Our easy bliss2, when each thing joy supplied
The woods, the mountains and the warbling maze3
Of the wild brooks4!
THOMSON
Blanche’s slumbers5 continued, till long after the hour, which she had so impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued6 with travelling, did not call her, till breakfast was nearly ready. Her disappointment, however, was instantly forgotten, when, on opening the casement8, she saw, on one hand, the wide sea sparkling in the morning rays, with its stealing sails and glancing oars9; and, on the other, the fresh woods, the plains far-stretching and the blue mountains, all glowing with the splendour of day.
As she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon her countenance10, and pleasure danced in her eyes.
‘Who could first invent convents!’ said she, ‘and who could first persuade people to go into them? and to make religion a pretence11, too, where all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out! God is best pleased with the homage12 of a grateful heart, and, when we view his glories, we feel most grateful. I never felt so much devotion, during the many dull years I was in the convent, as I have done in the few hours, that I have been here, where I need only look on all around me — to adore God in my inmost heart!’
Saying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and, in the next moment, was in the breakfast room, where the Count was already seated. The cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersed13 the melancholy14 glooms of his reflections, a pleasant smile was on his countenance, and he spoke15 in an enlivening voice to Blanche, whose heart echoed back the tones. Henri and, soon after, the Countess with Mademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the whole party seemed to acknowledge the influence of the scene; even the Countess was so much re-animated as to receive the civilities of her husband with complacency, and but once forgot her good-humour, which was when she asked whether they had any neighbours, who were likely to make THIS BARBAROUS SPOT more tolerable, and whether the Count believed it possible for her to exist here, without some amusement?
Soon after breakfast the party dispersed; the Count, ordering his steward16 to attend him in the library, went to survey the condition of his premises17, and to visit some of his tenants18; Henri hastened with alacrity19 to the shore to examine a boat, that was to bear them on a little voyage in the evening and to superintend the adjustment of a silk awning20; while the Countess, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn, retired21 to an apartment on the modern side of the chateau22, which was fitted up with airy elegance23; and, as the windows opened upon balconies, that fronted the sea, she was there saved from a view of the HORRID24 Pyrenees. Here, while she reclined on a sofa, and, casting her languid eyes over the ocean, which appeared beyond the wood-tops, indulged in the luxuries of ENNUI25, her companion read aloud a sentimental26 novel, on some fashionable system of philosophy, for the Countess was herself somewhat of a PHILOSOPHER, especially as to INFIDELITY, and among a certain circle her opinions were waited for with impatience28, and received as doctrines29.
The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened to indulge, amidst the wild wood-walks around the chateau, her new enthusiasm, where, as she wandered under the shades, her gay spirits gradually yielded to pensive30 complacency. Now, she moved with solemn steps, beneath the gloom of thickly interwoven branches, where the fresh dew still hung upon every flower, that peeped from among the grass; and now tripped sportively along the path, on which the sunbeams darted31 and the checquered foliage32 trembled — where the tender greens of the beech33, the acacia and the mountain-ash, mingling34 with the solemn tints36 of the cedar37, the pine and cypress38, exhibited as fine a contrast of colouring, as the majestic39 oak and oriental plane did of form, to the feathery lightness of the cork40 tree and the waving grace of the poplar.
Having reached a rustic41 seat, within a deep recess42 of the woods, she rested awhile, and, as her eyes caught, through a distant opening, a glimpse of the blue waters of the Mediterranean43, with the white sail, gliding44 on its bosom45, or of the broad mountain, glowing beneath the mid-day sun, her mind experienced somewhat of that exquisite46 delight, which awakens48 the fancy, and leads to poetry. The hum of bees alone broke the stillness around her, as, with other insects of various hues49, they sported gaily50 in the shade, or sipped51 sweets from the fresh flowers: and, while Blanche watched a butter-fly, flitting from bud to bud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of its short day, till she had composed the following stanzas52.
THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE
What bowery dell, with fragrant54 breath,
Courts thee to stay thy airy flight;
Nor seek again the purple heath,
So oft the scene of gay delight?
Long I’ve watch’d i’ the lily’s bell,
Whose whiteness stole the morning’s beam;
No fluttering sounds thy coming tell,
No waving wings, at distance, gleam.
But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove55,
Nor sunny mead56, nor blossom’d tree,
So sweet as lily’s cell shall prove,—
The bower53 of constant love and me.
When April buds begin to blow,
The prim-rose, and the hare-bell blue,
That on the verdant57 moss58 bank grow,
With violet cups, that weep in dew;
When wanton gales59 breathe through the shade,
And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,
And swell61 the song of ev’ry glade62,
I range the forest’s green retreats:
There, through the tangled63 wood-walks play,
Where no rude urchin64 paces near,
Where sparely peeps the sultry day,
And light dews freshen all the air.
High on a sun-beam oft I sport
O’er bower and fountain, vale and hill;
Oft ev’ry blushing flow’ret court,
That hangs its head o’er winding65 rill.
But these I’ll leave to be thy guide,
And shew thee, where the jasmine spreads
Her snowy leaf, where may-flow’rs hide,
And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.
With me the mountain’s summit scale,
And taste the wild-thyme’s honied bloom,
Whose fragrance66, floating on the gale60,
Oft leads me to the cedar’s gloom.
Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!
What shade thus dares to tempt67 thy stay?
Once, me alone thou wish’d to please,
And with me only thou wouldst stray.
But, while thy long delay I mourn,
And chide68 the sweet shades for their guile69,
Thou may’st be true, and they forlorn,
And fairy favours court thy smile.
The tiny queen of fairy-land,
Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,
To bring, or ere the night-watch stand,
Rich essence for her shadowy car:
Perchance her acorn-cups to fill
With nectar from the Indian rose,
Or gather, near some haunted rill,
May-dews, that lull70 to sleep Love’s woes71:
Or, o’er the mountains, bade thee fly,
To tell her fairy love to speed,
When ev’ning steals upon the sky,
To dance along the twilight72 mead.
But now I see thee sailing low,
Gay as the brightest flow’rs of spring,
Thy coat of blue and jet I know,
And well thy gold and purple wing.
Borne on the gale, thou com’st to me;
O! welcome, welcome to my home!
In lily’s cell we’ll live in glee,
Together o’er the mountains roam!
When Lady Blanche returned to the chateau, instead of going to the apartment of the Countess, she amused herself with wandering over that part of the edifice73, which she had not yet examined, of which the most antient first attracted her curiosity; for, though what she had seen of the modern was gay and elegant, there was something in the former more interesting to her imagination. Having passed up the great stair-case, and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a long suite74 of chambers76, whose walls were either hung with tapestry77, or wainscoted with cedar, the furniture of which looked almost as antient as the rooms themselves; the spacious78 fire-places, where no mark of social cheer remained, presented an image of cold desolation; and the whole suite had so much the air of neglect and desertion, that it seemed, as if the venerable persons, whose portraits hung upon the walls, had been the last to inhabit them.
On leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end of which was terminated by a back stair-case, and the other by a door, that seemed to communicate with the north-side of the chateau, but which being fastened, she descended79 the stair-case, and, opening a door in the wall, a few steps down, found herself in a small square room, that formed part of the west turret80 of the castle. Three windows presented each a separate and beautiful prospect81; that to the north, overlooking Languedoc; another to the west, the hills ascending82 towards the Pyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the landscape; and a third, fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, and a part of the wild shores of Rousillon, to the eye.
Having left the turret, and descended the narrow stair-case, she found herself in a dusky passage, where she wandered, unable to find her way, till impatience yielded to apprehension83, and she called for assistance. Presently steps approached, and light glimmered84 through a door at the other extremity85 of the passage, which was opened with caution by some person, who did not venture beyond it, and whom Blanche observed in silence, till the door was closing, when she called aloud, and, hastening towards it, perceived the old housekeeper86. ‘Dear ma’amselle! is it you?’ said Dorothee, ‘How could you find your way hither?’ Had Blanche been less occupied by her own fears, she would probably have observed the strong expressions of terror and surprise on Dorothee’s countenance, who now led her through a long succession of passages and rooms, that looked as if they had been uninhabited for a century, till they reached that appropriated to the housekeeper, where Dorothee entreated88 she would sit down and take refreshment89. Blanche accepted the sweet meats, offered to her, mentioned her discovery of the pleasant turret, and her wish to appropriate it to her own use. Whether Dorothee’s taste was not so sensible to the beauties of landscape as her young lady’s, or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadened it, she forbore to praise the subject of Blanche’s enthusiasm, which, however, her silence did not repress. To Lady Blanche’s enquiry of whither the door she had found fastened at the end of the gallery led, she replied, that it opened to a suite of rooms, which had not been entered, during many years, ‘For,’ added she, ‘my late lady died in one of them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them since.’
Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on observing that Dorothee’s eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to unlock them, and, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the whole party met in good spirits and good humour, except the Countess, whose vacant mind, overcome by the languor90 of idleness, would neither suffer her to be happy herself, or to contribute to the happiness of others. Mademoiselle Bearn, attempting to be witty92, directed her badinage93 against Henri, who answered, because he could not well avoid it, rather than from any inclination94 to notice her, whose liveliness sometimes amused, but whose conceit95 and insensibility often disgusted him.
The cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, vanished, on her reaching the margin97 of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon the immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld98 only with delight and astonishment99, and it was by a strong effort, that she so far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the boat.
As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant verge100 of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest101 rapture102 struggled to overcome a sense of personal danger. A light breeze played on the water, and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of the receding103 woods, that crowned the cliffs, for many miles, and which the Count surveyed with the pride of conscious property, as well as with the eye of taste.
At some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had once been the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made one of romantic beauty. Thither104, the Count had ordered coffee and other refreshment to be carried, and thither the sailors now steered105 their course, following the windings106 of the shore round many a woody promontory107 and circling bay; while the pensive tones of horns and other wind instruments, played by the attendants in a distant boat, echoed among the rocks, and died along the waves. Blanche had now subdued108 her fears; a delightful109 tranquillity110 stole over her mind, and held her in silence; and she was too happy even to remember the convent, or her former sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her present felicity.
The Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment of her leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of restraint; she feared to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished to recover the Count’s good opinion. On his family, and on the surrounding scene, he looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent111 satisfaction, while his son exhibited the gay spirits of youth, anticipating new delights, and regretless of those, that were passed.
After near an hour’s rowing, the party landed, and ascended112 a little path, overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from the point of the eminence113, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared the pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of its portico114 between the trees, to be built of variegated115 marble. As she followed the Countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture towards the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far below, and from thence upon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakened116 emotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful.
The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very short notice, for the reception of its visitors; but the faded colours of its painted walls and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of its once magnificent furniture, declared how long it had been neglected, and abandoned to the empire of the changing seasons. While the party partook of a collation117 of fruit and coffee, the horns, placed in a distant part of the woods, where an echo sweetened and prolonged their melancholy tones, broke softly on the stillness of the scene. This spot seemed to attract even the admiration118 of the Countess, or, perhaps, it was merely the pleasure of planning furniture and decorations, that made her dwell so long on the necessity of repairing and adorning119 it; while the Count, never happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simple objects, acquiesced121 in all her designs, concerning the pavilion. The paintings on the walls and coved122 ceiling were to be renewed, the canopies123 and sofas were to be of light green damask; marble statues of wood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets of living flowers, were to adorn120 the recesses124 between the windows, which, descending125 to the ground, were to admit to every part of the room, and it was of octagonal form, the various landscape. One window opened upon a romantic glade, where the eye roved among the woody recesses, and the scene was bounded only by a lengthened126 pomp of groves127; from another, the woods receding disclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a third fronted an avenue, beyond which the grey towers of Chateau-le- Blanc, and a picturesque128 part of its ruin were seen partially129 among the foliage; while a fourth gave, between the trees, a glimpse of the green pastures and villages, that diversify130 the banks of the Aude. The Mediterranean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked its shores, were the grand objects of a fifth window, and the others gave, in different points of view, the wild scenery of the woods.
After wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to the shore and embarked131; and, the beauty of the evening tempting91 them to extend their excursion, they proceeded further up the bay. A dead calm had succeeded the light breeze, that wafted132 them hither, and the men took to their oars. Around, the waters were spread into one vast expanse of polished mirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and feathery woods, that over-hung its surface, the glow of the western horizon and the dark clouds, that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved to see the dipping oars imprint133 the water, and to watch the spreading circles they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected landscape, without destroying the harmony of its features.
Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of high towers, touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon after, the horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of choral voices from a distance.
‘What voices are those, upon the air?’ said the Count, looking round, and listening; but the strain had ceased. ‘It seemed to be a vesper- hymn134, which I have often heard in my convent,’ said Blanche.
‘We are near the monastery135, then,’ observed the Count; and, the boat soon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claire appeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs, suddenly sinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost encircled with woods, among which partial features of the edifice were seen;— the great gate and gothic window of the hall, the cloisters136 and the side of a chapel137 more remote; while a venerable arch, which had once led to a part of the fabric138, now demolished139, stood a majestic ruin detached from the main building, beyond which appeared a grand perspective of the woods. On the grey walls, the moss had fastened, and, round the pointed140 windows of the chapel, the ivy141 and the briony hung in many a fantastic wreath.
All without was silent and forsaken142; but, while Blanche gazed with admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the strong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sun-set, a sound of many voices, slowly chanting, arose from within. The Count bade his men rest on their oars. The monks143 were singing the hymn of vespers, and some female voices mingled144 with the strain, which rose by soft degrees, till the high organ and the choral sounds swelled145 into full and solemn harmony. The strain, soon after, dropped into sudden silence, and was renewed in a low and still more solemn key, till, at length, the holy chorus died away, and was heard no more.— Blanche sighed, tears trembled in her eyes, and her thoughts seemed wafted with the sounds to heaven. While a rapt stillness prevailed in the boat, a train of friars, and then of nuns146, veiled in white, issued from the cloisters, and passed, under the shade of the woods, to the main body of the edifice.
The Countess was the first of her party to awaken47 from this pause of silence.
‘These dismal147 hymns148 and friars make one quite melancholy,’ said she; ‘twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark before we get home.’
The count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of evening was anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east a tempest was collecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the glowing splendour of the setting sun. The clamorous149 sea-fowl skimmed in fleet circles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light pinions27 in the wave, as they fled away in search of shelter. The boatmen pulled hard at their oars; but the thunder, that now muttered at a distance, and the heavy drops, that began to dimple the water, made the Count determine to put back to the monastery for shelter, and the course of the boat was immediately changed. As the clouds approached the west, their lurid150 darkness changed to a deep ruddy glow, which, by reflection, seemed to fire the tops of the woods and the shattered towers of the monastery.
The appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, whose expressions of apprehension distressed151 the Count, and perplexed153 his men; while Blanche continued silent, now agitated154 with fear, and now with admiration, as she viewed the grandeur155 of the clouds, and their effect on the scenery, and listened to the long, long peals156 of thunder, that rolled through the air.
The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent a servant to announce his arrival, and to entreat87 shelter of the Superior, who, soon after, appeared at the great gate, attended by several monks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive157 at once of hospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in submission158. The party immediately disembarked, and, having hastily crossed the lawn — for the shower was now heavy — were received at the gate by the Superior, who, as they entered, stretched forth159 his hands and gave his blessing160; and they passed into the great hall, where the lady abbess waited, attended by several nuns, clothed, like herself, in black, and veiled in white. The veil of the abbess was, however, thrown half back, and discovered a countenance, whose chaste161 dignity was sweetened by the smile of welcome, with which she addressed the Countess, whom she led, with Blanche and Mademoiselle Bearn, into the convent parlour, while the Count and Henri were conducted by the Superior to the refectory.
The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of the abbess with careless haughtiness162, and had followed her, with indolent steps, to the parlour, over which the painted casements163 and wainscot of larch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade, and where the gloom of evening now loured almost to darkness.
While the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed164 with the Countess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes165 of which, being without painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the storm over the Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had so lately slept, now came boldly swelling166, in long succession, to the shore, where they burst in white foam167, and threw up a high spray over the rocks. A red sulphureous tint35 overspread the long line of clouds, that hung above the western horizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sun looking out, illumined the distant shores of Languedoc, as well as the tufted summits of the nearer woods, and shed a partial gleam on the western waves. The rest of the scene was in deep gloom, except where a sun-beam, darting168 between the clouds, glanced on the white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled high among them, or touched the swelling sail of a vessel169, which was seen labouring in the storm. Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched the progress of the bark, as it threw the waves in foam around it, and, as the lightnings flashed, looked to the opening heavens, with many a sigh for the fate of the poor mariners170.
The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long impended171, dropped over the splendour of his course; the vessel, however, was yet dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it, till the quick succession of flashes, lighting172 up the gloom of the whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window, and she joined the Abbess, who, having exhausted173 all her topics of conversation with the Countess, had now leisure to notice her.
But their discourse174 was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder; and the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned the inhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed the window, she gave another look to the ocean, where, by the momentary175 flash, that illumined the vast body of the waters, she distinguished176 the vessel she had observed before, amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows, the mast now bowing to the waves, and then rising high in air.
She sighed fervently177 as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbess and the Countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count’s servants, having gone by land to the chateau for carriages, returned soon after vespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat abated178, the Count and his family returned home. Blanche was surprised to discover how much the windings of the shore had deceived her, concerning the distance of the chateau from the monastery, whose vesper bell she had heard, on the preceding evening, from the windows of the west saloon, and whose towers she would also have seen from thence, had not twilight veiled them.
On their arrival at the chateau, the Countess, affecting more fatigue7, than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, with his daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where they had not been long, when they heard, in a pause of the gust96, a firing of guns, which the Count understanding to be signals of distress152 from some vessel in the storm, went to a window, that opened towards the Mediterranean, to observe further; but the sea was now involved in utter darkness, and the loud howlings of the tempest had again overcome every other sound. Blanche, remembering the bark, which she had before seen, now joined her father, with trembling anxiety. In a few moments, the report of guns was again borne along the wind, and as suddenly wafted away; a tremendous burst of thunder followed, and, in the flash, that had preceded it, and which seemed to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel was discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at some distance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness again involved the scene, but soon a second flash shewed the bark, with one sail unfurled, driving towards the coast. Blanche hung upon her father’s arm, with looks full of the agony of united terror and pity, which were unnecessary to awaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon the sea with a piteous expression, and, perceiving, that no boat could live in the storm, forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his people to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove a kind of beacon179 to the vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the rocks they were approaching. While Henri went out to direct on what part of the cliffs the lights should appear, Blanche remained with her father, at the window, catching180, every now and then, as the lightnings flashed, a glimpse of the vessel; and she soon saw, with reviving hope, the torches flaming on the blackness of night, and, as they waved over the cliffs, casting a red gleam on the gasping181 billows. When the firing of guns was repeated, the torches were tossed high in the air, as if answering the signal, and the firing was then redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away, she fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much nearer the shore.
The Count’s servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks; some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over, held out their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose steps could be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the steep and dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and, with loud halloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill182 whistle, and then feeble voices, were heard, at intervals184, mingling with the storm. Sudden shouts from the people on the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche to an almost intolerable degree: but her suspense185, concerning the fate of the mariners, was soon over, when Henri, running breathless into the room, told that the vessel was anchored in the bay below, but in so shattered a condition, that it was feared she would part before the crew could disembark. The Count immediately gave orders for his own boats to assist in bringing them to shore, and that such of these unfortunate strangers as could not be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet should be entertained at the chateau. Among the latter, were Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont, Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghorn and reached Marseilles, were from thence crossing the Gulf186 of Lyons, when this storm overtook them. They were received by the Count with his usual benignity187, who, though Emily wished to have proceeded immediately to the monastery of St. Claire, would not allow her to leave the chateau, that night; and, indeed, the terror and fatigue she had suffered would scarcely have permitted her to go farther.
In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and much joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily was introduced by name to the Count’s family, whose hospitable188 benevolence189 dissipated the little embarrassment190, which her situation had occasioned her, and the party were soon seated at the supper- table. The unaffected kindness of Blanche and the lively joy she expressed on the escape of the strangers, for whom her pity had been so much interested, gradually revived Emily’s languid spirits; and Du Pont, relieved from his terrors for her and for himself, felt the full contrast, between his late situation on a dark and tremendous ocean, and his present one, in a cheerful mansion191, where he was surrounded with plenty, elegance and smiles of welcome.
Annette, meanwhile, in the servants’ hall, was telling of all the dangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily192 upon her own and Ludovico’s escape, and on her present comforts, that she often made all that part of the chateau ring with merriment and laughter. Ludovico’s spirits were as gay as her own, but he had discretion193 enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though in vain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to MY LADY’S chamber75, who sent to enquire194 what occasioned so much uproar195 in the chateau, and to command silence.
Emily withdrew early to seek the repose196 she so much required, but her pillow was long a sleepless197 one. On this her return to her native country, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events and sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came in long succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image of Valancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land, after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave her emotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to anxiety and apprehension, when she considered the long period, that had elapsed, since any letter had passed between them, and how much might have happened in this interval183 to affect her future peace. But the thought, that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living, might have forgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she would scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility. She determined198 to inform him, on the following day, of her arrival in France, which it was scarcely possible he could know but by a letter from herself, and, after soothing199 her spirits with the hope of soon hearing, that he was well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at length, sunk to repose.
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1
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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5
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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6
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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9
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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12
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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13
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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14
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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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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16
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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17
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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18
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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19
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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20
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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21
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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22
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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23
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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24
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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25
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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26
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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27
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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28
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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29
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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30
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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31
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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32
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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33
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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34
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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35
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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36
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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37
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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38
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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39
majestic
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|
| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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40
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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41
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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42
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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43
Mediterranean
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|
| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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44
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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45
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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46
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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47
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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48
awakens
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|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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49
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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50
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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51
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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53
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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54
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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55
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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56
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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57
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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58
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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59
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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60
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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61
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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62
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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63
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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64
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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65
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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66
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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67
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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68
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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69
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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70
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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71
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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72
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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73
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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74
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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75
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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76
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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77
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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78
spacious
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|
| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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79
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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80
turret
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|
| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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81
prospect
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|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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82
ascending
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|
| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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83
apprehension
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|
| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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84
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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86
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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87
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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88
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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90
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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91
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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92
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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93
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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94
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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95
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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96
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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97
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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98
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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99
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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100
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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101
sublimest
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| 伟大的( sublime的最高级 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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102
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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103
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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104
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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105
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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106
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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107
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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108
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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109
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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110
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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111
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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112
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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114
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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115
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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116
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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117
collation
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| n.便餐；整理 | |
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118
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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119
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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120
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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121
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
coved
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| v.小海湾( cove的过去分词 )；家伙 | |
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123
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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124
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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125
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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126
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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128
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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129
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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130
diversify
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| v.（使）不同，（使）变得多样化 | |
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131
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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132
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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134
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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135
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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136
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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137
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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138
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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139
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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140
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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141
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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142
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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143
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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144
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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145
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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146
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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147
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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148
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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149
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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150
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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151
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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152
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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153
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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154
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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155
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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156
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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158
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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159
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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160
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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162
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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163
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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164
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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165
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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166
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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167
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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168
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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169
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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170
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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171
impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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173
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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174
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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175
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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176
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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177
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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178
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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179
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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180
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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181
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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182
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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183
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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186
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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187
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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188
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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189
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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190
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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191
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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192
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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193
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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194
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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195
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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196
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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197
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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198
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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199
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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