The elder lady, who is advancing towards the cushions, is cast in a very different mould of womanhood. She is tall, and looks the taller because her powdered hair is turned backward over a toupee11, and surmounted12 by lace and ribbons. She is nearly fifty, but her complexion13 is still fresh and beautiful, with the beauty of an auburn blond; her proud pouting14 lips, and her head thrown a little backward as she walks, give an expression of hauteur15 which is not contradicted by the cold grey eye. The tucked-in kerchief, rising full over the low tight bodice of her blue dress, sets off the majestic16 form of her bust17, and she treads the lawn as if she were one of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ stately ladies, who had suddenly stepped from her frame to enjoy the evening cool.
‘Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may not have so much sun upon us,’ she called out, in a tone of authority, when still at some distance. Caterina obeyed, and they sat down, making two bright patches of red and white and blue on the green background of the laurels and the lawn, which would look none the less pretty in a picture because one of the women’s hearts was rather cold and the other rather sad.
And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would have made that evening, if some English Watteau had been there to paint it: the castellated house of grey-tinted stone, with the flickering18 sunbeams sending dashes of golden light across the many-shaped panes19 in the mullioned windows, and a great beech20 leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and breaking, with its dark flattened21 boughs22, the too formal symmetry of the front; the broad gravel23-walk winding24 on the right, by a row of tall pines, alongside the pool—on the left branching out among swelling25 grassy26 mounds27, surmounted by clumps28 of trees, where the red trunk of the Scotch29 fir glows in the descending30 sunlight against the bright green of limes and acacias; the great pool, where a pair of swans are swimming lazily with one leg tucked under a wing, and where the open water-lilies lie calmly accepting the kisses of the fluttering light-sparkles; the lawn, with its smooth emerald greenness, sloping down to the rougher and browner herbage of the park, from which it is invisibly fenced by a little stream that winds away from the pool, and disappears under a wooden bridge in the distant pleasure-ground; and on this lawn our two ladies, whose part in the landscape the painter, standing31 at a favourable32 point of view in the park, would represent with a few little dabs33 of red and white and blue.
Seen from the great Gothic windows of the dining-room, they had much more definiteness of outline, and were distinctly visible to the three gentlemen sipping34 their claret there, as two fair women in whom all three had a personal interest. These gentlemen were a group worth considering attentively35; but any one entering that dining-room for the first time, would perhaps have had his attention even more strongly arrested by the room itself, which was so bare of furniture that it impressed one with its architectural beauty like a cathedral. A piece of matting stretched from door to door, a bit of worn carpet under the dining-table, and a sideboard in a deep recess36, did not detain the eye for a moment from the lofty groined ceiling, with its richly-carved pendants, all of creamy white, relieved here and there by touches of gold. On one side, this lofty ceiling was supported by pillars and arches, beyond which a lower ceiling, a miniature copy of the higher one, covered the square projection37 which, with its three large pointed38 windows, formed the central feature of the building. The room looked less like a place to dine in than a piece of space enclosed simply for the sake of beautiful outline; and the small dining-table, with the party round it, seemed an odd and insignificant39 accident, rather than anything connected with the original purpose of the apartment.
But, examined closely, that group was far from insignificant; for the eldest40, who was reading in the newspaper the last portentous41 proceedings42 of the French parliaments, and turning with occasional comments to his young companions, was as fine a specimen43 of the old English gentleman as could well have been found in those venerable days of cocked-hats and pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under projecting brows, made more prominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows44; but any apprehension45 of severity excited by these penetrating46 eyes, and by a somewhat aquiline47 nose, was allayed48 by the good-natured lines about the mouth, which retained all its teeth and its vigour49 of expression in spite of sixty winters. The forehead sloped a little from the projecting brows, and its peaked outline was made conspicuous50 by the arrangement of the profusely-powdered hair, drawn51 backward and gathered into a pigtail. He sat in a small hard chair, which did not admit the slightest approach to a lounge, and which showed to advantage the flatness of his back and the breadth of his chest. In fact, Sir Christopher Cheverel was a splendid old gentleman, as any one may see who enters the saloon at Cheverel Manor, where his full-length portrait, taken when he was fifty, hangs side by side with that of his wife, the stately lady seated on the lawn.
Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once have been inclined to hope that he had a full-grown son and heir; but perhaps you would have wished that it might not prove to be the young man on his right hand, in whom a certain resemblance to the Baronet, in the contour of the nose and brow, seemed to indicate a family relationship. If this young man had been less elegant in his person, he would have been remarked for the elegance52 of his dress. But the perfections of his slim well-proportioned figure were so striking that no one but a tailor could notice the perfections of his velvet53 coat; and his small white hands, with their blue veins54 and taper55 fingers, quite eclipsed the beauty of his lace ruffles56. The face, however—it was difficult to say why—was certainly not pleasing. Nothing could be more delicate than the blond complexion—its bloom set off by the powdered hair—than the veined overhanging eyelids57, which gave an indolent expression to the hazel eyes; nothing more finely cut than the transparent58 nostril59 and the short upper-lip. Perhaps the chin and lower jaw60 were too small for an irreproachable61 profile, but the defect was on the side of that delicacy62 and finesse63 which was the distinctive64 characteristic of the whole person, and which was carried out in the clear brown arch of the eyebrows, and the marble smoothness of the sloping forehead. Impossible to say that this face was not eminently65 handsome; yet, for the majority both of men and women, it was destitute66 of charm. Women disliked eyes that seemed to be indolently accepting admiration67 instead of rendering68 it; and men, especially if they had a tendency to clumsiness in the nose and ankles, were inclined to think this Antinous in a pigtail a ‘confounded puppy’. I fancy that was frequently the inward interjection of the Rev1. Maynard Gilfil, who was seated on the opposite side of the dining-table, though Mr. Gilfil’s legs and profile were not at all of a kind to make him peculiarly alive to the impertinence and frivolity69 of personal advantages. His healthy open face and robust70 limbs were after an excellent pattern for everyday wear, and, in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the north-country gardener, would have become regimentals ‘a fain saight’ better than the ‘peaky’ features and slight form of Captain Wybrow, notwithstanding that this young gentleman, as Sir Christopher’s nephew and destined71 heir, had the strongest hereditary72 claim on the gardener’s respect, and was undeniably ‘clean-limbed’. But alas73! human longings74 are perversely75 obstinate76; and to the man whose mouth is watering for a peach, it is of no use to offer the largest vegetable marrow77. Mr. Gilfil was not sensitive to Mr. Bates’s opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the opinion of another person, who by no means shared Mr. Bates’s preference.
Who the other person was it would not have required a very keen observer to guess, from a certain eagerness in Mr. Gilfil’s glance as that little figure in white tripped along the lawn with the cushions. Captain Wybrow, too, was looking in the same direction, but his handsome face remained handsome—and nothing more.
‘Ah,’ said Sir Christopher, looking up from his paper, ‘there’s my lady. Ring for coffee, Anthony; we’ll go and join her, and the little monkey Tina shall give us a song.’
The coffee presently appeared, brought not as usual by the footman, in scarlet78 and drab, but by the old butler, in threadbare but well-brushed black, who, as he was placing it on the table, said—‘If you please, Sir Christopher, there’s the widow Hartopp a-crying i’ the still room, and begs leave to see your honour.’
‘I have given Markham full orders about the widow Hartopp,’ said Sir Christopher, in a sharp decided79 tone. ‘I have nothing to say to her.’
‘Your honour,’ pleaded the butler, rubbing his hands, and putting on an additional coating of humility80, ‘the poor woman’s dreadful overcome, and says she can’t sleep a wink81 this blessed night without seeing your honour, and she begs you to pardon the great freedom she’s took to come at this time. She cries fit to break her heart.’
‘Ay, ay; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the library.’
Coffee despatched, the two young men walked out through the open window, and joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir Christopher made his way to the library, solemnly followed by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in his habitual82 place at the Baronet’s right hand, behaved with great urbanity during dinner; but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared under the table, apparently83 regarding the claret-jug as a mere84 human weakness, which he winked85 at, but refused to sanction.
The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on the other side of a cloistered86 and matted passage. The oriel window was overshadowed by the great beech, and this, with the flat heavily-carved ceiling and the dark hue87 of the old books that lined the walls, made the room look sombre, especially on entering it from the dining-room, with its aerial curves and cream-coloured fretwork touched with gold. As Sir Christopher opened the door, a jet of brighter light fell on a woman in a widow’s dress, who stood in the middle of the room, and made the deepest of curtsies as he entered. She was a buxom88 woman approaching forty, her eyes red with the tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handkerchief gathered into a damp ball in her right hand.
‘Now, Mrs. Hartopp,’ said Sir Christopher, taking out his gold snuff-box and tapping the lid, ‘what have you to say to me? Markham has delivered you a notice to quit, I suppose?’
‘O yis, your honour, an’ that’s the reason why I’ve come. I hope your honour ’ll think better on it, an’ not turn me an’ my poor children out o’ the farm, where my husband al’ys paid his rent as reglar as the day come.’
‘Nonsense! I should like to know what good it will do you and your children to stay on a farm and lose every farthing your husband has left you, instead of selling your stock and going into some little place where you can keep your money together. It is very well known to every tenant89 of mine that I never allow widows to stay on their husbands’ farms.’
‘O, Sir Christifer, if you would consider—when I’ve sold the hay, an’ corn, an’ all the live things, an’ paid the debts, an’ put the money out to use, I shall have hardly enough to keep our souls an’ bodies together. An’ how can I rear my boys and put ’em ’prentice? They must go for dey-labourers, an’ their father a man wi’ as good belongings90 as any on your honour’s estate, an’ niver threshed his wheat afore it was well i’ the rick, nor sold the straw off his farm, nor nothin’. Ask all the farmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man than my husband as attended Ripstone market. An’ he says, “Bessie,” says he—them was his last words—“you’ll mek a shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christifer ’ull let you stay on.”’
‘Pooh, pooh!’ said Sir Christopher, Mrs. Hartopp’s sobs91 having interrupted her pleadings, ‘now listen to me, and try to understand a little common sense. You are about as able to manage the farm as your best milch cow. You’ll be obliged to have some managing man, who will either cheat you out of your money or wheedle92 you into marrying him.’
‘O, your honour, I was never that sort o’ woman, an’ nobody has known it on me.’
‘Very likely not, because you were never a widow before. A woman’s always silly enough, but she’s never quite as great a fool as she can be until she puts on a widow’s cap. Now, just ask yourself how much the better you will be for staying on your farm at the end of four years, when you’ve got through your money, and let your farm run down, and are in arrears93 for half your rent; or, perhaps, have got some great hulky fellow for a husband, who swears at you and kicks your children.’
‘Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o’ farmin,’ an’ was brought up i’ the thick on it, as you may say. An’ there was my husband’s great-aunt managed a farm for twenty year, an’ left legacies94 to all her nephys an’ nieces, an’ even to my husband, as was then a babe unborn.’
‘Psha! a woman six feet high, with a squint95 and sharp elbows, I daresay—a man in petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked widow like you, Mrs. Hartopp.’
‘Indeed, your honour, I never heard of her squintin’, an’ they said as she might ha’ been married o’er and o’er again, to people as had no call to hanker after her money.’
‘Ay, ay, that’s what you all think. Every man that looks at you wants to marry you, and would like you the better the more children you have and the less money. But it is useless to talk and cry. I have good reasons for my plans, and never alter them. What you have to do is to take the best of your stock, and to look out for some little place to go to, when you leave The Hollows. Now, go back to Mrs. Bellamy’s room, and ask her to give you a dish of tea.’
Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christopher’s tone that he was not to be shaken, curtsied low and left the library, while the Baronet, seating himself at his desk in the oriel window, wrote the following letter:
‘Mr. Markham,—Take no steps about letting Crowsfoot Cottage, as I intend to put in the widow Hartopp when she leaves her farm; and if you will be here at eleven on Saturday morning, I will ride round with you, and settle about making some repairs, and see about adding a bit of land to the take, as she will want to keep a cow and some pigs.—Yours faithfully,
‘Christopher Cheverel.’
After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to be sent, Sir Christopher walked out to join the party on the lawn. But finding the cushions deserted96, he walked on to the eastern front of the building, where, by the side of the grand entrance, was the large bow-window of the saloon, opening on to the gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vista97 of undulating turf, bordered by tall trees, which, seeming to unite itself with the green of the meadows and a grassy road through a plantation98, only terminated with the Gothic arch of a gateway99 in the far distance. The bow-window was open, and Sir Christopher, stepping in, found the group he sought, examining the progress of the unfinished ceiling. It was in the same style of florid pointed Gothic as the dining-room, but more elaborate in its tracery, which was like petrified100 lace-work picked out with delicate and varied101 colouring. About a fourth of its still remained uncoloured, and under this part were scaffolding, ladders, and tools; otherwise the spacious102 saloon was empty of furniture, and seemed to be a grand Gothic canopy103 for the group of five human figures standing in the centre.
‘Francesco has been getting on a little better the last day or two,’ said Sir Christopher, as he joined the party: ‘he’s a sad lazy dog, and I fancy he has a knack104 of sleeping as he stands, with his brushes in his hands. But I must spur him on, or we may not have the scaffolding cleared away before the bride comes, if you show dexterous105 generalship in your wooing, eh, Anthony? and take your Magdeburg quickly.’
‘Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most tedious operations in war,’ said Captain Wybrow, with an easy smile.
‘Not when there’s a traitor106 within the walls in the shape of a soft heart. And that there will be, if Beatrice has her mother’s tenderness as well as her mother’s beauty.’
‘What do you think, Sir Christopher,’ said Lady Cheverel, who seemed to wince107 a little under her husband’s reminiscences, ‘of hanging Guercino’s “Sibyl” over that door when we put up the pictures? It is rather lost in my sitting-room108.’
‘Very good, my love,’ answered Sir Christopher, in a tone of punctiliously109 polite affection; ‘if you like to part with the ornament110 from your own room, it will show admirably here. Our portraits, by Sir Joshua, will hang opposite the window, and the “Transfiguration” at that end. You see, Anthony, I am leaving no good places on the walls for you and your wife. We shall turn you with your faces to the wall in the gallery, and you may take your revenge on us by-and-by.’
While this conversation was going on, Mr. Gilfil turned to Caterina and said,—‘I like the view from this window better than any other in the house.’
She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were filling with tears; so he added, ‘Suppose we walk out a little; Sir Christopher and my lady seem to be occupied.’
Caterina complied silently, and they turned down one of the gravel walks that led, after many windings111 under tall trees and among grassy openings, to a large enclosed flower-garden. Their walk was perfectly112 silent, for Maynard Gilfil knew that Caterina’s thoughts were not with him, and she had been long used to make him endure the weight of those moods which she carefully hid from others. They reached the flower-garden, and turned mechanically in at the gate that opened, through a high thick hedge, on an expanse of brilliant colour, which, after the green shades they had passed through, startled the eye like flames. The effect was assisted by an undulation of the ground, which gradually descended113 from the entrance-gate, and then rose again towards the opposite end, crowned by an orangery. The flowers were glowing with their evening splendours; verbenas and heliotropes were sending up their finest incense114. It seemed a gala where all was happiness and brilliancy, and misery115 could find no sympathy. This was the effect it had on Caterina. As she wound among the beds of gold and blue and pink, where the flowers seemed to be looking at her with wondering elf-like eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the feeling of isolation116 in her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears, which had been before trickling117 slowly down her pale cheeks, now gushed118 forth119 accompanied with sobs. And yet there was a loving human being close beside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who was possessed120 by the feeling that she was miserable121, and that he was helpless to soothe122 her. But she was too much irritated by the idea that his wishes were different from hers, that he rather regretted the folly123 of her hopes than the probability of their disappointment, to take any comfort in his sympathy. Caterina, like the rest of us, turned away from sympathy which she suspected to be mingled124 with criticism, as the child turns away from the sweetmeat in which it suspects imperceptible medicine.
‘Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices,’ said Mr. Gilfil; ‘they may be coming this way.’
She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal125 her emotions, and ran rapidly to the other end of the garden, where she seemed occupied in selecting a rose. Presently Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm of Captain Wybrow, and followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped to admire the tiers of geraniums near the gate; and in the mean time Caterina tripped back with a moss126 rose-bud in her hand, and, going up to Sir Christopher, said—‘There, Padroncello—there is a nice rose for your button-hole.’
‘Ah, you black-eyed monkey,’ he said, fondly stroking her cheek; ‘so you have been running off with Maynard, either to torment127 or coax128 him an inch or two deeper into love. Come, come, I want you to sing us “Ho perduto” before we sit down to picquet. Anthony goes to-morrow, you know; you must warble him into the right sentimental129 lover’s mood, that he may acquit130 himself well at Bath.’ He put her little arm under his, and calling to Lady Cheverel, ‘Come, Henrietta!’ led the way towards the house.
The party entered the drawing-room, which, with its oriel window, corresponded to the library in the other wing, and had also a flat ceiling heavy with carving131 and blazonry; but the window being unshaded, and the walls hung with full-length portraits of knights132 and dames133 in scarlet, white, and gold, it had not the sombre effect of the library. Here hung the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, who in the reign134 of Charles II. was the renovator135 of the family splendour, which had suffered some declension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil who came over with the Conqueror136. A very imposing137 personage was this Sir Anthony, standing with one arm akimbo, and one fine leg and foot advanced, evidently with a view to the gratification of his contemporaries and posterity138. You might have taken off his splendid peruke, and his scarlet cloak, which was thrown backward from his shoulders, without annihilating139 the dignity of his appearance. And he had known how to choose a wife, too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny brown hair drawn away in bands from her mild grave face, and falling in two large rich curls on her snowy gently-sloping neck, which shamed the harsher hue and outline of her white satin robe, was a fit mother of ‘large-acred’ heirs.
In this room tea was served; and here, every evening, as regularly as the great clock in the courtyard with deliberate bass140 tones struck nine, Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to picquet until half-past ten, when Mr. Gilfil read prayers to the assembled household in the chapel141.
But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down to the harpsichord142 and sing Sir Christopher’s favourite airs from Gluck’s ‘Orfeo’, an opera which, for the happiness of that generation, was then to be heard on the London stage. It happened this evening that the sentiment of these airs, ‘Che faro senza Eurydice?’ and ‘Ho perduto il bel sembiante’, in both of which the singer pours out his yearning143 after his lost love, came very close to Caterina’s own feeling. But her emotion, instead of being a hindrance144 to her singing, gave her additional power. Her singing was what she could do best; it was her one point of superiority, in which it was probable she would excel the highborn beauty whom Anthony was to woo; and her love, her jealousy145, her pride, her rebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion which welled forth in the deep rich tones of her voice. She had a rare contralto, which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had been careful to preserve her from straining.
‘Excellent, Caterina,’ said Lady Cheverel, as there was a pause after the wonderful linked sweetness of ‘Che faro’. ‘I never heard you sing that so well. Once more!’
It was repeated; and then came, ‘Ho perduto’, which Sir Christopher encored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine. When the last note was dying out he said—‘There’s a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring out the table for picquet.’
Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, with her rapid fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on her knees, and clasped Sir Christopher’s knee. He bent146 down, stroked her cheek and smiled.
‘Caterina, that is foolish,’ said Lady Cheverel. ‘I wish you would leave off those stage-players’ antics.’
She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and then, seeing the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly glided147 out of the room.
Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord during the singing, and the chaplain had thrown himself on a sofa at the end of the room. They both now took up a book. Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’; Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near the door, opened ‘Faublas’; and there was perfect silence in the room which, ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate148 tones of Caterina.
She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here and there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand-staircase, which led directly to a gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where it was her habit to walk when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadow the heterogeneous149 objects that lined the long walls: Greek statues and busts150 of Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, natural and antiquarian; tropical birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and strange shells; swords and daggers151, and bits of chain-armour; Roman lamps and tiny models of Greek temples; and, above all these, queer old family portraits—of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels, with close-shaven heads imprisoned152 in stiff ruffs—of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly-developed head-dresses—of gallant153 gentlemen, with high hips154, high shoulders, and red pointed beards.
Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade155, and here billiards156 were played; but, in the evening, it was forsaken157 by all except Caterina—and, sometimes, one other person.
She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and thin white-robed form making her look like the ghost of some former Lady Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon.
By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window above the portico158, and looked out on the long vista of turf and trees now stretching chill and saddened in the moonlight.
Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float towards her, and an arm stole gently round her waist, while a soft hand took up her tiny fingers. Caterina felt an electric thrill, and was motionless for one long moment; then she pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round, lifted up to the face that hung over her eyes full of tenderness and reproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in that one look were the ground tones of poor little Caterina’s nature—intense love and fierce jealousy.
‘Why do you push me away, Tina?’ said Captain Wybrow in a half-whisper; ‘are you angry with me for what a hard fate puts upon me? Would you have me cross my uncle—who has done so much for us both—in his dearest wish? You know I have duties—we both have duties—before which feeling must be sacrificed.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning away her head; ‘don’t tell me what I know already.’
There was a voice speaking in Caterina’s mind to which she had never yet given vent2. That voice said continually, ‘Why did he make me love him—why did he let me know he loved me, if he knew all the while that he couldn’t brave everything for my sake?’ Then love answered, ‘He was led on by the feeling of the moment, as you have been, Caterina; and now you ought to help him to do what is right.’ Then the voice rejoined, ‘It was a slight matter to him. He doesn’t much mind giving you up. He will soon love that beautiful woman, and forget a poor little pale thing like you.’
Thus love, anger, and jealousy were struggling in that young soul.
‘Besides, Tina,’ continued Captain Wybrow in still gentler tones, ‘I shall not succeed. Miss Assher very likely prefers some one else; and you know I have the best will in the world to fail. I shall come back a hapless bachelor—perhaps to find you already married to the good-looking chaplain, who is over head and ears in love with you. Poor Sir Christopher has made up his mind that you’re to have Gilfil.’
‘Why will you speak so? You speak from your own want of feeling. Go away from me.’
‘Don’t let us part in anger, Tina. All this may pass away. It’s as likely as not that I may never marry any one at all. These palpitations may carry me off, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall never be anybody’s bridegroom. Who knows what may happen? I may be my own master before I get into the bonds of holy matrimony, and be able to choose my little singing-bird. Why should we distress159 ourselves before the time?’
‘It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling,’ said Caterina, the tears flowing fast. ‘It is bad to bear now, whatever may come after. But you don’t care about my misery.’
‘Don’t I, Tina?’ said Anthony in his tenderest tones, again stealing his arm round her waist, and drawing her towards him. Poor Tina was the slave of this voice and touch. Grief and resentment160, retrospect161 and foreboding, vanished—all life before and after melted away in the bliss162 of that moment, as Anthony pressed his lips to hers.
Captain Wybrow thought, ‘Poor little Tina! it would make her very happy to have me. But she is a mad little thing.’
At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from her trance of bliss. It was the summons to prayers in the chapel, and she hastened away, leaving Captain Wybrow to follow slowly.
It was a pretty sight, that family assembled to worship in the little chapel, where a couple of wax-candles threw a mild faint light on the figures kneeling there. In the desk was Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shade graver than usual. On his right hand, kneeling on their red velvet cushions, were the master and mistress of the household, in their elderly dignified163 beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of Anthony and Caterina, in all the striking contrast of their colouring—he, with his exquisite164 outline and rounded fairness, like an Olympian god; she, dark and tiny, like a gypsy changeling. Then there were the domestics kneeling on red-covered forms,—the women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty165 little old housekeeper166, in snowy cap and apron167, and Mrs. Sharp, my lady’s maid, of somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting168 attire169; the men by Mr. Bellamy the butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir Christopher’s venerable valet.
A few collects from the Evening Service was what Mr. Gilfil habitually170 read, ending with the simple petition, ‘Lighten our darkness.’
And then they all rose, the servants turning to curtsy and bow as they went out. The family returned to the drawing-room, said good-night to each other, and dispersed—all to speedy slumber171 except two. Caterina only cried herself to sleep after the clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfil lay awake still longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was crying.
Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at eleven, was soon in a soft slumber, his face looking like a fine cameo in high relief on the slightly indented172 pillow.
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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embroidery
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manor
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stature
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clump
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laurels
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fawn
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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10
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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11
toupee
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| n.假发 | |
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12
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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13
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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14
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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15
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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16
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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17
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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18
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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19
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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20
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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21
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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22
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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23
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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24
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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25
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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26
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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27
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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28
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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29
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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30
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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31
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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32
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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33
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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34
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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35
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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36
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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37
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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38
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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39
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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40
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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41
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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42
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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43
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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44
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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45
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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46
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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47
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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48
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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50
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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53
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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54
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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55
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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56
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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57
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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58
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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59
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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60
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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61
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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62
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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63
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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64
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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65
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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66
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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67
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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68
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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69
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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70
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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71
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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72
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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73
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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74
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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75
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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76
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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77
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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78
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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79
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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80
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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81
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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82
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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83
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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84
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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85
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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86
cloistered
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|
| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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88
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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89
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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90
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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91
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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92
wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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93
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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94
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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95
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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96
deserted
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|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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97
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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98
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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99
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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100
petrified
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|
| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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101
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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102
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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103
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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104
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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105
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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106
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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107
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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108
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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109
punctiliously
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110
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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111
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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112
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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113
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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114
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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115
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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116
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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117
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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118
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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119
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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120
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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121
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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122
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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123
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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124
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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125
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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126
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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127
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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128
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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129
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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130
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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131
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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132
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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133
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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134
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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135
renovator
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| 革新者 | |
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136
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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140
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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142
harpsichord
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| n.键琴（钢琴前身） | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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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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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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natty
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| adj.整洁的，漂亮的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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indented
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| adj.锯齿状的，高低不平的；缩进排版 | |
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