House, where they had previously2 secured rooms.
The city was full of strangers from all parts of the country, drawn4 together by the approaching inauguration5 of one of the most popular Presidents that ever occupied the White House.
As soon as our party made known their arrival to their friends, they were inundated6 with calls and invitations. Brother clergymen called upon Mr. Willcoxen, and pressed upon him the freedom of their houses. Alice Morris and Mrs. Moulton, the relative with whom she was staying, called upon Miriam, and insisted that she should go home with them, to remain until after the wedding. But these offers of hospitality were gratefully declined by the little set, who preferred to remain together at their hotel.
The whole scene of metropolitan7 life, in its most stirring aspect, was entirely8 new and highly interesting to our rustic9 beauty. Amusements of every description were rife10. The theatres, exhibition halls, saloons and concert rooms held out their most attractive temptations, and night after night were crowded with the gay votaries12 of fashion and of pleasure. While the churches, and lyceums, and lecture-rooms had greater charms for the more seriously inclined. The old and the young, the grave and the gay, found no lack of occupation, amusement and instruction to suit their several tastes or varying moods. The second week of their visit, the marriage of Alice Morris and Oliver Murray came off, Miriam serving as bridesmaid, Dr. Douglass as groomsman, and Mr. Willcoxen as officiating minister.
But it is not with these marriage festivities that we have to do, but with the scenes that immediately succeed them.
From the time of Mr. Willcoxen's arrival in the city, he had not ceased to exercise his sacred calling. His fame had long before preceded him to the capital, and since his coming he had been frequently solicited13 to preach and to lecture.
Not from love of notoriety—not from any such ill-placed, vain glory, but from the wish to relieve some overtasked brother of the heat and burden of at least one day; and possibly by presenting truth in a newer and stronger light to do some good, did Thurston Willcoxen, Sabbath after Sabbath, and evening after evening, preach in the churches or lecture before the lyceum. Crowds flocked to hear him, the press spoke14 highly of his talents and his eloquence15, the people warmly echoed the opinion, and Mr. Willcoxen, against his inclination16, became the clerical celebrity17 of the day.
But from all this unsought world-worship he turned away a weary, sickened, sorrowing man.
There was but one thing in all "the world outside" that strongly interested him—it was a "still small voice," a low-toned, sweet music, keeping near the dear mother earth and her humble18 children, yet echoed and re-echoed from sphere to sphere—it was the name of a lady, young, lovely, accomplished19 and wealthy, who devoted20 herself, her time, her talents and her fortune, to the cause of suffering humanity.
This young lady, whose beauty, goodness, wisdom, eloquence and powers of persuasion21 were rumored22 to be almost miraculous23, had founded schools and asylums24, and had collected by subscription25 a large amount of money, with which she was coming to America, to select and purchase a tract11 of land to settle a colony of the London poor. This angel girl's name and fame was a low, sweet echo, as I said before—never noisy, never rising high—keeping near the ground. People spoke of her in quiet places, and dropped their voices to gentle tones in mentioning her and her works. Such was the spell it exercised over them. This lady's name possessed26 the strangest fascination27 for Thurston Willcoxen; he read eagerly whatever was written of her; he listened with interest to whatever was spoken of her. Her name! it was that of his loved and lost Marian!—that in itself was a spell, but that was not the greatest charm—her character resembled that of his Marian!
"How like my Marian?" would often be the language of his heart, when hearing of her deeds. "Even so would my Marian have done—had she been born to fortune, as this lady was."
The name was certainly common enough, yet the similarity of both names and natures inclined him to the opinion that this angel-woman must be some distant and more fortunate relative of his own lost Marian. He felt drawn toward the unknown lady by a strong and almost irresistible29 attraction; and he secretly resolved to see and know her, and pondered in his heart ways and means by which he might, with propriety30, seek her acquaintance.
While thus he lived two lives—the outer life of work and usefulness, and the inner life of thought and suffering—the young people of his party, hoping and believing him to be enjoying the honors heaped upon him, yielded themselves up to the attractions of society.
Miriam spent much of her time with her friend, Alice Murray.
One morning, when she called on Alice, the latter invited her visitor up into her own chamber31, and seating her there, said, with a mysterious air:
"Do you know, Miriam, that I have something—the strangest thing that ever was—that I have been wanting to tell you for three or four days, only I never got an opportunity to do so, because Olly or some one was always present? But now Olly has gone to court, and mother has gone to market, and you and I can have a cozy32 chat to ourselves."
She stopped to stir the fire, and Miriam quietly waited for her to proceed.
"Now, why in the world don't you ask me for my secret? I declare you take so little interest, and show so little curiosity, that it is not a bit of fun to hint a mystery to you. Do you want to hear, or don't you? I assure you it is a tremendous revelation, and it concerns you, too!"
"What is it, then? I am anxious to hear?"
"Oh! you do begin to show a little interest; and now, to punish you, I have a great mind not to tell you; however, I will take pity upon your suspense33; but first, you must promise never, never, n-e-v-e-r to mention it again—will you promise?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, listen. Stop! get a good place to faint first, and then listen. Are you ready? One, two, three, fire. The Rev3. Thurston Willcoxen is a married man!"
"What!"
"Mr. Thurston Willcoxen has been married for eight years past."
"Pshaw!"
"Mr. Willcoxen was married eight years ago this spring at a little
Methodist preacher, of the name of John Berry."
"You are certainly mad!"
"I am not mad, most noble 'doubter,' but speak the words of truth and soberness. Mr. Willcoxen was married privately35, when and where I said, to a beautiful, fair-haired lady, whose name heard in the ritual was Marian. And my husband, Olly Murray, was the secret witness of that private marriage."
A wild scream, that seemed to split the heart from whence it arose, broke from the lips of Miriam; springing forward, she grasped the wrist of Alice, and with her wild eyes starting, straining from their sockets37, gazed into he face, crying:
"Tell me! tell me! that you have jested! tell me that you have lied?
Speak! speak!"
"I told you the Lord's blessed truth, and Oily knows it. But Miriam, for goodness sake don't look that way—you scare me almost to death! And, whatever you do, never let anybody know that I told you this; because, if you did, Olly would be very much grieved at me; for he confided38 it to me as a dead secret, and bound me up to secrecy39, too; but I thought as it concerned you so much, it would be no harm to tell you, if you would not tell it again; and so when I was promising40, I made a mental reservation in favor of yourself. And so I have told you; and now you mustn't betray me, Miriam."
"It is false! all that you have told me is false! say that It is false! tell me so! speak! speak!" cried Miriam, wildly.
"It is not false—it is true as Gospel, every word of it—nor is it any mistake. Because Olly saw the whole thing, and told me all about it. The way of it was, that Olly overheard them in the Congressional Library arranging the marriage—the gentleman was going to depart for Europe, and wished to secure the lady's hand before he went—and at the same time, for some reason or other, he wished the marriage to be kept secret. Olly owns that it was none of his business, but that curiosity got the upper hand of him, so he listened, and he heard them call each other 'Thurston' and 'Marian'—and when they left the library, he followed them—and so, unseen, he witnessed the private marriage ceremony, at which they still answered to the names of 'Thurston' and 'Marian.' He did not hear their surnames. He never saw the bride again; and he never saw the bridegroom until he saw Mr. Willcoxen at our wedding. The moment Olly saw him he knew that he had seen him before, but could not call to mind when or where; and the oftener he looked at him, the more convinced he became that he had seen him first under some very singular circumstances. And when at last lie heard his first name called 'Thurston,' the whole truth flashed on him at once. He remembered everything connected with the mysterious marriage. I wonder what Mr. Willcoxen has done with his Marian? or whether she died or whether she lives? or where he hides her? Well, some men are a mystery—don't you think so, Miriam?"
"Miriam! Oh, don't go on so! what do you mean? Indeed you alarm me! oh, don't take it so to heart! indeed, I wouldn't, if I were you! I should think it the funniest kind of fun? Miriam, I say!"
She answered not—she had sunk down on the floor, utterly44 crushed by the weight of misery45 that had fallen upon her.
"Miriam! now what in the world do you mean by this? Why do you yield so? I would not do it. I know it is bad to be disappointed of an expected inheritance, and to find out that some one else has a greater claim, but, indeed, I would not take it to heart so, if I were you. Why, if he is married, he may not have a family, and even if he has, he may not utterly disinherit you, and even if he should, I would not grieve myself to death about it if I were you! Miriam, look up, I say!"
But the hapless girl replied not, heard not, heeded47 not; deaf, blind, insensible was she to all—everything but to that sharp, mental grief, that seemed so like physical pain; that fierce anguish48 of the breast, that, like an iron band, seemed to clutch and close upon her heart, tighter, tighter, tighter, until it stopped the current of her blood, and arrested her breath, and threw her into convulsions.
Alice sprang to raise her, then ran down-stairs to procure49 restoratives and assistance. In the front hall she met Dr. Douglass, who had just been admitted by the waiter. To his pleasant greeting, she replied hastily, breathlessly:
"Oh, Paul! come—come quickly up stairs! Miriam has fallen into convulsions, and I am frightened out of my senses!"
"What caused her illness?" asked Paul, in alarm and anxiety, as he ran up stairs, preceded by Alice.
"Oh, I don't know!" answered Alice, but thought to herself: "It could not have been what I said to her, and if it was, I must not tell."
The details of sickness are never interesting. I shall not dwell upon Miriam's illness of several weeks; the doctors pronounced it to be angina pectoris—a fearful and often fatal complaint, brought on in those constitutionally predisposed to it, by any sudden shock to mind or body. What could have caused its attack upon Miriam, they could not imagine. And Alice Murray, in fear and doubt, held her tongue and kept her own counsel. In all her illness, Miriam's reason was not for a moment clouded—it seemed preternaturally awake; but she spoke not, and it was observed that if Mr. Willcoxen, who was overwhelmed with distress50 by her dreadful illness, approached her bedside and touched her person, she instantly fell into spasms52. In grief and dismay, Thurston's eyes asked of all around an explanation of this strange and painful phenomenon; but none could tell him, except the doctor, who pronounced it the natural effect of the excessive nervous irritability53 attending her disease, and urged Mr. Willcoxen to keep away from her chamber. And Thurston sadly complied.
Youth, and an elastic54 constitution, prevailed over disease, and Miriam was raised from the bed of death; but so changed in person and in manner, that you would scarcely have recognized her. She was thinner, but not paler—an intense consuming fire burned in and out upon her cheek, and smouldered and flashed from her eye. Self-concentrated and reserved, she replied not at all, or only in monosyllables, to the words addressed to her, and withdrew more into herself.
At length, Dr. Douglass advised their return home. And therefore they set out, and upon the last of March, approached Dell-Delight.
The sky was overcast55, the ground was covered with snow, the weather was damp, and very cold for the last of March. As evening drew on, and the leaden sky lowered, and the chill damp penetrated56 the comfortable carriage in which they traveled, Mr. Willcoxen redoubled his attentions to Miriam, carefully wrapping her cloak and furs about her, and letting down the leathern blinds and the damask hangings, to exclude the cold; but Miriam shrank from his touch, and shivered more than before, and drew closely into her own corner.
"Poor child, the cold nips and shrivels her as it does a tropical flower," said Thurston, desisting from his efforts after he had tucked a woolen57 shawl around her feet.
"It is really very unseasonable weather—there is snow in the atmosphere. I don't wonder it pinches Miriam," said Paul Douglass.
Ah! they did not either of them know that it was a spiritual fever and ague alternately burning and freezing her very heart's blood—hope and fear, love and loathing58, pity and horror, that striving together made a pandemonium59 of her young bosom. Like a flight of fiery60 arrows came the coincidences of the tale she had heard, and the facts she knew. That spring, eight years before, Mr. Murray said he had, unseen, witnessed the marriage of Thurston Willcoxen and Marian. That spring, eight years before, she knew Mr. Willcoxen and Miss Mayfield had been together on a visit to the capital. Thurston had gone to Europe, Marian had returned home, but had never seemed the same since her visit to the city. The very evening of the house-warming at Luckenough, where Marian had betrayed so much emotion, Thurston had suddenly returned, and presented himself at that mansion. Yet in all the months that followed she had never seen Thurston and Marian together, Thurston was paying marked and constant attention to Miss Le Roy, while Marian's heart was consuming with a secret sorrow and anxiety that she refused to communicate even to Edith. How distinctly came back to her mind those nights when, lying by Marian's side, she had put her hand over upon her face and felt the tears on her cheeks. Those tears! The recollection of them now, and in this connection, filled her heart with indescribable emotion. Her mother, too, had died in the belief that Marian had fallen by the hands of her lover or her husband. Lastly, upon the same night of Marian's murder, Thurston Willcoxen had been unaccountably absent, during the whole night, from the deathbed of his grandfather. And then his incurable61 melancholy62 from that day to this—his melancholy augmented63 to anguish at the annual return of this season.
And then rising, in refutation of all this evidence, was his own irreproachable64 life and elevated character.
Ah! but she had, young, as she was, heard of such cases before—how in some insanity65 of selfishness or frenzy67 of passion, a crime had been perpetrated by one previously and afterward68 irreproachable in conduct. Piercing wound after wound smote69 these thoughts like swift coming arrows.
A young, immature70 woman, a girl of seventeen, in whose warm nature passion and imagination so largely predominated over intellect, was but too liable to have her reason shaken from its seat by the ordeal71 through which she was forced to go.
As night descended72, and they drew near Dell-Delight, the storm that had been lowering all the afternoon came upon them. The wind, the hail, and the snow, and the snow-drifts continually forming, rendered the roads, that were never very good, now nearly impassable.
More and more obstructed73, difficult and unrecognizable became their way, until at last, when within an eighth of a mile from the house, the horses stepped off the road into a covered gully, and the carriage was over-turned and broken.
"Miriam! dear Miriam! dear child, are you hurt?" was the first anxious exclamation74 of both gentlemen.
No one was injured; the coach lay upon its left side, and the right side door was over their heads. Paul climbed out first, and then gave his hand to Miriam, whom Mr. Willcoxen assisted up to the window. Lastly followed Thurston. The horses had kicked themselves free of the carriage and stood kicking yet.
"Two wheels and the pole are broken—nothing can be done to remove the carriage to-night. You had better leave the horses where they are, Paul, and let us hurry on to get Miriam under shelter first, then we can send some one to fetch them home."
They were near the park gate, and the road from there to the mansion was very good. Paul was busy in bundling Miriam up in her cloak, shawls and furs. And then Mr. Willcoxen approached to raise her in his arms, and take her through the snow; but—
"No! no!" said Miriam, shuddering and crouching75 closely to Paul. Little knowing her thoughts, Mr. Willcoxen slightly smiled, and pulling his hat low over his eyes, and turning up his fur collar and wrapping his cloak closely around him, he strode on rapidly before them. The snow was blowing in their faces, but drawing Miriam fondly to his side, Paul hurried after him.
When they reached the park gate, Thurston was laboring76 to open it against the drifted snow. He succeeded, and pushed the gate back to let them pass. Miriam, as she went through, raised her eyes to his form.
There he stood, in night and storm, his tall form shrouded77 in the long black cloak—the hat drawn over his eyes, the faint spectral78 gleam of the snow striking upward to his clear-cut profile, the peculiar79 fall of ghostly light and shade, the strong individuality of air and attitude.
With a half-stifled80 shriek81, Miriam recognized the distinct picture of the man she had seen twice before with Marian.
"What is the matter, love? Were you near falling? Give me your arm, Miriam—you need us both to help you through this storm," said Thurston, approaching her.
But with a shiver that ran through all her frame, Miriam shrank closer to Paul, who, with affectionate pride, renewed his care, and promised that she should not slip again.
So link after link of the fearful evidence wound itself around her consciousness, which struggled against it, like Laocoon in the fatal folds of the serpent.
Now cold as if the blood were turned to ice in her veins82, now burning as if they ran fire, she was hurried on into the house.
They were expected home, and old Jenny had fires in all the occupied rooms, and supper ready to go on the table, that was prepared in the parlor83.
But Miriam refused all refreshment84, and hurried to her room. It was warmed and lighted by old Jenny's care, and the good creature followed her young mistress with affectionate proffers85 of aid.
"Wouldn't she have a strong cup of tea? Wouldn't she have a hot bath? Wouldn't she have her bed warmed? Wouldn't she have a bowl of nice hot mulled wine? Dear, dear! she was so sorry, but it would have frightened herself to death if the carriage had upset with her, and no wonder Miss Miriam was knocked up entirely."
"No, no, no!"
Miriam would have nothing, and old Jenny reluctantly left her—to repose86? Ah, no! with fever in her veins, to walk up and down and up and down the floor of her room with fearful unrest. Up and down, until the candle burned low, and sunk drowned in its socket36; until the fire on the hearth87 smouldered and went out; until the stars in the sky waned88 with the coming day; until the rising sun kindled89 all the eastern horizon; and then, attired90 as she was, she sank upon the outside of her bed and fell into a heavy sleep of exhaustion91.
She arose unrefreshed, and after a hasty toilet descended to the breakfast-parlor, where she knew the little family awaited her.
"The journey and the fright have been too much for you, love; you look very weary; you should have rested longer this morning," said Mr. Willcoxen, affectionately, as he arose and met her and led her to the most comfortable seat near the fire.
His fine countenance92, elevated, grave and gentle in expression, his kind and loving manner, smote all the tender chords of Miriam's heart.
Could that man be guilty of the crime she had dared to suspect him of?
Oh, no, no, no! never! Every lineament of his face, every inflection of his voice, as well as every act of his life, and every trait of his character, forbade the dreadful imputation93!
But then the evidence—the damning evidence! Her reeled with the doubt as she sank into the seat he offered her.
"Ring for breakfast, Paul! Our little housekeeper94 will feel better when she gets a cup of coffee."
But Miriam sprang up to anticipate him, and drew her chair to the table, and nervously95 began to arrange the cups and put sugar and cream into them, with the vague feeling that she must act as usual to avoid calling observation upon herself, for if questioned, how could she answer inquiries96, and whom could she make a confidant in her terrible suspicions?
And so through the breakfast scene, and so through the whole day she sought to exercise self-control. But could her distress escape the anxious, penetrating97 eyes of affection? That evening after tea, when Mr. Willcoxen had retired98 to his own apartments and the waiter had replenished99 the fire and trimmed the lamps and retired, leaving the young couple alone in the parlor—Miriam sitting on one side of the circular work-table bending over her sewing, and Paul on the other side with a book in his hand, he suddenly laid the volume down, and went round and drew a chair to Miriam's side and began to tell her how much he loved her, how dear her happiness was to him, and so entreat100 her to tell him the cause of her evident distress. As he spoke, she became paler than death, and suddenly and passionately101 exclaimed:
"Oh, Paul! Paul! do not question me! You know not what you ask."
"My own Miriam, what mean you? I ought to know."
"Oh, Paul! Paul! I am one foredoomed to bring misery and destruction upon all who love me; upon all whom I love."
"My own dearest, you are ill, and need change, and you shall have it, Miriam," he said, attempting to soothe102 her with that gentle, tender, loving manner he ever used toward her.
But shuddering sighs convulsed her bosom, and—
"Oh, Paul! Paul!" was all she said.
"Is it that promise that weighs upon your mind, Miriam? Cast it out; you cannot fulfill103 it; impossibilities are not duties."
"Oh, Paul! would Heaven it were impossible! or that I were dead."
"Miriam! where are those letters you wished to show me?"
"Oh! do not ask me, Paul! not yet! not yet! I dread51 to see them. And yet—who knows? they may relieve this dreadful suspicion! they may point to another probability," she said, incoherently.
"Just get me those letters, dear Miriam," he urged, gently.
She arose, tottering104, and left the room, and after an absence of fifteen minutes returned with the packet in her hand.
"These seals have not been broken since my mother closed them," said
Miriam, as she proceeded to open the parcel.
The first she came to was the bit of a note, without date or signature, making the fatal appointment.
"This, Paul," she said, mournfully, "was found in the pocket of the dress Marian wore at Luckenough, but changed at home before she went out to walk the evening of her death. Mother always believed that she went out to meet the appointment made in that note."
Paul took the paper with eager curiosity to examine it. He looked at it, started slightly, turned pale, shuddered105, passed his hand once or twice across his eyes, as if to clear his vision, looked again, and then his cheeks blanched106, his lips gradually whitened and separated, his eyes started, and his whole countenance betrayed consternation107 and horror.
Miriam gazed upon him in a sort of hushed terror—then exclaimed:
"Paul! Paul! what is the matter? You look as if you had been turned to stone by gazing on the Gorgon's head; Paul! Paul!"
"Miriam, did your mother know this handwriting?" he asked, in a husky, almost inaudible voice.
"No!"
"Did she suspect it?"
"No!"
"Did you know or suspect it?"
"No! I was a child when I received it, remember. I have never seen it since."
"Not when you put it in my hand, just now?"
"No, I never looked at the writing?"
"That was most strange that you should not have glanced at the handwriting when you handed it to me. Why didn't you? Were you afraid to look at it? Miram! why do you turn away your head? Miriam! answer me—do you know the handwriting?"
"No, Paul, I do not know it—do you?"
"No! no! how should I? But Miriam, your head is still averted108. Your very voice is changed. Miriam! what mean you? Tell me once for all. Do you suspect the handwriting?"
"How should I? Do you, Paul?"
"No! no! I don't suspect it."
They seemed afraid to look each other in the face; and well they might be, for the written agony on either brow; they seemed afraid to hear the sound of each other's words; and well they might be, for the hollow, unnatural109 sound of either voice.
"It cannot be! I am crazy, I believe. Let me clear my—oh, Heaven! Miriam! did—was—do you know whether there was any one in particular on familiar terms with Miss Mayfield?"
"No one out of the family, except Miss Thornton."
"'Out of the family'—out of what family?"
"Ours, at the cottage."
"Was—did—I wonder if my brother knew her intimately?"
"I do not know; I never saw them in each other's company but twice in my life."
The youth breathed a little freer.
"Why did you ask, Paul?"
"What, Paul?"
"There are such strange resemblances in—in—in—What are you looking at me so for, Miriam?"
"To find your meaning. In what, Paul—strange resemblances in what?"
"Why, in faces."
"Why, then, so there are—and in persons, also; and sometimes in fates; but we were talking of handwritings, Paul."
"Were we? Oh, true. I am not quite right, Miriam. I believe I have confined myself too much, and studied too hard. I am really out of sorts; never mind me! Please hand me those foreign letters, love."
"Paul," she asked, "wasn't it just eight years this spring since your brother went to Scotland to fetch you?"
"Yes; why?"
"Wasn't it to Glasgow that he went?"
"Yes; why?"
"Were not you there together in March and April, 182-?"
"Once more, yes! Why do you inquire?"
"Because all these foreign letters directed to Marian are postmarked
Glasgow, and dated March or April, 182-."
With a low, stifled cry, and a sudden spring, he snatched the packet from her hand, tore open the first letter that presented itself, and ran his strained, bloodshot eyes down the lines. Half-suppressed, deep groans like those wrung112 by torture from a strong man's heart, burst from his pale lips, and great drops of sweat gathered on his agonized113 forehead. Then he crushed the letters together in his hand and held them tightly, unconsciously, while his starting eyes were fixed114 on vacancy115 and his frozen lips muttered:
"In a fit of frantic116 passion, anger, jealousy117—even he might have been maddened to the pitch of doing such a thing! But as an act of base policy, as an act of forethought, oh! never, never, never!"
"Paul! Paul! speak to me, Paul. Tell me what you think. I have had foreshadowings long. I can bear silence and uncertainty118 no longer. What find you in those letters? Oh, speak, or my heart will burst, Paul."
He gave no heed46 to her or her words, but remained like one impaled119; still, fixed, yet writhing120, his features, his whole form and expression discolored, distorted with inward agony.
"Paul! Paul!" cried Miriam, starting up, standing121 before him, gazing on him. "Paul! speak to me. Your looks kill me. Speak, Paul! even though you can tell me little new. I know it all, Paul; or nearly all. Weeks ago I received the shock! it overwhelmed me for the time; but I survived it! But you, Paul—you! Oh! how you look! Speak to your sister, Paul! Speak to your promised wife."
But he gave no heed to her. She was not strong or assured—she felt herself tottering on the very verge122 of death or madness. But she could not bear to see him looking so. Once more she essayed to engage his attention.
"Give me those letters, Paul—I can perhaps make out the meaning."
As he did not reply, she gently sought to take them from his hand. But at her touch he suddenly started up and threw the packet into the fire. With a quick spring, Miriam darted123 forward, thrust her hand into the fire and rescued the packet, scorched124 and burning, but not destroyed.
She began to put it out, regardless of the pain to her hands. He looked as if he were tempted125 to snatch it from her, but she exclaimed:
"No, Paul! no! You will not use force to deprive me of this that I must guard as a sacred trust."
Still Paul hesitated, and eyed the packet with a gloomy glance.
"Remember honor, Paul, even in this trying moment," said Miriam; "let honor be saved, if all else be lost."
"What do you mean to do with that parcel?" he asked in a hollow voice.
"Keep them securely for the present."
"And afterward?"
"I know not."
"What is that?"
"Promise me to do nothing with those letters until you have further evidence."
"I promise you that."
Then Paul took up a candle and left the room, as if to go to his sleeping apartment; but on reaching the hall, he threw down and extinguished the light and rushed as if for breath out into the open air.
The night was keen and frosty, the cold, slaty127 sky was thickly studded with sparkling stars, the snow was crusted over—it was a fine, fresh, clear, wintry night; at another time it would have invigorated and inspired him; now the air seemed stifling128, the scene hateful.
The horrible suspicion of his brother's criminality had entered his heart for the first time, and it had come with the shock of certainty. The sudden recognition of the handwriting, the strange revelations of the foreign letters, had not only in themselves been a terrible disclosure, but had struck the whole "electric chain" of memory and association, and called up in living force many an incident and circumstance heretofore strange and incomprehensible; but now only too plain and indicative. The whole of Thurston's manner the fatal day of the assassination129—his abstraction, his anxious haste to get away on the plea of most urgent business in Baltimore—business that never was afterward heard of; his mysterious absence of the whole night from his grandfather's deathbed—provoking conjecture130 at the time, and unaccounted for to this day; his haggard and distracted looks upon returning late the next morning; his incurable sorrow; his habit of secluding131 himself upon the anniversary of that crime—and now the damning evidence in these letters! Among them, and the first he looked at, was the letter Thurston had written Marian to persuade her to accompany him to France, in the course of which his marriage with her was repeatedly acknowledged, being incidentally introduced as an argument in favor of her compliance132 with his wishes.
Yet Paul could not believe the crime ever premeditated—it was sudden, unintentional, consummated133 in a lover's quarrel, in a fit of jealousy, rage, disappointment, madness! Stumbling upon half the truth, he said to himself:
"Perhaps failing to persuade her to fly with him to France, he had attempted to carry her off, and being foiled, had temporarily lost his self-control, his very sanity66. That would account for all that had seemed so strange in his conduct the day and night of the assassination and the morning after."
There was agony—there was madness in the pursuit of the investigation134. Oh, pitying Heaven! how thought and grief surged and seethed135 in aching heart and burning brain!
And Miriam's promise to her dying mother—Miriam's promise to bring the criminal to justice! Would she—could she now abide136 by its obligations? Could she prosecute137 her benefactor138, her adopted brother, for murder? Could her hand be raised to hurl139 him down from his pride of place to shame and death? No, no, no, no! the vow140 must be broken, must be evaded141; the right, even if it were the right, must be transgressed142, heaven offended—anything! anything! anything but the exposure and sacrifice of their brother! If he had sinned, had he not repented143? Did he not suffer? What right had she, his ward28, his protégé, his child, to punish him? "Vengeance144 is mine—I will repay, saith the Lord." No, Miriam must not keep her vow! She must! she must! she must, responded the moral sense, slow, measured, dispassionate, as the regular fall of a clock's hammer. "I will myself prevent her; I will find means, arguments and persuasions145 to act upon her. I will so appeal to her affections, her gratitude146, her compassion147, her pride, her fears, her love for me—I will so work upon her heart that she will not find courage to keep her vow." She will! she will! responded the deliberate conscience.
And so he walked up and down; vainly the fresh wind fanned his fevered brow; vainly the sparkling stars glanced down from holy heights upon him; he found no coolness for his fever in the air, no sedative148 for his anxiety in the stillness, no comfort for his soul in the heavens; he knew not whether he were indoors or out, whether it were night or day, summer or winter, he knew not, wrapped as he was in the mantle149 of his own sad thoughts, suffering as he was in the purgatory150 of his inner life.
While Paul walked up and down, like a maniac151, Miriam returned to her room to pace the floor until nearly morning, when she threw herself, exhausted152, upon the bed, fell into a heavy sleep, and a third time, doubtless from nervous excitement or prostration153, suffered a repetition of her singular vision, and awoke late in the morning, with the words, "perform thy vow," ringing in her ears.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
mansion
|
|
| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
previously
|
|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
rev
|
|
| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
inauguration
|
|
| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
inundated
|
|
| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
metropolitan
|
|
| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
rustic
|
|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
rife
|
|
| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
tract
|
|
| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
votaries
|
|
| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
13
solicited
|
|
| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
eloquence
|
|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
inclination
|
|
| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
celebrity
|
|
| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
persuasion
|
|
| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
rumored
|
|
| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
miraculous
|
|
| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
asylums
|
|
| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
subscription
|
|
| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
fascination
|
|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
ward
|
|
| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
irresistible
|
|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
propriety
|
|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
cozy
|
|
| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
chapel
|
|
| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
privately
|
|
| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
socket
|
|
| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
sockets
|
|
| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
confided
|
|
| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
secrecy
|
|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
promising
|
|
| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
shuddering
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
groans
|
|
| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
heed
|
|
| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
heeded
|
|
| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
procure
|
|
| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
spasms
|
|
| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
irritability
|
|
| n.易怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
elastic
|
|
| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
overcast
|
|
| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
penetrated
|
|
| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
woolen
|
|
| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
loathing
|
|
| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
pandemonium
|
|
| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
fiery
|
|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
incurable
|
|
| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
Augmented
|
|
| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
irreproachable
|
|
| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
insanity
|
|
| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
sanity
|
|
| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
frenzy
|
|
| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
afterward
|
|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
smote
|
|
| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
immature
|
|
| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
ordeal
|
|
| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
obstructed
|
|
| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
crouching
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
laboring
|
|
| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
shrouded
|
|
| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
spectral
|
|
| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
stifled
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
shriek
|
|
| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
veins
|
|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
refreshment
|
|
| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
proffers
|
|
| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
86
repose
|
|
| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
hearth
|
|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
waned
|
|
| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
kindled
|
|
| （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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
attired
|
|
| 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 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
exhaustion
|
|
| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
imputation
|
|
| n.归罪，责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
housekeeper
|
|
| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
penetrating
|
|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
replenished
|
|
| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
entreat
|
|
| v.恳求，恳请 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
soothe
|
|
| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
fulfill
|
|
| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
tottering
|
|
| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
shuddered
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
blanched
|
|
| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
consternation
|
|
| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
averted
|
|
| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
wretch
|
|
| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
stony
|
|
| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
wrung
|
|
| 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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
agonized
|
|
| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
vacancy
|
|
| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
frantic
|
|
| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
uncertainty
|
|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
impaled
|
|
| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
writhing
|
|
| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
verge
|
|
| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
darted
|
|
| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
scorched
|
|
| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
evade
|
|
| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
slaty
|
|
| 石板一样的，石板色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
stifling
|
|
| a.令人窒息的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
assassination
|
|
| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
conjecture
|
|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
secluding
|
|
| v.使隔开，使隔绝，使隐退( seclude的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
132
compliance
|
|
| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
consummated
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
investigation
|
|
| n.调查，调查研究 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
seethed
|
|
| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
abide
|
|
| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
prosecute
|
|
| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
benefactor
|
|
| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
hurl
|
|
| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
vow
|
|
| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
evaded
|
|
| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
transgressed
|
|
| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
repented
|
|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
persuasions
|
|
| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
sedative
|
|
| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
mantle
|
|
| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
purgatory
|
|
| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
maniac
|
|
| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
prostration
|
|
| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |