物）( secretion的名词复数 ) | |
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71
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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72
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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73
irrelevancy
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| n.不恰当，离题，不相干的事物 | |
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74
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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75
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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76
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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77
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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78
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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79
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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80
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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81
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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82
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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83
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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84
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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85
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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86
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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87
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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88
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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89
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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90
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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91
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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92
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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93
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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95
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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96
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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97
repulsively
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| adv.冷淡地 | |
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98
vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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99
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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100
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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101
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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102
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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103
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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104
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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105
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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106
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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107
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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108
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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109
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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110
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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111
pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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112
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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113
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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114
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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115
refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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116
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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117
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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118
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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119
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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120
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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121
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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122
stimulates
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| v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 )；激励；使兴奋；起兴奋作用，起刺激作用，起促进作用 | |
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123
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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124
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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125
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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126
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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127
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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128
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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129
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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130
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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131
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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132
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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133
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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134
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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135
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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136
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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137
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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138
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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139
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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140
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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141
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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142
eyewitness
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| n.目击者，见证人 | |
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143
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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144
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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145
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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146
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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147
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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148
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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149
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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150
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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151
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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152
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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153
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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154
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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155
fumigating
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的现在分词 ) | |
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156
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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157
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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158
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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fumigation
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| n.烟熏，熏蒸；忿恨 | |
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siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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166
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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174
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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175
lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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180
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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181
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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185
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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191
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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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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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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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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196
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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201
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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203
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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205
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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