‘The earth hath bubbles as the water hath —
And these are of them.’
In the south of Ireland, and on the borders of the county of Limerick, there lies a district of two or three miles in length, which is rendered interesting by the fact that it is one of the very few spots throughout this country, in which some vestiges3 of aboriginal4 forest still remain. It has little or none of the lordly character of the American forest, for the axe5 has felled its oldest and its grandest trees; but in the close wood which survives, live all the wild and pleasing peculiarities6 of nature: its complete irregularity, its vistas7, in whose perspective the quiet cattle are peacefully browsing9; its refreshing10 glades11, where the grey rocks arise from amid the nodding fern; the silvery shafts12 of the old birch trees; the knotted trunks of the hoary13 oak, the grotesque14 but graceful15 branches which never shed their honours under the tyrant16 pruning-hook; the soft green sward; the chequered light and shade; the wild luxuriant weeds; the lichen17 and the moss18 — all, all are beautiful alike in the green freshness of spring, or in the sadness and sere19 of autumn. Their beauty is of that kind which makes the heart full with joy — appealing to the affections with a power which belongs to nature only. This wood runs up, from below the base, to the ridge21 of a long line of irregular hills, having perhaps, in primitive22 times, formed but the skirting of some mighty23 forest which occupied the level below.
But now, alas24! whither have we drifted? whither has the tide of civilisation25 borne us? It has passed over a land unprepared for it — it has left nakedness behind it; we have lost our forests, but our marauders remain; we have destroyed all that is picturesque26, while we have retained everything that is revolting in barbarism. Through the midst of this woodland there runs a deep gully or glen, where the stillness of the scene is broken in upon by the brawling27 of a mountain-stream, which, however, in the winter season, swells28 into a rapid and formidable torrent29.
There is one point at which the glen becomes extremely deep and narrow; the sides descend30 to the depth of some hundred feet, and are so steep as to be nearly perpendicular31. The wild trees which have taken root in the crannies and chasms32 of the rock have so intersected and entangled34, that one can with difficulty catch a glimpse of the stream, which wheels, flashes, and foams35 below, as if exulting36 in the surrounding silence and solitude37.
This spot was not unwisely chosen, as a point of no ordinary strength, for the erection of a massive square tower or keep, one side of which rises as if in continuation of the precipitous cliff on which it is based. Originally, the only mode of ingress was by a narrow portal in the very wall which overtopped the precipice38, opening upon a ledge39 of rock which afforded a precarious40 pathway, cautiously intersected, however, by a deep trench41 cut with great labour in the living rock; so that, in its original state, and before the introduction of artillery42 into the art of war, this tower might have been pronounced, and that not presumptuously43, almost impregnable.
The progress of improvement and the increasing security of the times had, however, tempted44 its successive proprietors45, if not to adorn46, at least to enlarge their premises47, and at about the middle of the last century, when the castle was last inhabited, the original square tower formed but a small part of the edifice48.
The castle, and a wide tract1 of the surrounding country, had from time immemorial belonged to a family which, for distinctness, we shall call by the name of Ardagh; and owing to the associations which, in Ireland, almost always attach to scenes which have long witnessed alike the exercise of stern feudal49 authority, and of that savage50 hospitality which distinguished51 the good old times, this building has become the subject and the scene of many wild and extraordinary traditions. One of them I have been enabled, by a personal acquaintance with an eye-witness of the events, to trace to its origin; and yet it is hard to say whether the events which I am about to record appear more strange or improbable as seen through the distorting medium of tradition, or in the appalling52 dimness of uncertainty53 which surrounds the reality.
Tradition says that, sometime in the last century, Sir Robert Ardagh, a young man, and the last heir of that family, went abroad and served in foreign armies; and that, having acquired considerable honour and emolument54, he settled at Castle Ardagh, the building we have just now attempted to describe. He was what the country people call a DARK man; that is, he was considered morose55, reserved, and ill-tempered; and, as it was supposed from the utter solitude of his life, was upon no terms of cordiality with the other members of his family.
The only occasion upon which he broke through the solitary56 monotony of his life was during the continuance of the racing57 season, and immediately subsequent to it; at which time he was to be seen among the busiest upon the course, betting deeply and unhesitatingly, and invariably with success. Sir Robert was, however, too well known as a man of honour, and of too high a family, to be suspected of any unfair dealing59. He was, moreover, a soldier, and a man of an intrepid60 as well as of a haughty61 character; and no one cared to hazard a surmise62, the consequences of which would be felt most probably by its originator only.
Gossip, however, was not silent; it was remarked that Sir Robert never appeared at the race-ground, which was the only place of public resort which he frequented, except in company with a certain strange-looking person, who was never seen elsewhere, or under other circumstances. It was remarked, too, that this man, whose relation to Sir Robert was never distinctly ascertained64, was the only person to whom he seemed to speak unnecessarily; it was observed that while with the country gentry65 he exchanged no further communication than what was unavoidable in arranging his sporting transactions, with this person he would converse66 earnestly and frequently. Tradition asserts that, to enhance the curiosity which this unaccountable and exclusive preference excited, the stranger possessed67 some striking and unpleasant peculiarities of person and of garb68 — she does not say, however, what these were — but they, in conjunction with Sir Robert’s secluded69 habits and extraordinary run of luck — a success which was supposed to result from the suggestions and immediate58 advice of the unknown — were sufficient to warrant report in pronouncing that there was something QUEER in the wind, and in surmising70 that Sir Robert was playing a fearful and a hazardous71 game, and that, in short, his strange companion was little better than the devil himself
Years, however, rolled quietly away, and nothing novel occurred in the arrangements of Castle Ardagh, excepting that Sir Robert parted with his odd companion, but as nobody could tell whence he came, so nobody could say whither he had gone. Sir Robert’s habits, however, underwent no consequent change; he continued regularly to frequent the race meetings, without mixing at all in the convivialities of the gentry, and immediately afterwards to relapse into the secluded monotony of his ordinary life.
It was said that he had accumulated vast sums of money — and, as his bets were always successful, and always large, such must have been the case. He did not suffer the acquisition of wealth, however, to influence his hospitality or his housekeeping — he neither purchased land, nor extended his establishment; and his mode of enjoying his money must have been altogether that of the miser73 — consisting merely in the pleasure of touching75 and telling his gold, and in the consciousness of wealth.
Sir Robert’s temper, so far from improving, became more than ever gloomy and morose. He sometimes carried the indulgence of his evil dispositions77 to such a height that it bordered upon insanity78. During these paroxysms he would neither eat, drink, nor sleep. On such occasions he insisted on perfect privacy, even from the intrusion of his most trusted servants; his voice was frequently heard, sometimes in earnest supplication79, sometime as if in loud and angry altercation80 with some unknown visitant; sometimes he would, for hours together, walk to and fro throughout the long oak wainscoted apartment, which he generally occupied, with wild gesticulations and agitated81 pace, in the manner of one who has been roused to a state of unnatural83 excitement by some sudden and appalling intimation.
These paroxysms of apparent lunacy were so frightful84, that during their continuance even his oldest and most-faithful domestics dared not approach him; consequently, his hours of agony were never intruded85 upon, and the mysterious causes of his sufferings appeared likely to remain hidden for ever.
On one occasion a fit of this kind continued for an unusual time, the ordinary term of their duration — about two days — had been long past, and the old servant who generally waited upon Sir Robert after these visitations, having in vain listened for the well-known tinkle86 of his master’s hand-bell, began to feel extremely anxious; he feared that his master might have died from sheer exhaustion87, or perhaps put an end to his own existence during his miserable88 depression. These fears at length became so strong, that having in vain urged some of his brother servants to accompany him, he determined89 to go up alone, and himself see whether any accident had befallen Sir Robert.
He traversed the several passages which conducted from the new to the more ancient parts of the mansion90, and having arrived in the old hall of the castle, the utter silence of the hour, for it was very late in the night, the idea of the nature of the enterprise in which he was engaging himself, a sensation of remoteness from anything like human companionship, but, more than all, the vivid but undefined anticipation91 of something horrible, came upon him with such oppressive weight that he hesitated as to whether he should proceed. Real uneasiness, however, respecting the fate of his master, for whom he felt that kind of attachment92 which the force of habitual93 intercourse94 not unfrequently engenders95 respecting objects not in themselves amiable96, and also a latent unwillingness97 to expose his weakness to the ridicule98 of his fellow-servants, combined to overcome his reluctance99; and he had just placed his foot upon the first step of the staircase which conducted to his master’s chamber100, when his attention was arrested by a low but distinct knocking at the hall-door. Not, perhaps, very sorry at finding thus an excuse even for deferring101 his intended expedition, he placed the candle upon a stone block which lay in the hall, and approached the door, uncertain whether his ears had not deceived him. This doubt was justified102 by the circumstance that the hall entrance had been for nearly fifty years disused as a mode of ingress to the castle. The situation of this gate also, which we have endeavoured to describe, opening upon a narrow ledge of rock which overhangs a perilous103 cliff, rendered it at all times, but particularly at night, a dangerous entrance. This shelving platform of rock, which formed the only avenue to the door, was divided, as I have already stated, by a broad chasm33, the planks104 across which had long disappeared by decay or otherwise, so that it seemed at least highly improbable that any man could have found his way across the passage in safety to the door, more particularly on a night like that, of singular darkness. The old man, therefore, listened attentively105, to ascertain63 whether the first application should be followed by another. He had not long to wait; the same low but singularly distinct knocking was repeated; so low that it seemed as if the applicant107 had employed no harder or heavier instrument than his hand, and yet, despite the immense thickness of the door, with such strength that the sound was distinctly audible.
The knock was repeated a third time, without any increase of loudness; and the old man, obeying an impulse for which to his dying hour he could never account, proceeded to remove, one by one, the three great oaken bars which secured the door. Time and damp had effectually corroded108 the iron chambers109 of the lock, so that it afforded little resistance. With some effort, as he believed, assisted from without, the old servant succeeded in opening the door; and a low, square-built figure, apparently110 that of a man wrapped in a large black cloak, entered the hall. The servant could not see much of this visitant with any distinctness; his dress appeared foreign, the skirt of his ample cloak was thrown over one shoulder; he wore a large felt hat, with a very heavy leaf, from under which escaped what appeared to be a mass of long sooty-black hair; his feet were cased in heavy riding-boots. Such were the few particulars which the servant had time and light to observe. The stranger desired him to let his master know instantly that a friend had come, by appointment, to settle some business with him. The servant hesitated, but a slight motion on the part of his visitor, as if to possess himself of the candle, determined him; so, taking it in his hand, he ascended112 the castle stairs, leaving his guest in the hall.
On reaching the apartment which opened upon the oak-chamber he was surprised to observe the door of that room partly open, and the room itself lit up. He paused, but there was no sound; he looked in, and saw Sir Robert, his head and the upper part of his body reclining on a table, upon which burned a lamp; his arms were stretched forward on either side, and perfectly113 motionless; it appeared that, having been sitting at the table, he had thus sunk forward, either dead or in a swoon. There was no sound of breathing; all was silent, except the sharp ticking of a watch, which lay beside the lamp. The servant coughed twice or thrice, but with no effect; his fears now almost amounted to certainty, and he was approaching the table on which his master partly lay, to satisfy himself of his death, when Sir Robert slowly raised his head, and throwing himself back in his chair, fixed114 his eyes in a ghastly and uncertain gaze upon his attendant. At length he said, slowly and painfully, as if he dreaded115 the answer:
‘In God’s name, what are you?”
‘Sir,’ said the servant, ‘a strange gentleman wants to see you below.’
At this intimation Sir Robert, starting on his feet and tossing his arms wildly upwards117, uttered a shriek118 of such appalling and despairing terror that it was almost too fearful for human endurance; and long after the sound had ceased it seemed to the terrified imagination of the old servant to roll through the deserted119 passages in bursts of unnatural laughter. After a few moments Sir Robert said:
‘Can’t you send him away? Why does he come so soon? O God! O God! let him leave me for an hour; a little time. I can’t see him now; try to get him away. You see I can’t go down now; I have not strength. O God! O God! let him come back in an hour; it is not long to wait. He cannot lose anything by it; nothing, nothing, nothing. Tell him that; say anything to him.’
The servant went down. In his own words, he did not feel the stairs under him till he got to the hall. The figure stood exactly as he had left it. He delivered his master’s message as coherently as he could. The stranger replied in a careless tone:
‘If Sir Robert will not come down to me, I must go up to him.’
The man returned, and to his surprise he found his master much more composed in manner. He listened to the message, and though the cold perspiration120 rose in drops upon his forehead faster than he could wipe it away, his manner had lost the dreadful agitation121 which had marked it before. He rose feebly, and casting a last look of agony behind him, passed from the room to the lobby, where he signed to his attendant not to follow him. The man moved as far as the head of the staircase, from whence he had a tolerably distinct view of the hall, which was imperfectly lighted by the candle he had left there.
He saw his master reel, rather than walk down the stairs, clinging all the way to the banisters. He walked on, as if about to sink every moment from weakness. The figure advanced as if to meet him, and in passing struck down the light. The servant could see no more; but there was a sound of struggling, renewed at intervals122 with silent but fearful energy. It was evident, however, that the parties were approaching the door, for he heard the solid oak sound twice or thrice, as the feet of the combatants, in shuffling123 hither and thither124 over the floor, struck upon it. After a slight pause he heard the door thrown open with such violence that the leaf seemed to strike the side-wall of the hall, for it was so dark without that this could only be surmised125 by the sound. The struggle was renewed with an agony and intenseness of energy that betrayed itself in deep-drawn gasps126. One desperate effort, which terminated in the breaking of some part of the door, producing a sound as if the door-post was wrenched127 from its position, was followed by another wrestle128, evidently upon the narrow ledge which ran outside the door, overtopping the precipice. This proved to be the final struggle, for it was followed by a crashing sound as if some heavy body had fallen over, and was rushing down the precipice, through the light boughs129 that crossed near the top. All then became still as the grave, except when the moan of the night wind sighed up the wooded glen.
The old servant had not nerve to return through the hall, and to him the darkness seemed all but endless; but morning at length came, and with it the disclosure of the events of the night. Near the door, upon the ground, lay Sir Robert’s sword-belt, which had given way in the scuffle. A huge splinter from the massive door-post had been wrenched off by an almost superhuman effort — one which nothing but the gripe of a despairing man could have severed130 — and on the rock outside were left the marks of the slipping and sliding of feet.
At the foot of the precipice, not immediately under the castle, but dragged some way up the glen, were found the remains131 of Sir Robert, with hardly a vestige2 of a limb or feature left distinguishable. The right hand, however, was uninjured, and in its fingers were clutched, with the fixedness132 of death, a long lock of coarse sooty hair — the only direct circumstantial evidence of the presence of a second person. So says tradition.
This story, as I have mentioned, was current among the dealers133 in such lore134; but the original facts are so dissimilar in all but the name of the principal person mentioned and his mode of life, and the fact that his death was accompanied with circumstances of extraordinary mystery, that the two narratives135 are totally irreconcilable137 (even allowing the utmost for the exaggerating influence of tradition), except by supposing report to have combined and blended together the fabulous138 histories of several distinct bearers of the family name. However this may be, I shall lay before the reader a distinct recital139 of the events from which the foregoing tradition arose. With respect to these there can be no mistake; they are authenticated140 as fully8 as anything can be by human testimony141; and I state them principally upon the evidence of a lady who herself bore a prominent part in the strange events which she related, and which I now record as being among the few well-attested tales of the marvellous which it has been my fate to hear. I shall, as far as I am able, arrange in one combined narrative136 the evidence of several distinct persons who were eye-witnesses of what they related, and with the truth of whose testimony I am solemnly and deeply impressed.
Sir Robert Ardagh, as we choose to call him, was the heir and representative of the family whose name he bore; but owing to the prodigality142 of his father, the estates descended143 to him in a very impaired145 condition. Urged by the restless spirit of youth, or more probably by a feeling of pride which could not submit to witness, in the paternal146 mansion, what he considered a humiliating alteration147 in the style and hospitality which up to that time had distinguished his family, Sir Robert left Ireland and went abroad. How he occupied himself, or what countries he visited during his absence, was never known, nor did he afterwards make any allusion148 or encourage any inquiries149 touching his foreign sojourn150. He left Ireland in the year 1742, being then just of age, and was not heard of until the year 1760 — about eighteen years afterwards — at which time he returned. His personal appearance was, as might have been expected, very greatly altered, more altered, indeed, than the time of his absence might have warranted one in supposing likely. But to counterbalance the unfavourable change which time had wrought151 in his form and features, he had acquired all the advantages of polish of manner and refinement152 of taste which foreign travel is supposed to bestow153. But what was truly surprising was that it soon became evident that Sir Robert was very wealthy — wealthy to an extraordinary and unaccountable degree; and this fact was made manifest, not only by his expensive style of living, but by his proceeding154 to dis-embarrass his property, and to purchase extensive estates in addition. Moreover, there could be nothing deceptive155 in these appearances, for he paid ready money for everything, from the most important purchase to the most trifling156.
Sir Robert was a remarkably157 agreeable man, and possessing the combined advantages of birth and property, he was, as a matter of course, gladly received into the highest society which the metropolis158 then commanded. It was thus that he became acquainted with the two beautiful Miss F—— ds, then among the brightest ornaments159 of the highest circle of Dublin fashion. Their family was in more than one direction allied160 to nobility; and Lady D— — their elder sister by many years, and sometime married to a once well-known nobleman, was now their protectress. These considerations, beside the fact that the young ladies were what is usually termed heiresses, though not to a very great amount, secured to them a high position in the best society which Ireland then produced. The two young ladies differed strongly, alike in appearance and in character. The elder of the two, Emily, was generally considered the handsomer — for her beauty was of that impressive kind which never failed to strike even at the first glance, possessing as it did all the advantages of a fine person and a commanding carriage. The beauty of her features strikingly assorted161 in character with that of her figure and deportment. Her hair was raven-black and richly luxuriant, beautifully contrasting with the perfect whiteness of her forehead — her finely pencilled brows were black as the ringlets that clustered near them — and her blue eyes, full, lustrous162, and animated163, possessed all the power and brilliancy of brown ones, with more than their softness and variety of expression. She was not, however, merely the tragedy queen. When she smiled, and that was not seldom, the dimpling of cheek and chin, the laughing display of the small and beautiful teeth — but, more than all, the roguish archness of her deep, bright eye, showed that nature had not neglected in her the lighter164 and the softer characteristics of woman.
Her younger sister Mary was, as I believe not unfrequently occurs in the case of sisters, quite in the opposite style of beauty. She was light-haired, had more colour, had nearly equal grace, with much more liveliness of manner. Her eyes were of that dark grey which poets so much admire — full of expression and vivacity165. She was altogether a very beautiful and animated girl — though as unlike her sister as the presence of those two qualities would permit her to be. Their dissimilarity did not stop here — it was deeper than mere74 appearance — the character of their minds differed almost as strikingly as did their complexion166. The fair-haired beauty had a large proportion of that softness and pliability167 of temper which physiognomists assign as the characteristics of such complexions168. She was much more the creature of impulse than of feeling, and consequently more the victim of extrinsic169 circumstances than was her sister. Emily, on the contrary, possessed considerable firmness and decision. She was less excitable, but when excited her feelings were more intense and enduring. She wanted much of the gaiety, but with it the volatility170 of her younger sister. Her opinions were adopted, and her friendships formed more reflectively, and her affections seemed to move, as it were, more slowly, but more determinedly171. This firmness of character did not amount to anything masculine, and did not at all impair144 the feminine grace of her manners.
Sir Robert Ardagh was for a long time apparently equally attentive106 to the two sisters, and many were the conjectures172 and the surmises173 as to which would be the lady of his choice. At length, however, these doubts were determined; he proposed for and was accepted by the dark beauty, Emily F——d.
The bridals were celebrated174 in a manner becoming the wealth and connections of the parties; and Sir Robert and Lady Ardagh left Dublin to pass the honeymoon175 at the family mansion, Castle Ardagh, which had lately been fitted up in a style bordering upon magnificent. Whether in compliance176 with the wishes of his lady, or owing to some whim177 of his own, his habits were henceforward strikingly altered; and from having moved among the gayest if not the most profligate178 of the votaries179 of fashion, he suddenly settled down into a quiet, domestic, country gentleman, and seldom, if ever, visited the capital, and then his sojourns180 were as brief as the nature of his business would permit.
Lady Ardagh, however, did not suffer from this change further than in being secluded from general society; for Sir Robert’s wealth, and the hospitality which he had established in the family mansion, commanded that of such of his lady’s friends and relatives as had leisure or inclination181 to visit the castle; and as their style of living was very handsome, and its internal resources of amusement considerable, few invitations from Sir Robert or his lady were neglected.
Many years passed quietly away, during which Sir Robert’s and Lady Ardagh’s hopes of issue were several times disappointed. In the lapse72 of all this time there occurred but one event worth recording182. Sir Robert had brought with him from abroad a valet, who sometimes professed183 himself to be French, at others Italian, and at others again German. He spoke184 all these languages with equal fluency185, and seemed to take a kind of pleasure in puzzling the sagacity and balking186 the curiosity of such of the visitors at the castle as at any time happened to enter into conversation with him, or who, struck by his singularities, became inquisitive187 respecting his country and origin. Sir Robert called him by the French name, JACQUE, and among the lower orders he was familiarly known by the title of ‘Jack, the devil,’ an appellation188 which originated in a supposed malignity189 of disposition76 and a real reluctance to mix in the society of those who were believed to be his equals. This morose reserve, coupled with the mystery which enveloped190 all about him, rendered him an object of suspicion and inquiry191 to his fellow-servants, amongst whom it was whispered that this man in secret governed the actions of Sir Robert with a despotic dictation, and that, as if to indemnify himself for his public and apparent servitude and self-denial, he in private exacted a degree of respectful homage192 from his so-called master, totally inconsistent with the relation generally supposed to exist between them.
This man’s personal appearance was, to say the least of it, extremely odd; he was low in stature193; and this defect was enhanced by a distortion of the spine194, so considerable as almost to amount to a hunch195; his features, too, had all that sharpness and sickliness of hue196 which generally accompany deformity; he wore his hair, which was black as soot111, in heavy neglected ringlets about his shoulders, and always without powder — a peculiarity197 in those days. There was something unpleasant, too, in the circumstance that he never raised his eyes to meet those of another; this fact was often cited as a proof of his being something not quite right, and said to result not from the timidity which is supposed in most cases to induce this habit, but from a consciousness that his eye possessed a power which, if exhibited, would betray a supernatural origin. Once, and once only, had he violated this sinister198 observance: it was on the occasion of Sir Robert’s hopes having been most bitterly disappointed; his lady, after a severe and dangerous confinement199, gave birth to a dead child. Immediately after the intelligence had been made known, a servant, having upon some business passed outside the gate of the castle-yard, was met by Jacque, who, contrary to his wont200, accosted201 him, observing, ‘So, after all the pother, the son and heir is still-born.’ This remark was accompanied by a chuckling202 laugh, the only approach to merriment which he was ever known to exhibit. The servant, who was really disappointed, having hoped for holiday times, feasting and debauchery with impunity203 during the rejoicings which would have accompanied a christening, turned tartly204 upon the little valet, telling him that he should let Sir Robert know how he had received the tidings which should have filled any faithful servant with sorrow; and having once broken the ice, he was proceeding with increasing fluency, when his harangue205 was cut short and his temerity206 punished, by the little man raising his head and treating him to a scowl207 so fearful, half-demoniac, half-insane, that it haunted his imagination in nightmares and nervous tremors208 for months after.
To this man Lady Ardagh had, at first sight, conceived an antipathy209 amounting to horror, a mixture of loathing210 and dread116 so very powerful that she had made it a particular and urgent request to Sir Robert, that he would dismiss him, offering herself, from that property which Sir Robert had by the marriage settlements left at her own disposal, to provide handsomely for him, provided only she might be relieved from the continual anxiety and discomfort211 which the fear of encountering him induced.
Sir Robert, however, would not hear of it; the request seemed at first to agitate82 and distress212 him; but when still urged in defiance213 of his peremptory214 refusal, he burst into a violent fit of fury; he spoke darkly of great sacrifices which he had made, and threatened that if the request were at any time renewed he would leave both her and the country for ever. This was, however, a solitary instance of violence; his general conduct towards Lady Ardagh, though at no time uxorious215, was certainly kind and respectful, and he was more than repaid in the fervent216 attachment which she bore him in return.
Some short time after this strange interview between Sir Robert and Lady Ardagh; one night after the family had retired217 to bed, and when everything had been quiet for some time, the bell of Sir Robert’s dressing-room rang suddenly and violently; the ringing was repeated again and again at still shorter intervals, and with increasing violence, as if the person who pulled the bell was agitated by the presence of some terrifying and imminent218 danger. A servant named Donovan was the first to answer it; he threw on his clothes, and hurried to the room.
Sir Robert had selected for his private room an apartment remote from the bed-chambers of the castle, most of which lay in the more modern parts of the mansion, and secured at its entrance by a double door. As the servant opened the first of these, Sir Robert’s bell again sounded with a longer and louder peal20; the inner door resisted his efforts to open it; but after a few violent struggles, not having been perfectly secured, or owing to the inadequacy219 of the bolt itself, it gave way, and the servant rushed into the apartment, advancing several paces before he could recover himself. As he entered, he heard Sir Robert’s voice exclaiming loudly — ‘Wait without, do not come in yet;’ but the prohibition220 came too late. Near a low truckle-bed, upon which Sir Robert sometimes slept, for he was a whimsical man, in a large armchair, sat, or rather lounged, the form of the valet Jacque, his arms folded, and his heels stretched forward on the floor, so as fully to exhibit his misshapen legs, his head thrown back, and his eyes fixed upon his master with a look of indescribable defiance and derision, while, as if to add to the strange insolence221 of his attitude and expression, he had placed upon his head the black cloth cap which it was his habit to wear.
Sir Robert was standing222 before him, at the distance of several yards, in a posture223 expressive224 of despair, terror, and what might be called an agony of humility225. He waved his hand twice or thrice, as if to dismiss the servant, who, however, remained fixed on the spot where he had first stood; and then, as if forgetting everything but the agony within him, he pressed his clenched226 hands on his cold damp brow, and dashed away the heavy drops that gathered chill and thickly there.
Jacque broke the silence.
‘Donovan,’ said he, ‘shake up that drone and drunkard, Carlton; tell him that his master directs that the travelling carriage shall be at the door within half-an-hour.’
The servant paused, as if in doubt as to what he should do; but his scruples227 were resolved by Sir Robert’s saying hurriedly, ‘Go — go, do whatever he directs; his commands are mine; tell Carlton the same.’
The servant hurried to obey, and in about half-an-hour the carriage was at the door, and Jacque, having directed the coachman to drive to B——n, a small town at about the distance of twelve miles — the nearest point, however, at which post-horses could be obtained — stepped into the vehicle, which accordingly quitted the castle immediately.
Although it was a fine moonlight night, the carriage made its way but very slowly, and after the lapse of two hours the travellers had arrived at a point about eight miles from the castle, at which the road strikes through a desolate228 and heathy flat, sloping up distantly at either side into bleak229 undulatory hills, in whose monotonous230 sweep the imagination beholds231 the heaving of some dark sluggish232 sea, arrested in its first commotion233 by some preternatural power. It is a gloomy and divested234 spot; there is neither tree nor habitation near it; its monotony is unbroken, except by here and there the grey front of a rock peering above the heath, and the effect is rendered yet more dreary235 and spectral236 by the exaggerated and misty237 shadows which the moon casts along the sloping sides of the hills.
When they had gained about the centre of this tract, Carlton, the coachman, was surprised to see a figure standing at some distance in advance, immediately beside the road, and still more so when, on coming up, he observed that it was no other than Jacque whom he believed to be at that moment quietly seated in the carriage; the coachman drew up, and nodding to him, the little valet exclaimed:
‘Carlton, I have got the start of you; the roads are heavy, so I shall even take care of myself the rest of the way. Do you make your way back as best you can, and I shall follow my own nose.’
So saying, he chucked a purse into the lap of the coachman, and turning off at a right angle with the road, he began to move rapidly away in the direction of the dark ridge that lowered in the distance.
The servant watched him until he was lost in the shadowy haze238 of night; and neither he nor any of the inmates239 of the castle saw Jacque again. His disappearance240, as might have been expected, did not cause any regret among the servants and dependants241 at the castle; and Lady Ardagh did not attempt to conceal242 her delight; but with Sir Robert matters were different, for two or three days subsequent to this event he confined himself to his room, and when he did return to his ordinary occupations, it was with a gloomy indifference243, which showed that he did so more from habit than from any interest he felt in them. He appeared from that moment unaccountably and strikingly changed, and thenceforward walked through life as a thing from which he could derive244 neither profit nor pleasure. His temper, however, so far from growing wayward or morose, became, though gloomy, very — almost unnaturally245 — placid246 and cold; but his spirits totally failed, and he grew silent and abstracted.
These sombre habits of mind, as might have been anticipated, very materially affected247 the gay house-keeping of the castle; and the dark and melancholy248 spirit of its master seemed to have communicated itself to the very domestics, almost to the very walls of the mansion.
Several years rolled on in this way, and the sounds of mirth and wassail had long been strangers to the castle, when Sir Robert requested his lady, to her great astonishment249, to invite some twenty or thirty of their friends to spend the Christmas, which was fast approaching, at the castle. Lady Ardagh gladly complied, and her sister Mary, who still continued unmarried, and Lady D—— were of course included in the invitations. Lady Ardagh had requested her sisters to set forward as early as possible, in order that she might enjoy a little of their society before the arrival of the other guests; and in compliance with this request they left Dublin almost immediately upon receiving the invitation, a little more than a week before the arrival of the festival which was to be the period at which the whole party were to muster250.
For expedition’s sake it was arranged that they should post, while Lady D——‘s groom251 was to follow with her horses, she taking with herself her own maid and one male servant. They left the city when the day was considerably252 spent, and consequently made but three stages in the first day; upon the second, at about eight in the evening, they had reached the town of K——k, distant about fifteen miles from Castle Ardagh. Here, owing to Miss F——d’s great fatigue253, she having been for a considerable time in a very delicate state of health, it was determined to put up for the night. They, accordingly, took possession of the best sitting-room254 which the inn commanded, and Lady D—— remained in it to direct and urge the preparations for some refreshment255, which the fatigues256 of the day had rendered necessary, while her younger sister retired to her bed-chamber to rest there for a little time, as the parlour commanded no such luxury as a sofa.
Miss F——d was, as I have already stated, at this time in very delicate health; and upon this occasion the exhaustion of fatigue, and the dreary badness of the weather, combined to depress her spirits. Lady D—— had not been left long to herself, when the door communicating with the passage was abruptly257 opened, and her sister Mary entered in a state of great agitation; she sat down pale and trembling upon one of the chairs, and it was not until a copious258 flood of tears had relieved her, that she became sufficiently259 calm to relate the cause of her excitement and distress. It was simply this. Almost immediately upon lying down upon the bed she sank into a feverish260 and unrefreshing slumber261; images of all grotesque shapes and startling colours flitted before her sleeping fancy with all the rapidity and variety of the changes in a kaleidoscope. At length, as she described it, a mist seemed to interpose itself between her sight and the ever-shifting scenery which sported before her imagination, and out of this cloudy shadow gradually emerged a figure whose back seemed turned towards the sleeper262; it was that of a lady, who, in perfect silence, was expressing as far as pantomimic gesture could, by wringing263 her hands, and throwing her head from side to side, in the manner of one who is exhausted264 by the over indulgence, by the very sickness and impatience265 of grief; the extremity266 of misery267. For a long time she sought in vain to catch a glimpse of the face of the apparition268, who thus seemed to stir and live before her. But at length the figure seemed to move with an air of authority, as if about to give directions to some inferior, and in doing so, it turned its head so as to display, with a ghastly distinctness, the features of Lady Ardagh, pale as death, with her dark hair all dishevelled, and her eyes dim and sunken with weeping. The revulsion of feeling which Miss F——d experienced at this disclosure — for up to that point she had contemplated269 the appearance rather with a sense of curiosity and of interest, than of anything deeper — was so horrible, that the shock awoke her perfectly. She sat up in the bed, and looked fearfully around the room, which was imperfectly lighted by a single candle burning dimly, as if she almost expected to see the reality of her dreadful vision lurking270 in some corner of the chamber. Her fears were, however, verified, though not in the way she expected; yet in a manner sufficiently horrible — for she had hardly time to breathe and to collect her thoughts, when she heard, or thought she heard, the voice of her sister, Lady Ardagh, sometimes sobbing271 violently, and sometimes almost shrieking272 as if in terror, and calling upon her and Lady D— — with the most imploring273 earnestness of despair, for God’s sake to lose no time in coming to her. All this was so horribly distinct, that it seemed as if the mourner was standing within a few yards of the spot where Miss F——d lay. She sprang from the bed, and leaving the candle in the room behind her, she made her way in the dark through the passage, the voice still following her, until as she arrived at the door of the sitting-room it seemed to die away in low sobbing.
As soon as Miss F——d was tolerably recovered, she declared her determination to proceed directly, and without further loss of time, to Castle Ardagh. It was not without much difficulty that Lady D—— at length prevailed upon her to consent to remain where they then were, until morning should arrive, when it was to be expected that the young lady would be much refreshed by at least remaining quiet for the night, even though sleep were out of the question. Lady D—— was convinced, from the nervous and feverish symptoms which her sister exhibited, that she had already done too much, and was more than ever satisfied of the necessity of prosecuting274 the journey no further upon that day. After some time she persuaded her sister to return to her room, where she remained with her until she had gone to bed, and appeared comparatively composed. Lady D—— then returned to the parlour, and not finding herself sleepy, she remained sitting by the fire. Her solitude was a second time broken in upon, by the entrance of her sister, who now appeared, if possible, more agitated than before. She said that Lady D—— had not long left the room, when she was roused by a repetition of the same wailing275 and lamentations, accompanied by the wildest and most agonized277 supplications that no time should be lost in coming to Castle Ardagh, and all in her sister’s voice, and uttered at the same proximity278 as before. This time the voice had followed her to the very door of the sitting-room, and until she closed it, seemed to pour forth279 its cries and sobs280 at the very threshold.
Miss F——d now most positively281 declared that nothing should prevent her proceeding instantly to the castle, adding that if Lady D—— would not accompany her, she would go on by herself. Superstitious282 feelings are at all times more or less contagious283, and the last century afforded a soil much more congenial to their growth than the present. Lady D—— was so far affected by her sister’s terrors, that she became, at least, uneasy; and seeing that her sister was immovably determined upon setting forward immediately, she consented to accompany her forthwith. After a slight delay, fresh horses were procured284, and the two ladies and their attendants renewed their journey, with strong injunctions to the driver to quicken their rate of travelling as much as possible, and promises of reward in case of his doing so.
Roads were then in much worse condition throughout the south, even than they now are; and the fifteen miles which modern posting would have passed in little more than an hour and a half, were not completed even with every possible exertion285 in twice the time. Miss F——d had been nervously286 restless during the journey. Her head had been constantly out of the carriage window; and as they approached the entrance to the castle demesne287, which lay about a mile from the building, her anxiety began to communicate itself to her sister. The postillion had just dismounted, and was endeavouring to open the gate — at that time a necessary trouble; for in the middle of the last century porter’s lodges288 were not common in the south of Ireland, and locks and keys almost unknown. He had just succeeded in rolling back the heavy oaken gate so as to admit the vehicle, when a mounted servant rode rapidly down the avenue, and drawing up at the carriage, asked of the postillion who the party were; and on hearing, he rode round to the carriage window and handed in a note, which Lady D—— received. By the assistance of one of the coach-lamps they succeeded in deciphering it. It was scrawled289 in great agitation, and ran thus:
‘MY DEAR SISTER— MY DEAR SISTERS BOTH — In God’s name lose no time, I am frightened and miserable; I cannot explain all till you come. I am too much terrified to write coherently; but understand me — hasten — do not waste a minute. I am afraid you will come too late.
‘E. A.’
The servant could tell nothing more than that the castle was in great confusion, and that Lady Ardagh had been crying bitterly all the night. Sir Robert was perfectly well. Altogether at a loss as to the cause of Lady Ardagh’s great distress, they urged their way up the steep and broken avenue which wound through the crowding trees, whose wild and grotesque branches, now left stripped and naked by the blasts of winter, stretched drearily290 across the road. As the carriage drew up in the area before the door, the anxiety of the ladies almost amounted to agony; and scarcely waiting for the assistance of their attendant, they sprang to the ground, and in an instant stood at the castle door. From within were distinctly audible the sounds of lamentation276 and weeping, and the suppressed hum of voices as if of those endeavouring to soothe291 the mourner. The door was speedily opened, and when the ladies entered, the first object which met their view was their sister, Lady Ardagh, sitting on a form in the hall, weeping and wringing her hands in deep agony. Beside her stood two old, withered292 crones, who were each endeavouring in their own way to administer consolation293, without even knowing or caring what the subject of her grief might be.
Immediately on Lady Ardagh’s seeing her sisters, she started up, fell on their necks, and kissed them again and again without speaking, and then taking them each by a hand, still weeping bitterly, she led them into a small room adjoining the hall, in which burned a light, and, having closed the door, she sat down between them. After thanking them for the haste they had made, she proceeded to tell them, in words incoherent from agitation, that Sir Robert had in private, and in the most solemn manner, told her that he should die upon that night, and that he had occupied himself during the evening in giving minute directions respecting the arrangements of his funeral. Lady D—— here suggested the possibility of his labouring under the hallucinations of a fever; but to this Lady Ardagh quickly replied:
‘Oh! no, no! Would to God I could think it. Oh! no, no! Wait till you have seen him. There is a frightful calmness about all he says and does; and his directions are all so clear, and his mind so perfectly collected, it is impossible, quite impossible.’ And she wept yet more bitterly.
At that moment Sir Robert’s voice was heard in issuing some directions, as he came downstairs; and Lady Ardagh exclaimed, hurriedly:
‘Go now and see him yourself. He is in the hall.’
Lady D—— accordingly went out into the hall, where Sir Robert met her; and, saluting294 her with kind politeness, he said, after a pause:
‘You are come upon a melancholy mission — the house is in great confusion, and some of its inmates in considerable grief.’ He took her hand, and looking fixedly295 in her face, continued: ‘I shall not live to see to-morrow’s sun shine.’
‘You are ill, sir, I have no doubt,’ replied she; ‘but I am very certain we shall see you much better to-morrow, and still better the day following.’
‘I am NOT ill, sister,’ replied he. ‘Feel my temples, they are cool; lay your finger to my pulse, its throb296 is slow and temperate297. I never was more perfectly in health, and yet do I know that ere three hours be past, I shall be no more.’
‘Sir, sir,’ said she, a good deal startled, but wishing to conceal the impression which the calm solemnity of his manner had, in her own despite, made upon her, ‘Sir, you should not jest; you should not even speak lightly upon such subjects. You trifle with what is sacred — you are sporting with the best affections of your wife ——’
‘Stay, my good lady,’ said he; ‘if when this clock shall strike the hour of three, I shall be anything but a helpless clod, then upbraid298 me. Pray return now to your sister. Lady Ardagh is, indeed, much to be pitied; but what is past cannot now be helped. I have now a few papers to arrange, and some to destroy. I shall see you and Lady Ardagh before my death; try to compose her — her sufferings distress me much; but what is past cannot now be mended.’
Thus saying, he went upstairs, and Lady D—— returned to the room where her sisters were sitting.
‘Well,’ exclaimed Lady Ardagh, as she re-entered, ‘is it not so? — do you still doubt? — do you think there is any hope?”
Lady D—— was silent.
‘Oh! none, none, none,’ continued she; ‘I see, I see you are convinced.’ And she wrung299 her hands in bitter agony.
‘My dear sister,’ said Lady D— — ‘there is, no doubt, something strange in all that has appeared in this matter; but still I cannot but hope that there may be something deceptive in all the apparent calmness of Sir Robert. I still must believe that some latent fever has affected his mind, or that, owing to the state of nervous depression into which he has been sinking, some trivial occurrence has been converted, in his disordered imagination, into an augury300 foreboding his immediate dissolution.’
In such suggestions, unsatisfactory even to those who originated them, and doubly so to her whom they were intended to comfort, more than two hours passed; and Lady D—— was beginning to hope that the fated term might elapse without the occurrence of any tragical301 event, when Sir Robert entered the room. On coming in, he placed his finger with a warning gesture upon his lips, as if to enjoin302 silence; and then having successively pressed the hands of his two sisters-in-law, he stooped sadly over the fainting form of his lady, and twice pressed her cold, pale forehead, with his lips, and then passed silently out of the room.
Lady D— — starting up, followed to the door, and saw him take a candle in the hall, and walk deliberately303 up the stairs. Stimulated304 by a feeling of horrible curiosity, she continued to follow him at a distance. She saw him enter his own private room, and heard him close and lock the door after him. Continuing to follow him as far as she could, she placed herself at the door of the chamber, as noiselessly as possible, where after a little time she was joined by her two sisters, Lady Ardagh and Miss F——d. In breathless silence they listened to what should pass within. They distinctly heard Sir Robert pacing up and down the room for some time; and then, after a pause, a sound as if some one had thrown himself heavily upon the bed. At this moment Lady D— — forgetting that the door had been secured within, turned the handle for the purpose of entering; when some one from the inside, close to the door, said, ‘Hush305! hush!’ The same lady, now much alarmed, knocked violently at the door; there was no answer. She knocked again more violently, with no further success. Lady Ardagh, now uttering a piercing shriek, sank in a swoon upon the floor. Three or four servants, alarmed by the noise, now hurried upstairs, and Lady Ardagh was carried apparently lifeless to her own chamber. They then, after having knocked long and loudly in vain, applied306 themselves to forcing an entrance into Sir Robert’s room. After resisting some violent efforts, the door at length gave way, and all entered the room nearly together. There was a single candle burning upon a table at the far end of the apartment; and stretched upon the bed lay Sir Robert Ardagh. He was a corpse307 — the eyes were open — no convulsion had passed over the features, or distorted the limbs — it seemed as if the soul had sped from the body without a struggle to remain there. On touching the body it was found to be cold as clay — all lingering of the vital heat had left it. They closed the ghastly eyes of the corpse, and leaving it to the care of those who seem to consider it a privilege of their age and sex to gloat over the revolting spectacle of death in all its stages, they returned to Lady Ardagh, now a widow. The party assembled at the castle, but the atmosphere was tainted308 with death. Grief there was not much, but awe309 and panic were expressed in every face. The guests talked in whispers, and the servants walked on tiptoe, as if afraid of the very noise of their own footsteps.
The funeral was conducted almost with splendour. The body, having been conveyed, in compliance with Sir Robert’s last directions, to Dublin, was there laid within the ancient walls of St. Audoen’s Church — where I have read the epitaph, telling the age and titles of the departed dust. Neither painted escutcheon, nor marble slab310, have served to rescue from oblivion the story of the dead, whose very name will ere long moulder311 from their tracery
‘Et sunt sua fata sepulchris.’1
The events which I have recorded are not imaginary. They are FACTS; and there lives one whose authority none would venture to question, who could vindicate312 the accuracy of every statement which I have set down, and that, too, with all the circumstantiality of an eye-witness.
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1
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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6
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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7
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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8
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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9
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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10
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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11
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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12
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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13
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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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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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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foams
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| n.泡沫，泡沫材料( foam的名词复数 ) | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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42
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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presumptuously
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| adv.自以为是地，专横地，冒失地 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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51
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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53
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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emolument
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| n.报酬，薪水 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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57
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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59
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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60
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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61
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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62
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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63
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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64
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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66
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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67
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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68
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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69
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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70
surmising
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的现在分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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71
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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72
lapse
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|
| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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73
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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74
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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75
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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76
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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77
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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78
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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79
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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80
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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81
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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82
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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83
unnatural
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|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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84
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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85
intruded
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|
| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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86
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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87
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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88
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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89
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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90
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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91
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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92
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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93
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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94
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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95
engenders
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的第三人称单数 ) | |
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96
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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97
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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98
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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99
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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100
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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101
deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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102
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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103
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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104
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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105
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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106
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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107
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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108
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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109
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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110
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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111
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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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
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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114
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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115
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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116
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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117
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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118
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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119
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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120
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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121
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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122
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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123
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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124
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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125
surmised
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|
| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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126
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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127
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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128
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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129
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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130
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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131
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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132
fixedness
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| n.固定；稳定；稳固 | |
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133
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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134
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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135
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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136
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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137
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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138
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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139
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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140
authenticated
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| v.证明是真实的、可靠的或有效的( authenticate的过去式和过去分词 )；鉴定，使生效 | |
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141
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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142
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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143
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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144
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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145
impaired
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|
| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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147
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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148
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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149
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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150
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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151
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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152
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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153
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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154
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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155
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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156
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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157
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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158
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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159
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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160
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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161
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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162
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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163
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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164
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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165
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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166
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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167
pliability
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| n.柔韧性；可弯性 | |
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168
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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169
extrinsic
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| adj.外部的；不紧要的 | |
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170
volatility
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| n.挥发性，挥发度，轻快，（性格）反复无常 | |
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171
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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172
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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173
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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174
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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175
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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176
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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177
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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178
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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179
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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180
sojourns
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| n.逗留，旅居( sojourn的名词复数 ) | |
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181
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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182
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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183
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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184
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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185
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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186
balking
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| n.慢行，阻行v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的现在分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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187
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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188
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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189
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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190
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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192
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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193
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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194
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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195
hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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196
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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197
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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198
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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199
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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200
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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201
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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202
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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203
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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204
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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205
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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206
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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207
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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208
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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209
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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210
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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211
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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212
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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213
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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214
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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215
uxorious
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| adj.宠爱妻子的 | |
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216
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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217
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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218
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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219
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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220
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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221
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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222
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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223
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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224
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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225
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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226
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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227
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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228
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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229
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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230
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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231
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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232
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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233
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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234
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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235
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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236
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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237
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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238
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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239
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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240
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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241
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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242
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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243
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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244
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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245
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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246
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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247
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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248
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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249
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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250
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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251
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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252
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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253
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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254
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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255
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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256
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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257
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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258
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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259
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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260
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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261
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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262
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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263
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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264
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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265
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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266
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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267
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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268
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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269
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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270
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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271
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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272
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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273
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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274
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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275
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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276
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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277
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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278
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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279
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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280
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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281
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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282
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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283
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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284
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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285
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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286
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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287
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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288
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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289
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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290
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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291
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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292
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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293
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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294
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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295
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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296
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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297
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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298
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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299
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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300
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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301
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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302
enjoin
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| v.命令；吩咐；禁止 | |
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303
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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304
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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305
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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306
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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307
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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308
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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309
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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310
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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311
moulder
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| v.腐朽，崩碎 | |
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312
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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