Which I Hope May Prove as Agreeable to the Reader as to Our Hero.
FERDINAND’S servant, whom he had despatched the previous evening to Armine, returned early with his master’s letters; one from his ‘mother, and one from Miss Grandison.
They were all to arrive at the Place on the day after the morrow. Ferdinand opened these epistles with a trembling hand. The sight of Katherine’s, his Katherine’s, handwriting was almost as terrible as his dream. It recalled to him, with a dreadful reality, his actual situation, which he had driven from his thoughts. He had quitted his family, his family who were so devoted1 to him, and whom he so loved, happy, nay2, triumphant3, a pledged and rejoicing bridegroom. What had occurred during the last eight-and-forty hours seemed completely to have changed all his feelings, all his wishes, all his views, all his hopes! He had in that interval4 met a single human being, a woman, a girl, a young and innocent girl; he had looked upon that girl and listened to her voice, and his soul was changed as the earth by the sunrise. As lying in his bed he read these letters, and mused5 over their contents, and all the thoughts that they suggested, the strangeness of life, the mystery of human nature, were painfully impressed upon him. His melancholy6 father, his fond and confiding7 mother, the devoted Glastonbury, all the mortifying8 circumstances of his illustrious race, rose in painful succession before him. Nor could he forget his own wretched follies9 and that fatal visit to Bath, of which the consequences clanked upon his memory like degrading and disgraceful fetters11. The burden of existence seemed intolerable. That domestic love which had so solaced12 his existence, recalled now only the most painful associations. In the wildness of his thoughts he wished himself alone in the world, to struggle with his fate and mould his fortunes. He felt himself a slave and a sacrifice. He cursed Armine, his ancient house, and his broken fortunes. He felt that death was preferable to life without Henrietta Temple. But even supposing that he could extricate13 himself from his rash engagement; even admitting that all worldly considerations might be thrown aside, and the pride of his father, and his mother’s love, and Glastonbury’s pure hopes, might all be outraged14; what chance, what hope was there of obtaining his great object? What was he, what was he, Ferdinand Armine, free as the air from the claims of Miss Grandison, with all sense of duty rooted out of his once sensitive bosom16, and existing only for the gratification of his own wild fancies? A beggar, worse than a beggar, without a home, without the possibility of a home to offer the lady of his passion; nay, not even secure that the harsh process of the law might not instantly claim its victim, and he himself be hurried from the altar to the gaol17!
Moody18 and melancholy, he repaired to the salon19; he beheld20 Henrietta Temple, and the cloud left his brow, and lightness came to his heart. Never had she looked so beautiful, so fresh and bright, so like a fair flower with the dew upon its leaves. Her voice penetrated21 his soul; her sunny smile warmed his breast. Her father greeted him too with kindness, and inquired after his slumbers22, which he assured Mr. Temple had been satisfactory.
‘I find,’ continued Mr. Temple, ‘that the post has brought me some business today which, I fear, claims the morning to transact23; but I hope you will not forget your promise. The keeper will be ready whenever you summon him.’
Ferdinand muttered something about trouble and intrusion, and the expected arrival of his family; but Miss Temple begged him to accept the offer, and refusal was impossible.
After breakfast Mr. Temple retired24 to his library, and Ferdinand found himself alone for the first time with Henrietta Temple.
She was copying a miniature of Charles the First. Ferdinand looked over her shoulder.
‘A melancholy countenance25!’ he observed.
‘It is a favourite one of mine,’ she replied.
‘Yet you are always gay.’
‘Always.’
‘I envy you, Miss Temple.’
‘What, are you melancholy?’
‘I have every cause.’
‘Indeed, I should have thought the reverse.’
‘I look upon myself as the most unfortunate of human beings,’ replied Ferdinand.
He spoke26 so seriously, in a tone of such deep and bitter feeling, that Miss Temple could not resist looking up at her companion. His countenance was gloomy.
‘You surprise me,’ said Miss Temple; ‘I think that few people ought to be unhappy, and I rather suspect fewer are than we imagine.’
‘All I wish is,’ replied he, ‘that the battle of Newbury had witnessed the extinction27 of our family as well as our peerage.’
‘A peerage, and such a peerage as yours, is a fine thing,’ said Henrietta Temple, ‘a very fine thing; but I would not grieve, if I were you, for that. I would sooner be an Armine without a coronet than many a brow I wot of with.’
‘You misconceived a silly phrase,’ rejoined Ferdinand. ‘I was not thinking of the loss of our coronet, though that is only part of the system. Our family, I am sure, are fated. Birth without honour, estates without fortune, life without happiness, that is our lot.’
‘As for the first,’ said Miss Temple, ‘the honourable28 are always honoured; money, in spite of what they say, I feel is not the greatest thing in the world; and as for misery29, I confess I do not very readily believe in the misery of youth.’
‘May you never prove it!’ replied Ferdinand; ‘may you never be, as I am, the victim of family profligacy30 and family pride!’ So saying, he turned away, and, taking up a book, for a few minutes seemed wrapped in his reflections.
He suddenly resumed the conversation in a more cheerful tone. Holding a volume of Petrarch in his hand, he touched lightly, but with grace, on Italian poetry; then diverged31 into his travels, recounted an adventure with sprightliness32, and replied to Miss Temple’s lively remarks with gaiety and readiness. The morning advanced; Miss Temple closed her portfolio33 and visited her flowers, inviting34 him to follow her. Her invitation was scarcely necessary, his movements were regulated by hers; he was as faithful to her as her shadow. From the conservatory35 they entered the garden; Ferdinand was as fond of gardens as Miss Temple. She praised the flower-garden of Armine. He gave her some account of its principal creator. The character of Glastonbury highly interested Miss Temple. Love is confidential36; it has no fear of ridicule37. Ferdinand entered with freedom and yet with grace into family details, from which, at another time and to another person, he would have been the first to shrink. The imagination of Miss Temple was greatly interested by his simple, and, to her, affecting account of this ancient line living in their hereditary38 solitude39, with all their noble pride and haughty40 poverty. The scene, the circumstances, were all such as please a maiden’s fancy; and he, the natural hero of this singular history, seemed deficient41 in none of those heroic qualities which the wildest spirit of romance might require for the completion of its spell. Beautiful as his ancestors, and, she was sure, as brave, young, spirited, graceful10, and accomplished42, a gay and daring spirit blended with the mournful melody of his voice, and occasionally contrasted with the somewhat subdued43 and chastened character of his demeanour.
‘Well, do not despair,’ said Henrietta Temple; ‘riches did not make Sir Ferdinand happy. I feel confident the house will yet flourish.’
‘I have no confidence,’ replied Ferdinand; ‘I feel the struggle with our fate to be fruitless. Once indeed I felt like you; there was a time when I took even a fancied pride in all the follies of my grandfather. But that is past; I have lived to execrate44 his memory.’
‘Yes, to execrate his memory! I repeat, to execrate his memory! His follies stand between me and my happiness.’
‘Indeed, I see not that.’
‘May you never! I cannot disguise from myself that I am a slave, and a wretched one, and that his career has entailed46 this curse of servitude upon me. But away with this! You must think me, Miss Temple, the most egotistical of human beings; and yet, to do myself justice, I never remember having spoken of myself so much before.’
‘Will you walk with me?’ said Miss Temple, after a moment’s silence; ‘you seem little inclined to avail yourself of my father’s invitation to solitary47 sport. But I cannot stay at home, for I have visits to pay, although I fear you will consider them rather dull ones.’ ‘Why so?’
‘My visits are to cottages.’
‘I love nothing better. I used ever to be my mother’s companion on such occasions.’
So, crossing the lawn, they entered a beautiful wood of considerable extent, which formed the boundary of the grounds, and, after some time passed in agreeable conversation, emerged upon a common of no ordinary extent or beauty, for it was thickly studded in some parts with lofty timber, while in others the furze and fern gave richness and variety to the vast wilderness48 of verdant49 turf, scarcely marked, except by the light hoof50 of Miss Temple’s palfrey.
‘It is not so grand as Armine Park,’ said Miss Temple; ‘but we are proud of our common.’
The thin grey smoke that rose in different directions was a beacon51 to the charitable visits of Miss Temple. It was evident that she was a visitor both habitual52 and beloved. Each cottage-door was familiar to her entrance. The children smiled at her approach; their mothers rose and courtesied with affectionate respect. How many names and how many wants had she to remember! yet nothing was forgotten. Some were rewarded for industry, some were admonished53 not to be idle; but all were treated with an engaging suavity54 more efficacious than gifts or punishments. The aged15 were solaced by her visit; the sick forgot their pains; and, as she listened with sympathising patience to long narratives55 of rheumatic griefs, it seemed her presence in each old chair, her tender enquiries and sanguine56 hopes, brought even more comfort than her plenteous promises of succour from the Bower57, in the shape of arrowroot and gruel58, port wine and flannel59 petticoats.
This scene of sweet simplicity60 brought back old days and old places to the memory of Ferdinand Armine. He thought of the time when he was a happy boy at his innocent home; his mother’s boy, the child she so loved and looked after, when a cloud upon her brow brought a tear into his eye, and when a kiss from her lips was his most dear and desired reward. The last night he had passed at Armine, before his first departure, rose up to his recollection; all his mother’s passionate61 fondness, all her wild fear that the day might come when her child would not love her so dearly as he did then. That time had come. But a few hours back, ay! but a few hours back, and he had sighed to be alone in the world, and had felt those domestic ties which had been the joy of his existence a burthen and a curse. A tear stole down his cheek; he stepped forth62 from the cottage to conceal63 his emotion. He seated himself on the trunk of a tree, a few paces withdrawn64; he looked upon the declining sun that gilded65 the distant landscape with its rich yet pensive66 light. The scenes of the last five years flitted across his mind’s eye in fleet succession; his dissipation, his vanity, his desperate folly67, his hollow worldliness. Why, oh! why had he ever left his unpolluted home? Why could he not have lived and died in that sylvan68 paradise? Why, oh! why was it impossible to admit his beautiful companion into that sweet and serene69 society? Why should his love for her make his heart a rebel to his hearth70? Money! horrible money! It seemed to him that the contiguous cottage and the labour of his hands, with her, were preferable to palaces and crowds of retainers without her inspiring presence. And why not screw his courage to the sticking-point, and commune in confidence with his parents? They loved him; yes, they idolised him! For him, for him alone, they sought the restoration of their house and fortunes. Why, Henrietta Temple was a treasure richer than any his ancestors had counted. Let them look on her, let them listen to her, let them breathe as he had done in her enchantment71; and could they wonder, could they murmur72, at his conduct? Would they not, oh! would they not, rather admire, extol73 it! But, then, his debts, his overwhelming debts. All the rest might be faced. His desperate engagement might be broken; his family might be reconciled to obscurity and poverty: but, ruin! what was to grapple with his impending74 ruin? Now his folly stung him; now the scorpion75 entered his soul. It was not the profligacy of his ancestor, it was not the pride of his family then, that stood between him and his love; it was his own culpable76 and heartless career! He covered his face with his hands; something touched him lightly; it was the parasol of Miss Temple.
‘I am afraid,’ she said, ‘that my visits have wearied you; but you have been very kind and good.’
He rose rapidly, with a slight blush. ‘Indeed,’ he replied, ‘I have passed a most delightful77 morning, and I was only regretting that life consisted of anything else but cottages and yourself.’
They were late; they heard the first dinner-bell at Ducie as they reentered the wood. ‘We must hurry on,’ said Miss Temple; ‘dinner is the only subject on which papa is a tyrant78. What a sunset! I wonder if Lady Armine will return on Saturday. When she returns, I hope you will make her call upon us, for I want to copy the pictures in your gallery.’
‘If they were not heir-looms, I would give them you,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but, as it is, there is only one way by which I can manage it.’
‘What way?’ enquired79 Miss Temple, very innocently.
‘I forget,’ replied Ferdinand, with a peculiar80 smile. Miss Temple looked a little confused.
收听单词发音 |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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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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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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execrate
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| v.憎恶；厌恶；诅咒 | |
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45
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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54
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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extol
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| v.赞美，颂扬 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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