Placed far amid the melancholy1 main,
(Whether it be lone2 fancy him beguiles3,
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign4
To stand embodied5 to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro,
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous6 show.
CASTLE OF INDOLENCE
Madame Cheron’s avarice7 at length yielded to her vanity. Some very splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the general adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than before to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt8 her in her own opinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the immediate9 marriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, provided Madame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her nephew. Madame Clairval listened to the proposal, and, considering that Emily was the apparent heiress of her aunt’s wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile, Emily knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame Cheron informed her, that she must make preparation for the nuptials10, which would be celebrated12 without further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable to account for this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited13 (for he was ignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had not dared to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. Madame Cheron, however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had been formerly15, contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence16 as she had formerly opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leading to it; and Emily’s scruples17 disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt, who was now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to claim a promise of it from herself.
While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was much displeased18, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was willing to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told her, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame Clairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced than her friend in the art of deriving19 satisfaction from distinction and admiration20, rather than from conscience.
Emily observed with concern the ascendancy21, which Montoni had acquired over Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits; and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt, who had always expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one morning, sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness of spring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape, and listening to Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside the book to converse22, she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron immediately, and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she observed with surprise the dejection of her aunt’s countenance23, and the contrasted gaiety of her dress. ‘So, niece!’— said Madame, and she stopped under some degree of embarrassment24.—‘I sent for you — I— I wished to see you; I have news to tell you. From this hour you must consider the Signor Montoni as your uncle — we were married this morning.’
Astonished — not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy25 with which it had been concluded, and the agitation26 with which it was announced, Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather than of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should be believed, and therefore added, ‘you see I wished to avoid a bustle27; but now the ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to announce to my servants that they must receive the Signor Montoni for their master.’ Emily made a feeble attempt to congratulate her on these apparently28 imprudent nuptials. ‘I shall now celebrate my marriage with some splendour,’ continued Madame Montoni, ‘and to save time I shall avail myself of the preparation that has been made for yours, which will, of course, be delayed a little while. Such of your wedding clothes as are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do honour to this festival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I have changed my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days I shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their presence.’
Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame Montoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform Valancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they were to be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments29 of the chateau30, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial11 day of his Emily, were to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni’s, grief and indignation agitated31 him alternately. He could conceal32 neither from the observation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him from these serious emotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive33 considerations, that assailed34 him, were ineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave, there was an earnest tenderness in his manner, that extremely affected35 her; she even shed tears, when he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew not exactly why she should do so.
Montoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of its inhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be his own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable, in having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she required, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments assigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree of obedience36 with the master of the mansion37.
Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a magnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was Valancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending. There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily’s partner, and though, when he gave a look to the decorations of the apartments, he could not but remember, that they were designed for other festivities, than those they now contributed to celebrate, he endeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a little while only would elapse before they would be given to their original destination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughed and talked incessantly38; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhat haughty39, seemed weary of the parade, and of the frivolous40 company it had drawn41 together.
This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration of their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the gloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities, was extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could meet in any company a man of more address, and still seldomer one of more understanding, than himself; the balance of advantage in such parties, or in the connections, which might arise from them, must, therefore, be on his side; and, knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes, for which they are generally frequented, he had no objection to measure his talents of dissimulation42 with those of any other competitor for distinction and plunder43. But his wife, who, when her own interest was immediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity, acquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personal attractions, which, uniting with the jealousy44 natural to the discovery, counteracted45 his readiness for mingling46 with all the parties Tholouse could afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections of an husband to lose, she had no motive47 for discovering the unwelcome truth, and it had never obtruded48 itself upon her; but, now that it influenced her policy, she opposed her husband’s inclination49 for company, with the more eagerness, because she believed him to be really as well received in the female society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, he had affected to be.
A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni informed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon as the necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. ‘We shall go to Venice,’ said she, ‘where the Signor has a fine mansion, and from thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?— You, who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless be delighted with this journey.’
‘Am I then to be of the party, madam?’ said Emily, with extreme surprise and emotion. ‘Most certainly,’ replied her aunt, ‘how could you imagine we should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking of the Chevalier; he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but he very soon will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of our journey, and to say, that the proposed connection between the families must from this time be thought of no more.’
The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece, that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom she was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay, which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. When she could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame’s sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was, that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be greatly inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.
‘I now leave the affair entirely50 to the Signor,’ added Madame Montoni, ‘but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the connection. I was weak enough — I am so foolish sometimes!— to suffer other people’s uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment51 yielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed52 out the folly53 of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. I am determined55, that you shall submit to those, who know how to guide you better than yourself — I am determined, that you shall be conformable.’
Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent56 speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed to her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion57 and tenderness to the feelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the same ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit14 an alliance with Madame Clairval’s family, which induced her to withdraw from it, now that her marriage with Montoni had exalted58 her self-consequence, and, with it, her views for her niece.
Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either remonstrance59, or entreaty60 on this topic; and when, at length, she attempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retired62 to her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to think was possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was very long, before her spirits were sufficiently63 composed to permit the reflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw, that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was interested. The prospect64 of going to Italy was still rendered darker, when she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then torn by civil commotion65, where every petty state was at war with its neighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader66. She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she would be committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her from Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanished from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief.
In this perturbed68 state she passed some hours, and, when she was summoned to dinner, she entreated69 permission to remain in her own apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused. Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied by her griefs, the other engrossed70 by the disappointment, which the unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity piqued71 by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she considered as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither softened72 to pity, or awakened73 to remorse74, became enraged75, that her will should be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though this was done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, and torturing conversation, retired in tears.
As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, as her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and she was passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voice of Valancourt.
‘Emily, O! my Emily!’ cried he in a tone faltering76 with impatience77, while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of his countenance and the eager desperation of his air. ‘In tears, Emily! I would speak with you,’ said he, ‘I have much to say; conduct me to where we may converse. But you tremble — you are ill! Let me lead you to a seat.’
He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand to lead her thither78; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a languid smile, ‘I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she is in the dining-parlour.’ ‘I must speak with YOU, my Emily,’ replied Valancourt, ‘Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed so willing to resign me?’ But this is an improper79 place — I am overheard. Let me entreat61 your attention, if only for a few minutes.’—‘When you have seen my aunt,’ said Emily. ‘I was wretched enough when I came hither,’ exclaimed Valancourt, ‘do not increase my misery81 by this coldness — this cruel refusal.’
The despondency, with which he spoke82 this, affected her almost to tears, but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed83 with Madame Montoni. ‘Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?’ said Valancourt, in an altered tone: ‘it is he, to whom I must speak.’
Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed in his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home, and entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment84. At the tremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from wildness into tenderness. ‘You are ill, Emily,’ said he, ‘they will destroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.’
Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour; the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her for his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the consequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties85, with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency and tenderness, concealing86, as much as possible, the sentiments he felt towards Montoni, that he might soothe87 the apprehensions89, which distressed90 her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment, and, his assumed tranquillity92 only alarming her more, she urged, at length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of taking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable. Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances93, and her affecting entreaties drew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in his design of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress94 his wrongs by violence. ‘For my sake,’ said Emily, ‘let the consideration of what I should suffer deter54 you from such a mode of revenge!’ ‘For your sake, Emily,’ replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tenderness and grief, while he gazed upon her. ‘Yes — yes — I shall subdue95 myself. But, though I have given you my solemn promise to do this, do not expect, that I can tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if I could, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! how long may he condemn97 me to live without you,— how long may it be before you return to France!’
Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable affection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she should be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose guardianship98 her age would then release her; assurances, which gave little consolation99 to Valancourt, who considered, that she would then be in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion100 over her would not cease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them. Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparent composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room. She threw a glance of sharp reproof101 upon her niece, who immediately withdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.
‘This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;’ said she, ‘I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that you would seek a clandestine102 interview with my niece, and that she would grant one.’
Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate103 Emily from such a design, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to request an interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it, with the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability, of Madame Montoni, demanded.
His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke104; she lamented105 again, that her prudence106 had ever yielded to what she termed compassion, and added, that she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent, that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had committed the affair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.
The feeling eloquence107 of Valancourt, however, at length, made her sensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became susceptible108 to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who awakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grew dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence109 of him increased. This was also the more inveterate110, because his tempered words and manner were such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, and neither left her a hope, that the odious111 portrait was the caricature of his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violent resentment, with which she contemplated112 it. At length, her anger rose to such an height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house abruptly113, lest he should forfeit114 his own esteem115 by an intemperate116 reply. He was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope, for what of either pity, or justice could be expected from a person, who could feel the pain of guilt118, without the humility119 of repentance120?
To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was not probable, that he would relinquish121 his own views to entreaties, or remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared to resist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous122, concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt was careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, he wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but to solicit one, and, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his reply.
Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her approbation123 to Valancourt’s marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be the heiress of Madame Montoni’s fortune; and, though, upon the nuptials of the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, her conscience had withheld124 her from adopting any measure to prevent the union, her benevolence125 was not sufficiently active to impel126 her towards any step, that might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretly pleased, that Valancourt was released from an engagement, which she considered to be as inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as his alliance was thought by Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty of Emily; and, though her pride was wounded by this rejection127 of a member of her family, she disdained128 to shew resentment otherwise, than by silence.
Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could neither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of the other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation129 between them. He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.
In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise to her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house of Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the arguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, in remonstrance, on one side, and inflexible130 denial, on the other; for, whether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred131, which results from both, that made Montoni shun132 the man he had injured, he was peremptory133 in his refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, which Valancourt’s letters pourtrayed, or awakened to a repentance of his own injustice134 by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length, Valancourt’s letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first moments of passionate135 despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except the solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to Montoni’s chateau, determined to see him by whatever other means might be necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards enquired136 for Madame, and Ma’amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused admittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contest with these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of mind approaching to frenzy137, wrote to Emily of what had passed, expressed without restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated, that, since he must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she would allow him an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched this, his passions becoming more temperate117, he was sensible of the error he had committed in having given Emily a new subject of distress91 in the strong mention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, had it been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the pain she must have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece, should be delivered to herself, and who, after having perused138 this and indulged the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt’s mention of Montoni provoked, had consigned139 it to the flames.
Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting140 some particular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued141 the passion, that had transgressed142 against his policy, solicited only the indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But, when the latter [Valancourt] learned, that she was really to set out in a very few days, and that it was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every consideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to propose a clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame Montoni, and the last day of Emily’s stay at Tholouse arrived, without affording Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he should be allowed a parting interview.
During this period of torturing suspense143 to Valancourt, Emily was sunk into that kind of stupor144, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection, and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and companion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that were not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering, when thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever, certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they could scarcely hear of each other’s existence; and all this in obedience to the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a person, who had but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in vain, that she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event, which she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted145 more than it surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but, when the day, preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse, arrived, and she had heard no mention of his being permitted to take leave of her, grief overcame every consideration, that had made her reluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whether this consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had, adding, that, after the provocation146 she had herself received from Valancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution147, which the Signor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to procure148 it.
‘If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,’ said she, ‘he should have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have waited patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and not have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestow149 my niece upon him,— and then have persisted in troubling the Signor, because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute about so childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremely presumptuous150 and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear his name repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish sorrows and whims151, and look like other people, and not appear with that dismal152 countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration153. I can see you are ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye, even now, in spite of my commands.’
Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulge them, and the day was passed in an intensity154 of anguish155, such as she had, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber156 for the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed herself, on entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after every member of the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She could not divest157 herself of a belief, that she had parted with Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not arise merely from foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she was about to commence, the uncertainty159 as to the period of her return, together with the prohibitions160 she had received, seemed to justify161 it, she yielded also to an impression, which she mistook for a pre- sentiment, that she was going from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was the distance that would separate them — the Alps, those tremendous barriers! would rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where each must exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the same country, though without seeing him, was comparative happiness to the conviction of this dreadful length of distance.
Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time, that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for something, that might revive her, she observed the casements162, and had just strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air recalled her spirits, and the still moon- light, that fell upon the elms of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed163 them, and determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would not relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the chateau all was still; and, passing down the great stair-case into the hall, from whence a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as she thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows among the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her desire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so many happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensive prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her apprehension88 of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace, which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that terminated the avenue.
Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her distance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the stillness and obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that could justify it, she ascended164 to the terrace, where the moon-light shewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity165, while the rays silvered the foliage166 of the high trees and shrubs167, that bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that rose to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Her distance from the chateau again alarming her, she paused to listen; the night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard only the plaintive168 sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver of the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having reached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller view of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices were thrown back, and shewed beyond their embowered arch the moon-light landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves169, and plains extending gradually and indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching170 a stronger gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her rays.
Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to her fancy. ‘Ah!’ said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself into a chair by the window, ‘how often have we sat together in this spot — often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we view it together — never — never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each other!’
Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror — a voice spoke near her in the pavilion; she shrieked171 — it spoke again, and she distinguished172 the well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported her in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either to speak. ‘Emily,’ said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in his. ‘Emily!’ and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.
‘O my Emily!’ he resumed, after a long pause, ‘I do then see you once again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this place — these gardens, for many — many nights, with a faint, very faint hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and thank heaven! it has at length succeeded — I am not condemned173 to absolute despair!’
Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive174 of her unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, he said, ‘I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching in the gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now given up all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself from a place so near to you, and should probably have lingered about the chateau till morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed, yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then again — perceived only a dead and dreary175 silence! But, when you opened the door of the pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty, whether it was my love — my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears, that I could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of me; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my emotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, in which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the contest!’
Emily’s heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy she felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was lamenting176, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief, as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visions of the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, which was necessary to support her through this last interview, and which Valancourt found it utterly177 impossible to attain178, for the transports of his joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he expressed in the most impassioned language his horror of this separation, and his despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept silently as she listened to him, and then, trying to command her own distress, and to sooth his, she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energy of his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, which she endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure179 up illusions too powerful for his reason.
‘You are going from me,’ said he, ‘to a distant country, O how distant!— to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too, who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me- -never can be mine.’ His voice was stifled180 by sighs.
‘You believe, then,’ said Emily, ‘that the pangs182 I suffer proceed from a trivial and temporary interest; you believe —’
‘Suffer!’ interrupted Valancourt, ‘suffer for me! O Emily — how sweet — how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they give! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion, however unreasonable183; always requiring new assurances from the object of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.’ Then seeming to recollect67 himself, he exclaimed, ‘But what a wretch80 am I, thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support and comfort you!’
This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his. Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals184 of convulsive sobs185, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, ‘O Emily — my heart will break!— I cannot — cannot leave you! Now — I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your features — and the impression will be fled from my imagination;— to hear the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!— I cannot, cannot leave you! why should we confide186 the happiness of our whole lives to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!’ His voice trembled, and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni’s house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a friar should await to unite them.
The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated187 by love and despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible for her to oppose it;— when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not be rejected. ‘Speak, my Emily!’ said Valancourt eagerly, ‘let me hear your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.’ she spoke not; her cheek was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To Valancourt’s terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called upon her name, rose to go to the chateau for assistance, and then, recollecting188 her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.
After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed to her father’s sister; her repugnance189 to a clandestine marriage, her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments190, such as might ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and repentance;— all this various interest was too powerful for a mind, already enervated191 by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment192; above all, she dreaded193 to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with somewhat more than female fortitude194, when she resolved to endure a present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.
With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed195 and loved him, and which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her, which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed196 before, and love, which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce197 it. The triumph was almost too much for his heart; for Emily’s sake, he endeavoured to stifle181 his grief, but the swelling198 anguish would not be restrained. ‘O Emily!’ said he, ‘I must leave you — I MUST leave you, and I know it is for ever!’
Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to censure199, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.
‘Stay!’ said Valancourt, ‘I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only on the subject that occupied it;— I have forborne to mention a doubt of much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with an ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance200 with my late proposal.’
Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:
‘This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you certain he is of Madame Quesnel’s family, and that his fortune is what it appears to be?’
‘I have no reason to doubt either,’ replied Emily, in a voice of alarm. ‘Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means of judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have heard.’
‘That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking to another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage; the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likely to make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in general terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints, concerning his character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few questions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and character. He said something of a castle of Montoni’s, situated201 among the Apennines, and of some strange circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of life. I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest I felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could prevail with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he had alluded202 to, or to mention any thing further concerning Montoni. I observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed203 of a castle in the Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of some family, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he could have said a great deal, but made no reply.
‘A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive, detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve, said — that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice204, and were very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject farther, since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence of what he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to the power of a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will not alarm you unnecessarily;— it is possible, as the Italian said, at first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well before you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust myself to speak — or I shall renounce all the motives205, which so lately influenced me to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.’
Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify, and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had never liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation206, its bold fierceness, its sullen207 watchfulness208, as occasion, and even slight occasion, had called forth209 the latent soul, she had often observed with emotion; while from the usual expression of his countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely210 in his power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not by terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested211 considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy212, which made her revolt from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terror would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. But it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary.
With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by the mere158 mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as his mind brooded over them — with Valancourt no second conquest was attainable213. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he determined, therefore, to persevere214 in opposing it, and in conjuring215 her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful216 protector.
‘Emily!’ said he, with solemn earnestness, ‘this is no time for scrupulous217 distinctions, for weighing the dubious218 and comparatively trifling219 circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see, much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are going to encounter with a man of Montoni’s character. Those dark hints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of Montoni’s disposition220, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He is the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as well as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder221 to foresee. O Emily! let my tenderness, my arms withhold222 you from them — give me the right to defend you!’
Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate223 and to entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire. But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his reason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give probability to a part of the rumour224, it was not by such circumstances that an implicit225 belief of it could be justified226. These considerations would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this time, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obvious exaggerations of her danger, as incited227 her to distrust the fallacies of passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to convince him of his error, she plunged228 him into a new one. His voice and countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. ‘Emily!’ said he, ‘this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You do not — cannot love me!— It would be impossible for you to reason thus coolly, thus deliberately229, if you did. I, I am torn with anguish at the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you in consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it — to save you. No! Emily, no!— you cannot love me.’
‘We have now little time to waste in exclamation230, or assertion,’ said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: ‘if you are yet to learn how dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can give you conviction.’
The last words faltered231 on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force, conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, ‘Emily! Emily!’ and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and said, ‘I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the chateau may be discovered. Think of me — love me — when I am far away; the belief of this will be my comfort!’
‘Think of you!— love you!’ exclaimed Valancourt.
‘Try to moderate these transports,’ said Emily, ‘for my sake, try.’
‘For your sake!’
‘Yes, for my sake,’ replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, ‘I cannot leave you thus!’
‘Then do not leave me!’ said Valancourt, with quickness. ‘Why should we part, or part for longer than till to-morrow?’
‘I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,’ replied Emily, ‘you tear my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!’
‘If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; we must submit to circumstances.’
‘We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart — my spirits are gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness called up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.’
‘Spare you!’ cried Valancourt, ‘I am a wretch — a very wretch, that have felt only for myself!— I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of a man, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your sufferings by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction232 of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me — and forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.’
Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. ‘I will shew myself more worthy96 of your love,’ said Valancourt, at length; ‘I will not prolong these moments. My Emily — my own Emily! never forget me! God knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.— O God!— O God!— protect and bless her!’
He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his bosom233, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own distress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared totally unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then, was all that proved she had not fainted.
He supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking to her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness, and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the chateau. ‘We must part here,’ said she, stopping, ‘Why prolong these moments? Teach me the fortitude I have forgot.’
Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. ‘Farewell, my love!’ said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness —‘trust me we shall meet again — meet for each other — meet to part no more!’ His voice faltered, but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. ‘You know not what I shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence with fortitude. O how little I have shewn to-night!’
‘Farewell!’ said Emily faintly. ‘When you are gone, I shall think of many things I would have said to you.’ ‘And I of many — many!’ said Valancourt; ‘I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze — will, in a moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference between this moment and the next! NOW, I am in your presence, can behold234 you! THEN, all will be a dreary blank — and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from my only home!’
Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in silence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau, heard his distant steps. she listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose235, which, alas236! was fled from her wretchedness.
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1
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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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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3
beguiles
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| v.欺骗( beguile的第三人称单数 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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6
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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7
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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8
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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9
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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10
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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12
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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13
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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14
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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15
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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18
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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19
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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20
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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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
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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26
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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28
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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32
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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33
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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34
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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37
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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38
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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39
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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40
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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41
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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43
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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44
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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45
counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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46
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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47
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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48
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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50
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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51
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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52
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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53
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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54
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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55
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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56
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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57
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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58
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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59
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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60
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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61
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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62
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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63
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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64
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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65
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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66
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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67
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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68
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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71
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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72
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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73
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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74
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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75
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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76
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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77
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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78
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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79
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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80
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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81
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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82
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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83
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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84
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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85
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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86
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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87
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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88
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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89
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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90
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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91
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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92
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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93
remonstrances
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|
| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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94
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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95
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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96
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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97
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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98
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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99
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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100
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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101
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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102
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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103
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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104
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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105
lamented
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|
| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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107
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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108
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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109
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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110
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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111
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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112
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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113
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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114
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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115
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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116
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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117
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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118
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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119
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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120
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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121
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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122
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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123
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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124
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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125
benevolence
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|
| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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126
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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127
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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128
disdained
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|
| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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129
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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130
inflexible
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|
| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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131
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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132
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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133
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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134
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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135
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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136
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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137
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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138
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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139
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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140
transacting
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的现在分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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141
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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142
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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143
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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144
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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145
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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147
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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148
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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149
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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150
presumptuous
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|
| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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151
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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152
dismal
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|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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153
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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154
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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155
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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156
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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157
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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158
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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159
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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160
prohibitions
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| 禁令，禁律( prohibition的名词复数 )； 禁酒； 禁例 | |
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161
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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162
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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163
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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164
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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166
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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167
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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168
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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169
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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170
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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171
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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173
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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174
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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175
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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176
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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177
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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178
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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179
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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180
stifled
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|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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181
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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182
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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183
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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184
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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185
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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186
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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187
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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188
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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189
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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190
embarrassments
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|
| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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191
enervated
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|
| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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193
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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194
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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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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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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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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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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