Helen, who was as pale as death, looked at him with vacant and unrecognizing eyes, but made no reply, for it was evident that she either had not heard, or did not understand, a word he said.
“Helen,” said he, “did you hear me?”
She looked upon him with a long look of distress8 and misery9, but there was the vacancy10 still, and no recognition.
This, I suppose, thought the father, is just the case with every love-sick girl in her condition, who will not be allowed to have her own way; but of what use is a father unless he puts all this nonsense down, and substitutes his own judgment11 for that of a silly girl. I will say something now that will startle her, and I will say nothing but what I will bring about.
“Helen, my darling,” he said, “are you both deaf and blind, that you can neither see nor hear your father, and to-morrow your wedding-day? Sir Robert Whitecraft will be here early; the special license12 is procured13, and after marriage you and he start for his English estates to spend the honeymoon14 there, after which you both must return and live with me, for I need scarcely say, Helen, that I could not live without you. Now I think you ought to be a happy girl to get a husband possessed15 of such immense property.”
She started and looked at him with something like returning consciousness. “But where is Willy Reilly?” she asked.
“The villain16 that would have robbed me of my property and my daughter is now safe in Sligo jail.”
A flash of something like joy—at least the father took it as such—sparkled in a strange kind of triumph from her eyes.
“Ha,” said she, “is that villain safe at last? Dear papa, I am tired of all this—this—yes, I am tired of it, and it is time I should; but you talked about something else, did you not? Something about Sir Robert Whitecraft and a marriage. And what is my reply to that? why, it is this, papa: I have but one life, sir. Now begone, and leave me, or, upon my honor, I will push you out of the room. Have I not consented to all your terms. Let Sir Robert come tomorrow and he shall call me his wife before the sun reaches his meridian18. Now, leave me; leave me, I say.”
In this uncertain state her father found himself compelled to retire to the drawing-room, where Sir Robert and he met.
“Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “is this true?”
“Is what true, Sir Robert?” said he sharply.
“Why, that Reilly and the Red Rapparee are both in Sligo jail?”
“It is true, Sir Robert; and it must be a cursed thing to be in jail for a capital crime.”
“Are you becoming penitent,” asked the other, “for bringing the laws of the land to bear upon the villain that would have disgraced, and might have ruined, your only daughter?”
The father's heart was stung by the diabolical19 pungency20 of this question.
“Sir Robert,” said he, “we will hang him if it was only to get the villain out of the way; and if you will be here to-morrow at ten o'clock, the marriage must take place. I'll suffer no further nonsense about it; but, mark me, after the honeymoon shall have passed, you and she must come and reside here; to think that I could live without her is impossible. Be here, then, at ten o'clock; the special license is ready, and I have asked the Rev23. Samson Strong to perform the ceremony. A couple of my neighbor Ashford's daughters will act as bridesmaids, and I myself will give her away: the marriage articles are drawn24 up, as you know, and there will be little time lost in signing them; and yet, it's a pity to—but no matter—be here at ten.”
Whitecraft took his leave in high spirits. The arrest and imprisonment25 of Reilly had removed the great impediment that had hitherto lain in the way of his marriage; but not so the imprisonment of the Red Rapparee. The baronet regretted that that public and notorious malefactor26 had been taken out of his own hands, because he wished, as the reader knows, to make the delivering of him up to the Government one of the elements of his reconciliation27 to it. Still, as matters stood, he felt on the whole gratified at what had happened.
Folliard, after the baronet had gone, knew not exactly how to dispose of himself. The truth is, the man's heart was an anomaly—a series of contradictions, in which one feeling opposed another for a brief space, and then was obliged to make way for a new prejudice equally transitory and evanescent. Whitecraft he never heartily28 liked; for though the man was blunt, he could look through a knave29, and appreciate a man of honor, with a great deal of shrewd accuracy. To be sure, Whitecraft was enormously rich, but then he was penurious30 and inhospitable, two vices32 strongly and decidedly opposed to the national feeling.
“Curse the long-legged scoundrel,” he exclaimed; “if he should beget33 me a young breed of Whitecrafts like himself I would rather my daughter were dead than marry him. Then, on the other hand, Reilly; hang the fellow, had he only recanted his nonsensical creed34, I could—but then, again, he might, after marriage, bring her over to the Papists, and then, by the Boyne, all my immense property would become Roman Catholic. By Strongbow, he'd teach the very rivers that run through it to sing Popish psalms35 in Latin: he would. However, the best way is to hang him out of the way, and when Jack36 Ketch has done with him, so has Helen. Curse Whitecraft, at all events!”
We may as well hint here that he had touched the Burgundy to some purpose; he was now in that state of mental imbecility where reason, baffled and prostrated37 by severe mental suffering and agitation38, was incapable39 of sustaining him without having recourse to the bottle. In the due progress of the night he was helped to bed, and had scarcely been placed and covered up there when he fell fast asleep.
Whitecraft, in the meantime, suspected, of course, or rather he was perfectly40 aware of the fact, that unless by some ingenious manoeuvre41, of which he could form no conception, a marriage with the Cooleen Bawn would be a matter of surpassing difficulty; but he cared not, provided it could be effected by any means, whether foul42 or fair. The attachment43 of this scoundrel to the fair and beautiful Cooleen Bawn was composed of two of the worst principles of the heart—sensuality and avarice44; but, in this instance, avarice came in to support sensuality. What the licentious45 passions of the debauchee might have failed to tempt46 him to, the consideration of her large fortune accomplished47. And such was the sordid48 and abominable49 union of the motives50 which spurred him on to the marriage.
The next morning, being that which was fixed51 for his wedding-day, he was roused at an early hour by a loud rapping at his hall-door. He started on his elbow in the bed, and ringing the bell for his valet, asked, when that gentleman entered his apartment half dressed, “What was the matter? what cursed knocking was that? Don't they know I can hunt neither priest nor Papist now, since this polite viceroy came here.”
“I don't know what the matter is, Sir Robert; they are at it again; shall I open the door, sir?”
“Certainly; open the door immediately.”
“I think you had better dress, Sir Robert, and see what they want.”
The baronet threw his long fleshless shanks out of the bed, and began to get on his clothes as fast as he could.
“Ha!” said he, when he was nearly dressed, “what if this should be a Government prosecution52 for what I have undertaken to do on my own responsibility during the last Administration? But no, surely it cannot be; they would have given me some intimation of their proceedings53. This was due to my rank and station in the country, and to my exertions55, a zealous56 Protestant, to sustain the existence of Church and State. Curse Church and State if it be! I have got myself, perhaps, into a pretty mess by them.”
He had scarcely uttered the last words when Mr. Hastings, accompanied by two or three officers of justice, entered his bedroom.
“Ah, Hastings, my dear friend, what is the matter? Is there any thing wrong, or can I be of any assistance to you? if so, command me. But we are out of power now, you know. Still, show me how I can assist you. How do you do?” and as he spoke57 he put his hand out to shake hands with. Mr. Hastings.
Page 143-- No, Sir Robert, I Cannot Take Your Hand
“No, Sir Robert, I cannot take your hand, nor the hand of any man that is red with the blood of murder. This,” said he, turning to the officers, “is Sir Robert Whitecraft; arrest him for murder and arson58.”
“Why, bless me, Mr. Hastings, are you mad? Surely, I did nothing, unless under the sanction and by the instructions of the last Government?”
“That remains59 to be seen, Sir Robert; but, at all events, I cannot enter into any discussion with you at present. I am here as a magistrate60. Informations have been sworn against you by several parties, and you must now consider yourself our prisoner and come along with us. There is a party of cavalry61 below to escort you to Sligo jail.”
“But how am I to be conveyed there? I hope I will be allowed my own carriage?”
“Unquestionably,” replied Mr. Hastings; “I was about to have proposed it myself. You shall be treated with every respect, six.”
“May I not breakfast before I go?”
“Certainly, sir; we wish to discharge our duty in the mildest possible manner.”
“Thank you, Hastings, thank you; you were always a good-hearted, gentlemanly fellow. You will, of course, breakfast with me; and these men must be attended to.”
And he rang the bell.
“I have already breakfasted, Sir Robert; but even if I had not, it would not become me, as your prosecutor63, to do so; but perhaps the men—”
“What,” exclaimed the baronet, interrupting him, you my prosecutor! For what, pray?”
“That will come in time,” replied the other; “and you may rest assured that I would not be here now were I not made aware that you were about to be married to that sweet girl whom you have persecuted64 with such a mean and unmanly spirit, and designed to start with her for England this day.”
Whitecraft, now that he felt the dreadful consequences of the awful position in which he was placed, became the very picture of despair and pusillanimity66; his complexion67 turned haggard, his eyes wild, and his hands trembled so much that he was not able to bring the tea or bread and butter to his lips; in fact, such an impersonation of rank and I unmanly cowardice68 could not be witnessed. He rose up, exclaiming, in a faint and hollow voice, that echoed no other sensation than that of horror:
“I cannot breakfast; I can eat nothing. What a fate is this! on the very day, too, which I thought would have consummated69 my happiness! Oh, it is dreadful!”
His servant then, by Mr. Hastings' orders, packed up changes of linen70 and apparel in his trunk, for he saw that he himself had not the presence of mind to pay attention to any thing. In the course of a few minutes the carriage was ready, and with tottering72 steps he went down the stairs, and was obliged to be assisted into it by two constables73, who took their places beside, him. Mr. Hastings bowed to him coldly, but said nothing; the coachman smacked75 his whip, and was about to start, when he turned round and said:
“Where am I to drive, Sir Robert?”
“To Sligo jail,” replied one of the constables, “as quick as you can too.”
The horses got a lash17 or two, and bounded on, whilst an escort of cavalry, with swords drawn, attended the coach until it reached its gloomy destination, where we will leave it for the present.
The next morning, as matters approached to a crisis, the unsteady old squire76 began to feel less comfortable in his mind than he could have expected. To say truth, he had often felt it rather an unnatural77 process to marry so lovely a girl to “such an ugly stork78 of a man as Whitecraft was, and a knave to boot. I cannot forget how he took me in by the 'Hop-and-go-constant' affair. But then he's a good Protestant—not that I mean he has a single spark of religion in his nondescript carcass; but in those times it's not canting and psalm-singing we want, but good political Protestantism, that will enable us to maintain our ascendancy79 by other means than praying. Curse the hound that keeps him? Is this a day for him to be late on? and it now half past ten o'clock; however, he must come soon; but, upon my honor, I dread65 what will happen when he does. A scene there will be no doubt of it; however, we must only struggle through it as well as we can. I'll go and see Helen, and try to reconcile her to this chap, or, at all events, to let her know at once that, be the consequences what they may, she must marry him, if I were myself to hold her at the altar.”
When he had concluded this soliloquy, Ellen Connor, without whose society Helen could now scarcely live, and who, on this account, had not been discharged after her elopement, she, we say, entered the room, her eye resolute80 with determination, and sparkling with a feeling which evinced an indignant sense of his cruelty in enforcing this odious81 match. The old man looked at her with surprise, for, it was the first time she had ever ventured to obtrude82 her conversation upon him,or to speak, unless when spoken to.
“Well, madam,” said he, “what do you want? Have you any message from your mistress? if not, what brings you here?”
“I have no message from my mistress,” she replied in a loud, if not in a vehement83, voice; “I don't think my mistress is capable of sending a message; but I came to tell you that the God of heaven will soon send you a message, and a black one too, if you allow this cursed marriage to go on.”
“Get out, you jade84—leave the room; how is it your affair?”
“Because I have what you want—a heart of pity and affection in my breast. Do you want to drive your daughter mad, or to take her life?”
“Begone, you impudent85 hussy; why do you dare to come here on such an occasion, only to annoy me?”
“I will not begone,” she replied, with a glowing cheek, “unless I am put out by force—until I point out the consequences of your selfish tyranny and weakness. I don't come to annoy you, but I come to warn you, and to tell you, that I know your daughter better than you do yourself. This marriage must not go on; or, if it does, send without delay to a lunatic asylum86 for a keeper for that only daughter. I know her well, and I tell you that that's what it'll come to.”
The squire had never been in the habit of being thus addressed by any of his servants; and the consequence was that the thing was new to him; so much so that he felt not only annoyed, but so much astounded87, that he absolutely lost, for a brief period, the use of his speech. He looked at her with astonishment—then about the room—then up at the ceiling, and at length spoke:
“What the deuce does all this mean? What are you driving at? Prevent the marriage, you say?”
“If the man,” proceeded Connor, not even waiting to give him an answer—“if the man—had but one good point—one good quality—one virtue88 in his whole composition to redeem89 him from contempt and hatred—if he had but one feature in his face only as handsome as the worst you could find in the devil's—yes, if he had but one good thought, or one good feature in either his soul or body, why—vile90 as it would be—and barbarous as it would be—and shameful91 and cruel as it would be—still, it would have the one good thought, and the one good feature to justify92 it. But here, in this deep and wretched villain, there is nothing but one mass of vice31 and crime and deformity; all that the eye can ses, or the heart discover, in his soul or body, is as black, odious, and repulsive93 as could be conceived of the worst imp22 of perdition. And this is the man—the persecutor94—the miser—the debauchee—the hypocrite—the murderer, and the coward, that you are going to join your good—virtuous—spotless—and beautiful daughter to! Oh, shame upon you, you heartless old man; don't dare to say, or pretend, that you love her as a father ought, when you would sacrifice her to so base and damnable a villain as that. And again, and what is more, I tell you not to prosecute95 Reilly; for, as sure as the Lord above is in heaven, your daughter is lost, and you'll not only curse Whitecraft, but the day and hour in which you were born—black and hopeless will be your doom96 if you do. And now, sir, I have done; I felt it to be my duty to tell you this, and to warn you against what I know will happen unless you go back upon the steps you have taken.”
She then courtesied to him respectfully, and left the room in a burst of grief which seized her when she had concluded.
Ellen Connor was a girl by no means deficient97 in education—thanks to the care and kindness of the Cooleen Bawn, who had herself instructed her. 'Tis true, she had in ordinary and familiar conversation a touch of the brogue; but, when excited, or holding converse98 with respectable persons, her language was such as would have done no discredit99 to many persons in a much higher rank of life.
After she had left the room, Folliard looked towards the door by which she had taken her exit, as if he had her still in his vision. He paused—he meditated—he walked about, and seemed taken thoroughly100 aback.
“By earth and sky,” he exclaimed, “but that's the most comical affair I have seen yet. Comical! no, not a touch of comicality in it. Zounds, is it possible that the, jade has coerced101 and beaten me?—dared to beard the lion in his own den—to strip him, as it were, of his claws, and to pull the very fangs102 out of his jaws103, and, after all, to walk away in triumph? Hang me, but I must have a strong touch of the coward in me or I would not have knuckled104 as I did to the jade. Yet, hold—can I, or ought I to be angry with her, when I know that this hellish racket all proceeded from her love to Helen. Hang me, but she's a precious bit of goods, and I'll contrive105 to make her a present, somehow, for her courage. Beat me! by sun and sky she did.”
He then proceeded to Helen's chamber, and ordered her attendants out of the room; but, on looking at her, he felt surprised to perceive that her complexion, instead of being pale, was quite flushed, and her eyes flashing with a strange wild light that he had never seen in them before.
“Helen,” said he, “what's the matter, love? are you unwell?”
She placed her two snowy hands on her temples, and pressed them tightly, as if striving to compress her brain and bring it within the influence of reason.
“I fear you are unwell, darling,” he continued; “you look flushed and feverish106. Don't, however, be alarmed; if you're not well, I'd see that knave of a fellow hanged before I'd marry you to him, and you in that state. The thing's out of the question, my darling Helen, and must not be done. No: God forbid that I should be the means of murdering my own child.”
So much, we may fairly presume, proceeded from the pithy107 lecture of Ellen Connor; but the truth was, that the undefinable old squire was the greatest parental108 coward in the world. In the absence of his daughter he would rant109 and swear and vapor110, strike the ground with his staff, and give other indications of the most extraordinary resolution, combined with fiery111 passion, that seemed alarming. No sooner, however, did he go into her presence, and contemplate112 not only her wonderful beauty, but her goodness, her tenderness and affection for himself, than the bluster113 departed from him, his resolution fell, his courage oozed114 away, and he felt that he was fairly subdued115, under which circumstances he generally entered into a new treaty of friendship and affection with the enemy.
Helen's head was aching dreadfully, and she felt feverish and distracted. Her father's words, however, and the affection which they expressed, went to her heart; she threw her arms about him, kissed him, and was relieved by a copious116 flood of tears.
“Papa,” she said, “you are both kind and good; surely you wouldn't kill your poor Helen?”
“Me kill you, Helen!—oh, no, faith. If Whitecraft were hanged to-morrow it wouldn't give me half so much pain as if your little finger ached.”
Just at this progress of the dialogue a smart and impatient knock came to the door.
“Who is that?” said the squire; “come in—or, stay till I see who you are.” He than opened the door and exclaimed, “What! Lanigan!—why, you infernal old scoundrel! how dare you have the assurance to look me in the face, or to come under my roof at all, after what I said to you about the pistols?”
“Ay, but you don't know the good news I have for you and Miss Helen.”
“Oh, Lanigan, is Reilly safe?—is he set at large? Oh, I am sure he must be. Never was so noble, so pure, and so innocent a heart.”
“Curse him, look at the eye of him,” said her father, pointing his cane118 at Lanigan; “it's like the eye of a sharp-shooter. What are you grinning at; you old scoundrel?”
“Didn't you expect Sir Robert Whitecraft here to-day to marry Miss Folliard, sir?”
“I did, sirra, and I do; he'll be here immediately.”
“Devil a foot he'll come to-day, I can tell you; and that's the way he treats your daughter!”
“What does this old idiot mean, Helen? Have you been drinking, sirra?”
“Not yet, sir, but plaise the Lord I'll soon be at it.”
“Lanigan,” said Helen, “will you state at once what you have to say?”
“I will, miss; but first and foremost, I must show you how to dance the 'Little House under the Hill,'” and as he spoke he commenced whistling that celebrated119 air and dancing to it with considerable alacrity120 and vigor121, making allowances for his age.
The father and daughter looked at each other, and Helen, notwithstanding her broken spirits, could not avoid smiling. Lanigan continued the dance, kept wheeling about to all parts of the room, like an old madcap, cutting, capering122, and knocking up his heels against his ham, with a vivacity123 that was a perfect mystery to his two spectators, as was his whole conduct.
“Now, you drunken old scoundrel,” said his master, catching124 him by the collar and flourishing the cane over his head, “if you don't give a direct answer I will cane you within an inch of your life. What do you mean when you say that Sir Robert Whitecraft won't come here to-day?”
“Becaise, sir, it isn't convanient to him.”
“Why isn't it convenient, you scoundrel?”
“Bekaise, sir, he took it into his head to try a change of air for the benefit of his health before he starts upon his journey; and as he got a very friendly invitation to spend some time in Sligo jail he accepted it, and if you go there you will find him before you. It seems he started this morning in great state, with two nice men belonging to the law in the carriage with him, to see that he should want for nothing, and a party of cavalry surroundin' his honor's coach, as if he was one of the judges, or the Lord Lieutenant125.”
The figurative style of his narrative126 would unquestionably have caused him to catch the weight of the cane aforesaid had not Helen interfered127 and saved him for the nonce.
“Let me at him, Helen, let me at him—the drunken old rip; why does he dare to humbug128 us in this manner?”
“Well, then, sir, if you wish to hear the good news, and especially you, Miss Folliard, it will probably relieve your heart when I tell you that Sir Robert Whitecraft is, before this time, in the jail of Sligo, for a charge of murdher, and for burnin' Mr. Reilly's house and premises129, which it now seems aren't Mr. Reilly's at all—nor ever were—but belong to Mr. Hastings.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the squire, “this is dreadful: but is it true, sirra?”
“Why, sir, if you go to his house you'll find it so.”
“Oh, papa,” said Helen, “surely they wouldn't hang him?”
“Hang him, Helen; why, Helen, the tide's turned; they want to make him an example for the outrages130 that he and others have committed against the unfortunate Papists. Hang him!—as I live, he and the Red Rapparee will both swing from the same gallows131; but there is one thing I say—if he hangs I shall take care that that obstinate132 scoundrel, Reilly, shall also swing along with him.”
Helen became as pale as ashes, the flush had disappeared from her countenance133, and she burst again into tears.
“Oh, papa,” she exclaimed, “spare Reilly: he is innocent.”
“I'll hang him,” he replied, “if it should cost me ten thousand pounds. Go you, sirra, and desire one of the grooms134 to saddle me Black Tom; he is the fastest horse in my stables; I cannot rest till I ascertain135 the truth of this.”
On passing the drawing-room he looked in, and found Mr. Strong and the two Misses Ashford waiting, the one to perform, and the others to attend, at the ceremony.
“Sir. Strong and ladies,” said he, with looks of great distraction136, “I fear there will be no marriage here to-day. An accident, I believe, has happened to Sir Robert Whitecraft that will prevent his being a party in the ceremony, for this day at least.”
“An accident!” exclaimed the ladies and the clergyman. “Pray, Mr. Folliard, what is it? how did it happen?”
“I am just going to ride over to Sir Robert's to learn everything about it,” he replied; “I will be but a short time absent. But now!” he added, “here's his butler, and I will get everything from him. Oh, Thomas, is this you? follow me to my study, Thomas.”
As the reader already knows all that Thomas could tell him, it is only necessary to say that he returned to the drawing-room with a sad and melancholy aspect.
“There is no use,” said he, addressing them, “in concealing137 what will soon be known to the world. Sir Robert Whitecraft has been arrested on a charge of murder and arson, and is now a prisoner in the county jail.”
This was startling intelligence to them all, especially to the parson, who found that the hangman was likely to cut him out of his fees. The ladies screamed, and said, “it was a shocking thing to have that delightful138 man hanged;” and then asked if the bride-elect had heard it.
“She has heard it,” replied her father, “and I have just left her in tears; but upon my soul, I don't think there is one of them shed for him. Well, Mr. Strong, I believe, after all, there is likely to be no marriage, but that is not your fault; you came here to do your duty, and I think it only just—a word with you in the next apartment,” he added, and then led the way to the dining-room. “I was about to say, Mr. Strong, that it would be neither just nor reasonable to deprive you of your fees; here is a ten-pound note, and it would have been twenty had the marriage taken place. I must go to Sligo to see the unfortunate baronet, and say what can be done for him—that is, if anything can, which I greatly doubt.”
The parson protested, against the receipt of the ten-pound note very much in the style of a bashful schoolboy, who pretends to refuse an apple from a strange relation when he comes to pay a visit, whilst, at the same time, the young monkey's chops are watering for it. With some faint show of reluctance139 he at length received it, and need we say that it soon disappeared in one of his sanctified pockets.
“Strong, my dear fellow,” proceeded the squire, “you will take a seat with these ladies in their carriage and see them home.”
“I would, with pleasure, my dear friend, but that I am called upon to console poor Mrs. Smellpriest for the loss of the captain.”
“The captain! why, what has happened him?”
“Alas! sir, an unexpected and unhappy fate. He went out last night a priest-hunting, like a godly sportsman of the Church, as he was, and on his return from an unsuccessful chase fell off his horse while in the act of singing that far-famed melody called 'Lillibullero,' and sustained such severe injuries that he died on that very night, expressing a very ungodly penitence140 for his loyalty141 in persecuting142 so many treasonable Popish priests.”
The squire seemed amazed, and, after a pause, said:
“He repented144, you say; upon my soul, then, I am glad to hear it, for it is more than I expected from him, and, between you and me, Strong, I fear it must have taken a devilish large extent of repentance145 to clear him from the crimes he committed against both priests and Popery.”
“Ah,” replied Strong, with a groan146 of deep despondency, “but, unfortunately, my dear sir, he did not repent143 of his sins—that is the worst of it—Satan must have tempted147 him to transfer his repentance to those very acts of his life upon which, as Christian148 champion, he should have depended for justification149 above—I mean, devoting his great energies so zealously150 to the extermination151 of idolatry and error. What was it but repenting152 for his chief virtues153, instead of relying, like a brave and dauntless soldier of our Establishment, upon his praiseworthy exertions to rid it of its insidious154 and relentless155 enemies?”
The squire looked at him.
“I'll tell you what, Strong—-by the great Boyne, I'd give a trifle to, see you get a smart touch of persecution156 in your own person; it might teach you a little more charity towards those who differ with you; but, upon my honor, if any change in our national parties should soon take place, and that the Papists should get the upper hand, I tell you to your teeth that if ever your fat libs should be tickled157 by the whip of persecution, they would render you great injustice158 who should do it for the sake of religion—a commodity with which I see, from the spirit of your present sentiments, you are not over-burdened. However, in the meantime, I daresay that whatever portion you possess of it, you will charitably expend159 in consoling his widow, as you say. Good-morning!”
We must return, however, to the close of Smellpriest's very sudden and premature160 departure from the scene of his cruel and merciless labors161. Having reached the strip already described to him by Mr. Strong, and to which he was guided by his men, he himself having been too far advanced in liquor to make out his way with any kind of certainty, he proceeded, still under their direction, to the cottage adjoining, which was immediately surrounded by the troopers. After knocking at the door with violence, and demanding instant admittance, under the threat of smashing it in, and burning the house as a harbor for rebellious162 priests, the door was immediately opened by a gray-headed old man, feeble and decrepit163 in appearance, but yet without any manifestation164 of terror either in his voice or features. He held a candle in his hand, and asked them, in a calm, composed voice, what it was they wanted, and why they thus came to disturb him and his family at such an unseasonable hour.
“Why, you treasonable old scoundrel,” shouted Smellpriest, “haven't you got a rebel and recusant Popish priest in the house? I say, you gray-headed old villain, turn him out on the instant, or, if you hesitate but half a minute, well make a bonfire of you, him, the house, and all that's in it. Zounds, I don't see why I shouldn't burn a house as well as Whitecraft. That cursed baronet is getting ahead of me, but I think I am entitled to a bonfire as well as he is. Shall we burn the house?” he added, addressing his men.
“I think you had better not, captain,” replied the principal of them; “recollect there are new regulations now. It wouldn't be safe, and might only end in hanging every man of us—yourself among the rest.”
“But why doesn't the old rebel produce the priest?” asked their leader. “Come here, sirra—hear me—produce that lurking165 priest immediately.”
“I don't exactly understand you, captain,” replied the old man, who appeared to know Smellpriest right well. “I don't think it's to my house you should come to look for a priest.”
“Why not, you villain? I have been directed here, and told that I would find my game under your roof.”
“In the first place,” replied the old man, with a firm and intrepid166 voice, “I am no villain; and in the next, I say, that if any man directed you to this house in quest of a priest, he must have purposely sent you upon a fool's errand. I am a Protestant, Captain Smellpriest; but, Protestant as I am, I tell you to your face that if I could give shelter to a poor persecuted priest, and save him from the clutches of such men as you and Sir Robert Whitecraft, I would do it. In the meantime, there is neither priest nor friar under this roof; you can come in and search in the house, if you wish.”
“Why, gog's 'ouns, father,” exclaimed one of the men, “how does it come that we find you here?”
“Very simply, John,” replied his father—for such he was—“I took this cottage, and the bit of land that goes with it, from honest Andy Morrow, and we are not many hours in it. The house was empty for the last six months, so that I say again, whoever sent Captain Smellpriest here sent him upon a fool's errand—upon a wild-goose chase.”
The gallant captain started upon hearing these latter words.
“What does he say,” he asked—“a wild-goose chase! Right—right,” he added, in a soliloquy; “Strong is at the bottom of it, the black scoundrel! but still, let us search the house; the old fellow admits that he would shelter a priest. Search the house I say.
'There was an old prophecy found in a bog167,
Lillibullero, bullen ala, &c., &c.'”
The house was accordingly searched, but it is unnecessary to add that neither priest nor friar was found under the roof, nor any nook or corner in which either one or the other could have been concealed168.
The party, who then directed their steps homewards, were proceeding54 across the fields to the mountain road which ran close by, and parallel with the stripe, when they perceived at once that Smellpriest was in a rage, by the fact of his singing “Lillibullero;” for, whenever either his rage or loyalty happened to run high, he uniformly made a point to indulge himself in singing that celebrated ballad169.
“By jabers,” said one of them to his companions, “there will be a battle royal between the captain and Mr. Strong if he finds the parson at home before him.”
“If there won't be a fight with the parson, there will with the wife,” replied the other. “Hang the same parson,” he added; “many a dreary170 chase he has sent us upon, with nothing but the fatigue171 of a dark and slavish journey for our pains. With what bitterness he's giving us 'Lillibullero,' and he scarcely able to sit on his horse! I think I'll advance, and ride beside him, otherwise, he may get an ugly tumble on this hard road.”
He accordingly did so, observing, as he got near him, “I have taken the liberty to ride close beside you, lest, as the night is dark, your horse might stumble.”
“What! do you think I'm drunk, you scoundrel?—fall back, sir, immediately.
“'Lillibullero, bullen ala.'
“I say I'm not drunk; but I'm in a terrible passion at that treacherous172 scoundrel; but no matter, I saw something to-night—never mind, I say.
“'There was an old prophecy found in a bog,
Lillibullero, bullen ala;
That Ireland should be ruled by an Ass21 and a Dog,
Lillibullero, bullen ala;
And now that same prophecy has come to pass—
Lillibullero, bullen ala;
For Talbot's the Dog, and James is the Ass,
Lillibullero, bullen ala.'
“Never mind, I say; hang me, but I'll crop the villain, or crop both, which is better still—steady, Schomberg—curse you.”
The same rut or chasm173 across the more open road on which they had now got out, and that had nearly been so fatal to Mr. Brown, became decidedly so to unfortunate Smellpriest. The horse, as his rider spoke, stopped suddenly, and, shying quickly to the one side, the captain was pitched off, and fell with his whole weight upon the hard pavement. The man was an unwieldy, and consequently a heavy man, and the unexpected fall stunned174 him into insensibility. After about ten minutes or so he recovered his consciousness, however, and having been once more placed upon his horse, was conducted home, two or three of his men, with much difficulty, enabling him to maintain his seat in the saddle. In this manner they reached his house, where they stripped and put him to bed, having observed, to their consternation175, that strong gushes177 of blood welled, every three or four minutes, from his mouth.
The grief of his faithful wife was outrageous178; and Mr. Strong, who was still there kindly179 awaiting his safe return, endeavored to compose her distraction as well as he could.
“My dear madam,” said he, “why will you thus permit your grief to overcome you? You will most assuredly injure your own precious health by this dangerous outburst of sorrow. The zealous and truly loyal captain is not, I trust, seriously injured; he will recover, under God, in a few days. You may rest assured, my dear Mrs. Smellpriest, that his life is too valuable to be taken at this unhappy period. No, he will, I trust and hope, be spared until a strong anti-Popish Government shall come in, when, if he is to lose it, he will lose it in some great and godly exploit against the harlot of abominations.”
“Alas! my dear Mr. Strong, that is all very kind of you, to support my breaking heart with such comfort; but, when he is gone, what will become of me?”
“You will not be left desolate180, my dear madam—you will be supported—cheered—consoled. Captain my friend, how do you feel now? Are you easier?”
“I am,” replied the captain feebly—for he had not lost his speech—“come near me, Strong.”
“With pleasure, dear captain, as becomes my duty, not only as a friend, but as an humble181 and unworthy minister of religion. I trust you are not in danger, but, under any circumstances, it is best, you know, to be prepared for the worst. Do not then be cast down, nor allow your heart to sink into despair. Remember that you have acted the part of a zealous and faithful champion on behalf of our holy Church, and that you have been a blessed scourge182 of Popery in this Pope-ridden country. Let that reflection, then, be your consolation183. Think of the many priests you have hunted—and hunted successfully too; think of how many bitter Papists of every class you have been the blessed means of committing to the justice of our laws; think of the numbers of Popish priests and bishops185 you have, in the faithful discharge of your pious117 duty, committed to chains, imprisonment, transportation, and the scaffold—think of all these things, I say, and take comfort to your soul by the retrospect186. Would you wish to receive the rites187 and consolations188 of religion at my hands?”
“Come near me, Strong,” repeated Smell-priest. “The rites of religion from you—the rights of perdition as soon, you hypocritical scoundrel;” and as he spoke he caught a gush176 of blood as it issued from his mouth and flung it with all the strength he had left right into the clergyman's face. “Take that, you villain,” he added; “I die in every sense with my blood upon you. And as for my hunting of priests and Papists, it is the only thing that lies at this moment heavy over my heart. And as for that wife of mine, I'm sorry she's not in my place. I know, of course, I'll be damned; but it can't be helped now. If I go down, as down I will go, won't I have plenty of friends to keep me in countenance. I know—I feel I'm dying; but I must take the consequences. In the meantime, my best word and wish is, that that vile jade shan't be permitted to approach or touch my body after I am dead. My curse upon you both! for you brought me to this untimely death between you.”
“Why, my dear Smellpriest—” exclaimed the wife.
“Don't call me Smellpriest,” he replied, interrupting her; “my name is Norbury. But it doesn't matter—it's all up with me, and I know it will soon be all down with me; for down, down I'll go. Strong, you hypocritical scoundrel, don't be a persecutor: look at me on the very brink189 of perdition for it. And now the only comfort I have is, that I let the poor Popish bishop184 off. I could not shoot him, or at any rate make a prisoner of him, and he engaged in the worship of God.”
“Alas!” whispered Strong, “the poor man is verging190 on rank Popery—he is hopeless.”
“But, Tom, dear,” said the wife, “why are you displeased191 with me, your own faithful partner? I that was so loving and affectionate to you? I that urged you on in the path of duty? I that scoured192 your arms and regimentals with my own hands—that mixed you your punch before you went after the black game, as you used to say, and, again, had it ready for you when you returned to precious Mr. Strong and me after a long hunt. Don't die in anger with your own Grizzey, as you used to call me, my dear Tom, or, if you do, I feel that I won't long survive you.”
“Ah! you jade,” replied Tom, “didn't I see the wink193 between you to-night, although you thought I was drunk? Ah, these wild-goose chases!”
“Tom, dear, we are both innocent. Oh, forgive your own Grizaey!”
“So I do, you jade—my curse on you both.”
Whether it was the effort necessary to speak, in addition to the excitement occasioned by his suspicions, and whether these suspicions were well founded or not, we do not presume to say; but the fact was, that, after another outgulp of blood had come up, he drew a long, deep sigh, his under-jaw fell, and the wretched, half-penitent Captain Smellpriest breathed his last. After which his wife, whether from sorrow or remorse194, became insensible, and remained in that state for a considerable time; but at length she recovered, and, after expressing the most violent sorrow, literally195 drove the Rev. Mr. Strong out of the house, with many deep and bitter curses. But to return:
In a few minutes the parties dispersed196, and Folliard, too much absorbed in the fates of Reilly and Whitecraft, prepared to ride to Sligo, to ascertain if any thing could be done for the baronet. In the meantime, while he and his old friend Cummiskey are on their way to see that gentleman, we will ask the attention of our readers to the state of Helen's mind, as it was affected197 by the distressing198 events which had so rapidly and recently occurred. We need not assure them that deep anxiety for the fate of her unfortunate lover lay upon her heart like gloom of death itself. His image and his natural nobility of character, but, above all, the purity and delicacy199 of his love for herself his manly62 and faithful attachment to his religion, under temptations which few hearts could resist—temptations of which she herself was, beyond all comparison, the most trying and the most difficult to be withstood; his refusal to leave the country on her account, even when the bloodhounds of the law were pursuing him to his death in every direction; and the reflection that this resolution of abiding200 by her, and watching over her welfare and happiness, and guarding her, as far as he could, from domestic persecution—all these reflections, in short, crowded upon her mind with such fearful force that her reason began to totter71, and she felt apprehensive201 that she might not be able to bear the trial which Reilly's position now placed before her in the most hideous202 colors. On the other hand, there was Whitecraft, a man certainly who had committed many crimes and murders and burnings, often, but not always, upon his own responsibility; a man who, she knew, entertained no manly or tender affection for her; he too about to meet a violent death! That she detested203 him with an abhorrence204 as deep as ever woman entertained against man was true; yet she was a woman, and this unhappy fate that impended205 over him was not excluded out of the code of her heart's humanity. She wished him also to be saved, if only that he might withdraw from Ireland and repent of his crimes. Altogether she was in a state bordering on frenzy206 and despair, and was often incapable of continuing a sustained conversation.
When Whitecraft reached the jail in his carriage, attended by a guard of troopers, the jailor knew not what to make of it; but seeing the carriage, which, after a glance or two, he immediately recognized as that of the well-known grand juror, he came out, with hat in hand, bowing most obsequiously207.
“I hope your honor's well; you are coming to inspect the prisoners, I suppose? Always active on behalf of Church and State, Sir Robert.”
“Come, Mr. O'Shaughnessy,” said one of the constables, “get on with no nonsense. You're a mighty208 Church and State man now; but I remember when there was as rank a rebel under your coat as ever thumped209 a craw. Sir Robert, sir, is here as our prisoner, and will soon be yours, for murder and arson, and God knows what besides. Be pleased to walk into the hatch, Sir Robert, and there we surrender you to Mr. O'Shaughnessy, who will treat you well if you pay him well.”
They then entered the hatch. The constable74 produced the mittimus and the baronet's person both together, after which they withdrew, having failed to get the price of a glass from the baronet as a reward for their civility.
Such scenes have been described a hundred times, and we consequently shall not delay our readers upon this. The baronet, indeed, imagined that from his rank and influence the jailer might be induced to give him comfortable apartments. He was in, however, for two capital felonies, and the jailer, who was acquainted with the turn that public affairs had taken, told him that upon his soul and conscience if the matter lay with him he would not put his honor among the felons210; but then he had no discretion211, because it was as much as his place was worth to break the rules—a thing he couldn't think of doing as an honest man and an upright officer.
“But whatever I can do for you, Sir Robert, I'll do.”
“You will let me have pen and ink, won't you?”
“Well, let me see. Yes, I will, Sir Robert; I'll stretch that far for the sake of ould times.”
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1
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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2
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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3
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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4
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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5
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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6
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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7
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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8
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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9
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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10
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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11
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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12
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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13
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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14
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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15
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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16
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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17
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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18
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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19
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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20
pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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21
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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22
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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23
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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24
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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25
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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26
malefactor
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| n.罪犯 | |
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27
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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28
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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29
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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30
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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31
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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32
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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33
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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34
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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35
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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36
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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37
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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38
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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39
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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40
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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41
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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42
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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43
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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44
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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45
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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46
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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47
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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48
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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49
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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50
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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51
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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52
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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53
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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54
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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55
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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56
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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57
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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58
arson
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| n.纵火，放火 | |
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59
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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60
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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61
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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62
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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63
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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64
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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65
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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66
pusillanimity
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| n.无气力，胆怯 | |
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67
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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68
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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69
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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70
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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71
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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72
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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73
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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74
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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75
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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77
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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78
stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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79
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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80
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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81
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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82
obtrude
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| v.闯入；侵入；打扰 | |
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83
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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84
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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85
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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86
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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87
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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88
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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89
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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90
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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91
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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92
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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93
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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94
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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95
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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96
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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97
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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98
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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99
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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100
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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101
coerced
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| v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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102
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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103
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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104
knuckled
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| v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的过去式和过去分词 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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105
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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106
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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107
pithy
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| adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
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108
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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109
rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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110
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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111
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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112
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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113
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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114
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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115
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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116
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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117
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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118
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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119
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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120
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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121
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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122
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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123
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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124
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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125
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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126
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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127
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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128
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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129
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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130
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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131
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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132
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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133
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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134
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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135
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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136
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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137
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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138
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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139
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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140
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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141
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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142
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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143
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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144
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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146
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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147
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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148
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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149
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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150
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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151
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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152
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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153
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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154
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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155
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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156
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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157
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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158
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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159
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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160
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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161
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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162
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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163
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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164
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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165
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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166
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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167
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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168
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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169
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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170
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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171
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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172
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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173
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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174
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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175
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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176
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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177
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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178
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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179
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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180
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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181
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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182
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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183
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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184
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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185
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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186
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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187
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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188
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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189
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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190
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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191
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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192
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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193
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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194
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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195
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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196
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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197
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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198
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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199
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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200
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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201
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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202
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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203
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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207
obsequiously
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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209
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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211
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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