Mr. Carlyle and Barbara were seated at breakfast, when, somewhat to their surprise, Mr. Dill was shown in. Following close upon his heels came Justice Hare; and close upon his heels came Squire1 Pinner; while bringing up the rear was Colonel Bethel. All the four had come up separately, not together, and all four were out of breath, as if it had been a race which should arrive soonest.
Quite impossible was it for Mr. Carlyle, at first, to understand the news they brought. All were talking at once, in the utmost excitement; and the fury of Justice Hare alone was sufficient to produce temporary deafness. Mr. Carlyle caught a word of the case presently.
“A second man? Opposition2? Well, let him come on,” he good-humoredly cried. “We shall have the satisfaction of ascertaining4 who wins in the end.”
“But you have not heard who it is, Mr. Archibald,” cried Old Dill, “It—”
“Stand a contest with him?” raved5 Justice Hare. “He—”
“The fellow wants hanging,” interjected Colonel Bethel.
“Couldn’t he be ducked?” suggested Squire Pinner.
Now all these sentences were ranted6 out together, and their respective utterers were fain to stop till the noise subsided7 a little. Barbara could only look from one to the other in astonishment8.
“Who is this formidable opponent?” asked Mr. Carlyle.
There was a pause. Not one of them but had the delicacy9 to shrink from naming that man to Mr. Carlyle. The information came at last from Old Dill, who dropped his voice while he spoke10 it.
“Mr. Archibald, the candidate who has come forward, is that man Levison.”
“Of course, Carlyle, you’ll go into it now, neck and crop,” cried Justice Hare.
Mr. Carlyle was silent.
“You won’t let the beast frighten you from the contest!” uttered Colonel Bethel in a loud tone.
“There’s a meeting at the Buck’s Head at ten,” said Mr. Carlyle, not replying to the immediate11 question. “I will be with you there.”
“Did you not say, Mr. Dill, that was where the scoundrel Levison is—at the Buck’s Head?”
“He was there,” answered Mr. Dill. “I expect he is ousted12 by this time. I asked the landlord what he thought of himself, for taking in such a character, and what he supposed the justice would say to him. He vowed13 with tears in his eyes that the fellow should not be there another hour, and that he should never have entered it, had he known who he was.”
A little more conversation, and the visitors filed off. Mr. Carlyle sat down calmly to finish his breakfast. Barbara approached him.
“Archibald, you will not suffer this man’s insolent14 doings to deter15 you from your plans—you will not withdraw?” she whispered.
“I think not, Barbara. He has thrust himself offensively upon me in this measure; I believe my better plan will be to take no more heed16 of him than I should of the dirt under my feet.”
“Right—right,” she answered, a proud flush deepening the rose on her cheeks.
Mr. Carlyle was walking into West Lynne. There were the placards, sure enough, side by side with his own, bearing the name of that wicked coward who had done him the greatest injury one man can do to another. Verily, he must possess a face of brass17 to venture there.
“Archibald, have you heard the disgraceful news?”
The speaker was Miss Carlyle, who had come down upon her brother like a ship with all sails set. Her cheeks wore a flush; her eyes glistened20; her tall form was drawn21 up to its most haughty22 height.
“I have heard it, Cornelia, and, had I not, the walls would have enlightened me.”
“Is he out of his mind?”
“Out of his reckoning, I fancy,” replied Mr. Carlyle.
“You will carry on the contest now,” she continued, her countenance23 flashing. “I was averse24 to it before, but I now withdraw all my objection. You will be no brother of mine if you yield the field to him.”
“I do not intend to yield it.”
“Good. You bear on upon your course, and let him crawl on upon his. Take no more heed of him than if he were a viper25. Archibald, you must canvass26 now.”
“No,” said Mr. Carlyle, “I shall be elected without canvass. You’ll see, Cornelia.”
“There will be plenty canvassing27 for you, if you don’t condescend28 to take the trouble, my indifferent brother. I’ll give a thousand pounds myself, for ale, to the electors.”
“Take care,” laughed Mr. Carlyle. “Keep your thousand pounds in your pocket, Cornelia. I have no mind to be unseated, on the plea of ‘bribery and corruption29.’ Here’s Sir John Dobede galloping30 in, with a face as red as the sun in a fog.”
“Well, it may be he has heard the news. I can tell you, Archibald, West Lynne is in a state of excitement that has not been its lot for many a day.”
Miss Carlyle was right. Excitement and indignation had taken possession of West Lynne. How the people rallied around Mr. Carlyle! Town and country were alike up in arms. But government interest was rife31 at West Lynne, and, whatever the private and public feeling might be, collectively or individually, many votes should be recorded for Sir Francis Levison.
One of the first to become cognizant of the affair was Lord Mount Severn. He was at his club one evening in London, poring over an evening paper, when the names “Carlyle,” “West Lynne,” caught his view. Knowing that Mr. Carlyle had been named as the probable member, and heartily32 wishing that he might become such, the earl naturally read the paragraph.
He read it, and read it again; he rubbed his eyes, he rubbed his glasses, he pinched himself, to see whether he was awake or dreaming. For believe what that paper asserted—that Sir Francis Levison had entered the lists in opposition to Mr. Carlyle, and was at West Lynne, busily canvassing—he could not.
“Do you know anything of this infamous33 assertion?” he inquired of an intimate friend—“infamous, whether true or false.”
“It’s true, I heard of it an hour ago. Plenty of cheek that Levison must have.”
“Cheek!” repeated the dismayed earl, feeling as if every part of him, body and mind, were outraged34 by the news, “don’t speak of it in that way. The hound deserves to be gibbeted.”
He threw aside the paper, quitted the club, returned home for a carpet bag, and went shrieking37 and whistling down to West Lynne, taking his son with him. Or, if he did not whistle and shriek36 the engine did. Fully38 determined39 was the earl of Mount Severn to show his opinion of the affair.
On these fine spring mornings, their breakfast over, Lady Isabel was in the habit of going into the grounds with the children. They were on the lawn before the house, when two gentlemen came walking up the avenue; or, rather, one gentleman, and a handsome young stripling growing into another. Lady Isabel thought she should have dropped, for she stood face to face with Lord Mount Severn. The earl stopped to salute40 the children, and raised his hat to the strange lady.
“It is my governess, Madame Vine,” said Lucy.
A silent courtesy from Madame Vine. She turned away her head and gasped41 for breath.
“Is your papa at home, Lucy?” cried the earl.
“Yes; I think he is at breakfast. I’m so glad you are come!”
Lord Mount Severn walked on, holding William by the hand, who had eagerly offered to “take him” to papa. Lord Vane bent42 over Lucy to kiss her. A little while, a very few more years, and my young lady would not hold up her rosy43 lips so boldly.
“You have grown a dearer girl than ever, Lucy. Have you forgotten our compact?”
“No,” laughed she.
“And you will not forget it?”
“Never,” said the child, shaking her head. “You shall see if I do.”
“Lucy is to be my wife,” cried he, turning to Madame Vine. “It is a bargain, and we have both promised. I mean to wait for her till she is old enough. I like her better than anybody else in the world.”
“And I like him,” spoke up Miss Lucy. “And it’s all true.”
Lucy was a child—it may almost be said an infant—and the viscount was not of an age to render important such avowed44 passions. Nevertheless, the words did thrill through the veins45 of the hearer. She spoke, she thought, not as Madame Vine would have spoken and thought, but as the unhappy mother, the ill-fated Lady Isabel.
“You must not say these things to Lucy. It could never be.”
Lord Vane laughed.
“Why?” asked he.
“Your father and mother would not approve.”
“My father would—I know he would. He likes Lucy. As to my mother—oh, well, she can’t expect to be master and mistress too. You be off for a minute, Lucy; I want to say some thing to Madame Vine. Has Carlyle shot that fellow?” he continued, as Lucy sprung away. “My father is so stiff, especially when he’s put up, that he would not sully his lips with the name, or make a single inquiry46 when we arrived; neither would he let me, and I walked up here with my tongue burning.”
She would have responded, what fellow? But she suspected too well, and the words died away on her unwilling47 lips.
“That brute48, Levison. If Carlyle riddled49 his body with shots for this move, and then kicked him till he died, he’d only get his deserts, and the world would applaud. He oppose Carlyle! I wish I had been a man a few years ago, he’d have got a shot through his heart then. I say,” dropping his voice, “did you know Lady Isabel?”
“Yes—no—yes.”
She was at a loss what to say—almost as unconscious what she did say.
“She was Lucy’s mother, you know, and I loved her. I think that’s why I love Lucy, for she is the very image of her. Where did you know her? Here?”
“I knew her by hearsay50,” murmured Lady Isabel, arousing to recollection.
“Oh, hearsay! Has Carlyle shot the beast, or is he on his legs yet? By Jove! To think that he should sneak51 himself up, in this way, at West Lynne!”
“You must apply elsewhere for information,” she gasped. “I know nothing of these things.”
She turned away with a beating heart, and took Lucy’s hand, and departed. Lord Vane set off on a run toward the house, his heels flying behind him.
And now the contest began in earnest—that is, the canvass. Sir Francis Levison, his agent, and a friend from town, who, as it turned out, instead of being some great gun of the government, was a private chum of the baronet’s by name Drake, sneaked52 about the town like dogs with their tails burnt, for they were entirely53 alive to the color in which they were held, their only attendants being a few young gentlemen and ladies in rags, who commonly brought up the rear. The other party presented a stately crowd—county gentry54, magistrates55, Lord Mount Severn. Sometimes Mr. Carlyle would be with them, arm-and-arm with the latter. If the contesting groups came within view of each other, and were likely to meet, the brave Sir Francis would disappear down an entry, behind a hedge, any place convenient; with all his “face of brass,” he could not meet Mr. Carlyle and that condemning56 jury around him.
One afternoon it pleased Mrs. Carlyle to summon Lucy and the governess to accompany her into West Lynne. She was going shopping. Lady Isabel had a dread57 and horror of appearing in there while that man was in town, but she could not help herself. There was no pleading illness, for she was quite well; there must be no saying, “I will not go,” for she was only a dependant58. They started, and had walked as far as Mrs. Hare’s gate, when Miss Carlyle turned out of it.
“Your mamma’s not well, Barbara.”
“Is she not?” cried Barbara, with quick concern. “I must go and see her.”
“She has had one of those ridiculous dreams again,” pursued Miss Carlyle, ignoring the presence of the governess and Lucy. “I was sure of it by her very look when I got in, shivering and shaking, and glancing fearfully around, as if she feared a dozen spectres were about to burst out of the walls. So I taxed her with it, and she could make no denial. Richard is in some jeopardy59, she protests, or will be. And there she is, shaking still, although I told her that people who put faith in dreams were only fit for a lunatic asylum60.”
Barbara looked distressed61. She did not believe in dreams any more than Miss Carlyle, but she could not forget how strangely peril62 to Richard had supervened upon some of these dreams.
“I will go in now and see mamma,” she said. “If you are returning home, Cornelia, Madame Vine can walk with you, and wait for me there.”
“Let me go in with you, mamma!” pleaded Lucy.
Barbara mechanically took the child’s hand. The gates closed on them, and Miss Carlyle and Lady Isabel proceeded in the direction of the town. But not far had they gone when, in turning a corner, the wind, which was high, blew away with the veil of Lady Isabel, and, in raising her hand in trepidation63 to save it before it was finally gone, she contrived64 to knock off her blue spectacles. They fell to the ground, and were broken.
“How did you manage that?” uttered Miss Carlyle.
How, indeed? She bent her face on the ground, looking at the damage. What should she do? The veil was over the hedge, the spectacles were broken—how could she dare show her naked face? That face was rosy just then, as in former days, the eyes were bright, and Miss Carlyle caught their expression, and stared in very amazement65.
“Good heavens above,” she uttered, “what an extraordinary likeness66!” And Lady Isabel’s heart turned faint and sick within her.
Well it might. And, to make matters worse, bearing down right upon them, but a few paces distant, came Sir Francis Levison.
Would he recognize her?
Standing67 blowing in the wind at the turning of the road were Miss Carlyle and Lady Isabel Vane. The latter, confused and perplexed68, was picking up the remnant of her damaged spectacles; the former, little less perplexed, gazed at the face which struck upon her memory as being so familiar. Her attention, however, was called off the face to the apparition69 of Sir Francis Levison.
He was close upon them, Mr. Drake and the other comrade being with him, and some tagrag in attendance, as usual. It was the first time he and Miss Carlyle had met face to face. She bent her condemning brow, haughty in its bitter scorn, full upon him, for it was not in the nature of Miss Carlyle to conceal70 her sentiments, especially when they were rather of the strongest. Sir Francis, when he arrived opposite, raised his hat to her. Whether it was done in courtesy, in confused unconsciousness, or in mockery, cannot be told. Miss Carlyle assumed it to have been the latter, and her lips, in their anger grew almost as pale as those of the unhappy woman who was cowering71 behind her.
“Did you intend that insult for me, Francis Levison?”
“As you please to take it,” returned he, calling up insolence72 to his aid.
“You dare to lift off your hat to me! Have you forgotten that I am Miss Carlyle?”
“It would be difficult for you to be forgotten, once seen.”
Now this answer was given in mockery; his tone and manner were redolent of it, insolently73 so. The two gentlemen looked on in discomfort74, wondering what it meant; Lady Isabel hid her face as best she could, terrified to death lest his eyes should fall on it: while the spectators, several of whom had collected now, listened with interest, especially some farm laborers75 of Squire Pinner’s who had happened to be passing.
“You contemptible76 worm!” cried Miss Carlyle, “do you think you can outrage35 me with impunity77 as you, by your presence in it, are outraging78 West Lynne? Out upon you for a bold, bad man!”
Now Miss Corny, in so speaking, had certainly no thought of present and immediate punishment for the gentleman; but it appeared that the mob around had. The motion was commented by those stout-shouldered laborers. Whether excited thereto by the words of Miss Carlyle—who, whatever may have been her faults of manner, held the respect of the neighborhood, and was looked up to only in a less degree than her brother; whether Squire Pinner, their master, had let drop, in their hearing, a word of the ducking he had hinted at, when at East Lynne, or whether their own feelings alone spurred them on, was best known to the men themselves. Certain it is, that the ominous79 sound of “Duck him,” was breathed forth80 by a voice, and it was caught up and echoed around.
“Duck him! Duck him! The pond be close at hand. Let’s give him a taste of his deservings! What do he the scum, turn himself up at West Lynne for, bearding Mr. Carlyle? What have he done with Lady Isabel? Him put up for others at West Lynne! West Lynne’s respectable, it don’t want him; it have got a better man; it won’t have a villain81. Now, lads!”
His face turned white, and he trembled in his shoes—worthless men are frequently cowards. Lady Isabel trembled in hers; and well she might, hearing that one allusion82. They set upon him, twenty pairs of hands at least, strong, rough, determined hands; not to speak of the tagrag’s help, who went in with cuffs83, and kicks, and pokes84, and taunts85, and cheers, and a demoniac dance.
They dragged him through a gap in the hedge, a gap that no baby could have got through in a cool moment; but most of us know the difference between coolness and excitement. The hedge was extensively damaged, but Justice Hare, to whom it belonged, would forgive that. Mr. Drake and the lawyer—for the other was a lawyer—were utterly86 powerless to stop the catastrophe87. “If they didn’t mind their own business, and keep themselves clear, they’d get served the same,” was the promise held out in reply to their remonstrances88; and the lawyer, who was short and fat, and could not have knocked a man down, had it been to save his life, backed out of the melee89, and contented90 himself with issuing forth confused threatenings of the terrors of the law. Miss Carlyle stood her ground majestically91, and looked on with a grim countenance. Had she interfered92 for his protection, she could not have been heard; and if she could have been, there’s no knowing whether she would have done it.
On, to the brink93 of the pond—a green, dank, dark, slimy sour, stinking94 pond. His coat-tails were gone by this time, and sundry95 rents and damages appeared in-in another useful garment. One pulled him, another pushed him, a third shook him by the collar, half a dozen buffeted96 him, and all abused him.
“In with him, boys!”
“Mercy! Mercy!” shrieked97 the victim, his knees bending and his teeth chattering98—“a little mercy for the love of Heaven!”
“Heaven! Much he knows of Heaven!”
A souse, a splash, a wild cry, a gurgle, and Sir Francis Levison was floundering in the water, its green poison, not to mention its adders99 and thads and frogs, going down his throat by bucketfuls. A hoarse100, derisive101 laugh, and a hip19, hip, hurrah102! broke from the actors; while the juvenile103 ragtag, in wild delight, joined their hands round the pool, and danced the demon’s dance, like so many red Indians. They had never had such a play acted for them before.
Out of the pea-soup before he was quite dead, quite senseless. Of all drowned rats, he looked the worst, as he stood there with his white, rueful face, his shivery limbs, and his dilapidated garments, shaking the wet off him. The laborers, their duty done, walked coolly away; the tagrag withdrew to a safe distance, waiting for what might come next; and Miss Carlyle moved away also. Not more shivery was that wretched man than Lady Isabel, as she walked by her side. A sorry figure to cut, that, for her once chosen cavalier. What did she think of his beauty now? I know what she thought of her past folly104.
Miss Carlyle never spoke a word. She sailed on, with her head up, though it was turned occasionally to look at the face of Madame Vine, at the deep distressing105 blush which this gaze called into her cheeks. “It’s very odd,” thought Miss Corny. “The likeness, especially in the eyes, is—Where are you going, madame?”
They were passing a spectacle shop, and Madame Vine had halted at the door, one foot on its step. “I must have my glasses to be mended, if you please.”
Miss Carlyle followed her in. She pointed106 out what she wanted done to the old glasses, and said she would buy a pair of new ones to wear while the job was about. The man had no blue ones, no green; plenty of white. One ugly, old pair of green things he had, with tortoise-shell rims107, left by some stranger, ages and ages ago, to be mended, and never called for again. This very pair of ugly old green things was chosen by Lady Isabel. She put them on, there and then, Miss Carlyle’s eyes searching her face inquisitively108 all the time.
“Why do you wear glasses?” began Miss Corny, abruptly109 as soon as they were indoors.
Another deep flush, and an imperceptible hesitation110.
“My eyes are not strong.”
“They look as strong as eyes can look. But why wear colored glasses? White ones would answer every purpose, I should suppose.”
“I am accustomed to colored ones. I should not like white ones now.”
Miss Corny paused.
“What is your Christian111 name, madame?” began she, again.
“Jane,” replied madame, popping out an unflinching story in her alarm.
“Here! Here! What’s up? What’s this?”
It was a crowd in the street, and rather a noisy one. Miss Corny flew to the window, Lady Isabel in her wake. Two crowds, it may almost be said; for, from the opposite way, the scarlet-and-purple party—as Mr. Carlyle’s was called, in allusion to his colors—came in view. Quite a collection of gentlemen—Mr. Carlyle and Lord Mount Severn heading them.
What could it mean, the mob they were encountering? The yellow party, doubtless, but in a disreputable condition. Who or what was that object in advance of it, supported between Drake and the lawyer, and looking like a drowned rat, hair hanging, legs tottering112, cheeks shaking, and clothes in tatters, while the mob, behind, had swollen113 to the length of the street, and was keeping up a perpetual fire of derisive shouts, groans114, and hisses115. The scarlet-and-purple halted in consternation116, and Lord Mount Severn, whose sight was not as good as it had been twenty years back, stuck his pendent eye glasses astride on the bridge of his nose.
Sir Francis Levison? Could it be? Yes, it actually was! What on earth had put him into that state? Mr. Carlyle’s lip curled; he continued his way and drew the peer with him.
“What the deuce is a-gate now?” called out the followers117 of Mr. Carlyle. “That’s Levison! Has he been in a railway smash, and got drenched118 by the engine?”
“He has been ducked!” grinned the yellows, in answer. “They have been and ducked him in the rush pool on Mr. Justice Hare’s land.”
The soaked and miserable119 man increased his speed as much as his cold and trembling legs would allow him; he would have borne on without legs at all, rather than remain under the enemy’s gaze. The enemy loftily continued their way, their heads in the air, and scorning further notice, all, save young Lord Vane. He hovered120 round the ranks of the unwashed, and looked vastly inclined to enter upon an Indian jig121, on his own account.
“What a thundering ass18 I was to try it on at West Lynne!” was the enraged122 comment of the sufferer.
Miss Carlyle laid her hand upon the shrinking arm of her pale companion.
“You see him—my brother Archibald?”
“I see him,” faltered123 Lady Isabel.
“And you see him, that pitiful outcast, who is too contemptible to live? Look at the two, and contrast them. Look well.”
“Yes!” was the gaping124 answer.
“The woman who called him, that noble man, husband, quitted him for the other! Did she come to repentance125, think you?”
You may wonder that the submerged gentleman should be walking through the streets, on his way to his quarters, the Raven126 Inn—for he had been ejected from the Buck’s Head—but he could not help himself. As he was dripping and swearing on the brink of the pond, wondering how he should get to the Raven, an empty fly drove past, and Mr. Drake immediately stopped it; but when the driver saw that he was expected to convey not only a passenger, but a tolerable quantity of water as well, and that the passenger, moreover, was Sir Francis Levison, he refused the job. His fly was fresh lined with red velvet127, and he “weren’t a going to have it spoilt,” he called out, as he whipped his horse and drove away, leaving the three in wrathful despair. Sir Francis wanted another conveyance128 procured129; his friends urged that if he waited for that he might catch his death, and that the shortest way would be to hasten to the inn on foot. He objected. But his jaws130 were chattering, his limbs were quaking, so they seized him between them, and made off, but never bargained for the meeting of Mr. Carlyle and his party. Francis Levison would have stopped in the pond, of his own accord, head downward, rather than faced them.
Miss Carlyle went that day to dine at East Lynne, walking back with Mrs. Carlyle, Madame Vine and Lucy. Lord Vane found them out, and returned at the same time; of course East Lynne was the headquarters of himself and his father. He was in the seventh heaven, and had been ever since the encounter with the yellows.
“You’d have gone into laughing convulsions, Lucy had you seen the drowned cur. I’d give all my tin for six months to come to have a photograph of him as he looked then!”
Lucy laughed in glee; she was unconscious, poor child, how deeply the “drowned cur” had injured her.
When Miss Carlyle was in her dressing-room taking her things off—the room where once had slept Richard Hare—she rang for Joyce. These two rooms were still kept for Miss Carlyle—for she did sometimes visit them for a few days—and were distinguished131 by her name—“Miss Carlyle’s rooms.”
“A fine row we have had in the town, Joyce, this afternoon.”
“I have heard of it, ma’am. Served him right, if they had let him drown! Bill White, Squire Pinner’s plowman, called in here and told us the news. He’d have burst with it, if he hadn’t, I expect; I never saw a chap so excited. Peter cried.”
“Cried?” echoed Miss Carlyle.
“Well, ma’am, you know he was very fond of Lady Isabel, was Peter, and somehow his feelings overcame him. He said he had not heard anything to please him so much for many a day; and with that he burst out crying, and gave Bill White half a crown out of his pocket. Bill White said it was he who held one leg when they soused him in. Afy saw it—if you’ll excuse me mentioning her name to you, ma’am, for I know you don’t think well of her—and when she got in here, she fell into hysterics.”
“How did she see it?” snapped Miss Carlyle, her equanimity132 upset by the sound of the name. “I didn’t see her, and I was present.”
“She was coming here with a message from Mrs. Latimer to the governess.”
“What did she go into hysterics for?” again snapped Miss Carlyle.
“It upset her so, she said,” returned Joyce.
“It wouldn’t have done her harm had they ducked her too,” was the angry response.
Joyce was silent. To contradict Miss Corny brought triumph to nobody. And she was conscious, in her innermost heart, that Afy merited a little wholesome133 correction, not perhaps to the extent of a ducking.
“Joyce,” resumed Miss Carlyle, abruptly changing the subject, “who does the governess put you in mind of?”
“Ma’am?” repeated Joyce, in some surprise, as it appeared. “The governess? Do you mean Madame Vine?”
“Do I mean you, or do I mean me? Are we governesses?” irascibly cried Miss Corny. “Who should I mean, but Madame Vine?”
She turned herself round from the looking-glass, and gazed full in Joyce’s face, waiting for the answer. Joyce lowered her voice as she gave it.
“There are times when she puts me in mind of my late lady both in her face and manner. But I have never said so, ma’am; for you know Lady Isabel’s name must be an interdicted134 one in this house.”
“Have you seen her without her glasses?”
“No; never,” said Joyce.
“I did today,” returned Miss Carlyle. “And I can tell you, Joyce, that I was confounded at the likeness. It is an extraordinary likeness. One would think it was a ghost of Lady Isabel Vane come into the world again.”
That evening after dinner, Miss Carlyle and Lord Mount Severn sat side by side on the same sofa, coffee cups in hand. Miss Carlyle turned to the earl.
“Was it a positively135 ascertained136 fact that Lady Isabel died?”
The earl stared with all his might; he thought it the strangest question that ever was asked him. “I scarcely understand you, Miss Carlyle. Died? Certainly she died.”
“When the result of the accident was communicated to you, you made inquiry yourself into its truth, its details, I believe?”
“It was my duty to do so. There was no one else to undertake it.”
“Did you ascertain3 positively, beyond all doubt, that she did die?”
“Of a surety I did. She died in the course of the same night. Terribly injured she was.”
A pause. Miss Carlyle was ruminating137. But she returned to the charge, as if difficult to be convinced.
“You deem that there could be no possibility of an error? You are sure that she is dead?”
“I am as sure that she is dead as that we are living,” decisively replied the earl: and he spoke but according to his belief. “Wherefore should you be inquiring this?”
“A thought came over me—only today—to wonder whether she was really dead.”
“Had any error occurred at that time, any false report of her death, I should soon have found it out by her drawing the annuity138 I settled upon her. It has never been drawn since. Besides, she would have written to me, as agreed upon. No, poor thing, she is gone beyond all doubt, and has taken her sins with her.”
Convincing proofs; and Miss Carlyle lent her ear to them.
The following morning while Madame Vine was at breakfast, Mr. Carlyle entered.
“Do you admit intruders here Madame Vine?” cried he, with his sweet smile, and attractive manner.
She arose; her face burning, her heart throbbing139.
“Keep your seat, pray; I have but a moment to stay,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I have come to ask you how William seems?”
“There was no difference,” she murmured, and then she took courage and spoke more openly. “I understood you to say the other night, sir, that he should have further advice.”
“Ay; I wish him to go over to Lynneborough, to Dr. Martin; the drive, I think, will do him good,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “And I would like you to accompany him, if you do not mind the trouble. You can have the pony140 carriage, it will be better to go in that than boxed up in the railway carriage. You can remind Dr. Martin that the child’s constitution is precisely141 what his mother’s was,” continued Mr. Carlyle, a tinge142 lightening his face. “It may be a guide to his treatment; he said himself it was, when he attended him for an illness a year or two ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
He crossed the hall on his entrance to the breakfast-room. She tore upstairs to her chamber143, and sank down in an agony of tears and despair. Oh, to love him as she did now! To yearn144 after his affection with this passionate145, jealous longing146, and to know that they were separated for ever and ever; that she was worse to him than nothing!
Softly, my lady. This is not bearing your cross.
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squire
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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3
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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4
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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5
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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6
ranted
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的过去式和过去分词 )；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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7
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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8
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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9
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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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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11
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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12
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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13
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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14
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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15
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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16
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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17
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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18
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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19
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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20
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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22
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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23
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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24
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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25
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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26
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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27
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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28
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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29
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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30
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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31
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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32
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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33
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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34
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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35
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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36
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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37
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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38
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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39
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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40
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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41
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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44
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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45
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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46
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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47
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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48
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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49
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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50
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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51
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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52
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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53
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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54
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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55
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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56
condemning
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|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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57
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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58
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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59
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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60
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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61
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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62
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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63
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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64
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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65
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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66
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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67
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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68
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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69
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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70
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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71
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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72
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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73
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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74
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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75
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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76
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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77
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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78
outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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79
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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80
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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81
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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82
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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83
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
pokes
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| v.伸出( poke的第三人称单数 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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85
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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86
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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87
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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88
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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89
melee
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| n.混战；混战的人群 | |
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90
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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91
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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92
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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93
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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94
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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95
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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96
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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97
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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99
adders
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| n.加法器，（欧洲产）蝰蛇（小毒蛇），（北美产无毒的）猪鼻蛇( adder的名词复数 ) | |
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100
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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101
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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102
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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103
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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104
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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105
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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106
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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107
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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108
inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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109
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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110
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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111
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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112
tottering
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| 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 | |
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113
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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114
groans
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| 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 | |
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115
hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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116
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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117
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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118
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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119
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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120
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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121
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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122
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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123
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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124
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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125
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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126
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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127
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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128
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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129
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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130
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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131
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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132
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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133
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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134
interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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135
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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136
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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138
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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139
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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140
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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141
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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142
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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143
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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144
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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145
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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146
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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