Olive thought she knew the worst, as we have perceived; but the worst was really something she could not know, inasmuch as up to this time Verena chose as little to confide1 to her on that one point as she was careful to expatiate2 with her on every other. The change that had taken place in the object of Basil Ransom3’s merciless devotion since the episode in New York was, briefly4, just this change — that the words he had spoken to her there about her genuine vocation6, as distinguished7 from the hollow and factitious ideal with which her family and her association with Olive Chancellor8 had saddled her — these words, the most effective and penetrating9 he had uttered, had sunk into her soul and worked and fermented10 there. She had come at last to believe them, and that was the alteration11, the transformation12. They had kindled13 a light in which she saw herself afresh and, strange to say, liked herself better than in the old exaggerated glamour14 of the lecture-lamps. She could not tell Olive this yet, for it struck at the root of everything, and the dreadful, delightful15 sensation filled her with a kind of awe16 at all that it implied and portended17. She was to burn everything she had adored; she was to adore everything she had burned. The extraordinary part of it was that though she felt the situation to be, as I say, tremendously serious, she was not ashamed of the treachery which she — yes, decidedly, by this time she must admit it to herself — she meditated18. It was simply that the truth had changed sides; that radiant image began to look at her from Basil Ransom’s expressive19 eyes. She loved, she was in love — she felt it in every throb20 of her being. Instead of being constituted by nature for entertaining that sentiment in an exceptionally small degree (which had been the implication of her whole crusade, the warrant for her offer of old to Olive to renounce), she was framed, apparently21, to allow it the largest range, the highest intensity22. It was always passion, in fact; but now the object was other. Formerly23 she had been convinced that the fire of her spirit was a kind of double flame, one half of which was responsive friendship for a most extraordinary person, and the other pity for the sufferings of women in general. Verena gazed aghast at the colourless dust into which, in three short months (counting from the episode in New York), such a conviction as that could crumble24; she felt it must be a magical touch that could bring about such a cataclysm25. Why Basil Ransom had been deputed by fate to exercise this spell was more than she could say — poor Verena, who up to so lately had flattered herself that she had a wizard’s wand in her own pocket.
When she saw him a little way off, about five o’clock — the hour she usually went out to meet him — waiting for her at a bend of the road which lost itself, after a winding26, straggling mile or two, in the indented27, insulated “point,” where the wandering bee droned through the hot hours with a vague, misguided flight, she felt that his tall, watching figure, with the low horizon behind, represented well the importance, the towering eminence28 he had in her mind — the fact that he was just now, to her vision, the most definite and upright, the most incomparable, object in the world. If he had not been at his post when she expected him she would have had to stop and lean against something, for weakness; her whole being would have throbbed29 more painfully than it throbbed at present, though finding him there made her nervous enough. And who was he, what was he? she asked herself. What did he offer her besides a chance (in which there was no compensation of brilliancy or fashion) to falsify, in a conspicuous30 manner, every hope and pledge she had hitherto given? He allowed her, certainly, no illusion on the subject of the fate she should meet as his wife; he flung over it no rosiness31 of promised ease; he let her know that she should be poor, withdrawn32 from view, a partner of his struggle, of his severe, hard, unique stoicism. When he spoke5 of such things as these, and bent34 his eyes on her, she could not keep the tears from her own; she felt that to throw herself into his life (bare and arid35 as for the time it was) was the condition of happiness for her, and yet that the obstacles were terrible, cruel. It must not be thought that the revolution which was taking place in her was unaccompanied with suffering. She suffered less than Olive certainly, for her bent was not, like her friend’s, in that direction; but as the wheel of her experience went round she had the sensation of being ground very small indeed. With her light, bright texture36, her complacent37 responsiveness, her genial38, graceful39, ornamental40 cast, her desire to keep on pleasing others at the time when a force she had never felt before was pushing her to please herself, poor Verena lived in these days in a state of moral tension — with a sense of being strained and aching — which she didn’t betray more only because it was absolutely not in her power to look desperate. An immense pity for Olive sat in her heart, and she asked herself how far it was necessary to go in the path of self-sacrifice. Nothing was wanting to make the wrong she should do her complete; she had deceived her up to the very last; only three months earlier she had reasserted her vows42, given her word, with every show of fidelity43 and enthusiasm. There were hours when it seemed to Verena that she must really push her inquiry44 no further, but content herself with the conclusion that she loved as deeply as a woman could love and that it didn’t make any difference. She felt Olive’s grasp too clinching45, too terrible. She said to herself that she should never dare, that she might as well give up early as late; that the scene, at the end, would be something she couldn’t face; that she had no right to blast the poor creature’s whole future. She had a vision of those dreadful years; she knew that Olive would never get over the disappointment. It would touch her in the point where she felt everything most keenly; she would be incurably46 lonely and eternally humiliated47. It was a very peculiar48 thing, their friendship; it had elements which made it probably as complete as any (between women) that had ever existed. Of course it had been more on Olive’s side than on hers, she had always known that; but that, again, didn’t make any difference. It was of no use for her to tell herself that Olive had begun it entirely49 and she had only responded out of a kind of charmed politeness, at first, to a tremendous appeal. She had lent herself, given herself, utterly50, and she ought to have known better if she didn’t mean to abide51 by it. At the end of three weeks she felt that her inquiry was complete, but that after all nothing was gained except an immense interest in Basil Ransom’s views and the prospect52 of an eternal heartache. He had told her he wanted her to know him, and now she knew him pretty thoroughly53. She knew him and she adored him, but it didn’t make any difference. To give him up or to give Olive up — this effort would be the greater of the two.
If Basil Ransom had the advantage, as far back as that day in New York, of having struck a note which was to reverberate54, it may easily be imagined that he did not fail to follow it up. If he had projected a new light into Verena’s mind, and made the idea of giving herself to a man more agreeable to her than that of giving herself to a movement, he found means to deepen this illumination, to drag her former standard in the dust. He was in a very odd situation indeed, carrying on his siege with his hands tied. As he had to do everything in an hour a day, he perceived that he must confine himself to the essential. The essential was to show her how much he loved her, and then to press, to press, always to press. His hovering55 about Miss Chancellor’s habitation without going in was a strange regimen to be subjected to, and he was sorry not to see more of Miss Birdseye, besides often not knowing what to do with himself in the mornings and evenings. Fortunately he had brought plenty of books (volumes of rusty56 aspect, picked up at New York bookstalls), and in such an affair as this he could take the less when the more was forbidden him. For the mornings, sometimes, he had the resource of Doctor Prance57, with whom he made a great many excursions on the water. She was devoted58 to boating and an ardent59 fisherwoman, and they used to pull out into the bay together, cast their lines, and talk a prodigious60 amount of heresy61. She met him, as Verena met him, “in the environs,” but in a different spirit. He was immensely amused at her attitude, and saw that nothing in the world could, as he expressed it, make her wink63. She would never blench64 nor show surprise; she had an air of taking everything abnormal for granted; betrayed no consciousness of the oddity of Ransom’s situation; said nothing to indicate she had noticed that Miss Chancellor was in a frenzy65 or that Verena had a daily appointment. You might have supposed from her manner that it was as natural for Ransom to sit on a fence half a mile off as in one of the red rocking-chairs, of the so-called “Shaker” species, which adorned66 Miss Chancellor’s back verandah. The only thing our young man didn’t like about Doctor Prance was the impression she gave him (out of the crevices68 of her reticence69 he hardly knew how it leaked) that she thought Verena rather slim. She took an ironical70 view of almost any kind of courtship, and he could see she didn’t wonder women were such featherheads, so long as, whatever brittle71 follies72 they cultivated, they could get men to come and sit on fences for them. Doctor Prance told him Miss Birdseye noticed nothing; she had sunk, within a few days, into a kind of transfigured torpor73; she didn’t seem to know whether Mr. Ransom were anywhere round or not. She guessed she thought he had just come down for a day and gone off again; she probably supposed he just wanted to get toned up a little by Miss Tarrant. Sometimes, out in the boat, when she looked at him in vague, sociable74 silence, while she waited for a bite (she delighted in a bite), she had an expression of diabolical75 shrewdness. When Ransom was not scorching76 there beside her (he didn’t mind the sun of Massachusetts), he lounged about in the pastoral land which hung (at a very moderate elevation) above the shore. He always had a book in his pocket, and he lay under whispering trees and kicked his heels and made up his mind on what side he should take Verena the next time. At the end of a fortnight he had succeeded (so he believed, at least) far better than he had hoped, in this sense, that the girl had now the air of making much more light of her “gift.” He was indeed quite appalled77 at the facility with which she threw it over, gave up the idea that it was useful and precious. That had been what he wanted her to do, and the fact of the sacrifice (once she had fairly looked at it) costing her so little only proved his contention78, only made it clear that it was not necessary to her happiness to spend half her life ranting79 (no matter how prettily) in public. All the same he said to himself that, to make up for the loss of whatever was sweet in the reputation of the thing, he should have to be tremendously nice to her in all the coming years. During the first week he was at Marmion she made of him an inquiry which touched on this point.
“Well, if it’s all a mere80 delusion81, why should this facility have been given me — why should I have been saddled with a superfluous82 talent? I don’t care much about it — I don’t mind telling you that; but I confess I should like to know what is to become of all that part of me, if I retire into private life, and live, as you say, simply to be charming for you. I shall be like a singer with a beautiful voice (you have told me yourself my voice is beautiful) who has accepted some decree of never raising a note. Isn’t that a great waste, a great violation83 of nature? Were not our talents given us to use, and have we any right to smother84 them and deprive our fellow-creatures of such pleasure as they may confer? In the arrangement you propose” (that was Verena’s way of speaking of the question of their marriage) “I don’t see what provision is made for the poor faithful, dismissed servant. It is all very well to be charming to you, but there are people who have told me that once I get on a platform I am charming to all the world. There is no harm in my speaking of that, because you have told me so yourself. Perhaps you intend to have a platform erected85 in our front parlour, where I can address you every evening, and put you to sleep after your work. I say our front parlour, as if it were certain we should have two! It doesn’t look as if our means would permit that — and we must have some place to dine, if there is to be a platform in our sitting-room86.”
“My dear young woman, it will be easy to solve the difficulty: the dining-table itself shall be our platform, and you shall mount on top of that.” This was Basil Ransom’s sportive reply to his companion’s very natural appeal for light, and the reader will remark that if it led her to push her investigation87 no further, she was very easily satisfied. There was more reason, however, as well as more appreciation88 of a very considerable mystery, in what he went on to say. “Charming to me, charming to all the world? What will become of your charm?— is that what you want to know? It will be about five thousand times greater than it is now; that’s what will become of it. We shall find plenty of room for your facility; it will lubricate our whole existence. Believe me, Miss Tarrant, these things will take care of themselves. You won’t sing in the Music Hall, but you will sing to me; you will sing to every one who knows you and approaches you. Your gift is indestructible; don’t talk as if I either wanted to wipe it out or should be able to make it a particle less divine. I want to give it another direction, certainly; but I don’t want to stop your activity. Your gift is the gift of expression, and there is nothing I can do for you that will make you less expressive. It won’t gush89 out at a fixed90 hour and on a fixed day, but it will irrigate91, it will fertilise, it will brilliantly adorn67 your conversation. Think how delightful it will be when your influence becomes really social. Your facility, as you call it, will simply make you, in conversation, the most charming woman in America.”
It is to be feared, indeed, that Verena was easily satisfied (convinced, I mean, not that she ought to succumb92 to him, but that there were lovely, neglected, almost unsuspected truths on his side); and there is further evidence on the same head in the fact that after the first once or twice she found nothing to say to him (much as she was always saying to herself) about the cruel effect her apostasy93 would have upon Olive. She forbore to plead that reason after she had seen how angry it made him, and with how almost savage94 a contempt he denounced so flimsy a pretext95. He wanted to know since when it was more becoming to take up with a morbid96 old maid than with an honourable97 young man; and when Verena pronounced the sacred name of friendship he inquired what fanatical sophistry98 excluded him from a similar privilege. She had told him, in a moment of expansion (Verena believed she was immensely on her guard, but her guard was very apt to be lowered), that his visits to Marmion cast in Olive’s view a remarkable99 light upon his chivalry100; she chose to regard his resolute101 pursuit of Verena as a covert102 persecution103 of herself. Verena repented104, as soon as she had spoken, of having given further currency to this taunt105; but she perceived the next moment no harm was done, Basil Ransom taking in perfectly106 good part Miss Chancellor’s reflexions on his delicacy107, and making them the subject of much free laughter. She could not know, for in the midst of his hilarity108 the young man did not compose himself to tell her, that he had made up his mind on this question before he left New York — as long ago as when he wrote her the note (subsequent to her departure from that city) to which allusion109 has already been made, and which was simply the fellow of the letter addressed to her after his visit to Cambridge: a friendly, respectful, yet rather pregnant sign that, decidedly, on second thoughts, separation didn’t imply for him the intention of silence. We know a little about his second thoughts, as much as is essential, and especially how the occasion of their springing up had been the windfall of an editor’s encouragement. The importance of that encouragement, to Basil’s imagination, was doubtless much augmented110 by his desire for an excuse to take up again a line of behaviour which he had forsworn (small as had, as yet, been his opportunity to indulge in it) very much less than he supposed; still, it worked an appreciable111 revolution in his view of his case, and made him ask himself what amount of consideration he should (from the most refined Southern point of view) owe Miss Chancellor in the event of his deciding to go after Verena Tarrant in earnest. He was not slow to decide that he owed her none. Chivalry had to do with one’s relations with people one hated, not with those one loved. He didn’t hate poor Miss Olive, though she might make him yet; and even if he did, any chivalry was all moonshine which should require him to give up the girl he adored in order that his third cousin should see he could be gallant112. Chivalry was forbearance and generosity113 with regard to the weak; and there was nothing weak about Miss Olive, she was a fighting woman, and she would fight him to the death, giving him not an inch of odds114. He felt that she was fighting there all day long, in her cottage fortress115; her resistance was in the air he breathed, and Verena came out to him sometimes quite limp and pale from the tussle116.
It was in the same jocose117 spirit with which he regarded Olive’s view of the sort of standard a Mississippian should live up to that he talked to Verena about the lecture she was preparing for her great exhibition at the Music Hall. He learned from her that she was to take the field in the manner of Mrs. Farrinder, for a winter campaign, carrying with her a tremendous big gun. Her engagements were all made, her route was marked out; she expected to repeat her lecture in about fifty different places. It was to be called “A Woman’s Reason,” and both Olive and Miss Birdseye thought it, so far as they could tell in advance, her most promising118 effort. She wasn’t going to trust to inspiration this time; she didn’t want to meet a big Boston audience without knowing where she was. Inspiration, moreover, seemed rather to have faded away; in consequence of Olive’s influence she had read and studied so much that it seemed now as if everything must take form beforehand. Olive was a splendid critic, whether he liked her or not, and she had made her go over every word of her lecture twenty times. There wasn’t an intonation119 she hadn’t made her practise; it was very different from the old system, when her father had worked her up. If Basil considered women superficial, it was a pity he couldn’t see what Olive’s standard of preparation was, or be present at their rehearsals120, in the evening, in their little parlour. Ransom’s state of mind in regard to the affair at the Music Hall was simply this — that he was determined121 to circumvent122 it if he could. He covered it with ridicule123, in talking of it to Verena, and the shafts124 he levelled at it went so far that he could see she thought he exaggerated his dislike to it. In point of fact he could not have overstated that; so odious125 did the idea seem to him that she was soon to be launched in a more infatuated career. He vowed126 to himself that she should never take that fresh start which would commit her irretrievably if she should succeed (and she would succeed — he had not the slightest doubt of her power to produce a sensation in the Music Hall), to the acclamations of the newspapers. He didn’t care for her engagements, her campaigns, or all the expectancy127 of her friends; to “squelch” all that, at a stroke, was the dearest wish of his heart. It would represent to him his own success, it would symbolise his victory. It became a fixed idea with him, and he warned her again and again. When she laughed and said she didn’t see how he could stop her unless he kidnapped her, he really pitied her for not perceiving, beneath his ominous128 pleasantries, the firmness of his resolution. He felt almost capable of kidnapping her. It was palpably in the air that she would become “widely popular,” and that idea simply sickened him. He felt as differently as possible about it from Mr. Matthias Pardon.
One afternoon, as he returned with Verena from a walk which had been accomplished129 completely within the prescribed conditions, he saw, from a distance, Doctor Prance, who had emerged bare-headed from the cottage, and, shading her eyes from the red, declining sun, was looking up and down the road. It was part of the regulation that Ransom should separate from Verena before reaching the house, and they had just paused to exchange their last words (which every day promoted the situation more than any others), when Doctor Prance began to beckon130 to them with much animation131. They hurried forward, Verena pressing her hand to her heart, for she had instantly guessed that something terrible had happened to Olive — she had given out, fainted away, perhaps fallen dead, with the cruelty of the strain. Doctor Prance watched them come, with a curious look in her face; it was not a smile, but a kind of exaggerated intimation that she noticed nothing. In an instant she had told them what was the matter. Miss Birdseye had had a sudden weakness; she had remarked abruptly132 that she was dying, and her pulse, sure enough, had fallen to nothing. She was down on the piazza133 with Miss Chancellor and herself, and they had tried to get her up to bed. But she wouldn’t let them move her; she was passing away, and she wanted to pass away just there, in such a pleasant place, in her customary chair, looking at the sunset. She asked for Miss Tarrant, and Miss Chancellor told her she was out — walking with Mr. Ransom. Then she wanted to know if Mr. Ransom was still there — she supposed he had gone. (Basil knew, by Verena, apart from this, that his name had not been mentioned to the old lady since the morning he saw her.) She expressed a wish to see him — she had something to say to him; and Miss Chancellor told her that he would be back soon, with Verena, and that they would bring him in. Miss Birdseye said she hoped they wouldn’t be long, because she was sinking; and Doctor Prance now added, like a person who knew what she was talking about, that it was, in fact, the end. She had darted134 out two or three times to look for them, and they must step right in. Verena had scarcely given her time to tell her story; she had already rushed into the house. Ransom followed with Doctor Prance, conscious that for him the occasion was doubly solemn; inasmuch as if he was to see poor Miss Birdseye yield up her philanthropic soul, he was on the other hand doubtless to receive from Miss Chancellor a reminder135 that she had no intention of quitting the game.
By the time he had made this reflexion he stood in the presence of his kinswoman and her venerable guest, who was sitting just as he had seen her before, muffled136 and bonneted137, on the back piazza of the cottage. Olive Chancellor was on one side of her holding one of her hands, and on the other was Verena, who had dropped on her knees, close to her, bending over those of the old lady. “Did you ask for me — did you want me?” the girl said tenderly. “I will never leave you again.”
“Oh, I won’t keep you long. I only wanted to see you once more.” Miss Birdseye’s voice was very low, like that of a person breathing with difficulty; but it had no painful nor querulous note — it expressed only the cheerful weariness which had marked all this last period of her life, and which seemed to make it now as blissful as it was suitable that she should pass away. Her head was thrown back against the top of the chair, the ribbon which confined her ancient hat hung loose, and the late afternoon light covered her octogenarian face and gave it a kind of fairness, a double placidity138. There was, to Ransom, something almost august in the trustful renunciation of her countenance139; something in it seemed to say that she had been ready long before, but as the time was not ripe she had waited, with her usual faith that all was for the best; only, at present, since the right conditions met, she couldn’t help feeling that it was quite a luxury, the greatest she had ever tasted. Ransom knew why it was that Verena had tears in her eyes as she looked up at her patient old friend; she had spoken to him, often, during the last three weeks, of the stories Miss Birdseye had told her of the great work of her life, her mission, repeated year after year, among the Southern blacks. She had gone among them with every precaution, to teach them to read and write; she had carried them Bibles and told them of the friends they had in the North who prayed for their deliverance. Ransom knew that Verena didn’t reproduce these legends with a view to making him ashamed of his Southern origin, his connexion with people who, in a past not yet remote, had made that kind of apostleship necessary; he knew this because she had heard what he thought of all that chapter himself; he had given her a kind of historical summary of the slavery question which left her no room to say that he was more tender to that particular example of human imbecility than he was to any other. But she had told him that this was what she would have liked to do — to wander, alone, with her life in her hand, on an errand of mercy, through a country in which society was arrayed against her; she would have liked it much better than simply talking about the right from the gas-lighted vantage of the New England platform. Ransom had replied simply “Balderdash!” it being his theory, as we have perceived, that he knew much more about Verena’s native bent than the young lady herself. This did not, however, as he was perfectly aware, prevent her feeling that she had come too late for the heroic age of New England life, and regarding Miss Birdseye as a battered140, immemorial monument of it. Ransom could share such an admiration141 as that, especially at this moment; he had said to Verena, more than once, that he wished he might have met the old lady in Carolina or Georgia before the war — shown her round among the negroes and talked over New England ideas with her; there were a good many he didn’t care much about now, but at that time they would have been tremendously refreshing142. Miss Birdseye had given herself away so lavishly143 all her life that it was rather odd there was anything left of her for the supreme144 surrender. When he looked at Olive he saw that she meant to ignore him; and during the few minutes he remained on the spot his kinswoman never met his eye. She turned away, indeed, as soon as Doctor Prance said, leaning over Miss Birdseye, “I have brought Mr. Ransom to you. Don’t you remember you asked for him?”
“I am very glad to see you again,” Ransom remarked. “It was very good of you to think of me.” At the sound of his voice Olive rose and left her place; she sank into a chair at the other end of the piazza, turning round to rest her arms on the back and bury her head in them.
Miss Birdseye looked at the young man still more dimly than she had ever done before. “I thought you were gone. You never came back.”
“He spends all his time in long walks; he enjoys the country so much,” Verena said.
“Well, it’s very beautiful, what I see from here. I haven’t been strong enough to move round since the first days. But I am going to move now.” She smiled when Ransom made a gesture as if to help her, and added: “Oh, I don’t mean I am going to move out of my chair.”
“Mr. Ransom has been out in a boat with me several times. I have been showing him how to cast a line,” said Doctor Prance, who appeared to deprecate a sentimental145 tendency.
“Oh, well, then, you have been one of our party; there seems to be every reason why you should feel that you belong to us.” Miss Birdseye looked at the visitor with a sort of misty146 earnestness, as if she wished to communicate with him further; then her glance turned slightly aside; she tried to see what had become of Olive. She perceived that Miss Chancellor had withdrawn herself, and, closing her eyes, she mused62, ineffectually, on the mystery she had not grasped, the peculiarity147 of Basil Ransom’s relations with her hostess. She was visibly too weak to concern herself with it very actively148; she only felt, now that she seemed really to be going, a desire to reconcile and harmonise. But she presently exhaled149 a low, soft sigh — a kind of confession150 that it was too mixed, that she gave it up. Ransom had feared for a moment that she was about to indulge in some appeal to Olive, some attempt to make him join hands with that young lady, as a supreme satisfaction to herself. But he saw that her strength failed her, and that, besides, things were getting less clear to her; to his considerable relief, inasmuch as, though he would not have objected to joining hands, the expression of Miss Chancellor’s figure and her averted151 face, with their desperate collapse152, showed him well enough how she would have met such a proposal. What Miss Birdseye clung to, with benignant perversity153, was the idea that, in spite of his exclusion154 from the house, which was perhaps only the result of a certain high-strung jealousy155 on Olive’s part of her friend’s other personal ties, Verena had drawn33 him in, had made him sympathise with the great reform and desire to work for it. Ransom saw no reason why such an illusion should be dear to Miss Birdseye; his contact with her in the past had been so momentary156 that he could not account for her taking an interest in his views, in his throwing his weight into the right scale. It was part of the general desire for justice that fermented within her, the passion for progress; and it was also in some degree her interest in Verena — a suspicion, innocent and idyllic157, as any such suspicion on Miss Birdseye’s part must be, that there was something between them, that the closest of all unions (as Miss Birdseye at least supposed it was) was preparing itself. Then his being a Southerner gave a point to the whole thing; to bring round a Southerner would be a real encouragement for one who had seen, even at a time when she was already an old woman, what was the tone of opinion in the cotton States. Ransom had no wish to discourage her, and he bore well in mind the caution Doctor Prance had given him about destroying her last theory. He only bowed his head very humbly158, not knowing what he had done to earn the honour of being the subject of it. His eyes met Verena’s as she looked up at him from her place at Miss Birdseye’s feet, and he saw she was following his thought, throwing herself into it, and trying to communicate to him a wish. The wish touched him immensely; she was dreadfully afraid he would betray her to Miss Birdseye — let her know how she had cooled off. Verena was ashamed of that now, and trembled at the danger of exposure; her eyes adjured159 him to be careful of what he said. Her tremor160 made him glow a little in return, for it seemed to him the fullest confession of his influence she had yet made.
“We have been a very happy little party,” she said to the old lady. “It is delightful that you should have been able to be with us all these weeks.”
“It has been a great rest. I am very tired. I can’t speak much. It has been a lovely time. I have done so much — so many things.”
“I guess I wouldn’t talk much, Miss Birdseye,” said Doctor Prance, who had now knelt down on the other side of her. “We know how much you have done. Don’t you suppose every one knows your life?”
“It isn’t much — only I tried to take hold. When I look back from here, from where we’ve sat, I can measure the progress. That’s what I wanted to say to you and Mr. Ransom — because I’m going fast. Hold on to me, that’s right; but you can’t keep me. I don’t want to stay now; I presume I shall join some of the others that we lost long ago. Their faces come back to me now, quite fresh. It seems as if they might be waiting; as if they were all there; as if they wanted to hear. You mustn’t think there’s no progress because you don’t see it all right off; that’s what I wanted to say. It isn’t till you have gone a long way that you can feel what’s been done. That’s what I see when I look back from here; I see that the community wasn’t half waked up when I was young.”
“It is you that have waked it up more than any one else, and it’s for that we honour you, Miss Birdseye!” Verena cried, with a sudden violence of emotion. “If you were to live for a thousand years, you would think only of others — you would think only of helping161 on humanity. You are our heroine, you are our saint, and there has never been any one like you!” Verena had no glance for Ransom now, and there was neither deprecation nor entreaty162 in her face. A wave of contrition163, of shame, had swept over her — a quick desire to atone164 for her secret swerving165 by a renewed recognition of the nobleness of such a life as Miss Birdseye’s.
“Oh, I haven’t effected very much; I have only cared and hoped. You will do more than I have ever done — you and Olive Chancellor, because you are young and bright, brighter than I ever was; and besides, everything has got started.”
“Well, you’ve got started, Miss Birdseye,” Doctor Prance remarked, with raised eyebrows166, protesting dryly but kindly167, and putting forward, with an air as if, after all, it didn’t matter much, an authority that had been superseded168. The manner in which this competent little woman indulged her patient showed sufficiently169 that the good lady was sinking fast.
“We will think of you always, and your name will be sacred to us, and that will teach us singleness and devotion,” Verena went on, in the same tone, still not meeting Ransom’s eyes again, and speaking as if she were trying now to stop herself, to tie herself by a vow41.
“Well, it’s the thing you and Olive have given your lives to that has absorbed me most, of late years. I did want to see justice done — to us. I haven’t seen it, but you will. And Olive will. Where is she — why isn’t she near me, to bid me farewell? And Mr. Ransom will — and he will be proud to have helped.”
“Oh, mercy, mercy!” cried Verena, burying her head in Miss Birdseye’s lap.
“You are not mistaken if you think I desire above all things that your weakness, your generosity, should be protected,” Ransom said, rather ambiguously, but with pointed170 respectfulness. “I shall remember you as an example of what women are capable of,” he added; and he had no subsequent compunctions for the speech, for he thought poor Miss Birdseye, for all her absence of profile, essentially171 feminine.
A kind of frantic172 moan from Olive Chancellor responded to these words, which had evidently struck her as an insolent173 sarcasm174; and at the same moment Doctor Prance sent Ransom a glance which was an adjuration175 to depart.
“Good-bye, Olive Chancellor,” Miss Birdseye murmured. “I don’t want to stay, though I should like to see what you will see.”
“I shall see nothing but shame and ruin!” Olive shrieked176, rushing across to her old friend, while Ransom discreetly177 quitted the scene.
收听单词发音 |
1
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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portended
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| v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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23
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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24
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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25
cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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26
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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indented
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| adj.锯齿状的，高低不平的；缩进排版 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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30
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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rosiness
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| n.玫瑰色；淡红色；光明；有希望 | |
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32
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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33
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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40
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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41
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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42
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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43
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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44
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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45
clinching
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的现在分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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46
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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47
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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48
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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49
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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50
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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51
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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52
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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53
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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54
reverberate
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| v.使回响，使反响 | |
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55
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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56
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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57
prance
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| v.（马）腾跃，(人)神气活现地走 | |
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58
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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59
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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60
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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61
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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62
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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63
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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64
blench
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| v.退缩，畏缩 | |
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65
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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66
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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67
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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68
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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69
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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70
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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71
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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72
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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73
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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74
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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75
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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76
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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77
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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78
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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79
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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80
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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81
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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82
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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83
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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84
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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85
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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86
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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87
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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88
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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89
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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90
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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91
irrigate
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| vt.灌溉，修水利，冲洗伤口，使潮湿 | |
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92
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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93
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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94
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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95
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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96
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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97
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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98
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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99
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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100
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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101
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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102
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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103
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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104
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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106
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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107
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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108
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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109
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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110
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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111
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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112
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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113
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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114
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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115
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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116
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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117
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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118
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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119
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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120
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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121
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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122
circumvent
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| vt.环绕，包围；对…用计取胜，智胜 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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bonneted
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| 发动机前置的 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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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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superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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176
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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