The first day of his present visit to Bamborough, passed according to the usual journal of the whole year; a plenteous dinner, with abundance of wine, and three or four country squires3 around the table. After the feast, Louis played at backgammon with his uncle; while three of the other guests, with the assistance of Dumby, dozed4 through half a dozen rubbers of whist. The senses of the fourth had not sufficiently5 survived the dinner's last potation, to be even a silent spectator. He took his station[66] in an easy chair, near some snoring dogs on the hearth-rug, and soon shewed audible fellowship with their slumbers6. At ten o'clock the butler announced supper. The whole party started from their chairs; and rubbing their eyes and hands in the joy of renewed impulse, crowded into the eating-room. Louis, who could say no with as much good humour as most people say yes, declined accompanying them, and went to his own apartments; where he passed the moon-light hours in making a drawing of their effect on the opposite tower of Lindisfarne, and the misty7 ruins of its abbey.
The next morning being ushered8 in by a fierce equinoctial tempest, the guests of the castle gazed despairingly at the floods of rain which swept before the furious wind; and when they found it impossible to animate9 the drowsy10 hours by lingering out a breakfast they had already prolonged to loathing11, they dashed through the pouring torrents12, to kill time amongst[67] horses and grooms13, dogs and whippers-in. But these employments too found satiety14; and at the first blast of the letter-carrier's horn, the whole party rushed into the house, to see what his bag contained, and to snatch the welcome newspapers. The sleeper15 of the night before, who was also high-sheriff of the county, in right of his dignity, mumbled16 The Postman to himself; while Sir Anthony, with many bursts of applause, read The True Briton aloud to the rest of the company.
As soon as Louis found the badness of the weather likely to prevent his uncle's guests from taking their usual excursions, he retreated from their noisy pastimes to the large solitary17 library. There he knew he should be as safe from invasion, as if he had hid himself in the vaults18 of the chapel19. A few minutes absorbed his whole attention in the black-letter annalists of Great Britain; comparing their details with the chronicles of France; and[68] losing himself in admiration20 of the Condés and Montmorencies of the one country, and the Talbots and Percies of the other. He dwelt with particular delight on the chivalric21 characters of Froissart, feeling as if he conversed22 with them as friends; while the heroes of Cressy and Poictiers divided his heart between the triumph of conquest, and the god-like moderation of their victories. While thus engaged, he was at times wrested23 from his fancied presence in the scenes he read, by the smacking24 of whips, and the halloos of his uncle's guests as they passed through the hall in their visits to the stables.
"What descendants of the Mowbrays, the Percies, and the Nevilles!" cried Louis to himself. The uproar25 rose and fell in gusts26, like the tempest; and at last dying away behind the friendly interposition of long passages and distant rooms, he forgot the existence of the noisy rout2; and again found himself in the pavilions of heroes.
[69]
Towards four o'clock the clouds had exhausted27 themselves; and a bright sun, tempering the chilly28 freshness of the air, he looked from the library window over the woods and glades29 of his uncle's park; and felt inclined to steal out unobserved, and take an exhilarating race towards its boundary. The deer were coming from their covert30, to enjoy the beam; and the rooks, speeding home in glad multitudes, were cooing and wheeling, and flapping their wings, as they hovered31 over or settled on the tall elms of the ancient avenue. These sounds of grateful nature, rather soothed32 than disturbed the tranquillity33 of the scene; and Louis lingered at the window, reciprocating34 the happiness of these creatures, free, careless, innocent, and full of blameless enjoyment35.
In the midst of these musings, a new, and an uncommon36 noise in his uncle's house, startled his ear; opening and banging doors along the adjoining gallery,[70] the rumbling37 of trunks, the calling of servants, and a variety of female voices in constant command. Louis stood amazed. He had not heard that his uncle expected any unusual company, and least of all women; for owing to the convivial38 character of Sir Anthony's meetings, none of the country ladies had honoured the Castle with a visit, since the departure of Mrs. Coningsby.
In a few minutes Louis heard his name loudly vociferated by Sir Anthony himself.—"Louis—Louis de Montemar!—Where the devil have you hid yourself?"—and with the boisterous39 interrogation the baronet burst into the library.—His eyes sparkled with jovial40 intelligence, as he advanced to his nephew: "Come Louis, my boy! Here is metal more attractive to your taste than chess and backgammon!—Leave this musty place, and I will introduce you to lillies and roses!"
Louis guessed, from these extraordinary[71] transports, that some accident had brought ladies to the Castle; and while he allowed Sir Anthony to hurry him down a back-stair to the drawing-room, he tried to learn something of the matter. But the Baronet was in too great an ecstacy to speak common sense:—he broke into extravagant41 thanks to the storm, and eulogies42 on fine eyes and blooming complexions43; and did not give Louis time to ask another question before he ushered him into the presence of several elegantly dressed women. With manifest pride in the fine person of his nephew, Sir Anthony introduced him to the fair group; and they received him with compliments to the uncle, which, being new to the young man from female lips, deepened to crimson45 the colour on his glowing complexion44.
A little observation convinced him that these were neither his county ladies, nor the ladies of any other county in England. They were handsome, their[72] habits costly46; and their deportment something like high fashion, though it wanted that ineffable47 grace of delicate reserve, which is the indispensable mark of a true English gentlewoman. As he looked on their careless movements and familiar ease, he could not but think how like the last harmonizing hue48 which a skilful49 painter casts over his picture, is the veil of modesty50 to a lovely woman. In short, he soon gathered from the rapid discourse51 of these unexpected visitors, that they were natives of different countries, and belonging to the stage; which profession, he thought, might necessarily free their manners from the usual restraints of their sex, without in reality impairing52 their virtue53.[A] Two of the[73] party were of the opera, the one, an Italian primadona, with a singularly beautiful figure; the other, a French dancer, young, pretty and full of life: the rest, English actresses of various degrees of personal charms.
It was the voices of these ladies' respective maids, which had surprized Louis from the gallery; and he now stood contemplating54 the persons and manners of their mistresses, with the amused curiosity of youth.—The pretty French dancer had just enquired55 whether he spoke56 her language; and was expressing her delight at being answered in the affirmative, when Sir Anthony (who had quitted the room soon after the introduction of his nephew,) re-entered with[74] the Duke of Wharton and the remainder of his guests.
Louis started at sight of the Duke, instantly remembering his promise to his guardian57. Wharton wore the same careless, animated58 air, as when he first fascinated the imagination of his young admirer; and springing directly from the dull mass which surrounded him, seemed to Louis like a sun-beam shot from a heavy cloud. The next moment he found himself in the Duke's arms.
"My dear de Montemar! This is unexpected pleasure! I thought only of refreshing59 my horses, little dreaming your uncle had provided this feast for their master!"
Louis trembled and was silent. He wished his guardian had not exacted the promise, which, even at this moment, whispered he must not hearken to the captivating Wharton, but tear himself away. Louis did not reply; for he felt unable to say (what he was determined[75] to do:) that he must instantly return to Lindisfarne.
The Duke took his arm, and drew him to a distant part of the room. "De Montemar, I could sacrifice a hecatomb of my best Cumberland steers60, for this blessed meeting! I have not seen any thing so after my own heart, since we parted; and yet I have been lamp in hand, day and night, in search of one of your stamp. I know you have a brave soul; and that it spurns62 a sleepy life, though your dreams should be of paradise!—When all are gone to bed, meet me to-night in the old library.—I have that to say to you, I would not have even a listening spider whisper to some of this herd63."
"Not even myself must listen to it!" replied Louis, making a strong effort to declare at once his intention; "Your Grace must pardon me, but I am this instant leaving the Castle."
"Impossible!" cried the Duke, "you[76] would not go for the wealth of Mexico, if you knew the matter I have to communicate."
"No temptation must detain me!" replied Louis, with a smile that spoke of sacrifice; "I am under an engagement that cannot be broken."
"That countenance64," returned Wharton, laughing; "tells a different story!—You know the old proverb! where there is a will, &c.; and I cannot doubt yours, since we pledged ourselves heart to heart on the bonnie braes of Glen Rannock!—Besides, I am here accidentally, and only for a short time. Under these circumstances, what engagement can be so serious, as ought to separate us at such a moment?"
The Duke paused, and Louis blushed. It was almost for his venerable uncle; for he thought him severe against this resistless pleader.—Wharton resumed. "Come, de Montemar; let me write man upon that candid65 brow. Not[77] as your uncle Anthony would stamp it, in lees; nor as another uncle, perhaps, would mark it, with Saint Cuthbert's tonsure66! My signet is of other impression."
"Your signet is too true a one," returned Louis, "to obliterate67 a word of honour! and I have given mine to my uncle of Lindisfarne to——," he hesitated.—Could he tell the noble Wharton, that he had solemnly promised never to remain willingly under the same roof with him?
Wharton observed the painful confusion of his too well-inclined friend.
"To what," said he, "have you pledged yourself to Mr. Athelstone?—To return to him to-night?—But the promise was given under ordinary circumstances. I know your uncle does not like the usual orgies of Sir Anthony. And as neither you, nor the good old gentleman, could guess that my happy stars would bring me to Bamborough[78] to-day, you must allow me, as a good knight68, and grand-master in the courts of honour, to give both of you acquittal on this head; and to pronounce, that change of circumstances releases you from your engagement, and him from the necessity of demanding its fulfilment!"
Louis's heightening colour overspread his face, as the Duke concluded; but collecting all his powers of self-denial, "My Lord," said he, "You are very good; but I must go!—The tide now serves, and delay——"
Wharton released his arm with an air of pique69.—The resolution of Louis to depart, and without assigning his guardian's reason for insisting on his return, was enough for the ready apprehension70 of the Duke. He at once comprehended that Mr. Athelstone foresaw a change in his nephew's moral and political principles, should he be permitted to cultivate an intimacy71, which, it was evident, was the secret wish of that nephew's[79] heart.—The Duke saw the struggle between inclination72 and duty. He saw, that persuasions73 to stay, by causing Louis to summon more of his moral strength to oppose his own desire to stay, only ensured his departure; and therefore the moment Wharton perceived the real position of the enemy, he made a russe de guerre, and drew off.
"I shall not withstand your own inclination, Mr. de Montemar," said he, as he turned away with assumed coldness. The words smote75 on the heart of Louis. Sir Anthony, who had caught their unusual tone, looked towards the Duke and his nephew. He saw the former walk with a grave demeanor76 towards a window, and the latter gaze after him with an agitated77 countenance. The baronet approached Louis, and in a whisper asked what had happened.
"I must obey my uncle's command to return to Lindisfarne."
This reply re-called to Sir Anthony[80] his own promise to the same effect. He reddened angrily: "and you have told the Duke, Mr. Athelstone's monkish78 antipathy79 to his gaiety and good humour?"
"No, dear Sir, but I have told him, I must go; that I am pledged to go. And though he injures me by supposing that I am such an Insensible as to obey without reluctance80; yet I respect my word too much, and hold my uncle's command too sacred, to hesitate about what I ought to do."
With a hurrying step, he was moving towards the door; when the baronet made one angry stride, and stretching forth81 his athletic82 arm, grasped his nephew's; and with an enraged83 countenance drew him into an anti-room, waving his other hand to the Duke to follow. Wharton was too good a general to comply immediately; and Sir Anthony, as soon as he could speak without the observation of strangers, burst into a loud[81] and violent invective84 on his uncle's unjustifiable prejudices against the Duke.
"What can he charge him with?" cried the baronet,—"That he is young? The fitter to be your companion!—That he is gay? And if a man be not gay in his youth, when is he to be gay?—That he is married, and does not live with his wife? What man of spirit would keep any terms with a woman, who wheedled85 him into wedlock86, before he was out of his teens!—That he is fond of wine? His thirst does not make you drink!—That he is liked by women; and not ungrateful to their kindness? Why Louis, your old uncle had best shut you up at once with the dead bones in the abbey vaults! And then he calls him a rebel to his King! What of that? If the King himself does not fear him, but lets him go at large amongst his subjects; why should the Pastor87 of Lindisfarne take more care for His Majesty88, than His Majesty thinks proper to take for himself! I tell you,[82] Louis, the cloven-foot is under the surplice. It is resentment89 of an old affront90, that excites all this animosity in the mind of Mr. Athelstone."
There was much in this speech, and more in the manner of it, that offended the best feelings of Louis. "Sir," said he, "I thank you for having recalled to me my uncle's arguments on this subject. He may be mistaken as to the extent of the facts; but till he is so far convinced of his error, as to release me from the promise I gave him, to avoid the Duke; I must consider myself bound to abide91 by it."
The baronet's face now became purple. "Louis! am not I your uncle, as well as this domineering priest? I am your mother's brother; and from her, I have rights, he cannot claim. You respect his commands! By what authority will you disobey mine? I therefore order you, on your peril92, not to stir from[83] this house, till it is my pleasure to let you go."
He turned, with a look of defiance93, to leave the room; but the voice of Louis arrested him. "Sir Anthony," cried he, "when you command me as becomes my mother's brother, I have ever been eager to shew you obedience94; but there is no authority on earth shall compel me to stay where I am to hear words of disrespect coupled with the name of my most revered95 guardian."
"We will look to that!" said the baronet fiercely; and opening an opposite door, he disappeared, banging it furiously after him. The Duke entered at the same instant, by the one from the drawing-room. He stood for a moment, observing the countenance of Louis; then approaching him with his usual frank air: "De Montemar," said he, "unintentionally, I have overheard something of what has passed between you and your uncle; and I have learnt enough, to be ashamed[84] of the fool's part I have played just now, when I turned from you like a jealous girl!"
Wharton laid his hand on the arm of Louis, and with a gay smile, which was rendered enchanting96 by the affectionate seriousness of his eyes, he gently added, "but friendship being the sister of love, we must forgive her sharing a little of her brother's infirmities."
Louis could not guess how much of the recent offensive discussion had been overheard by its subject; but he was glad to be cleared in the mind of the Duke from the implied charge of quitting him capriciously. "Chance," said he, "has communicated to your Grace, what I could never have brought myself to utter."
"And therefore," returned the Duke, "I suppose you leave me to guess the good Pastor's reason for excluding me from his fold? I see it in the sin of my youth. You have forgotten it; but in my beardless days, I offended Mr. Athel[85]stone in a way that deserved a cat-o-nine-tails. Had he laid his horse-whip over my shoulders at that time, it would have been wholesome97 chastisement98: but this interdict—"
"It is not for that!" exclaimed Louis, "but could my guardian know the generous character he so misjudges; I feel he would court that friendship for me, he now so fearfully deprecates."
The Duke shook his head: "thanks, dear Montemar, for that profession of your faith! But when prejudice gets possession of an old head, neither argument nor auto99 de fé can dislodge the evil spirit."
"Indeed," cried Louis, "my excellent uncle is not fuller of years than of candour! It is not one prejudice, but reports—slanders—"
"Aye," interrupted the Duke, "Dan Bacon warns us that Envy, like the sun, beats hottest on the highest grounds! But I could have spared this proof of my merit.[86]—de Montemar," added he, in a graver and more earnest tone; "shall I tell you, that you;—with that guileless heart, that ingenuous101 soul, that maiden102 reputation; will one day be reported! slandered103! made a pest, as I am, to be avoided!"
Clouds collected over the Duke's brow as he proceeded. He walked a few paces towards the opposite side of the room, and then turned round with his usual bright countenance.—"De Montemar, my life has been a comet's track; and therefore may astonish and alarm. It is not given to every man to know whither my eccentric course tends:—but I tell you, its aim is to the sun!"
Louis's heart glowed, as the Duke thus animatedly104 delivered himself. "Oh, my Lord," cried he, "why are you thus misapprehended? Or rather, why will that noble spirit give any licence to slander100, by stooping to such associates as——" he paused.
"We will not name them!" replied[87] Wharton laughing; "But such things are my toys, or my tools. Did men of our sort keep only with our likes, we should prove but useless animals. The world is a multitude, where every creature must partake the fellowship of poor dependent human nature; or at once claim kindred with the gods by doffing105 his clay, and ascending106 post-haste to the regions above!"
The castle bell rang for dinner; and with its last peal107, Sir Anthony presented himself at the drawing-room door.—He came haughtily108 forward. "My Lord Duke, the ladies await your hand to lead them down stairs.—Louis, you are come to your senses, I see, and will follow his Grace."
The manner with which the baronet said this, shewed he rather expected to intimidate109 his nephew into compliance110; than really thought he had made up his mind to obey. Louis answered with[88] firmness, "I cannot, Sir, transgress111 what I know to be my duty."
Sir Anthony's eyes flashed fire: "That is to say," cried he, "you know it is your duty to obey me!—and you will obey me!—or abide by the consequence." "Nay112, Athelstone," interrupted the Duke, "this is shot and bounce with a vengeance113! What man, with the spirit of a weazel, but would grub through your very towers, to shew you he despised such threatenings? Open your gates to the uncontrouled egress114 and regress of your nephew; or my free pinions115 will spurn61 them in a moment!" "I am no jailor, Duke Wharton," replied the angry baronet, "But that boy should know his uncle is not to be insulted with impunity116. He presumes on my avowed117 affection for him, to affront my company before my face; and then mocks me with an apology still more galling118, by declaring that he must prefer the caprices of a selfish old[89] priest, to all the gratitude119 he owes an uncle who indulges his every wish; and has already made him heir to this castle and its estates."
"Athelstone! Athelstone!" exclaimed the Duke, "am I to tell you that boy is one exception to Walpole's theory of mankind? You cannot bribe120 Louis de Montemar to act against his conscience. Open your gates, and let him go."
Sir Anthony looked from the playful remonstrance121 of the Duke, to the perturbed122 countenance of his nephew.—"Louis," said he, in a more temperate123 tone, "You know how this has been wrung124 from me. Is there no terms to be kept with my affection for you? No middle way between outraging125 all respect to me, and breaking your extorted126 promise to this lord of penance127?"
"How can I listen, Sir, to such epithets128 attached to the idea of the most venerable of men?"
"He may indulge the boy's-play!"[90] cried the Duke, "Ill names stick only to such sorry fellows as I."
"Oh, Sir," rejoined Louis, "I have only to represent to my guardian the candour with which the Duke of Wharton has just treated his unhappy prejudice; and I am sure he will instantly permit me to return to the castle."
"Then you persist in going to-night?"
"Now, Sir," replied Louis, "the tide serves: and if I delay, I must remain till midnight."
Sir Anthony walked the room in great agitation129. Wharton looked at his young friend with a persuasion74 in his eyes, to which he did not give words; and their beset130 object, unable to give a favourable131 answer to such pleading, bent132 his to the ground.
At last the baronet stopped opposite to him. "Louis, you are not a generous adversary133. You deal hardly with the heart you so well know is all your own. And there you stand, so silent, so stern,[91] to compel your uncle—the man whose life you saved,—to beg your pardon for his violence; and to entreat134 you, even with prayers, not to leave his roof in anger!" Sir Anthony caught his nephew's hand, and sobbed135 out the last words. Louis threw himself on his uncle's neck; and quite overcome, hardly articulated, "I will stay to-night, but to-morrow morning—Oh, my dear Sir, do not urge me to forfeit136 my own esteem137!"
Wharton took the arm of the baronet, who covered his face with his handkerchief, while he obeyed the impulse which drew him away through the gallery-door. The Duke bent back, and whispered to Louis, "You will follow us to the dining-room?" He bowed his head in troubled silence; and the baronet and his friend turned down the gallery.
"A few hours yielded to my uncle's feelings," said Louis to himself, "will, I trust, make no essential difference in the performance of my word to Mr. Athel[92]stone. And indeed I am true to its spirit, for I stay not willingly. And yet, were it not for my pledged word, what delight should I have in the society of this amiable138, this ingenuous, this generous Wharton!"
When Louis joined the party at dinner, the flush of his hardly-subsided agitation was still on his cheek; but his manner was composed, and his looks cheerful. The company were all seated; and the place left for him was between the lively Frenchwoman and the Earl of Warwick. The ruddy face of the baronet was burnished139 with smiles from his recent victory, which he hoped was a final one over the future influence of the Pastor with his nephew: and the pride of triumph did not a little inspirit the vivacity140 with which he did the honours of his table; challenging Louis to pledge the ladies in sparkling Champagne141, while he drank to their ruby142 lips in glowing Burgundy.
For a little time the Duke appeared[93] thoughtful; and frequently turned his eyes upon Louis, rather as if he were the object of his thoughts, than of his sight: but the actress who sat next him, rallying him once or twice on his portentous143 abstraction, he suddenly shook off a mood so little according with the company; and replying with answering badinage144, warned her dramatic majesty to beware of forcing Eneas from his cloud. The lady dared his threats; and a dialogue of wit, and playful gallantry, passed between the two, that delighted the sportive fancy of Louis, and set the grosser spirits of the party in a roar.
In the first pause of this noisy mirth, the black-eyed Italian challenged the Duke to bear his part with her in a new duetto of Apostola Zero. It was from the opera of Sappho and Phaon, and described the lover's last interview in the Lesbian shades. Louis loved music; and always listened with pleasure to his cousins chanting their border-legends,[94] or giving utterance145 to the sweeter ballads146 of Scotland: but he had never heard Italian singing until now; and he was in so wrapt an ecstacy, that, lost to the objects around him, he sat during the performance with his hands clasped, and his eyes rivetted alternately on the Duke and on the Signora, as they severally took up the thrilling melody; but when their voices mingled147 at the close with all the harmonious148 interchange of height, and depth, faultless execution, and exquisite149 pathos150, the heart of Louis seemed dissolving within him; and as the last notes trembled, and died on his ear, he leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hand.
The momentary151 pause that followed, and which his throbbing152 heart would fain have prolonged, was rudely broken by an universal clapping of hands, and cries of bravo! By a side glance, Wharton had observed Louis's attention to the singing; and now see[95]ing the disgust with which he pushed his chair back from the discordant153 uproar, he bent behind the Frenchwoman, and tapping his young friend on the shoulder, whispered—
"This universal shout, and shrill154 applause, Seem to the outraged155 ear of listening Silence, Strange as the hiss156 of hell, whose sound perverse157 Went forth to hail its sovereign's victory!"
As the Duke spoke, the cadence158 with which he repeated the lines recalled the strains which yet vibrated on the entranced sense of his auditor159; and Louis, turning his eyes on him who had charmed him out of himself, expressed, in broken but energetic language, the delight he had felt, the wonder that such powers could belong to the human voice: "I have heard fine singing, before;" said he, "but this is more than singing!—It is the voice of the soul—or, shall I say, it is the very ineffable language which love breathed into the heart of Psyché?"
"Say what you please, my own De[96] Montemar!" cried the Duke, his face radiant with animation160; "you have the soul I want!—meet me to-night in the old library."
His friend the actress heard the last words; and gaily161 protesting against any appointment which tended to break up the present festivity; the rest of the ladies rapturously seconded her motion to close the night with a dance. Sir Anthony rubbed his hands with glee at the proposal: and when the ladies soon after ascended162 to their tea-table, he ordered the band, which usually travelled in the retinue163 of the magnificent Duke, to take its station in the great drawing-room.
The healths of the fair dames164 being drank on their departure, the native topics of the chace, races, justice-meetings, and county-politics, gradually gave way before the ascendancy165 of high spirits in men of wit and genius. Louis had insensibly drank more wine at dinner, than was his custom. Its fumes166, and[97] the entrancing power of the music, united with the charms of the Duke's ever-varying discourse, had thrown his faculties167 into a kind of enchanted168 mist, where all that is pleasurable played on the surface; all that was alarming, remained behind the cloud.
At a late hour they joined the ladies, who were seated at ombre and piquet; but the moment the men appeared, the tables were pushed aside; and the leading actress, rising from her chair, invited the Duke to a minuet. He presented her his hand, while the violins obeyed the nod of his head; and then moved through the elegant evolvements of the dance, with a grace the more charming from the air of gay indifference169 with which he approached, and retreated from her gliding170 steps.
The pretty Frenchwoman shewed the agile171 varieties of her art, in a pas seul, which filled the northern squires with a wonder and satisfaction more level to[98] their apprehensions172, than had been the science of the fair Italian. Louis stood, leaning over the back of a chair, smiling, and nodding his approbation173 to the exhilarating time of the music. As soon as Mam'selle Violante had made her concluding whirl in the air, she tripped lightly forward, and gaily demanded his hand for the country-dance. He bowed delightedly; and obeyed her volant motion, as she bounded with him down the room to join Wharton and his fair partner at the head of the set. The ball became general; and the jouissance so intoxicating174; that the whole scene swam in delicious, delirious175 pleasure, with the newly-initiated sons of rough Northumberland.
When the party broke up as the sun rose, and Louis retired176 to his chamber177, he hardly knew himself to be the same man who had left it the morning before. In that very chamber, four centuries ago, the gay and profligate178 Piers179 Gaveston[99] had been a prisoner! and Louis had issued from it, only the preceding day, censuring180 in his mind the vices182 of its ancient possessor; and marvelling183 how any temptation addressed to the mere184 senses of rational man, could betray his virtue.
With a whirling brain he now threw himself upon his pillow.—The music still sounded in his ears; he yet wound with airy step through the mazes185 of the dance; the familiar pressure of the laughing Violante was still warm on his hand; and he yet thrilled under the soft glances of the fair Italian. Till that day, he had never seen the manners of women so unzoned. He had never thought it possible, that any behaviour, freer than what he saw in the behaviour of his aunt and cousins, could excite other emotions in him, than those of dislike and disgust. He had admired the magic painting of Homer, Tasso, and Spenser, in their Circé, Armida, and Adessa; and he had trembled for the constancy of[100] their respective heroes, before the allurements186 of such sorcery:—but he never expected to find similar trials in real life. He believed the fair tempters in romance, were indebted for the beautiful mask with which they concealed187 their mental deformity, entirely188 to the spells of the poet's genius. Vice181, in living woman, he expected to find as odious189 in outward shape, as it is loathsome190 within.
In short, in meditation191, nothing is beautiful without goodness. The unbiassed heart, speculating upon these subjects, never unites admiration with any thing foreign to that character; and mistaking taste for principle, when it comes to the proof, too often substitutes the approbation of virtue for virtue itself. The discourses192 of Mrs. Coningsby fostered in the mind of her nephew this natural idea of the indivisibility of goodness and beauty. She described the empire of vice to be absolute, when it takes possession of a woman; and that its imme[101]diate effects were to obliterate every feminine grace, and transmute193 her at once into a monster of sin and disgust. Believing this, Louis was not prepared for the scene he had just witnessed. The pit, he expected to behold194 yawning like the mouth of hell, and so warning him from its approach, he saw overlaid with a verdure, brighter than all around: and no wonder his unwary feet trod the tempting195 spot, and found it treacherous196.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] The reader is requested to call to mind, that this is the description of the Theatrical197 Profession, at that period of its history in this country, when the plays of Farquhar, and others of the same taste, occupied the stage; and were performed by persons who too nearly resembled in reality the characters they represented.—With Garrick and revived Shakspeare, morals and propriety198 were restored:—and at the head of our present British actresses who possess the "grace of delicate reserve, which is the indispensable work of a true English gentlewoman;" no one can fail to respect Mrs. Siddons.
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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6
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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7
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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8
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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10
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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11
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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12
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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13
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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14
satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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15
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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16
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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18
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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19
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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20
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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21
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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22
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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23
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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24
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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25
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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26
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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27
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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28
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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29
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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30
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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31
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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32
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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33
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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34
reciprocating
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| adj.往复的；来回的；交替的；摆动的v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的现在分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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35
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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36
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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37
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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38
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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39
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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40
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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41
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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42
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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43
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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44
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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45
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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46
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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47
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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48
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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49
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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50
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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51
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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52
impairing
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| v.损害，削弱( impair的现在分词 ) | |
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53
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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54
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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55
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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56
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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57
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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58
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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59
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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60
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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61
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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62
spurns
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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64
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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65
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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66
tonsure
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| n.削发；v.剃 | |
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67
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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68
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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69
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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70
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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71
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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72
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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73
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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74
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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75
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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76
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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77
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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78
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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79
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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80
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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81
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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82
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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83
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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84
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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85
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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87
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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88
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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89
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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90
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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91
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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92
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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93
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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94
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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95
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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97
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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98
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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99
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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100
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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101
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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102
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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103
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
animatedly
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| adv.栩栩如生地，活跃地 | |
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105
doffing
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| n.下筒，落纱v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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106
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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107
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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108
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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109
intimidate
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| vt.恐吓，威胁 | |
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110
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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111
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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112
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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113
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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114
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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115
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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117
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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118
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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119
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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120
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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121
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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122
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
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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124
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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125
outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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126
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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127
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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128
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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129
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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130
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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131
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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132
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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133
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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134
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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135
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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136
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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137
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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138
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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139
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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140
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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141
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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142
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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143
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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144
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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145
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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146
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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148
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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150
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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151
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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152
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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153
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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154
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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155
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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156
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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158
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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159
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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160
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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161
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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162
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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164
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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166
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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167
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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168
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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169
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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170
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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171
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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172
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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173
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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174
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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175
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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176
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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177
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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180
censuring
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的现在分词 ) | |
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181
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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182
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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183
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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184
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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185
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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186
allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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187
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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188
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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189
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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190
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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191
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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192
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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193
transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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194
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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195
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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196
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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197
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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198
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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