Caroline Helstone went home from Hollow's Cottage in good health, as she imagined. On waking the next morning she felt oppressed with unwonted languor10. At breakfast, at each meal of the following day, she missed all sense of appetite. Palatable11 food was as ashes and sawdust to her.
"Am I ill?" she asked, and looked at herself in the glass. Her eyes were bright, their pupils dilated12, her cheeks seemed rosier13, and fuller than usual. "I look well; why can I not eat?"
She felt a pulse beat fast in her temples; she felt, too, her brain in strange activity. Her spirits were raised; hundreds of busy and broken but brilliant thoughts engaged her mind. A glow rested on them, such as tinged14 her complexion15.
Now followed a hot, parched16, thirsty, restless night. Towards morning one terrible dream seized her like a tiger; when she woke, she felt and knew she was ill.
How she had caught the fever (fever it was) she could not tell. Probably in her late walk home, some sweet, poisoned breeze, redolent of honey-dew and miasma17, had366 passed into her lungs and veins18, and finding there already a fever of mental excitement, and a languor of long conflict and habitual19 sadness, had fanned the spark to flame, and left a well-lit fire behind it.
It seemed, however, but a gentle fire. After two hot days and worried nights, there was no violence in the symptoms, and neither her uncle, nor Fanny, nor the doctor, nor Miss Keeldar, when she called, had any fear for her. A few days would restore her, every one believed.
The few days passed, and—though it was still thought it could not long delay—the revival20 had not begun. Mrs. Pryor, who had visited her daily—being present in her chamber21 one morning when she had been ill a fortnight—watched her very narrowly for some minutes. She took her hand and placed her finger on her wrist; then, quietly leaving the chamber, she went to Mr. Helstone's study. With him she remained closeted a long time—half the morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she laid aside shawl and bonnet22. She stood awhile at the bedside, one hand placed in the other, gently rocking herself to and fro, in an attitude and with a movement habitual to her. At last she said, "I have sent Fanny to Fieldhead to fetch a few things for me, such as I shall want during a short stay here. It is my wish to remain with you till you are better. Your uncle kindly24 permits my attendance. Will it to yourself be acceptable, Caroline?"
"I am sorry you should take such needless trouble. I do not feel very ill, but I cannot refuse resolutely25. It will be such comfort to know you are in the house, to see you sometimes in the room; but don't confine yourself on my account, dear Mrs. Pryor. Fanny nurses me very well."
Mrs. Pryor, bending over the pale little sufferer, was now smoothing the hair under her cap, and gently raising her pillow. As she performed these offices, Caroline, smiling, lifted her face to kiss her.
"Are you free from pain? Are you tolerably at ease?" was inquired in a low, earnest voice, as the self-elected nurse yielded to the caress26.
"I think I am almost happy."
"You wish to drink? Your lips are parched."
"Have you eaten anything to-day, Caroline?"
"I cannot eat."
367"But soon your appetite will return; it must return—that is, I pray God it may."
In laying her again on the couch, she encircled her in her arms; and while so doing, by a movement which seemed scarcely voluntary, she drew her to her heart, and held her close gathered an instant.
"I shall hardly wish to get well, that I may keep you always," said Caroline.
Mrs. Pryor did not smile at this speech. Over her features ran a tremor28, which for some minutes she was absorbed in repressing.
"You are more used to Fanny than to me," she remarked ere long. "I should think my attendance must seem strange, officious?"
"No; quite natural, and very soothing29. You must have been accustomed to wait on sick people, ma'am. You move about the room so softly, and you speak so quietly, and touch me so gently."
Negligent, indeed, she was not. From that hour Fanny and Eliza became ciphers32 in the sick-room. Mrs. Pryor made it her domain33; she performed all its duties; she lived in it day and night. The patient remonstrated—faintly, however, from the first, and not at all ere long. Loneliness and gloom were now banished34 from her bedside; protection and solace35 sat there instead. She and her nurse coalesced36 in wondrous37 union. Caroline was usually pained to require or receive much attendance. Mrs. Pryor, under ordinary circumstances, had neither the habit nor the art of performing little offices of service; but all now passed with such ease, so naturally, that the patient was as willing to be cherished as the nurse was bent39 on cherishing; no sign of weariness in the latter ever reminded the former that she ought to be anxious. There was, in fact, no very hard duty to perform; but a hireling might have found it hard.
With all this care it seemed strange the sick girl did not get well; yet such was the case. She wasted like any snow-wreath in thaw40; she faded like any flower in drought. Miss Keeldar, on whose thoughts danger or death seldom intruded41, had at first entertained no fears at all for her friend; but seeing her change and sink from time to time when she paid her visits, alarm clutched her heart. She went to Mr. Helstone and expressed herself with so much368 energy that that gentleman was at last obliged, however unwillingly42, to admit the idea that his niece was ill of something more than a migraine; and when Mrs. Pryor came and quietly demanded a physician, he said she might send for two if she liked. One came, but that one was an oracle43. He delivered a dark saying of which the future was to solve the mystery, wrote some prescriptions44, gave some directions—the whole with an air of crushing authority—pocketed his fee, and went. Probably he knew well enough he could do no good, but didn't like to say so.
Still, no rumour45 of serious illness got wind in the neighbourhood. At Hollow's Cottage it was thought that Caroline had only a severe cold, she having written a note to Hortense to that effect; and mademoiselle contented46 herself with sending two pots of currant jam, a recipe for a tisane, and a note of advice.
Mrs. Yorke being told that a physician had been summoned, sneered47 at the hypochondriac fancies of the rich and idle, who, she said, having nothing but themselves to think about, must needs send for a doctor if only so much as their little finger ached.
The "rich and idle," represented in the person of Caroline, were meantime falling fast into a condition of prostration48, whose quickly consummated49 debility puzzled all who witnessed it except one; for that one alone reflected how liable is the undermined structure to sink in sudden ruin.
Sick people often have fancies inscrutable to ordinary attendants, and Caroline had one which even her tender nurse could not at first explain. On a certain day in the week, at a certain hour, she would—whether worse or better—entreat to be taken up and dressed, and suffered to sit in her chair near the window. This station she would retain till noon was past. Whatever degree of exhaustion50 or debility her wan23 aspect betrayed, she still softly put off all persuasion51 to seek repose52 until the church clock had duly tolled53 midday. The twelve strokes sounded, she grew docile54, and would meekly55 lie down. Returned to the couch, she usually buried her face deep in the pillow, and drew the coverlets close round her, as if to shut out the world and sun, of which she was tired. More than once, as she thus lay, a slight convulsion shook the sick-bed, and a faint sob broke the silence round it. These things were not unnoted by Mrs. Pryor.
One Tuesday morning, as usual, she had asked leave to369 rise, and now she sat wrapped in her white dressing-gown, leaning forward in the easy-chair, gazing steadily56 and patiently from the lattice. Mrs. Pryor was seated a little behind, knitting as it seemed, but, in truth, watching her. A change crossed her pale, mournful brow, animating57 its languor; a light shot into her faded eyes, reviving their lustre58; she half rose and looked earnestly out. Mrs. Pryor, drawing softly near, glanced over her shoulder. From this window was visible the churchyard, beyond it the road; and there, riding sharply by, appeared a horseman. The figure was not yet too remote for recognition. Mrs. Pryor had long sight; she knew Mr. Moore. Just as an intercepting59 rising ground concealed61 him from view, the clock struck twelve.
"May I lie down again?" asked Caroline.
Her nurse assisted her to bed. Having laid her down and drawn62 the curtain, she stood listening near. The little couch trembled, the suppressed sob stirred the air. A contraction63 as of anguish64 altered Mrs. Pryor's features; she wrung65 her hands; half a groan66 escaped her lips. She now remembered that Tuesday was Whinbury market day. Mr. Moore must always pass the rectory on his way thither67, just ere noon of that day.
Caroline wore continually round her neck a slender braid of silk, attached to which was some trinket. Mrs. Pryor had seen the bit of gold glisten68, but had not yet obtained a fair view of it. Her patient never parted with it. When dressed it was hidden in her bosom69; as she lay in bed she always held it in her hand. That Tuesday afternoon the transient doze—more like lethargy than sleep—which sometimes abridged70 the long days, had stolen over her. The weather was hot. While turning in febrile restlessness, she had pushed the coverlets a little aside. Mrs. Pryor bent to replace them. The small, wasted hand, lying nerveless on the sick girl's breast, clasped as usual her jealously-guarded treasure. Those fingers whose attenuation71 it gave pain to see were now relaxed in sleep. Mrs. Pryor gently disengaged the braid, drawing out a tiny locket—a slight thing it was, such as it suited her small purse to purchase. Under its crystal face appeared a curl of black hair, too short and crisp to have been severed72 from a female head.
Some agitated73 movement occasioned a twitch74 of the silken chain. The sleeper75 started and woke. Her thoughts were usually now somewhat scattered76 on waking, her look370 generally wandering. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed, "Don't take it from me, Robert! Don't! It is my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell any one whose hair it is; I never show it."
Mrs. Pryor had already disappeared behind the curtain. Reclining far back in a deep arm-chair by the bedside, she was withdrawn77 from view. Caroline looked abroad into the chamber; she thought it empty. As her stray ideas returned slowly, each folding its weak wings on the mind's sad shore, like birds exhausted78, beholding79 void, and perceiving silence round her, she believed herself alone. Collected she was not yet; perhaps healthy self-possession and self-control were to be hers no more; perhaps that world the strong and prosperous live in had already rolled from beneath her feet for ever. So, at least, it often seemed to herself. In health she had never been accustomed to think aloud, but now words escaped her lips unawares.
"Oh, I should see him once more before all is over! Heaven might favour me thus far!" she cried. "God grant me a little comfort before I die!" was her humble80 petition.
"But he will not know I am ill till I am gone, and he will come when they have laid me out, and I am senseless, cold, and stiff.
"What can my departed soul feel then? Can it see or know what happens to the clay? Can spirits, through any medium, communicate with living flesh? Can the dead at all revisit those they leave? Can they come in the elements? Will wind, water, fire, lend me a path to Moore?
"Is it for nothing the wind sounds almost articulately sometimes—sings as I have lately heard it sing at night—or passes the casement81 sobbing82, as if for sorrow to come? Does nothing, then, haunt it, nothing inspire it?
"Why, it suggested to me words one night; it poured a strain which I could have written down, only I was appalled83, and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the dim watch-light.
"What is that electricity they speak of, whose changes make us well or ill, whose lack or excess blasts, whose even balance revives? What are all those influences that are about us in the atmosphere, that keep playing over our nerves like fingers on stringed instruments, and call forth84 now a sweet note, and now a wail—now an exultant85 swell86, and anon the saddest cadence87?
371"Where is the other world? In what will another life consist? Why do I ask? Have I not cause to think that the hour is hasting but too fast when the veil must be rent for me? Do I not know the Grand Mystery is likely to burst prematurely88 on me? Great Spirit, in whose goodness I confide89, whom, as my Father, I have petitioned night and morning from early infancy90, help the weak creation of Thy hands! Sustain me through the ordeal91 I dread92 and must undergo! Give me strength! Give me patience! Give me—oh, give me faith!"
She fell back on her pillow. Mrs. Pryor found means to steal quietly from the room. She re-entered it soon after, apparently93 as composed as if she had really not overheard this strange soliloquy.
The next day several callers came. It had become known that Miss Helstone was worse. Mr. Hall and his sister Margaret arrived. Both, after they had been in the sickroom, quitted it in tears; they had found the patient more altered than they expected. Hortense Moore came. Caroline seemed stimulated94 by her presence. She assured her, smiling, she was not dangerously ill; she talked to her in a low voice, but cheerfully. During her stay, excitement kept up the flush of her complexion; she looked better.
"How is Mr. Robert?" asked Mrs. Pryor, as Hortense was preparing to take leave.
"He was very well when he left."
"Left! Is he gone from home?"
It was then explained that some police intelligence about the rioters of whom he was in pursuit had, that morning, called him away to Birmingham, and probably a fortnight might elapse ere he returned.
"He is not aware that Miss Helstone is very ill?"
"Oh no! He thought, like me, that she had only a bad cold."
After this visit, Mrs. Pryor took care not to approach Caroline's couch for above an hour. She heard her weep, and dared not look on her tears.
As evening closed in, she brought her some tea. Caroline, opening her eyes from a moment's slumber95, viewed her nurse with an unrecognizing glance.
"I smelt96 the honeysuckles in the glen this summer morning," she said, "as I stood at the counting-house window."
Strange words like these from pallid97 lips pierce a loving listener's heart more poignantly98 than steel. They sound372 romantic, perhaps, in books; in real life they are harrowing.
"My darling, do you know me?" said Mrs. Pryor.
"I went in to call Robert to breakfast. I have been with him in the garden. He asked me to go. A heavy dew has refreshed the flowers. The peaches are ripening99."
"My darling! my darling!" again and again repeated the nurse.
"I thought it was daylight—long after sunrise. It looks dark. Is the moon now set?"
That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild upon her. Floating in deep blue space, it watched her unclouded.
"Then it is not morning? I am not at the cottage? Who is this? I see a shape at my bedside."
"It is myself—it is your friend—your nurse—your—— Lean your head on my shoulder. Collect yourself." In a lower tone—"O God, take pity! Give her life, and me strength! Send me courage! Teach me words!"
Some minutes passed in silence. The patient lay mute and passive in the trembling arms, on the throbbing100 bosom of the nurse.
"I am better now," whispered Caroline at last, "much better. I feel where I am. This is Mrs. Pryor near me. I was dreaming. I talk when I wake up from dreams; people often do in illness. How fast your heart beats, ma'am! Do not be afraid."
"It is not fear, child—only a little anxiety, which will pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary. Your uncle made it himself. You know he says he can make a better cup of tea than any housewife can. Taste it. He is concerned to hear that you eat so little; he would be glad if you had a better appetite."
"I am thirsty. Let me drink."
She drank eagerly.
"What o'clock is it, ma'am?" she asked.
"Past nine."
"Not later? Oh! I have yet a long night before me. But the tea has made me strong. I will sit up."
Mrs. Pryor raised her, and arranged her pillows.
"Thank Heaven! I am not always equally miserable101, and ill, and hopeless. The afternoon has been bad since Hortense went; perhaps the evening may be better. It is a fine night, I think? The moon shines clear."
373"Very fine—a perfect summer night. The old church-tower gleams white almost as silver."
"And does the churchyard look peaceful?"
"I see closed daisy-heads gleaming like pearls on some mounds105. Thomas has mown down the dock-leaves and rank grass, and cleared all away."
"I always like that to be done; it soothes107 one's mind to see the place in order. And, I dare say, within the church just now that moonlight shines as softly as in my room. It will fall through the east window full on the Helstone monument. When I close my eyes I seem to see poor papa's epitaph in black letters on the white marble. There is plenty of room for other inscriptions108 underneath109."
"William Farren came to look after your flowers this morning. He was afraid, now you cannot tend them yourself, they would be neglected. He has taken two of your favourite plants home to nurse for you."
"If I were to make a will, I would leave William all my plants; Shirley my trinkets—except one, which must not be taken off my neck; and you, ma'am, my books." After a pause—"Mrs. Pryor, I feel a longing110 wish for something."
"For what, Caroline?"
"You know I always delight to hear you sing. Sing me a hymn111 just now. Sing that hymn which begins,—
'Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
Mrs. Pryor at once complied.
No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing. Her voice, even in speaking, was sweet and silver clear; in song it was almost divine. Neither flute113 nor dulcimer has tones so pure. But the tone was secondary, compared to the expression which trembled through—a tender vibration114 from a feeling heart.
The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to the stair-foot to listen. Even old Helstone, as he walked in the garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble nature of women, stood still amongst his borders to catch the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded374 him of his forgotten dead wife, he could not tell; nor why it made him more concerned than he had hitherto been for Caroline's fading girlhood. He was glad to recollect115 that he had promised to pay Wynne, the magistrate116, a visit that evening. Low spirits and gloomy thoughts were very much his aversion. When they attacked him he usually found means to make them march in double-quick time. The hymn followed him faintly as he crossed the fields. He hastened his customary sharp pace, that he might get beyond its reach.
"Thy word commands our flesh to dust,—
'Return, ye sons of men;'
All nations rose from earth at first,
And turn to earth again.
"A thousand ages in Thy sight
Are like an evening gone—
Short as the watch that ends the night
Before the rising sun.
"Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
"Like flowery fields, the nations stand,
Fresh in the morning light;
The flowers beneath the mower's hand
"Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Be Thou our guard while troubles last—
O Father, be our home!"
"Now sing a song—a Scottish song," suggested Caroline, when the hymn was over—"'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon.'"
Again Mrs. Pryor obeyed, or essayed to obey. At the close of the first stanza118 she stopped. She could get no further. Her full heart flowed over.
"You are weeping at the pathos119 of the air. Come here, and I will comfort you," said Caroline, in a pitying accent. Mrs. Pryor came. She sat down on the edge of her patient's bed, and allowed the wasted arms to encircle her.
"You often soothe106 me; let me soothe you," murmured the young girl, kissing her cheek. "I hope," she added, "it is not for me you weep?"
No answer followed.
"Do you think I shall not get better? I do not feel very ill—only weak."
"But your mind, Caroline—your mind is crushed. Your heart is almost broken; you have been so neglected, so repulsed120, left so desolate121."
"I believe grief is, and always has been, my worst ailment122. I sometimes think if an abundant gush123 of happiness came on me I could revive yet."
"Do you wish to live?"
"I have no object in life."
"You love me, Caroline?"
"Very much—very truly—inexpressibly sometimes. Just now I feel as if I could almost grow to your heart."
"I will return directly, dear," remarked Mrs. Pryor, as she laid Caroline down.
Quitting her, she glided124 to the door, softly turned the key in the lock, ascertained125 that it was fast, and came back. She bent over her. She threw back the curtain to admit the moonlight more freely. She gazed intently on her face.
"Then, if you love me," said she, speaking quickly, with an altered voice; "if you feel as if, to use your own words, you could 'grow to my heart,' it will be neither shock nor pain for you to know that that heart is the source whence yours was filled; that from my veins issued the tide which flows in yours; that you are mine—my daughter—my own child."
"Mrs. Pryor——"
"My own child!"
"That is—that means—you have adopted me?"
"It means that, if I have given you nothing else, I at least gave you life; that I bore you, nursed you; that I am your true mother. No other woman can claim the title; it is mine."
"But Mrs. James Helstone—but my father's wife, whom I do not remember ever to have seen, she is my mother?"
"She is your mother. James Helstone was my husband. I say you are mine. I have proved it. I thought perhaps you were all his, which would have been a cruel dispensation for me. I find it is not so. God permitted me to be the parent of my child's mind. It belongs to me; it is my property—my right. These features are James's own. He had a fine face when he was young, and not altered by error. Papa, my darling, gave you your blue eyes and soft brown376 hair; he gave you the oval of your face and the regularity126 of your lineaments—the outside he conferred; but the heart and the brain are mine. The germs are from me, and they are improved, they are developed to excellence127. I esteem128 and approve my child as highly as I do most fondly love her."
"Is what I hear true? Is it no dream?"
"I wish it were as true that the substance and colour of health were restored to your cheek."
"My own mother! is she one I can be so fond of as I can of you? People generally did not like her—so I have been given to understand."
"They told you that? Well, your mother now tells you that, not having the gift to please people generally, for their approbation129 she does not care. Her thoughts are centred in her child. Does that child welcome or reject her?"
"But if you are my mother, the world is all changed to me. Surely I can live. I should like to recover——"
"You must recover. You drew life and strength from my breast when you were a tiny, fair infant, over whose blue eyes I used to weep, fearing I beheld130 in your very beauty the sign of qualities that had entered my heart like iron, and pierced through my soul like a sword. Daughter! we have been long parted; I return now to cherish you again."
She held her to her bosom; she cradled her in her arms; she rocked her softly, as if lulling131 a young child to sleep.
"My mother—my own mother!"
The offspring nestled to the parent; that parent, feeling the endearment132 and hearing the appeal, gathered her closer still. She covered her with noiseless kisses; she murmured love over her, like a cushat fostering its young.
There was silence in the room for a long while.
"Does my uncle know?"
"Your uncle knows. I told him when I first came to stay with you here."
"Did you recognize me when we first met at Fieldhead?"
"How could it be otherwise? Mr. and Miss Helstone being announced, I was prepared to see my child."
"It was that, then, which moved you. I saw you disturbed."
"You saw nothing, Caroline; I can cover my feelings.377 You can never tell what an age of strange sensation I lived, during the two minutes that elapsed between the report of your name and your entrance. You can never tell how your look, mien133, carriage, shook me."
"Why? Were you disappointed?"
"What will she be like? I had asked myself; and when I saw what you were like, I could have dropped."
"Mamma, why?"
"I trembled in your presence. I said, I will never own her; she shall never know me."
"But I said and did nothing remarkable134. I felt a little diffident at the thought of an introduction to strangers—that was all."
"I soon saw you were diffident. That was the first thing which reassured135 me. Had you been rustic136, clownish, awkward, I should have been content."
"You puzzle me."
"I had reason to dread a fair outside, to mistrust a popular bearing, to shudder137 before distinction, grace, and courtesy. Beauty and affability had come in my way when I was recluse138, desolate, young, and ignorant—a toil-worn governess perishing of uncheered labour, breaking down before her time. These, Caroline, when they smiled on me, I mistook for angels. I followed them home; and when into their hands I had given without reserve my whole chance of future happiness, it was my lot to witness a transfiguration on the domestic hearth139—to see the white mask lifted, the bright disguise put away, and opposite me sat down—— O God, I have suffered!"
She sank on the pillow.
"Take comfort, mother. It is over now."
"It is over, and not fruitlessly. I tried to keep the word of His patience. He kept me in the days of my anguish. I was afraid with terror—I was troubled. Through great tribulation141 He brought me through to a salvation142 revealed in this last time. My fear had torment143; He has cast it out. He has given me in its stead perfect love. But, Caroline——"
"Mother!"
"I charge you, when you next look on your father's monument, to respect the name chiselled145 there. To you he did378 only good. On you he conferred his whole treasure of beauties, nor added to them one dark defect. All you derived146 from him is excellent. You owe him gratitude147. Leave, between him and me, the settlement of our mutual148 account. Meddle149 not. God is the arbiter150. This world's laws never came near us—never! They were powerless as a rotten bulrush to protect me—impotent as idiot babblings to restrain him! As you said, it is all over now; the grave lies between us. There he sleeps, in that church. To his dust I say this night, what I have never said before, 'James, slumber peacefully! See! your terrible debt is cancelled! Look! I wipe out the long, black account with my own hand! James, your child atones151. This living likeness152 of you—this thing with your perfect features—this one good gift you gave me has nestled affectionately to my heart, and tenderly called me "mother." Husband, rest forgiven!'"
"Dearest mother, that is right! Can papa's spirit hear us? Is he comforted to know that we still love him?"
"I said nothing of love. I spoke153 of forgiveness. Mind the truth, child; I said nothing of love! On the threshold of eternity154, should he be there to see me enter, will I maintain that."
"O mother, you must have suffered!"
"O child, the human heart can suffer! It can hold more tears than the ocean holds waters. We never know how deep, how wide it is, till misery155 begins to unbind her clouds, and fill it with rushing blackness."
"Mother, forget."
"Forget!" she said, with the strangest spectre of a laugh. "The north pole will rush to the south, and the headlands of Europe be locked into the bays of Australia ere I forget."
And the child lulled157 the parent, as the parent had erst lulled the child. At last Mrs. Pryor wept. She then grew calmer. She resumed those tender cares agitation158 had for a moment suspended. Replacing her daughter on the couch, she smoothed the pillow and spread the sheet. The soft hair whose locks were loosened she rearranged, the damp brow she refreshed with a cool, fragrant159 essence.
"Mamma, let them bring a candle, that I may see you; and tell my uncle to come into this room by-and-by. I want to hear him say that I am your daughter. And,379 mamma, take your supper here. Don't leave me for one minute to-night."
"O Caroline, it is well you are gentle! You will say to me, Go, and I shall go; Come, and I shall come; Do this, and I shall do it. You inherit a certain manner as well as certain features. It will always be 'mamma' prefacing a mandate—softly spoken, though, from you, thank God! Well," she added, under her breath, "he spoke softly too, once, like a flute breathing tenderness; and then, when the world was not by to listen, discords160 that split the nerves and curdled161 the blood—sounds to inspire insanity162."
"It seems so natural, mamma, to ask you for this and that. I shall want nobody but you to be near me, or to do anything for me. But do not let me be troublesome. Check me if I encroach."
"You must not depend on me to check you; you must keep guard over yourself. I have little moral courage; the want of it is my bane. It is that which has made me an unnatural163 parent—which has kept me apart from my child during the ten years which have elapsed since my husband's death left me at liberty to claim her. It was that which first unnerved my arms and permitted the infant I might have retained a while longer to be snatched prematurely from their embrace."
"How, mamma?"
"I let you go as a babe, because you were pretty, and I feared your loveliness, deeming it the stamp of perversity164. They sent me your portrait, taken at eight years old; that portrait confirmed my fears. Had it shown me a sunburnt little rustic—a heavy, blunt-featured, commonplace child—I should have hastened to claim you; but there, under the silver paper, I saw blooming the delicacy165 of an aristocratic flower—'little lady' was written on every trait. I had too recently crawled from under the yoke166 of the fine gentleman—escaped galled167, crushed, paralyzed, dying—to dare to encounter his still finer and most fairy-like representative. My sweet little lady overwhelmed me with dismay; her air of native elegance168 froze my very marrow169. In my experience I had not met with truth, modesty170, good principle as the concomitants of beauty. A form so straight and fine, I argued, must conceal60 a mind warped171 and cruel. I had little faith in the power of education to rectify172 such a mind; or rather, I entirely173 misdoubted my own ability to influence it. Caroline, I dared380 not undertake to rear you. I resolved to leave you in your uncle's hands. Matthewson Helstone I knew, if an austere174, was an upright man. He and all the world thought hardly of me for my strange, unmotherly resolve, and I deserved to be misjudged."
"Mamma, why did you call yourself Mrs. Pryor?"
"It was a name in my mother's family. I adopted it that I might live unmolested. My married name recalled too vividly175 my married life; I could not bear it. Besides, threats were uttered of forcing me to return to bondage176. It could not be. Rather a bier for a bed, the grave for a home. My new name sheltered me. I resumed under its screen my old occupation of teaching. At first it scarcely procured177 me the means of sustaining life; but how savoury was hunger when I fasted in peace! How safe seemed the darkness and chill of an unkindled hearth when no lurid178 reflection from terror crimsoned179 its desolation! How serene180 was solitude181, when I feared not the irruption of violence and vice38!"
"But, mamma, you have been in this neighbourhood before. How did it happen that when you reappeared here with Miss Keeldar you were not recognized?"
"I only paid a short visit, as a bride, twenty years ago, and then I was very different to what I am now—slender, almost as slender as my daughter is at this day. My complexion, my very features are changed; my hair, my style of dress—everything is altered. You cannot fancy me a slim young person, attired182 in scanty183 drapery of white muslin, with bare arms, bracelets184 and necklace of beads185, and hair disposed in round Grecian curls above my forehead?"
"You must, indeed, have been different. Mamma, I heard the front door open. If it is my uncle coming in, just ask him to step upstairs, and let me hear his assurance that I am truly awake and collected, and not dreaming or delirious186."
The rector, of his own accord, was mounting the stairs, and Mrs. Pryor summoned him to his niece's apartment.
"She's not worse, I hope?" he inquired hastily.
"Good!" said he, brushing quickly into the room.—"Ha, Cary! how do? Did you drink my cup of tea? I made it for you just as I like it myself."
"I drank it every drop, uncle. It did me good; it has made me quite alive. I have a wish for company, so I begged Mrs. Pryor to call you in."
The respected ecclesiastic188 looked pleased, and yet embarrassed. He was willing enough to bestow189 his company on his sick niece for ten minutes, since it was her whim190 to wish it; but what means to employ for her entertainment he knew not. He hemmed—he fidgeted.
"You'll be up in a trice," he observed, by way of saying something. "The little weakness will soon pass off; and then you must drink port wine—a pipe, if you can—and eat game and oysters191. I'll get them for you, if they are to be had anywhere. Bless me! we'll make you as strong as Samson before we're done with you."
"Good God!" he ejaculated. "She's not wandering, is she, ma'am?"
Mrs. Pryor smiled.
"I am wandering in a pleasant world," said Caroline, in a soft, happy voice, "and I want you to tell me whether it is real or visionary. What lady is that? Give her a name, uncle."
"We must have Dr. Rile again, ma'am; or better still, MacTurk. He's less of a humbug193. Thomas must saddle the pony194 and go for him."
"No; I don't want a doctor. Mamma shall be my only physician. Now, do you understand, uncle?"
Mr. Helstone pushed up his spectacles from his nose to his forehead, handled his snuff-box, and administered to himself a portion of the contents. Thus fortified195, he answered briefly196, "I see daylight. You've told her then, ma'am?"
"And is it true?" demanded Caroline, rising on her pillow. "Is she really my mother?"
"You won't cry, or make any scene, or turn hysterical197, if I answer Yes?"
"Cry! I'd cry if you said No. It would be terrible to be disappointed now. But give her a name. How do you call her?"
"I call this stout198 lady in a quaint199 black dress, who looks young enough to wear much smarter raiment, if she would—I call her Agnes Helstone. She married my brother James, and is his widow."
"And my mother?"
"What a little sceptic it is! Look at her small face, Mrs. Pryor, scarcely larger than the palm of my hand, alive with acuteness and eagerness." To Caroline—"She had the trouble of bringing you into the world at any rate. Mind you show your duty to her by quickly getting well, and repairing the waste of these cheeks.—Heigh-ho! she used to be plump. What she has done with it all I can't, for the life of me, divine."
"If wishing to get well will help me, I shall not be long sick. This morning I had no reason and no strength to wish it."
Fanny here tapped at the door, and said that supper was ready.
"Uncle, if you please, you may send me a little bit of supper—anything you like, from your own plate. That is wiser than going into hysterics, is it not?"
"It is spoken like a sage200, Cary. See if I don't cater201 for you judiciously202. When women are sensible, and, above all, intelligible203, I can get on with them. It is only the vague, superfine sensations, and extremely wire-drawn notions, that put me about. Let a woman ask me to give her an edible204 or a wearable—be the same a roc's egg or the breastplate of Aaron, a share of St. John's locusts205 and honey or the leathern girdle about his loins—I can, at least, understand the demand; but when they pine for they know not what—sympathy, sentiment, some of these indefinite abstractions—I can't do it; I don't know it; I haven't got it.—Madam, accept my arm."
Mrs. Pryor signified that she should stay with her daughter that evening. Helstone, accordingly, left them together. He soon returned, bringing a plate in his own consecrated206 hand.
"This is chicken," he said, "but we'll have partridge to-morrow.—Lift her up, and put a shawl over her. On my word, I understand nursing.—Now, here is the very same little silver fork you used when you first came to the rectory. That strikes me as being what you may call a happy thought—a delicate attention. Take it, Cary, and munch207 away cleverly."
Caroline did her best. Her uncle frowned to see that her powers were so limited. He prophesied208, however, great things for the future; and as she praised the morsel209 he had brought, and smiled gratefully in his face, he stooped over383 her pillow, kissed her, and said, with a broken, rugged210 accent, "Good-night, bairnie! God bless thee!"
Caroline enjoyed such peaceful rest that night, circled by her mother's arms, and pillowed on her breast, that she forgot to wish for any other stay; and though more than one feverish211 dream came to her in slumber, yet, when she woke up panting, so happy and contented a feeling returned with returning consciousness that her agitation was soothed212 almost as soon as felt.
As to the mother, she spent the night like Jacob at Peniel. Till break of day she wrestled213 with God in earnest prayer.
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1
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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12
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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14
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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27
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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28
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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coalesced
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| v.联合，合并( coalesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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38
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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39
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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40
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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42
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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43
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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44
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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45
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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47
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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49
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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50
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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51
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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52
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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53
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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54
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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55
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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56
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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57
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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58
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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59
intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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60
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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61
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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62
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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64
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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65
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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66
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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67
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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68
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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71
attenuation
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| n.变薄；弄细；稀薄化；减少 | |
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72
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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74
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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75
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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76
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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77
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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78
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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79
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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80
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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81
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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82
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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83
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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84
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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86
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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87
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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89
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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90
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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91
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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92
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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96
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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97
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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98
poignantly
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99
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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102
glistens
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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104
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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105
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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106
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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107
soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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108
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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109
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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110
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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111
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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112
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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113
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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114
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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115
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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116
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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117
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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118
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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119
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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120
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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121
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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122
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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123
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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124
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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125
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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126
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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127
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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128
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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129
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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130
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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131
lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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132
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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133
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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134
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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135
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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136
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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137
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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138
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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139
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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140
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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141
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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142
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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143
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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144
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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145
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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146
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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147
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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148
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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149
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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150
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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151
atones
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的第三人称单数 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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152
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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153
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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154
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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155
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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156
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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157
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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158
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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159
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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160
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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161
curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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163
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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164
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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165
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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166
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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167
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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168
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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169
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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170
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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171
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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172
rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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173
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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174
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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175
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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176
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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177
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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178
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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179
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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180
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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181
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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182
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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184
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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185
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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186
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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187
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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188
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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189
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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190
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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191
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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192
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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193
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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194
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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195
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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196
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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197
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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199
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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200
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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201
cater
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| vi.(for/to)满足，迎合；(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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202
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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203
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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204
edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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205
locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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206
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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207
munch
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| v.用力嚼，大声咀嚼 | |
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208
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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210
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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211
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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212
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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213
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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