Yet one day when Caroline drew near to rouse her, thinking she had lain long enough, behold8, as she looked down, Shirley's cheek was wet as if with dew; those fine eyes of hers shone humid and brimming.
"Shirley, why do you cry?" asked Caroline, involuntarily laying stress on you.
Miss Keeldar smiled, and turned her picturesque9 head towards the questioner. "Because it pleases me mightily10 to cry," she said. "My heart is both sad and glad. But why, you good, patient child—why do you not bear me company? I only weep tears, delightful11 and soon wiped away; you might weep gall12, if you choose."
"Why should I weep gall?"
"And are not you too mateless, Shirley?"
"At heart—no."
"Oh! who nestles there, Shirley?"
Miss Helstone was by this time free enough from illusions: she took a sufficiently16 grave view of the future, and fancied she knew pretty well how her own destiny and that of some others were tending. Yet old associations retained their influence over her, and it was these and the power of habit which still frequently drew her of an evening to the field-style and the old thorn overlooking the Hollow.
One night, the night after the incident of the note, she had been at her usual post, watching for her beacon—watching vainly: that evening no lamp was lit. She waited till the rising of certain constellations17 warned her of lateness and signed her away. In passing Fieldhead, on her return, its moonlight beauty attracted her glance, and stayed her step an instant. Tree and hall rose peaceful under the night sky and clear full orb18; pearly paleness gilded19 the building; mellow20 brown gloom bosomed21 it round; shadows of deep green brooded above its oak-wreathed roof. The broad pavement in front shone pale also; it gleamed as if some spell had transformed the dark granite22 to glistering Parian. On the silvery space slept two sable23 shadows, thrown sharply defined from two human figures. These figures when first seen were motionless and mute; presently they moved in harmonious24 step, and spoke25 low in harmonious key. Earnest was the gaze that scrutinized26 them as they emerged from behind the trunk of the cedar27. "Is it Mrs. Pryor and Shirley?"
Certainly it is Shirley. Who else has a shape so lithe28, and proud, and graceful29? And her face, too, is visible—her countenance30 careless and pensive31, and musing32 and mirthful, and mocking and tender. Not fearing the dew, she has not covered her head; her curls are free—they veil her neck and caress33 her shoulder with their tendril rings. An ornament34 of gold gleams through the half-closed folds of the scarf she has wrapped across her bust35, and a203 large bright gem36 glitters on the white hand which confines it. Yes, that is Shirley.
Her companion then is, of course, Mrs. Pryor?
Yes, if Mrs. Pryor owns six feet of stature37, and if she has changed her decent widow's weeds for masculine disguise. The figure walking at Miss Keeldar's side is a man—a tall, young, stately man; it is her tenant38, Robert Moore.
The pair speak softly; their words are not distinguishable. To remain a moment to gaze is not to be an eavesdropper39; and as the moon shines so clearly and their countenances40 are so distinctly apparent, who can resist the attraction of such interest? Caroline, it seems, cannot, for she lingers.
There was a time when, on summer nights, Moore had been wont41 to walk with his cousin, as he was now walking with the heiress. Often had she gone up the Hollow with him after sunset, to scent42 the freshness of the earth, where a growth of fragrant43 herbage carpeted a certain narrow terrace, edging a deep ravine, from whose rifted gloom was heard a sound like the spirit of the lonely watercourse, moaning amongst its wet stones, and between its weedy banks, and under its dark bower45 of alders46.
"But I used to be closer to him," thought Caroline. "He felt no obligation to treat me with homage47; I needed only kindness. He used to hold my hand; he does not touch hers. And yet Shirley is not proud where she loves. There is no haughtiness48 in her aspect now, only a little in her port—what is natural to and inseparable from her, what she retains in her most careless as in her most guarded moments. Robert must think, as I think, that he is at this instant looking down on a fine face; and he must think it with a man's brain, not with mine. She has such generous yet soft fire in her eyes. She smiles—what makes her smile so sweet? I saw that Robert felt its beauty, and he must have felt it with his man's heart, not with my dim woman's perceptions. They look to me like two great happy spirits. Yonder silvered pavement reminds me of that white shore we believe to be beyond the death-flood. They have reached it; they walk there united. And what am I, standing49 here in shadow, shrinking into concealment50, my mind darker than my hiding-place? I am one of this world, no spirit—a poor doomed52 mortal, who asks, in ignorance and hopelessness, wherefore she was born, to what end she lives; whose mind for ever runs on the question,204 how she shall at last encounter, and by whom be sustained through death.
"This is the worst passage I have come to yet; still I was quite prepared for it. I gave Robert up, and gave him up to Shirley, the first day I heard she was come, the first moment I saw her—rich, youthful, and lovely. She has him now. He is her lover. She is his darling. She will be far more his darling yet when they are married. The more Robert knows of Shirley the more his soul will cleave53 to her. They will both be happy, and I do not grudge54 them their bliss6; but I groan55 under my own misery56. Some of my suffering is very acute. Truly I ought not to have been born; they should have smothered57 me at the first cry."
Here, Shirley stepping aside to gather a dewy flower, she and her companion turned into a path that lay nearer the gate. Some of their conversation became audible. Caroline would not stay to listen. She passed away noiselessly, and the moonlight kissed the wall which her shadow had dimmed. The reader is privileged to remain, and try what he can make of the discourse58.
"I cannot conceive why nature did not give you a bulldog's head, for you have all a bulldog's tenacity," said Shirley.
"And something also you have of the same animal's silent ways of going about its work. You give no warning; you come noiselessly behind, seize fast, and hold on."
"This is guess-work. You have witnessed no such feat60 on my part. In your presence I have been no bulldog."
"Your very silence indicates your race. How little you talk in general, yet how deeply you scheme! You are far-seeing; you are calculating."
"I know the ways of these people. I have gathered information of their intentions. My note last night informed you that Barraclough's trial had ended in his conviction and sentence to transportation. His associates will plot vengeance61. I shall lay my plans so as to counteract62 or at least be prepared for theirs—that is all. Having now given you as clear an explanation as I can, am I to understand that for what I propose doing I have your approbation63?"
205"Good! Without any aid—even opposed or disapproved65 by you—I believe I should have acted precisely66 as I now intend to act, but in another spirit. I now feel satisfied. On the whole, I relish67 the position."
"I dare say you do. That is evident. You relish the work which lies before you still better than you would relish the execution of a government order for army-cloth."
"I certainly feel it congenial."
"So would old Helstone. It is true there is a shade of difference in your motives—many shades, perhaps. Shall I speak to Mr. Helstone? I will, if you like."
"Act as you please. Your judgment69, Miss Keeldar, will guide you accurately70. I could rely on it myself in a more difficult crisis. But I should inform you Mr. Helstone is somewhat prejudiced against me at present."
"I am aware—I have heard all about your differences. Depend upon it, they will melt away. He cannot resist the temptation of an alliance under present circumstances."
"I should be glad to have him; he is of true metal."
"I think so also."
"Well, you shall have him, Mr. Moore—that is, if I can win him."
"Whom can you not win?"
"Perhaps not the rector; but I will make the effort."
"Effort! He will yield for a word—a smile."
"By no means. It will cost me several cups of tea, some toast and cake, and an ample measure of remonstrances72, expostulations, and persuasions73. It grows rather chill."
"I perceive you shiver. Am I acting74 wrongly to detain you here? Yet it is so calm—I even feel it warm—and society such as yours is a pleasure to me so rare. If you were wrapped in a thicker shawl——"
"I might stay longer, and forget how late it is, which would chagrin75 Mrs. Pryor. We keep early and regular hours at Fieldhead, Mr. Moore; and so, I am sure, does your sister at the cottage."
"Yes; but Hortense and I have an understanding the most convenient in the world, that we shall each do as we please."
206"How do you please to do?"
"Three nights in the week I sleep in the mill—but I require little rest—and when it is moonlight and mild I often haunt the Hollow till daybreak."
"When I was a very little girl, Mr. Moore, my nurse used to tell me tales of fairies being seen in that Hollow. That was before my father built the mill, when it was a perfectly76 solitary ravine. You will be falling under enchantment77."
"I fear it is done," said Moore, in a low voice.
"But there are worse things than fairies to be guarded against," pursued Miss Keeldar.
"Things more perilous," he subjoined.
"Far more so. For instance, how would you like to meet Michael Hartley, that mad Calvinist and Jacobin weaver78? They say he is addicted79 to poaching, and often goes abroad at night with his gun."
"I have already had the luck to meet him. We held a long argument together one night. A strange little incident it was; I liked it."
"In the deepest, shadiest spot in the glen, where the water runs low, under brushwood. We sat down near that plank81 bridge. It was moonlight, but clouded, and very windy. We had a talk."
"On politics?"
"And religion. I think the moon was at the full, and Michael was as near crazed as possible. He uttered strange blasphemy82 in his Antinomian fashion."
"Excuse me, but I think you must have been nearly as mad as he, to sit listening to him."
"There is a wild interest in his ravings. The man would be half a poet, if he were not wholly a maniac83; and perhaps a prophet, if he were not a profligate84. He solemnly informed me that hell was foreordained my inevitable85 portion; that he read the mark of the beast on my brow; that I had been an outcast from the beginning. God's vengeance, he said, was preparing for me, and affirmed that in a vision of the night he had beheld86 the manner and the instrument of my doom51. I wanted to know further, but he left me with these words, 'The end is not yet.'"
"Have you ever seen him since?"
207"About a month afterwards, in returning from market, I encountered him and Moses Barraclough, both in an advanced stage of inebriation87. They were praying in frantic88 sort at the roadside. They accosted89 me as Satan, bid me avaunt, and clamoured to be delivered from temptation. Again, but a few days ago, Michael took the trouble of appearing at the counting-house door, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves—his coat and castor having been detained at the public-house in pledge. He delivered himself of the comfortable message that he could wish Mr. Moore to set his house in order, as his soul was likely shortly to be required of him."
"Do you make light of these things?"
"What then? He is the more likely to attempt the fulfilment of his own prophecies."
"It would not do to permit incidents of this sort to affect one's nerves."
"Mr. Moore, go home!"
"So soon?"
"Pass straight down the fields, not round by the lade and plantations91."
"It is early yet."
"It is late. For my part, I am going in. Will you promise me not to wander in the Hollow to-night?"
"If you wish it."
"I do wish it. May I ask whether you consider life valueless?"
"By no means. On the contrary, of late I regard my life as invaluable92."
"Of late?"
"Existence is neither aimless nor hopeless to me now, and it was both three months ago. I was then drowning, and rather wished the operation over. All at once a hand was stretched to me—such a delicate hand I scarcely dared trust it; its strength, however, has rescued me from ruin."
"Are you really rescued?"
"For the time. Your assistance has given me another chance."
"Live to make the best of it. Don't offer yourself as a target to Michael Hartley; and good-night!"
Miss Helstone was under a promise to spend the evening208 of the next day at Fieldhead. She kept her promise. Some gloomy hours had she spent in the interval93. Most of the time had been passed shut up in her own apartment, only issuing from it, indeed, to join her uncle at meals, and anticipating inquiries94 from Fanny by telling her that she was busy altering a dress, and preferred sewing upstairs, to avoid interruption.
She did sew. She plied95 her needle continuously, ceaselessly, but her brain worked faster than her fingers. Again, and more intensely than ever, she desired a fixed96 occupation, no matter how onerous97, how irksome. Her uncle must be once more entreated98, but first she would consult Mrs. Pryor. Her head laboured to frame projects as diligently99 as her hands to plait and stitch the thin texture100 of the muslin summer dress spread on the little white couch at the foot of which she sat. Now and then, while thus doubly occupied, a tear would fill her eyes and fall on her busy hands; but this sign of emotion was rare and quickly effaced101. The sharp pang102 passed; the dimness cleared from her vision. She would re-thread her needle, rearrange tuck and trimming, and work on.
Late in the afternoon she dressed herself. She reached Fieldhead, and appeared in the oak parlour just as tea was brought in. Shirley asked her why she came so late.
"Because I have been making my dress," said she. "These fine sunny days began to make me ashamed of my winter merino, so I have furbished up a lighter103 garment."
"In which you look as I like to see you," said Shirley. "You are a lady-like little person, Caroline.—Is she not, Mrs. Pryor?"
Mrs. Pryor never paid compliments, and seldom indulged in remarks, favourable104 or otherwise, on personal appearance. On the present occasion she only swept Caroline's curls from her cheek as she took a seat near her, caressed105 the oval outline, and observed, "You get somewhat thin, my love, and somewhat pale. Do you sleep well? your eyes have a languid look." And she gazed at her anxiously.
"I sometimes dream melancholy106 dreams," answered Caroline; "and if I lie awake for an hour or two in the night, I am continually thinking of the rectory as a dreary107 old place. You know it is very near the churchyard. The back part of the house is extremely ancient, and it is said that the out-kitchens there were once enclosed in the209 churchyard, and that there are graves under them. I rather long to leave the rectory."
"My dear, you are surely not superstitious108?"
"No, Mrs. Pryor; but I think I grow what is called nervous. I see things under a darker aspect than I used to do. I have fears I never used to have—not of ghosts, but of omens109 and disastrous110 events; and I have an inexpressible weight on my mind which I would give the world to shake off, and I cannot do it."
"Strange!" cried Shirley. "I never feel so." Mrs. Pryor said nothing.
"Fine weather, pleasant days, pleasant scenes, are powerless to give me pleasure," continued Caroline. "Calm evenings are not calm to me. Moonlight, which I used to think mild, now only looks mournful. Is this weakness of mind, Mrs. Pryor, or what is it? I cannot help it. I often struggle against it. I reason; but reason and effort make no difference."
"You should take more exercise," said Mrs. Pryor.
"Exercise! I exercise sufficiently. I exercise till I am ready to drop."
"My dear, you should go from home."
"Mrs. Pryor, I should like to go from home, but not on any purposeless excursion or visit. I wish to be a governess, as you have been. It would oblige me greatly if you would speak to my uncle on the subject."
"Nonsense!" broke in Shirley. "What an idea! Be a governess! Better be a slave at once. Where is the necessity of it? Why should you dream of such a painful step?"
"My dear," said Mrs. Pryor, "you are very young to be a governess, and not sufficiently robust111. The duties a governess undertakes are often severe."
"And I believe I want severe duties to occupy me."
"Occupy you!" cried Shirley. "When are you idle? I never saw a more industrious112 girl than you. You are always at work. Come," she continued—"come and sit by my side, and take some tea to refresh you. You don't care much for my friendship, then, that you wish to leave me?"
"Indeed I do, Shirley; and I don't wish to leave you. I shall never find another friend so dear."
At which words Miss Keeldar put her hand into Caroline's210 with an impulsively113 affectionate movement, which was well seconded by the expression of her face.
"If you think so, you had better make much of me," she said, "and not run away from me. I hate to part with those to whom I am become attached. Mrs. Pryor there sometimes talks of leaving me, and says I might make a more advantageous114 connection than herself. I should as soon think of exchanging an old-fashioned mother for something modish115 and stylish116. As for you—why, I began to flatter myself we were thoroughly117 friends; that you liked Shirley almost as well as Shirley likes you, and she does not stint118 her regard."
"I do like Shirley. I like her more and more every day. But that does not make me strong or happy."
"And would it make you strong or happy to go and live as a dependent amongst utter strangers? It would not. And the experiment must not be tried; I tell you it would fail. It is not in your nature to bear the desolate119 life governesses generally lead; you would fall ill. I won't hear of it."
And Miss Keeldar paused, having uttered this prohibition120 very decidedly. Soon she recommenced, still looking somewhat courroucée, "Why, it is my daily pleasure now to look out for the little cottage bonnet121 and the silk scarf glancing through the trees in the lane, and to know that my quiet, shrewd, thoughtful companion and monitress is coming back to me; that I shall have her sitting in the room to look at, to talk to or to let alone, as she and I please. This may be a selfish sort of language—I know it is—but it is the language which naturally rises to my lips, therefore I utter it."
"I would write to you, Shirley."
"And what are letters? Only a sort of pis aller. Drink some tea, Caroline. Eat something—you eat nothing. Laugh and be cheerful, and stay at home."
Miss Helstone shook her head and sighed. She felt what difficulty she would have to persuade any one to assist or sanction her in making that change in her life which she believed desirable. Might she only follow her own judgment, she thought she should be able to find perhaps a harsh but an effectual cure for her sufferings. But this judgment, founded on circumstances she could fully122 explain to none, least of all to Shirley, seemed, in all211 eyes but her own, incomprehensible and fantastic, and was opposed accordingly.
There really was no present pecuniary123 need for her to leave a comfortable home and "take a situation;" and there was every probability that her uncle might, in some way, permanently124 provide for her. So her friends thought, and, as far as their lights enabled them to see, they reasoned correctly; but of Caroline's strange sufferings, which she desired so eagerly to overcome or escape, they had no idea, of her racked nights and dismal125 days no suspicion. It was at once impossible and hopeless to explain; to wait and endure was her only plan. Many that want food and clothing have cheerier lives and brighter prospects126 than she had; many, harassed127 by poverty, are in a strait less afflictive128.
"Now, is your mind quieted?" inquired Shirley. "Will you consent to stay at home?"
"I shall not leave it against the approbation of my friends," was the reply; "but I think in time they will be obliged to think as I do."
During this conversation Mrs. Pryor looked far from easy. Her extreme habitual129 reserve would rarely permit her to talk freely or to interrogate130 others closely. She could think a multitude of questions she never ventured to put, give advice in her mind which her tongue never delivered. Had she been alone with Caroline, she might possibly have said something to the point: Miss Keeldar's presence, accustomed as she was to it, sealed her lips. Now, as on a thousand other occasions, inexplicable131 nervous scruples132 kept her back from interfering133. She merely showed her concern for Miss Helstone in an indirect way, by asking her if the fire made her too warm, placing a screen between her chair and the hearth134, closing a window whence she imagined a draught135 proceeded, and often and restlessly glancing at her. Shirley resumed: "Having destroyed your plan," she said, "which I hope I have done, I shall construct a new one of my own. Every summer I make an excursion. This season I propose spending two months either at the Scotch136 lochs or the English lakes—that is, I shall go there provided you consent to accompany me. If you refuse, I shall not stir a foot."
"You are very good, Shirley."
"I would be very good if you would let me. I have every disposition137 to be good. It is my misfortune and212 habit, I know, to think of myself paramount138 to anybody else; but who is not like me in that respect? However, when Captain Keeldar is made comfortable, accommodated with all he wants, including a sensible, genial68 comrade, it gives him a thorough pleasure to devote his spare efforts to making that comrade happy. And should we not be happy, Caroline, in the Highlands? We will go to the Highlands. We will, if you can bear a sea-voyage, go to the Isles139—the Hebrides, the Shetland, the Orkney Islands. Would you not like that? I see you would.—Mrs. Pryor, I call you to witness. Her face is all sunshine at the bare mention of it."
"I should like it much," returned Caroline, to whom, indeed, the notion of such a tour was not only pleasant, but gloriously reviving. Shirley rubbed her hands.
"Come; I can bestow140 a benefit," she exclaimed. "I can do a good deed with my cash. My thousand a year is not merely a matter of dirty bank-notes and jaundiced guineas (let me speak respectfully of both, though, for I adore them), but, it may be, health to the drooping141, strength to the weak, consolation142 to the sad. I was determined143 to make something of it better than a fine old house to live in, than satin gowns to wear, better than deference144 from acquaintance and homage from the poor. Here is to begin. This summer, Caroline, Mrs. Pryor and I go out into the North Atlantic, beyond the Shetland, perhaps to the Faroe Isles. We will see seals in Suderoe, and, doubtless, mermaids145 in Stromoe.—Caroline is laughing, Mrs. Pryor. I made her laugh; I have done her good."
"I shall like to go, Shirley," again said Miss Helstone. "I long to hear the sound of waves—ocean-waves—and to see them as I have imagined them in dreams, like tossing banks of green light, strewed146 with vanishing and reappearing wreaths of foam147, whiter than lilies. I shall delight to pass the shores of those lone44 rock-islets where the sea-birds live and breed unmolested. We shall be on the track of the old Scandinavians—of the Norsemen. We shall almost see the shores of Norway. This is a very vague delight that I feel, communicated by your proposal, but it is a delight."
"Will you think of Fitful Head now when you lie awake at night, of gulls148 shrieking150 round it, and waves tumbling in upon it, rather than of the graves under the rectory back-kitchen?"
213"I will try; and instead of musing about remnants of shrouds151, and fragments of coffins152, and human bones and mould, I will fancy seals lying in the sunshine on solitary shores, where neither fisherman nor hunter ever come; of rock crevices153 full of pearly eggs bedded in seaweed; of unscared birds covering white sands in happy flocks."
"And what will become of that inexpressible weight you said you had on your mind?"
"I will try to forget it in speculation154 on the sway of the whole great deep above a herd155 of whales rushing through the livid and liquid thunder down from the frozen zone—a hundred of them, perhaps, wallowing, flashing, rolling in the wake of a patriarch bull, huge enough to have been spawned156 before the Flood, such a creature as poor Smart had in his mind when he said,—
'Strong against tides, the enormous whale
Emerges as he goes.'"
"I hope our bark will meet with no such shoal, or herd as you term it, Caroline. (I suppose you fancy the sea-mammoths pasturing about the bases of the 'everlasting157 hills,' devouring158 strange provender159 in the vast valleys through and above which sea-billows roll.) I should not like to be capsized by the patriarch bull."
"I suppose you expect to see mermaids, Shirley?"
"One of them, at any rate—I do not bargain for less—and she is to appear in some such fashion as this. I am to be walking by myself on deck, rather late of an August evening, watching and being watched by a full harvest moon. Something is to rise white on the surface of the sea, over which that moon mounts silent and hangs glorious. The object glitters and sinks. It rises again. I think I hear it cry with an articulate voice; I call you up from the cabin; I show you an image, fair as alabaster160, emerging from the dim wave. We both see the long hair, the lifted and foam-white arm, the oval mirror brilliant as a star. It glides161 nearer; a human face is plainly visible—a face in the style of yours—whose straight, pure (excuse the word, it is appropriate)—whose straight, pure lineaments paleness does not disfigure. It looks at us, but not with your eyes. I see a preternatural lure162 in its wily glance. It beckons163. Were we men, we should spring at the sign—the cold billow would be dared for the sake of214 the colder enchantress; being women, we stand safe, though not dreadless. She comprehends our unmoved gaze; she feels herself powerless; anger crosses her front; she cannot charm, but she will appal165 us; she rises high, and glides all revealed on the dark wave-ridge. Temptress-terror! monstrous166 likeness167 of ourselves! Are you not glad, Caroline, when at last, and with a wild shriek149, she dives?"
"But, Shirley, she is not like us. We are neither temptresses, nor terrors, nor monsters."
"Some of our kind, it is said, are all three. There are men who ascribe to 'woman,' in general, such attributes."
"My dears," here interrupted Mrs. Pryor, "does it not strike you that your conversation for the last ten minutes has been rather fanciful?"
"But there is no harm in our fancies; is there, ma'am?"
"We are aware that mermaids do not exist; why speak of them as if they did? How can you find interest in speaking of a nonentity168?"
"I don't know," said Shirley.
"My dear, I think there is an arrival. I heard a step in the lane while you were talking; and is not that the garden-gate which creaks?"
Shirley stepped to the window.
"Yes, there is some one," said she, turning quietly away; and as she resumed her seat a sensitive flush animated169 her face, while a trembling ray at once kindled170 and softened171 her eye. She raised her hand to her chin, cast her gaze down, and seemed to think as she waited.
The servant announced Mr. Moore, and Shirley turned round when Mr. Moore appeared at the door. His figure seemed very tall as he entered, and stood in contrast with the three ladies, none of whom could boast a stature much beyond the average. He was looking well, better than he had been known to look for the past twelve months. A sort of renewed youth glowed in his eye and colour, and an invigorated hope and settled purpose sustained his bearing. Firmness his countenance still indicated, but not austerity. It looked as cheerful as it was earnest.
"I am just returned from Stilbro'," he said to Miss Keeldar, as he greeted her; "and I thought I would call to impart to you the result of my mission."
"You did right not to keep me in suspense," she said, "and your visit is well timed. Sit down. We have not215 finished tea. Are you English enough to relish tea, or do you faithfully adhere to coffee?"
Moore accepted tea.
"I am learning to be a naturalized Englishman," said he; "my foreign habits are leaving me one by one."
And now he paid his respects to Mrs. Pryor, and paid them well, with a grave modesty172 that became his age compared with hers. Then he looked at Caroline—not, however, for the first time: his glance had fallen upon her before. He bent173 towards her as she sat, gave her his hand, and asked her how she was. The light from the window did not fall upon Miss Helstone; her back was turned towards it. A quiet though rather low reply, a still demeanour, and the friendly protection of early twilight174 kept out of view each traitorous175 symptom. None could affirm that she had trembled or blushed, that her heart had quaked or her nerves thrilled; none could prove emotion; a greeting showing less effusion was never interchanged. Moore took the empty chair near her, opposite Miss Keeldar. He had placed himself well. His neighbour, screened by the very closeness of his vicinage from his scrutiny176, and sheltered further by the dusk which deepened each moment, soon regained177 not merely seeming but real mastery of the feelings which had started into insurrection at the first announcement of his name.
He addressed his conversation to Miss Keeldar.
"I went to the barracks," he said, "and had an interview with Colonel Ryde. He approved my plans, and promised the aid I wanted. Indeed, he offered a more numerous force than I require—half a dozen will suffice. I don't intend to be swamped by redcoats. They are needed for appearance rather than anything else. My main reliance is on my own civilians178."
"And on their captain," interposed Shirley.
"What, Captain Keeldar?" inquired Moore, slightly smiling, and not lifting his eyes. The tone of raillery in which he said this was very respectful and suppressed.
"No," returned Shirley, answering the smile; "Captain Gérard Moore, who trusts much to the prowess of his own right arm, I believe."
"Furnished with his counting-house ruler," added Moore. Resuming his usual gravity, he went on: "I received by this evening's post a note from the Home Secretary in answer to mine. It appears they are uneasy at the state216 of matters here in the north; they especially condemn179 the supineness and pusillanimity180 of the mill-owners. They say, as I have always said, that inaction, under present circumstances, is criminal, and that cowardice181 is cruelty, since both can only encourage disorder182, and lead finally to sanguinary outbreaks. There is the note—I brought it for your perusal183; and there is a batch184 of newspapers, containing further accounts of proceedings185 in Nottingham, Manchester, and elsewhere."
He produced letters and journals, and laid them before Miss Keeldar. While she perused186 them he took his tea quietly; but though his tongue was still, his observant faculties187 seemed by no means off duty. Mrs. Pryor, sitting in the background, did not come within the range of his glance, but the two younger ladies had the full benefit thereof.
Miss Keeldar, placed directly opposite, was seen without effort. She was the object his eyes, when lifted, naturally met first; and as what remained of daylight—the gilding188 of the west—was upon her, her shape rose in relief from the dark panelling behind. Shirley's clear cheek was tinted189 yet with the colour which had risen into it a few minutes since. The dark lashes190 of her eyes looking down as she read, the dusk yet delicate line of her eyebrows191, the almost sable gloss192 of her curls, made her heightened complexion193 look fine as the bloom of a red wild flower by contrast. There was natural grace in her attitude, and there was artistic194 effect in the ample and shining folds of her silk dress—an attire195 simply fashioned, but almost splendid from the shifting brightness of its dye, warp196 and woof being of tints197 deep and changing as the hue198 on a pheasant's neck. A glancing bracelet199 on her arm produced the contrast of gold and ivory. There was something brilliant in the whole picture. It is to be supposed that Moore thought so, as his eye dwelt long on it, but he seldom permitted his feelings or his opinions to exhibit themselves in his face. His temperament200 boasted a certain amount of phlegm, and he preferred an undemonstrative, not ungentle, but serious aspect to any other.
He could not, by looking straight before him, see Caroline, as she was close at his side. It was necessary, therefore, to manœuvre a little to get her well within the range of his observation. He leaned back in his chair, and looked down on her. In Miss Helstone neither he nor any one else217 could discover brilliancy. Sitting in the shade, without flowers or ornaments201, her attire the modest muslin dress, colourless but for its narrow stripe of pale azure202, her complexion unflushed, unexcited, the very brownness of her hair and eyes invisible by this faint light, she was, compared with the heiress, as a graceful pencil sketch203 compared with a vivid painting. Since Robert had seen her last a great change had been wrought204 in her. Whether he perceived it might not be ascertained205. He said nothing to that effect.
"How is Hortense?" asked Caroline softly.
"Very well; but she complains of being unemployed206. She misses you."
"Tell her that I miss her, and that I write and read a portion of French every day."
"She will ask if you sent your love; she is always particular on that point. You know she likes attention."
"My best love—my very best. And say to her that whenever she has time to write me a little note I shall be glad to hear from her."
"What if I forget? I am not the surest messenger of compliments."
"No, don't forget, Robert. It is no compliment; it is in good earnest."
"And must, therefore, be delivered punctually."
"If you please."
"Hortense will be ready to shed tears. She is tenderhearted on the subject of her pupil; yet she reproaches you sometimes for obeying your uncle's injunctions too literally207. Affection, like love, will be unjust now and then."
And Caroline made no answer to this observation; for indeed her heart was troubled, and to her eyes she would have raised her handkerchief if she had dared. If she had dared, too, she would have declared how the very flowers in the garden of Hollow's Cottage were dear to her; how the little parlour of that house was her earthly paradise; how she longed to return to it, as much almost as the first woman, in her exile, must have longed to revisit Eden. Not daring, however, to say these things, she held her peace; she sat quiet at Robert's side, waiting for him to say something more. It was long since this proximity208 had been hers—long since his voice had addressed her; could she, with any show of probability, even of possibility, have imagined that the meeting gave him pleasure, to her it would have given deep bliss. Yet, even in doubt that it218 pleased, in dread164 that it might annoy him, she received the boon209 of the meeting as an imprisoned210 bird would the admission of sunshine to its cage. It was of no use arguing, contending against the sense of present happiness; to be near Robert was to be revived.
Miss Keeldar laid down the papers.
"And are you glad or sad for all these menacing tidings?" she inquired of her tenant.
"Not precisely either; but I certainly am instructed. I see that our only plan is to be firm. I see that efficient preparation and a resolute211 attitude are the best means of averting212 bloodshed."
He then inquired if she had observed some particular paragraph, to which she replied in the negative, and he rose to show it to her. He continued the conversation standing before her. From the tenor213 of what he said, it appeared evident that they both apprehended214 disturbances215 in the neighbourhood of Briarfield, though in what form they expected them to break out was not specified216. Neither Caroline nor Mrs. Pryor asked questions. The subject did not appear to be regarded as one ripe for free discussion; therefore the lady and her tenant were suffered to keep details to themselves, unimportuned by the curiosity of their listeners.
Miss Keeldar, in speaking to Mr. Moore, took a tone at once animated and dignified218, confidential219 and self-respecting. When, however, the candles were brought in, and the fire was stirred up, and the fullness of light thus produced rendered the expression of her countenance legible, you could see that she was all interest, life, and earnestness. There was nothing coquettish in her demeanour; whatever she felt for Moore she felt it seriously. And serious, too, were his feelings, and settled were his views, apparently220, for he made no petty effort to attract, dazzle, or impress. He contrived221, notwithstanding, to command a little; because the deeper voice, however mildly modulated222, the somewhat harder mind, now and then, though involuntarily and unintentionally, bore down by some peremptory223 phrase or tone the mellow accents and susceptible224, if high, nature of Shirley. Miss Keeldar looked happy in conversing225 with him, and her joy seemed twofold—a joy of the past and present, of memory and of hope.
What I have just said are Caroline's ideas of the pair. She felt what has just been described. In thus feeling she219 tried not to suffer, but suffered sharply nevertheless. She suffered, indeed, miserably226. A few minutes before her famished227 heart had tasted a drop and crumb228 of nourishment229, that, if freely given, would have brought back abundance of life where life was failing; but the generous feast was snatched from her, spread before another, and she remained but a bystander at the banquet.
The clock struck nine; it was Caroline's time for going home. She gathered up her work, put the embroidery230, the scissors, the thimble into her bag. She bade Mrs. Pryor a quiet good-night, receiving from that lady a warmer pressure of the hand than usual. She stepped up to Miss Keeldar.
"Good-night, Shirley!"
Shirley started up. "What! so soon? Are you going already?"
"It is past nine."
"I never heard the clock. You will come again to-morrow, and you will be happy to-night, will you not? Remember our plans."
"Yes," said Caroline; "I have not forgotten."
Her mind misgave231 her that neither those plans nor any other could permanently restore her mental tranquillity232. She turned to Robert, who stood close behind her. As he looked up, the light of the candles on the mantelpiece fell full on her face. All its paleness, all its change, all its forlorn meaning were clearly revealed. Robert had good eyes, and might have seen it if he would; whether he did see it, nothing indicated.
"Good-night!" she said, shaking like a leaf, offering her thin hand hastily, anxious to part from him quickly.
"Yes."
"Is Fanny come for you?"
"Yes."
"I may as well accompany you a step of the way; not up to the rectory, though, lest my old friend Helstone should shoot me from the window."
He laughed, and took his hat. Caroline spoke of unnecessary trouble; he told her to put on her bonnet and shawl. She was quickly ready, and they were soon both in the open air. Moore drew her hand under his arm, just in his old manner—that manner which she ever felt to be so kind.
220"You may run on, Fanny," he said to the housemaid; "we shall overtake you." And when the girl had got a little in advance, he enclosed Caroline's hand in his, and said he was glad to find she was a familiar guest at Fieldhead. He hoped her intimacy235 with Miss Keeldar would continue; such society would be both pleasant and improving.
Caroline replied that she liked Shirley.
"And there is no doubt the liking236 is mutual," said Moore. "If she professes237 friendship, be certain she is sincere. She cannot feign238; she scorns hypocrisy239. And, Caroline, are we never to see you at Hollow's Cottage again?"
"I suppose not, unless my uncle should change his mind."
"Are you much alone now?"
"Yes, a good deal. I have little pleasure in any society but Miss Keeldar's."
"Have you been quite well lately?"
"Quite."
"You must take care of yourself. Be sure not to neglect exercise. Do you know I fancied you somewhat altered—a little fallen away, and pale. Is your uncle kind to you?"
"Yes; he is just as he always is."
"Not too tender, that is to say—not too protective and attentive240. And what ails217 you, then? Tell me, Lina."
"That is to say, nothing that you will tell me. I am not to be taken into confidence. Separation is then quite to estrange242 us, is it?"
"I do not know. Sometimes I almost fear it is."
"But it ought not to have that effect. 'Should auld243 acquaintance be forgot, and days o' lang syne244?'"
"Robert, I don't forget."
"It is two months, I should think, Caroline, since you were at the cottage."
"Since I was within it—yes."
"Have you ever passed that way in your walk?"
"I have come to the top of the fields sometimes of an evening and looked down. Once I saw Hortense in the garden watering her flowers, and I know at what time you light your lamp in the counting-house. I have waited for it to shine out now and then, and I have seen you bend between it and the window. I knew it was you; I could almost trace the outline of your form."
221"I wonder I never encountered you. I occasionally walk to the top of the Hollow's fields after sunset."
"I know you do. I had almost spoken to you one night, you passed so near me."
"Did I? I passed near you, and did not see you! Was I alone?"
"I saw you twice, and neither time were you alone."
"Who was my companion? Probably nothing but Joe Scott, or my own shadow by moonlight."
"No; neither Joe Scott nor your shadow, Robert. The first time you were with Mr. Yorke; and the second time what you call your shadow was a shape with a white forehead and dark curls, and a sparkling necklace round its neck. But I only just got a glimpse of you and that fairy shadow; I did not wait to hear you converse245."
"It appears you walk invisible. I noticed a ring on your hand this evening; can it be the ring of Gyges? Henceforth, when sitting in the counting-house by myself, perhaps at dead of night, I shall permit myself to imagine that Caroline may be leaning over my shoulder reading with me from the same book, or sitting at my side engaged in her own particular task, and now and then raising her unseen eyes to my face to read there my thoughts."
"You need fear no such infliction246. I do not come near you; I only stand afar off, watching what may become of you."
"When I walk out along the hedgerows in the evening after the mill is shut, or at night when I take the watchman's place, I shall fancy the flutter of every little bird over its nest, the rustle247 of every leaf, a movement made by you; tree-shadows will take your shape; in the white sprays of hawthorn248 I shall imagine glimpses of you. Lina, you will haunt me."
"I will never be where you would not wish me to be, nor see nor hear what you would wish unseen and unheard."
"I shall see you in my very mill in broad daylight. Indeed, I have seen you there once. But a week ago I was standing at the top of one of my long rooms; girls were working at the other end, and amongst half a dozen of them, moving to and fro, I seemed to see a figure resembling yours. It was some effect of doubtful light or shade, or of dazzling sunbeam. I walked up to this group. What I sought had glided249 away; I found myself between two buxom250 lasses in pinafores."
222"I shall not follow you into your mill, Robert, unless you call me there."
"Nor is that the only occasion on which imagination has played me a trick. One night, when I came home late from market, I walked into the cottage parlour thinking to find Hortense; but instead of her I thought I found you. There was no candle in the room; my sister had taken the light upstairs with her. The window-blind was not drawn251, and broad moonbeams poured through the panes252. There you were, Lina, at the casement253, shrinking a little to one side in an attitude not unusual with you. You were dressed in white, as I have seen you dressed at an evening party. For half a second your fresh, living face seemed turned towards me, looking at me; for half a second my idea was to go and take your hand, to chide254 you for your long absence, and welcome your present visit. Two steps forward broke the spell. The drapery of the dress changed outline; the tints of the complexion dissolved, and were formless. Positively255, as I reached the spot, there was nothing left but the sweep of a white muslin curtain, and a balsam plant in a flower-pot, covered with a flush of bloom. 'Sic transit,' et cetera."
"No; only gauze, crockery, and pink blossom—a sample of earthly illusions."
"I wonder you have time for such illusions, occupied as your mind must be."
"So do I. But I find in myself, Lina, two natures—one for the world and business, and one for home and leisure. Gérard Moore is a hard dog, brought up to mill and market; the person you call your cousin Robert is sometimes a dreamer, who lives elsewhere than in Cloth-hall and counting-house."
"Your two natures agree with you. I think you are looking in good spirits and health. You have quite lost that harassed air which it often pained one to see in your face a few months ago."
"Do you observe that? Certainly I am disentangled of some difficulties. I have got clear of some shoals, and have more sea-room."
"And, with a fair wind, you may now hope to make a prosperous voyage?"
"I may hope it—yes—but hope is deceptive257. There is no controlling wind or wave. Gusts258 and swells259 perpetually223 trouble the mariner's course; he dare not dismiss from his mind the expectation of tempest."
"But you are ready for a breeze; you are a good seaman260, an able commander. You are a skilful261 pilot, Robert; you will weather the storm."
"My kinswoman always thinks the best of me, but I will take her words for a propitious262 omen2. I will consider that in meeting her to-night I have met with one of those birds whose appearance is to the sailor the harbinger of good luck."
"A poor harbinger of good luck is she who can do nothing, who has no power. I feel my incapacity. It is of no use saying I have the will to serve you when I cannot prove it. Yet I have that will. I wish you success. I wish you high fortune and true happiness."
"When did you ever wish me anything else? What is Fanny waiting for? I told her to walk on. Oh! we have reached the churchyard. Then we are to part here, I suppose. We might have sat a few minutes in the church porch, if the girl had not been with us. It is so fine a night, so summer-mild and still, I have no particular wish to return yet to the Hollow."
"But we cannot sit in the porch now, Robert."
Caroline said this because Moore was turning her round towards it.
"Perhaps not. But tell Fanny to go in. Say we are coming. A few minutes will make no difference."
The church clock struck ten.
"My uncle will be coming out to take his usual sentinel round, and he always surveys the church and churchyard."
"And if he does? If it were not for Fanny, who knows we are here, I should find pleasure in dodging263 and eluding264 him. We could be under the east window when he is at the porch; as he came round to the north side we could wheel off to the south; we might at a pinch hide behind some of the monuments. That tall erection of the Wynnes would screen us completely."
"Robert, what good spirits you have! Go! go!" added Caroline hastily. "I hear the front door——"
"I don't want to go; on the contrary, I want to stay."
"You know my uncle will be terribly angry. He forbade me to see you because you are a Jacobin."
"A queer Jacobin!"
"Go, Robert, he is coming; I hear him cough."
"Diable! It is strange—what a pertinacious266 wish I feel to stay!"
"You remember what he did to Fanny's—" began Caroline, and stopped abruptly267 short. "Sweetheart" was the word that ought to have followed, but she could not utter it. It seemed calculated to suggest ideas she had no intention to suggest—ideas delusive268 and disturbing. Moore was less scrupulous269. "Fanny's sweetheart?" he said at once. "He gave him a shower-bath under the pump, did he not? He'd do as much for me, I dare say, with pleasure. I should like to provoke the old Turk—not, however, against you. But he would make a distinction between a cousin and a lover, would he not?"
"Oh, he would not think of you in that way, of course not; his quarrel with you is entirely270 political. Yet I should not like the breach271 to be widened, and he is so testy272. Here he is at the garden gate. For your own sake and mine, Robert, go!"
The beseeching273 words were aided by a beseeching gesture and a more beseeching look. Moore covered her clasped hands an instant with his, answered her upward by a downward gaze, said "Good-night!" and went.
Caroline was in a moment at the kitchen door behind Fanny. The shadow of the shovel-hat at that very instant fell on a moonlit tomb. The rector emerged, erect265 as a cane274, from his garden, and proceeded in slow march, his hands behind him, down the cemetery275. Moore was almost caught. He had to "dodge276" after all, to coast round the church, and finally to bend his tall form behind the Wynnes' ambitious monument. There he was forced to hide full ten minutes, kneeling with one knee on the turf, his hat off, his curls bare to the dew, his dark eye shining, and his lips parted with inward laughter at his position; for the rector meantime stood coolly star-gazing, and taking snuff within three feet of him.
It happened, however, that Mr. Helstone had no suspicion whatever on his mind; for being usually but vaguely277 informed of his niece's movements, not thinking it worth while to follow them closely, he was not aware that she had been out at all that day, and imagined her then occupied with book or work in her chamber278—where, indeed, she was by this time, though not absorbed in the tranquil233 employment he ascribed to her, but standing at her window with fast-throbbing heart, peeping anxiously from behind the blind,225 watching for her uncle to re-enter and her cousin to escape. And at last she was gratified. She heard Mr. Helstone come in; she saw Robert stride the tombs and vault279 the wall; she then went down to prayers. When she returned to her chamber, it was to meet the memory of Robert. Slumber's visitation was long averted280. Long she sat at her lattice, long gazed down on the old garden and older church, on the tombs laid out all gray and calm, and clear in moonlight. She followed the steps of the night, on its pathway of stars, far into the "wee sma' hours ayont the twal'." She was with Moore, in spirit, the whole time; she was at his side; she heard his voice; she gave her hand into his hand; it rested warm in his fingers. When the church clock struck, when any other sound stirred, when a little mouse familiar to her chamber—an intruder for which she would never permit Fanny to lay a trap—came rattling281 amongst the links of her locket-chain, her one ring, and another trinket or two on the toilet-table, to nibble282 a bit of biscuit laid ready for it, she looked up, recalled momentarily to the real. Then she said half aloud, as if deprecating the accusation283 of some unseen and unheard monitor, "I am not cherishing love dreams; I am only thinking because I cannot sleep. Of course, I know he will marry Shirley."
With returning silence, with the lull284 of the chime, and the retreat of her small untamed and unknown protégé, she still resumed the dream, nestling to the vision's side—listening to, conversing with it. It paled at last. As dawn approached, the setting stars and breaking day dimmed the creation of fancy; the wakened song of birds hushed her whispers. The tale full of fire, quick with interest, borne away by the morning wind, became a vague murmur285. The shape that, seen in a moonbeam, lived, had a pulse, had movement, wore health's glow and youth's freshness, turned cold and ghostly gray, confronted with the red of sunrise. It wasted. She was left solitary at last. She crept to her couch, chill and dejected..
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1
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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bosomed
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| 胸部的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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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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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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42
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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43
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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44
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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45
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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46
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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47
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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48
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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49
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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50
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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51
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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52
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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53
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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54
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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55
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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56
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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57
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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58
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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59
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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60
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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61
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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62
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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63
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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64
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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65
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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67
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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68
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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69
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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70
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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71
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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72
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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73
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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74
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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75
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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76
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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77
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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78
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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79
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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80
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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81
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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82
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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83
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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84
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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85
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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86
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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87
inebriation
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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88
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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89
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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90
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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91
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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92
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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93
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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94
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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95
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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96
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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97
onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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98
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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100
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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101
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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102
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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103
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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104
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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105
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
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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107
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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108
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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109
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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110
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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111
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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112
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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113
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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114
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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115
modish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的 | |
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116
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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117
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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118
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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119
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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120
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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121
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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122
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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123
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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124
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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125
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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126
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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127
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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128
afflictive
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| 带给人痛苦的，苦恼的，难受的 | |
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129
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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130
interrogate
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| vt.讯问，审问，盘问 | |
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131
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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132
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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134
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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135
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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136
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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137
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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138
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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139
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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140
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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141
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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142
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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143
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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144
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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145
mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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146
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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147
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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148
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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149
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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150
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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151
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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152
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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153
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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154
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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155
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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156
spawned
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| （鱼、蛙等）大量产（卵）( spawn的过去式和过去分词 )； 大量生产 | |
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157
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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158
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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159
provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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160
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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161
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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162
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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163
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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164
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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165
appal
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| vt.使胆寒，使惊骇 | |
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166
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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167
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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168
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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169
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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170
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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171
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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172
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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173
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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174
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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175
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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176
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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177
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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178
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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179
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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180
pusillanimity
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| n.无气力，胆怯 | |
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181
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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182
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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183
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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184
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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185
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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186
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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187
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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188
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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189
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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190
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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191
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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192
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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193
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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194
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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195
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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196
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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197
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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198
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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199
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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200
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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201
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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202
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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203
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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204
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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205
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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207
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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208
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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209
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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210
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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212
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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213
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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214
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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215
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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216
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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217
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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218
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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219
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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220
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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221
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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222
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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223
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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224
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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225
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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226
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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227
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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228
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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229
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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230
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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231
misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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232
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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233
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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234
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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235
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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236
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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237
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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238
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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239
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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240
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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241
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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242
estrange
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| v.使疏远，离间，使离开 | |
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243
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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244
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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245
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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246
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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247
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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248
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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249
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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250
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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251
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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252
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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253
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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254
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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255
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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256
wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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257
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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258
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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259
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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260
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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261
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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262
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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263
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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264
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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265
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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266
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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267
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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268
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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269
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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270
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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271
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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272
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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273
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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274
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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275
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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276
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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277
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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278
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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279
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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280
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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281
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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282
nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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283
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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284
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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285
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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