Fly when she frowns, and when she calls pursue.”
Overwhelmed with grief and disappointment at the supposed perfidy2 of Amanda, Lord Mortimer had returned to England, acquainting Lord Cherbury and Lady Martha of the unhappy cause of his returning alone; entreating3 them, in pity to his wounded feelings, never to mention the distressing5 subject before him. His dejection was unconquerable; all his schemes of felicity were overthrown6, and the destruction of his hopes was the destruction of his peace. It was not in these first transports of bitter sorrow that Lord Cherbury ventured to speak his wishes to his son. He waited till, by slow degrees, he saw a greater degree of composure in his manner, though it was a composure attended with no abatement7 of melancholy8. At first he only hinted those wishes—hints, however, which Lord Mortimer appeared designedly insensible of. At last the earl spoke9 plainer. He mentioned his deep regret at beholding11 a son, whom he had ever considered the pride of his house, and the solace12 of his days, wasting his youth in wretchedness, for an ungrateful woman, who had long triumphed in the infatuation which bound him to her. “It filled his soul with anguish14,” he said, “to behold10 him lost to himself, his family, and the world, thus disappointing all the hopes and expectations which the fair promise of his early youth had given rise to in the bosom15 of his friends concerning the meridian16 of his day.”
Lord Mortimer was unutterably affected17 by what his father said. The earl beheld18 his emotions, and blessed it as a happy omen19. His pride, as well as sensibility, he continued, were deeply wounded at the idea of having Lord Mortimer still considered the slave of a passion which had met so base a return. “Oh! I let not the world,” added he, with increasing energy, “triumph in your weakness; try to shake it off, ere the finger of scorn and ridicule20 is pointed21 at you as the dupe of a deceitful woman’s art.”
Lord Mortimer was inexpressibly shocked. His pride had frequently represented as weakness the regret he felt for Amanda; and the earl now stimulating22 that pride, he felt at[Pg 539] the moment as if he could make any sacrifice which should prove his having triumphed over his unfortunate attachment23. But when his father called on him to make such a sacrifice, by uniting himself to Lady Euphrasia, he shrunk back, and acknowledged he could not give so fatal a proof of fortitude24. He declared his total repugnance25 at present to any alliance. Time, and the efforts of reason, he trusted, would subdue his ill-placed attachment, and enable him to comply with the wishes of his friends.
Lord Cherbury would not, could not drop the subject next his heart—a subject so important, so infinitely26 interesting to him. He exerted all his eloquence27, he entreated28, he implored29 his son not forever to disappoint his wishes. He mentioned the compliance30 he had so recently shown to his, though against his better judgment31, in the useless consent he had given to his marriage with Miss Fitzalan.
Lord Mortimer, persecuted32 by his arguments, at length declared that, was the object he pointed out for his alliance any other than Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, he would not perhaps be so reluctant to comply with his wishes; but she was a woman he could never esteem33, and must consequently forever refuse. She had given such specimens34 of cruelty and deceit, in the schemes she had entered into with the marchioness against (he blushed, he faltered35, as he pronounced her name) Miss Fitzalan, that his heart felt unutterable dislike to her.
The earl was prepared for this; he had the barbarity to declare, in the most unhesitating manner, he was sorry to find him still blinded by the art of that wretched girl. He bade him reflect on her conduct, and then consider whether any credence36 was to be given to her declaration of Belgrave’s being admitted to the house without her knowledge.
Lord Mortimer was startled. Her conduct, indeed, as his father said, might well make him doubt her veracity37. But still the evidence of the servants; they acknowledged having been instruments in forwarding the scheme which she said was laid against her. He mentioned this circumstance. The earl was also prepared for it; the servants, he declared, had been examined in his presence, when with shame and contrition39 they confessed, that seeing the strong anxiety of Lord Mortimer for the restoration of Miss Fitzalan’s fame, and tempted40 by the large bribes41 he offered, if they could or would say anything in her justification42, they had at last made the allegation so pleasing to him.
[Pg 540]
Lord Mortimer sighed deeply. “On every side,” cried he, “I find I have been the dupe of art; but it was only the deceit of one could agonize43 my soul.” Still, however, he was inexorable to all his father could say relative to Lady Euphrasia.
Lady Martha was at last called in as an auxiliary44; she was now as strenuous45 for the connection as ever Lord Cherbury had been. A longer indulgence of Lord Mortimer’s grief, she feared, would completely undermine his health, and either render him a burden to himself, or precipitate46 him to an early grave. Whilst he continued single, she knew he would not consider any vigorous exertions48 for overcoming that grief necessary; but if once united, she was convinced, from the rectitude and sensibility of his disposition49, he would struggle against his feelings, in order to fulfil the incumbent50 duties he had imposed upon himself. Thus did she deem a union requisite51 to rouse him to exertion47; to restore his peace, and in all probability to save his life. She joined in her brother’s arguments and entreaties52, with tears she joined in them, and besought53 Mortimer to accede54 to their wishes. She called him the last hope of their house. He had long, she said, been the pride, the delight of their days; their comfort, their existence were interwoven in his; if he sunk, they sunk with him.
The yielding soul of Mortimer could not resist such tenderness, and he gave a promise of acting55 as they wished. He imagined he could not be more wretched; but scarcely had this promise passed his lips, ere he felt an augmentation of misery56. To enter into new engagements, to resign the sweet though melancholy privilege of indulging his feelings, to fetter57 at once both soul and body, were ideas that filled him with unutterable anguish. A thousand times was he on the point of retracting58 his regretted and reluctant promise, had not honor interposed, and showed the inability of doing so, without an infringement59 on its principles. Thus entangled60, Mortimer endeavored to collect his scattered61 thoughts, and in order to try and gain some composure, he altered his former plan of acting, and mingled62 as much as possible in society. He strove to fly from himself, that by so doing he might fly from the corrosive63 remembrances which embittered64 his life. But who shall paint his agonies at the unexpected sight of Amanda at the Macqueens? The exertions he had for some time before compelled himself to make, had a little abated65 the pain of his feelings; but that pain returned with redoubled violence at her presence, and every idea of present composure, or of future tranquillity66, vanished. He[Pg 541] felt with regret, anguish, that she was as dear as ever to his soul, and his destined67 union became more hateful than ever to him. He tried, by recollecting68 her conduct, to awaken69 his resentment70; but, alas71! softness, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, was the predominant feeling of his soul. Her pallid72 cheek, her deep dejection, seemed to say she was the child of sorrow and repentance73. To soothe74 that sorrow, to strengthen that repentance, oh! how delightful75 unto him; but either he durst not do, situated76 as he then was.
With the utmost difficulty Lady Martha Dormer prevailed on him to be present when she demanded the picture from Amanda. That scene has already been described; also his parting one with her; but to describe the anguish he endured after this period is impossible. He beheld Lady Euphrasia with a degree of horror; his faltering77 voice refused even to pay her the accustomed compliments of meeting; he loathed78 the society he met at the castle, and, regardless of what would be thought of him, regardless of health, or the bleakness80 of the season, wandered for hours together in the most unfrequented parts of the domain81, the veriest son of wretchedness and despair.
The day, the dreaded82 day, at length arrived which was to complete his misery. The company were all assembled in the great hall of the castle, from whence they were to proceed to the chapel83, and every moment expected the appearance of the bride. The marquis, surprised at her long delay, sent a messenger to request her immediate84 presence, who returned in a few minutes with a letter, which he presented to the marquis, who broke the seal in visible trepidation85, and found it from Lady Euphrasia.
She had taken a step, she said, which she must depend on the kind indulgence of her parents to excuse; a step which nothing but a firm conviction that happiness could not be experienced in a union with Lord Mortimer, should have tempted her to. His uniform indifference86 had at last convinced her that motives87 of the most interested nature influenced his addresses to her; and if her parents inquired into his, or, at least, Lord Cherbury’s conduct, they would find her assertion true, and would, consequently, she trusted, excuse her for not submitting to be sacrificed at the shrine88 of interest. In selecting Mr. Freelove for her choice, she had selected a man whose addresses were not prompted by selfish views, but by a sincere affection, which he would openly have avowed89, had he not been assured, in the present situation of affairs, it would have met with opposition91. To avoid, therefore, a positive act of disobedience,[Pg 542] she had consented to a private union. To Lord Mortimer and Lord Cherbury, she said, she deemed no apology necessary for her conduct, as their hearts, at least Lord Cherbury’s, would at once exculpate92 her, from his own consciousness of not having acted either generously or honorably to her.
The violent transports of passion the marquis experienced are not to be described. The marchioness hastily perused93 the letter, and her feelings were not inferior in violence to his. Its contents were soon known, and amazement94 sat on every countenance95. But, oh! what joy did they inspire in the soul of Lord Mortimer; not a respite96, or rather a full pardon to the condemned97 wretch13, at the very moment when preparing for death, could have yielded more exquisite98 delight; but to Lord Cherbury, what a disappointment! It was, indeed, a death-stroke to his hopes. The hints in Lady Euphrasia’s letter concerning him plainly declared her knowledge of his conduct; he foresaw an immediate demand from Freelove; foresaw the disgrace he should experience when his inability to discharge that demand was known. His soul was shaken in its inmost recesses99, and the excruciating anguish of his feelings was indeed as severe a punishment as he could suffer. Pale, speechless, aghast, the most horrid100 ideas took possession of his mind, yet he sought not to repel101 them, for anything was preferable to the shame he saw awaiting him.
Lord Mortimer’s indignation was excited by the aspersions cast upon his father, aspersions he imputed102 entirely103 to the malice104 of Lady Euphrasia, and which, from the character of Lord Cherbury, he deemed it unnecessary to attempt refuting. But alas! what a shock did his noble, his unsuspicious nature receive, when, in a short time after the perusal105 of her letter, one from Freelove was brought him, which fully106 proved the truth of her assertions. Freelove, in his little, trifling107 manner, expressed his hopes that there would be no difference between his lordship and him, for whom he expressed the most entire friendship, on account of the fair lady who had honored him with her regard; declared her partiality was quite irresistible108; and, moreover, that in love, as in war, every advantage was allowable; begged to trouble his lordship with his compliments to Lord Cherbury, and a request that everything might be prepared to settle matters between them, on his return from his matrimonial expedition. An immediate compliance with this request, he was convinced, could not be in the least distressing; and it was absolutely essential to him, from the eclat109 with which he designed Lady Euphrasia Freelove should make her bridal[Pg 543] entry into public. As to the report, he said, which he had heard relative to Lord Cherbury’s losing the fortune which was intrusted to his care for him at the gaming-table, he quite disbelieved it.
The most distressing, the most mortifying110 sensations took possession of Lord Mortimer at this part of the letter. It explained the reasons of Lord Cherbury’s strong anxiety for an alliance with the Roslin family, which Lord Mortimer, indeed, had often wondered at, and he at once pitied, condemned, and blushed for him. He stole a glance at his father, and his deep, despairing look filled him with horror. He resolved, the first opportunity, to declare his knowledge of the fatal secret which oppressed him, and his resolution of making any sacrifice which could possibly remove or lessen111 his inquietude.
Lord Cherbury was anxious to fly from the now hated castle, ere further confusion overtook him. He mentioned his intention of immediately departing—an intention opposed by the marquis, but in which he was steady, and also supported by his son.
Everything was ready for their departure, when Lord Cherbury, overwhelmed by the dreadful agitation112 he experienced, was seized with a fit of the most violent and alarming nature. He was carried to a chamber113, and recourse was obliged to be had to a physician, ere the restoration of his senses was effected; but he was then so weak that the physician declared if not kept quiet, a return of his disorder114 might be expected. Lord Mortimer, tenderly impatient to lighten the burden on his father’s mind, dismissed the attendants as soon as he possibly could, and then, in the most delicate terms, declared his knowledge of his situation.
Lord Cherbury at this started up in the most violent paroxysm of anguish, and vowed90 he would never survive the discovery of his being a villain115. With difficulty could Lord Mortimer compose him; but it was long ere he could prevail on him to hear what he wished to say.
Few there were, he said, who at some period of their lives, he believed, were not led into actions which, upon reflection, they had reason to regret. He thought not, he meant not, to speak slightly of human nature, he only wished to prove that, liable as we all are to frailty117—a frailty intended no doubt to check the arrogance118 of pride and presumption119, we should not suffer the remembrance of error, when once sincerely repented120 of, to plunge121 us into despair, particularly when, as far as in our[Pg 544] power, we meant to atone122 for it. Thus did Lord Mortimer attempt to calm the dreadful conflicts of his father’s mind, who still continued to inveigh123 against himself.
The sale of Tudor Hall, Lord Mortimer proceeded, and mortgages upon Lord Cherbury’s estates, would enable his father to discharge his debt to Mr. Freelove. He knew, he said, it was tenderness to him which had prevented him ere this from adopting such a plan; but he besought him to let no further consideration on his account make him delay fulfilling immediately the claims of honor and justice. He besought him to believe his tranquillity was more precious to him than anything in life; that the restoration of his peace was far more estimable to him than the possession of the most brilliant fortune—"a possession which,” continued Lord Mortimer deeply sighing, “I am well convinced will not alone yield happiness. I have long,” said he, “looked with an eye of cool indifference on the pomps, the pageantries of life. Disappointed in my tenderest hopes and expectations, wealth, merely on my own account, has been long valueless to me. Its loss, I make no doubt—nay125, I am convinced—I shall have reason to consider as a blessing126. It will compel me to make those exertions which its possession would have rendered unnecessary, and by so doing, in all probability, remove from my heart that sadness which has so long clung about it, and enervated127 all its powers. A profession lies open to receive me, which, had I been permitted at a much earlier period, I should have embraced; for a military life was always my passion. At the post of danger, I may perhaps have the happiness of performing services for my country, which, while loitering supinely in the shade of prosperity, I never could have done. Thus, my dear father,” he continued, “you see how erroneous we are in opinions we often form of things, since what we often consider as the bitterest evil leads to the most supreme128 good. We will, as soon as possible, hasten everything to be prepared for Freelove, and thus I make no doubt, disappoint the little malice of his soul.
“My aunt, my sister, are unacquainted with your uneasiness, nor shall an intimation of it from me ever transpire129 to them. Of fortune, sufficient will remain to allow, though not the splendors131, the comforts and elegancies of life. As for me, the deprivation132 of what is considered, and falsely termed, my accustomed indulgences, will be the most salutary and efficacious thing that could possibly happen to me. In short, I believe that the realization133 of my plan will render me happy, since, with truth I can assure you, its anticipation134 has already[Pg 545] given more pleasure to my soul than I thought it would ever have again enjoyed.”
Lord Cherbury, overcome by the tenderness, the virtue135 of his son, by the sacrifice he so willingly offered, so strenuously136 insisted on making, of his paternal137 fortune, could not for some minutes speak. At length the struggling emotions of his soul found utterance138.
“Oh! Virtue,” he exclaimed, while tears of love, of gratitude139, of contrition, flowed from his eyes, and fell upon the hand of his son, clasped within his—"Oh! Virtue, I cannot say, like Brutus, thou art but a shade; no, here, in this invaluable140 son, thou art personified—this son, whom I so cruelly deceived, so bitterly distressed141! Oh! gracious powers, would not that heroic, that heaven-born disposition, which now leads him to sign away his paternal fortune for my sake have also led him to a still greater resignation, the sacrifice of his Amanda, had I entrusted142 him with my wretched situation. Oh! had I confided143 in him, what an act of baseness should I have avoided! What pangs144, what tortures, should I have prevented his experiencing! But, to save my own guilty confusion, I drew wretchedness upon his head. I wrung146 every fibre of his heart with agony, by making him believe its dearest, its most valuable object unworthy of its regards.”
Mortimer started; he gasped—he repeated, in faltering accents, these last words. His soul seemed as if it would burst its mortal bounds, and soar to another region to hear an avowal147 of his Amanda’s purity.
“Oh! Mortimer,” cried the earl, in the deep, desponding tone of anguish, “how shall I dare to lift my eyes to thine after the avowal of the injustice148 I have done one of the most amiable149 and loveliest of human beings?” “Oh! tell me,” cried Mortimer, in breathless, trembling agitation, “tell me if, indeed, she is all my fond heart once believed her to be? In mercy, in pity, delay not to inform me.”
Slowly, in consequence of his weakness, but with all the willingness of a contrite150 spirit, anxious to do justice to the injured, did Lord Cherbury reveal all that had passed between him and Amanda. “Poor Fitzalan,” cried he, as he finished his relation, “poor, unhappy friend! From thy cold grave, couldst thou have known the transactions of this world, how must thy good and feeling spirit have reproached me for my barbarity to thy orphan151 in robbing her of the only stipend152 thy adverse153 fortune had power to leave her—a pure and spotless fame?”
[Pg 546]
Lord Mortimer groaned154 with anguish. Every reproachful word he had uttered to Amanda darted155 upon his remembrance, and were like so many daggers156 to his heart. It was his father that oppressed her. This knowledge aggravated158 his feelings, but stifled159 his reproaches; it was a father contrite, perhaps at that very moment stretched upon a death-bed, therefore he forgave him. He cast his eyes around, as if in that moment he had hoped to behold her, have an opportunity of falling prostrate160 at her feet and imploring161 her forgiveness. He cast his eyes around, as if imagining he should see her, and be allowed to fold her to his beating heart, and ask her soft voice to pronounce his pardon.
“Oh! thou lovely mourner,” he exclaimed to himself, while a gush162 of sorrow burst from his eyes. “Oh! thou lovely mourner, when I censured163, reviled164, upbraided165 you, even at that very period your heart was suffering the most excruciating anguish. Yes, Amanda, he who would willingly have laid down life to yield thee peace, even he was led to aggravate157 thy woes166. With what gentleness, what unexampled patience didst thou bear my reproaches! No sudden ray of indignation for purity so insulted, innocence167 so arraigned168, flashed from thy eyes; the beams of meekness169 and resignation alone stole from underneath170 their tearful lids.
“No sweet hope of being able to atone, no delightful idea of being able to make reparation for my injustice, now alleviates171 the poignancy172 of my feelings; since fate interposed between us in the hour of prosperity, I cannot, in the bleak79 and chilling period of adversity, seek to unite your destiny with mine. Now almost the child of want myself, a soldier of fortune, obliged by the sword to earn my bread, I cannot think of leading you into difficulties and dangers greater than you ever before experienced. Oh! my Amanda, may the calm shade of security be forever thine; thy Mortimer, thy ever-faithful, ever-adoring Mortimer, will not, from any selfish consideration, seek to lead thee from it. If thy loss be agonizing173, oh! how much more agonizing to possess but to see thee in danger or distress4. I will go, then, into new scenes of life with only thy dear, thy sweet, and worshipped idea to cheer and support me—an idea I shall lose but with life, and which to know I may cherish, indulge, adore, without a reproach from reason for weakness in so doing, is a sweet and soothing174 consolation175.”
The indulgence of feelings such as his language expressed, he was obliged to forego, in order to fulfil the wish he felt of[Pg 547] alleviating176 the situation of his father; but his attention was unable to lighten the anguish which oppressed the mind of Lord Cherbury; remorse177 for his past conduct, mortification178 at being lessened179 in the estimation of his son, sorrow for the injury he was compelled to do him, to be extricated180 from the power of Freelove, all preyed181 upon his mind, and produced the most violent agitations182, and an alarming repetition of fits.
Things remained in this situation for a few days, during which time no intelligence had been received of Euphrasia, when one morning, as Lord Mortimer was sitting for a few minutes with the marquis and marchioness, a servant entered the apartment, and informed his lord that a gentleman had just arrived at the castle, who requested to be introduced to his presence. The marquis and marchioness instantly concluded this was some person sent as an intercessor from Lady Euphrasia, and they instantly admitted him, in order to have an opportunity of assuring her ladyship, through his means, it must be some time (if indeed at all) ere they could possibly forgive her disrespect and disobedience. Lord Mortimer would have retired183, but was requested to stay, and complied, prompted indeed by curiosity to hear what kind of apology or message Lady Euphrasia had sent. A man of a most pleasing appearance entered, and was received with the most frigid184 politeness. He looked embarrassed, agitated185, even distressed. He attempted several times to speak, but the words still died away undistinguished. At length the marchioness, yielding to the natural impetuosity of her soul, hastily desired he would reveal what had procured186 them the honor of his visit.
“A circumstance of the most unhappy nature, madam,” he replied in a hesitating voice. “I came with the hope, the expectation of being able to break it by degrees, so as not totally to overpower; but I find myself unequal to the distressing task.” “I fancy, sir,” cried the marchioness, “both the marquis and I are already aware of the circumstance you allude187 to.” “Alas! madam,” said the stranger, fixing his eyes with a mournful earnestness on her face, “I cannot think so. If you were, it would not be in human, in parent nature to appear as you now do.” He stopped, he turned pale, he trembled, his emotions became contagious188.
“Tell me,” said the marquis, in a voice scarcely articulate, “I beseech189 you, without delay, the meaning of your words.”
The stranger essayed to speak, but could not; words indeed were scarcely necessary to declare that he had something shocking to reveal. His auditors190, like old Northumberland, might[Pg 548] have said, “The paleness on thy cheek is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.” “Something dreadful has happened to my child,” said the marchioness, forgetting in that agonizing moment all displeasure. “Alas! madam,” cried the stranger, while a trickling191 tear denoted his sensibility for the sorrows he was about giving rise to. “Alas! madam, your fears are too well founded; to torture you with longer suspense192 would be barbarity. Something dreadful has happened, indeed—Lady Euphrasia in this world will never more be sensible of your kindness.” A wild, a piercing, agonizing shriek193 burst from the lips of the marchioness, as she dropped senseless from her seat. The marquis was sinking from his, had not Lord Mortimer, who sat by him, timely started up, and, though trembling himself with horror, caught him in his arms. The servants were summoned, the still insensible marchioness was carried to her chamber; the wretched marquis, reviving in a few minutes—if that could be called reviving, which was only a keener perception of misery—demanded, in a tone of anguish, the whole particulars of the sad event. Yet scarcely had the stranger begun to comply with his request, ere, with all the wild inconsistency of grief, he bade him forbear, and, shuddering194, declared he could not listen to the dreadful particulars. But it were needless, as well as impossible, to describe the feelings of the wretched parents, who in one moment beheld their hopes, their wishes, their expectations finally destroyed. Oh! what an awful lesson did they inculcate of the instability of human happiness, of the insufficiency of rank or riches to retain it. This was one of the events which Providence195, in its infinite wisdom, makes use of to arrest the thoughtless in their career of dissipation, and check the arrogance of pride and vanity. When we behold the proud, the wealthy, the illustrious, suddenly surprised by calamity196, and sinking beneath its stroke, we naturally reflect on the frail116 tenure197 of earthly possessions, and, from the reflection, consider how we may best attain198 that happiness which cannot change. The human heart is in general so formed as to require something great and striking to interest and affect it. Thus a similar misfortune happening to a person in a conspicuous199, and to one in an obscure situation, would not, in all probability, equally affect or call home the wandering thoughts to sadness and reflection. The humble200 floweret, trampled201 to the dust, is passed with an eye of careless indifference; but the proud oak torn from the earth, and levelled by the storm, is viewed with wonder and affright. The horrors of the blow which overwhelmed the marquis and marchioness, were augmented202 by the secret whis[Pg 549]pers of conscience, that seemed to say it was a blow of retribution from a Being all righteous and all just, whose most sacred laws they had violated, in oppressing the widow and defrauding203 the orphan. Oh! what an augmentation of misery is it to think it merited! Remorse, like the vengeance204 of Heaven, seemed now awakened205 to sleep no more. No longer could they palliate their conduct, no longer avoid retrospection—a retrospection which heightened the gloomy horrors of the future. In Lady Euphrasia, all the hopes and affections of the marquis and marchioness were centred. She alone had ever made them feel the tenderness of humanity, yet she was not less the darling of their love than the idol206 of their pride. In her they beheld the being who was to support the honors of their house, and transmit their names to posterity207. In her they beheld the being who gave them an opportunity of gratifying the malevolent208, as well as the tender and ambitious passions of their souls. The next heir to the marquis’s title and fortune had irreconcilably209 disobliged him. As a means, therefore, of disappointing him, if on no other account, Lady Euphrasia would have been regarded by them. Though she had disappointed and displeased210 them by her recent act of disobedience, and though they had deemed it essential to their consequence to display that displeasure, yet they secretly resolved not long to withhold211 forgiveness from her, and also to take immediate steps for ennobling Freelove.
For Lady Euphrasia they felt indeed a tenderness her heart for them was totally a stranger to. It seemed, indeed, as if, cold and indifferent to all mankind, their affections were stronger for being confined in one channel. In the step she had taken, Lady Euphrasia only considered the gratification of her revenge. Freelove, as the ward38 of Lord Cherbury, in honor to him, had been invited to the nuptials212. He accepted the invitation, but, instead of accompanying, promised to follow the bridal party to the castle. A day or two ere he intended setting out, by some accidental chance, he got into company with the very person to whom Lord Cherbury had lost so much, and on whose account he had committed an action which had entailed213 the most excruciating remorse upon him. This person was acquainted with the whole transaction. He had promised to keep his knowledge a secret, but the promises of the worthless are of little avail. A slight expression, which, in a moment of anxiety, had involuntarily dropped from Lord Cherbury, had stung him to the soul, because he knew too well its justice, and inspired him with the most inveterate214 hatred215 and rancorous desire of revenge. His[Pg 550] unexpectedly meeting Freelove afforded him an opportunity of gratifying both these propensities216, and he scrupled217 not to avail himself of it. Freelove was astonished, and, when the first violence of astonishment218 was over, delighted.
To triumph over the proud soul of Lord Cherbury and his son, was indeed an idea which afforded rapture219. Both he had ever disliked, the latter particularly. He disliked him from the superiority which he saw in every respect he possessed220 over himself. A stranger to noble emulation221, he sought not, by study or imitation, to aspire222 to any of those graces or perfections he beheld in Lord Mortimer. He sought alone to depreciate223 them, and, when he found that impossible, beheld him with greater envy and malignity224 than ever. To wound Lord Mortimer through the bosom of his father, to overwhelm him with confusion, by publicly displaying the error of that father, were ideas of the most exquisite delight—ideas which the wealth of worlds would scarcely have tempted him to forego,—so sweet is any triumph, however accidental or imaginary, over a noble object, to an envious225 mind, which ever hates that excellence226 it cannot reach. No fear of self-interest being injured checked his pleasure. The fortune of Lord Cherbury he knew sufficient to answer for his violated trust. Thus had he another source of triumph in the prospect227 of having those so long considered as the proud rivals of his wealth and splendor130, cast into the shade. His pleasure, however, from this idea, was short lived, when he reflected that Lord Mortimer’s union with Lady Euphrasia would totally exempt228 him from feeling any inconvenience from his father’s conduct. But could not this union be prevented? Freelove asked himself. He still wanted a short period of being of age, consequently had no right, at present, to demand a settlement of his affairs from Lord Cherbury. He might, however, privately229 inform Lady Euphrasia of the affair so recently communicated to him. No sooner did he conceive this scheme, than he glowed with impatience230 to put it into execution. He hastened to the marquis’s, whither, indeed, the extravagant231 and foppish232 preparations he had made for the projected nuptials had before prevented his going, and took the first opportunity which offered of revealing to Lady Euphrasia, as if from the purest friendship, the conduct of Lord Cherbury, and the derangement233 of his affairs.
Lady Euphrasia was at once surprised and incensed234. The reason for a union between her and his son being so ardently235 desired by Lord Cherbury, was now fully explained, and she beheld herself as an object addressed merely from a view of re[Pg 551]pairing a ruined fortune; but this view she resolved to disappoint. Such was the implacable nature of her disposition, that had this disappointment occasioned the destruction of her own peace, it would not have made her relinquish236 it. But this was not the case. In sacrificing all ideas of a union with Lord Mortimer to her offended pride she sacrificed no wish or inclination237 of her soul. Lord Mortimer, though the object of her admiration238, had never been the object of her love. She was, indeed, incapable239 of feeling that passion. Her admiration had, however, long since given place to resentment, at the cool indifference with which he regarded her. She would have opposed a marriage with him, but for fear that he might, thus freed, attach himself to Amanda. The moment, however, she knew a union with her was necessary for the establishment of his fortune, fear, with every consideration which could oppose it, vanished before the idea of disappointing his views, and retaliating240 upon him that uneasiness he had, from wounded pride, made her experience by his cold and unalterable behavior to her.
She at first determined241 to acquaint the marquis of what she had heard, but a little reflection made her drop this determination. He had always professed242 a warm regard for Lord Cherbury, and she feared that regard would still lead him to insist on the nuptials taking place. She was not long in concerting a scheme to render such a measure impracticable, and Freelove she resolved to make an instrument for forwarding, or rather executing her revenge. She hesitated not to say she had always disliked Lord Mortimer; that, in short, there was but one being she could ever think, ever hope to be happy with. Her broken sentences, her looks, her affected confusion, all revealed to Freelove that he was that object. The rapture this discovery inspired he could not conceal243. The flattering expressions of Lady Euphrasia were repaid by the most extravagant compliments, the warmest professions, the strongest assurances of never-dying love. This soon led to what she desired, and, in a short space, an elopement was agreed to, and everything relative to it settled. Freelove’s own servants and equipage were at the Castle, and consequently but little difficulty attended the arrangement of their plan. In Lady Euphrasia’s eyes Freelove had no other value than what he now merely derived244 from being an instrument in gratifying the haughty245 and revengeful passions of her nature. She regarded him, indeed, with sovereign contempt; his fortune, however, she knew would give him consequence in the world, and she was convinced she[Pg 552] should find him quite that easy, convenient husband which a woman of fashion finds so necessary; in short, she looked forward to being the uncontrolled mistress of her own actions, and without a doubt but that she should meet many objects as deserving of her admiration, and infinitely more grateful for it, than ever Lord Mortimer had been.
Flushed with such a pleasing prospect, she quitted the Castle—that castle she was destined never more to see. At the moment, the very moment, she smiled with joy and expectation, the shaft246, the unerring shaft, was raised against her breast.
The marriage ceremony over, they hastened to the vicinity of the Castle, in order to send an apologizing letter, as usual on such occasions. The night was dark and dreary247, the road rugged248 and dangerous; the postilions ventured to say it would be better to halt for the night, but this was opposed by Lady Euphrasia. They were within a few miles of the destined termination of their journey, and, pursuant to her commands, they proceeded. In a few minutes after this, the horses, startled by a sudden light which gleamed across the path, began plunging249 in the most alarming manner. A frightful250 precipice251 lay on one side, and the horses, in spite of all the efforts of the postilions, continued to approach it. Freelove, in this dreadful moment, lost all consideration but for himself; he burst open the chariot door, and leaped into the road. His companion was unable to follow his example; she had fainted at the first intimation of danger. The postilions with difficulty dismounted. The other servants came to their assistance, and endeavored to restrain the horses; every effort was useless, they broke from their hold, and plunged252 down the precipice. The servants had heard the chariot-door open; they therefore concluded, for it was too dark to see, that both their master and Lady Euphrasia were safe. But who can describe their horror, when a loud shriek from him declared her situation? Some of them immediately hastened, as fast as their trembling limbs could carry them, to the house adjoining the road, from whence the fatal light had gleamed which caused the sad catastrophe253. They revealed it in a few words, and implored immediate assistance. The master of the house was a man of the greatest humanity. He was inexpressibly shocked at what he had heard, and joined himself in giving the assistance that was desired. With lanterns they proceeded down a winding254 path cut in the precipice, and soon discovered the objects of their search. The horses were already dead—the chariot was shattered to pieces. They took up some[Pg 553] of the fragments, and discovered beneath them the lifeless body of the unfortunate Lady Euphrasia. The stranger burst into tears at the sight of so much horror; and, in a voice scarcely audible, gave orders for her being conveyed to his house. But when a better light gave a more perfect view of the mangled255 remains256, all acknowledged that, since so fatal an accident had befallen her, Heaven was merciful in taking a life whose continuance would have made her endure the most excruciating tortures.
Freelove was now inquired for. He had fainted on the road, but in a few minutes after he was brought in, recovered his senses, and the first use he made of them was to inquire whether he was dead or alive. Upon receiving the comfortable assurance of the latter, he congratulated himself, in a manner so warm, upon his escape, as plainly proved self was his whole and sole consideration. No great preparations, on account of his feelings, were requisite to inform him of the fate of Lady Euphrasia. He shook his head on hearing it; said it was what he already guessed, from the devilish plunge of the horses; declared it was a most unfortunate affair, and expressed a kind of terror at what the marquis might say to it, as if he could have been accused of being accessory to it.
Mr. Murray, the gentleman whose house had received him, offered to undertake the distressing task of breaking the affair to Lady Euphrasia’s family, an offer Freelove gladly accepted, declaring he felt himself too much disordered in mind and body to be able to give any directions relative to what was necessary to be done.
How Mr. Murray executed his task is already known; but it was long ere the emotions of the marquis would suffer him to say he wished the remains of Lady Euphrasia to be brought to the Castle, that all the honors due to her birth should be paid them. This was accordingly done; and the Castle, so lately ornamented257 for her nuptials, was hung with black, and all the pageantries of death.
The marquis and marchioness confined themselves, in the deepest anguish, to their apartments; their domestics, filled with terror and amazement, glided258 about like pale spectres, and all was a scene of solemnity and sadness. Every moment Lord Mortimer could spare from his father he devoted259 to the marquis. Lady Euphrasia had ever been an object of indifference, nay, of dislike to him; but the manner of her death, notwithstanding, shocked him to the soul: his dislike was forgotten; he thought of her only with pity and compassion260, and the tears he mingled[Pg 554] with the marquis were the tears of unfeigned sympathy and regret.
Lady Martha and Lady Araminta were equally attentive261 to the marchioness; the time not spent with Lord Cherbury was devoted to her. They used not unavailing arguments to conquer a grief which nature, as her rightful tribute, demands; but they soothed262 that grief by showing they sincerely mourned its source.
Lord Cherbury had but short intervals263 of reason; those intervals were employed by Lord Mortimer in trying to compose his mind; and by him in blessing his son for those endeavors, and congratulating himself on the prospect of approaching dissolution. His words unutterably affected Lord Mortimer; he had reason to believe they were dictated264 by a prophetic spirit; and the dismal265 peal266 which rung from morning till night for Lady Euphrasia sounded in his ear as the knell267 of his expiring father.
Things were in this situation in the Castle when Oscar and his friend Sir Charles Bingley arrived at it, and, without sending in their names, requested immediate permission to the marquis’s presence, upon business of importance. Their request was complied with, from an idea that they came from Freelove, to whom the marquis and marchioness, from respect and affection to the memory of their daughter, had determined to pay every attention.
The marquis knew, and was personally known to Sir Charles; he was infinitely surprised by his appearance, but how much was that surprise increased when Sir Charles, taking Oscar by the hand, presented him to the marquis as the son of Lady Fitzalan, the rightful heir of the Earl of Dunreath! The marquis was confounded; he trembled at these words; and his confusion, had such a testimony268 been wanting, would have been sufficient to prove his guilt145. He at last, though with a faltering voice, desired to know by what means Sir Charles could justify269 or support his assertion.
Sir Charles, for Oscar was too much agitated to speak, as briefly270 as possible related all the particulars which had led to the discovery of the earl’s will; and his friend, he added, with the generosity271 of a noble mind, wished as much as possible to spare the feelings and save the honor of those with whom he was connected; a wish, which nothing but a hesitation272 in complying with his just and well-supported claim could destroy.
The marquis’s agitation increased; already was he stripped Of happiness, and he now saw himself on the point of being[Pg 555] stripped of honor. An hour before he had imagined his wretchedness could not be augmented; he was now convinced human misery cannot be complete without the loss of reputation. In the idea of being esteemed273, of being thought undeserving our misfortunes, there is a sweet, a secret balm, which meliorates the greatest sorrow. Of riches, in his own right, the marquis ever possessed more than sufficient for all his expenses: those expenses would now, comparatively speaking, be reduced within very narrow bounds; for the vain pride which had led him to delight in pomp and ostentation274 died with Lady Euphrasia. Since, therefore, of his fortune such a superabundance would remain, it was unnecessary as well as unjust to detain what he had no pretensions275 to; but he feared tamely acquiescing276 to this unexpected claim, would be to acknowledge himself a villain. ’Tis true, indeed, that his newly-felt remorse had inspired him with a wish of making reparation for his past injustice, but false shame starting up, hitherto opposed it; and even now, when an opportunity offered of accomplishing his wish, still continued to oppose it, lest the scorn and contempt he dreaded should at length be his portion for his long injustice.
Irresolute277 how to act, he sat for some time silent and embarrassed, till at last, recollecting his manner was probably betraying what he wished to conceal, namely, the knowledge of the will, he said, with some sternness, “That, till he inspected into the affair so recently laid before him, he could not, nor was it to be expected he should, say how he would act; an inspection278 which, under present melancholy circumstances, he could not possibly make for some time. Had Mr. Fitzalan,” he added, “possessed in reality that generosity Sir Charles’s partiality ascribed to him, he would not, at a period so distressing, have appeared to make such a claim. To delicacy279 and sensibility the privileges of grief were ever held sacred. Those privileges they had both violated. They had intruded281 on his sorrows; they had even insulted him by appearing on such a business before him, ere the last rites282 were paid to his lamented283 child.” Sir Charles and Oscar were inexpressibly shocked. Both were totally ignorant of the recent event.
Oscar, as he recovered from the surprise the marquis’s words had given him, declared, in the impassioned language of a noble mind, hurt by being thought destitute284 of sensibility, “That the marquis had arraigned him unjustly. Had he known of his sorrows,” he said, “nothing should have tempted[Pg 556] him to intrude280 upon them. He mourned, he respected them; he besought him to believe him sincere in what he uttered.” A tear, an involuntary tear, as he spoke, starting into his eye, and trickling down his cheek, denoted his sincerity285. The marquis’s heart smote286 him as he beheld this tear; it reproached him more than the keenest words could have done, and operated more in Oscar’s favor than any arguments, however eloquent287. “Had this young man,” thought he, “been really illiberal288 when I reproached him for want of sensibility, how well might he have retaliated289 upon me my more flagrant want of justice and humanity; but no, he sees I am a son of sorrow, and he will not break the reed which Heaven has already smitten290.” Tears gushed291 from his eyes. He involuntarily extended his hand to Oscar. “I see,” said he, “I see, indeed, I have unjustly arraigned you; but I will endeavor to atone for my error. At present, rest satisfied with an assurance, that whatever is equitable292 shall be done; and that, let events turn out as they may, I shall ever feel myself your friend.” Oscar again expressed his regret for having waited on him at such a period, and requested he would dismiss for the present the subject they had been talking of from his mind. The marquis, still more pleased with his manner, desired his direction, and assured him he should hear from him sooner than he expected.
As soon as they retired, his agitation decreased, and, of course, he was better qualified293 to consider how he should act. That restitution294 his conscience prompted, but his false ideas of shame had prevented, he now found he should be compelled to make; how to make it, therefore, so as to avoid total disgrace, was what he considered. At last he adopted a scheme, which the sensibility of Oscar, he flattered himself, would enable him to accomplish. This was to declare, that by the Earl of Dunreath’s will, Mr. Fitzalan was heir to his estates, in case of the death of Lady Euphrasia; that in consequence, therefore, of this event, he had come to take possession of them; that Lady Dunreath (whose residence at Dunreath Abbey he could not now hope to conceal) was but lately returned from a convent in France, where for many years she had resided. To Oscar he intended saying, from her ill conduct he and the marchioness had been tempted to sequester295 her from the world, in order to save her from open shame and derision; and that her declaration of a will they had always believed the mere124 fabrication of her brain, in order, as he supposed, to give them uneasiness. This scheme once formed, his heart felt a little relieved of the heavy burden of fear and inquietude. He[Pg 557] repaired to the marchioness’s apartment, and broke the affair gently to her, adding, at the same time, that, sensible as they must now be of the vanities and pursuits of human life, it was time for them to endeavor to make their peace with Heaven. Affliction had taught penitence296 to the marchioness, as well as her husband. She approved of his scheme, and thought, with him, that the sooner their intention of making restitution was known the greater would be the probability of its being accomplished297. Oscar, therefore, the next day received a letter from the marquis, specifying298 at once his wishes. With those wishes Oscar generously complied. His noble soul was superior to a triumph over a fallen enemy; and he had always wished rather to save from, than expose the marquis to disgrace. He hastened as soon as possible to the castle, agreeably to a request contained in the letter, to assure the marquis his conduct throughout the whole affair would be regulated according to his desire.
Perhaps, at this moment, public contempt could not have humbled299 the marquis more than such generosity, when he drew a comparison between himself and the person he had so long injured. The striking contrast wounded his very soul, and he groaned at the degradation300 he suffered in his own eyes. He told Oscar, as soon as the last sad duties were performed to his daughter, he would settle everything with him, and then perhaps be able to introduce him to the marchioness. He desired he might take up his residence in the Castle, and expressed a wish that he would attend the funeral of Lady Euphrasia as one of the chief mourners. Oscar declined the former, but promised, with a faltering voice, to comply with the latter request. He then retired, and the marquis, who had been roused from the indulgence of his grief by a wish of preserving his character, again relapsed into its wretchedness. He desired Oscar to make no secret of his now being heir to the Earl of Dunreath, and said he would mention it himself in his family. Through this medium, therefore, did this surprising intelligence reach Lord Mortimer, and his heart dilated301 with sudden joy at the idea of his Amanda and her brother at last enjoying independence and prosperity.
In a few hours after this the sufferings of Lord Cherbury were terminated. His last faltering accents pronounced blessings302 on his son. Oh! how sweet were those blessings! How different were the feelings of Lord Mortimer from the callous303 sons of dissipation, who seem to watch with impatience the last struggles of a parent, that they may have more extensive means of gratifying their inordinate304 desires. The feelings of Lord Mor[Pg 558]timer were soothed by reflecting he had done everything in his power for restoring the tranquillity of his father, and his regret was lessened by the conviction that Lord Cherbury, after the discovery of his conduct, could never more in this life have experienced happiness. He therefore, with tender piety305, resigned him to his God; humbly306 trusting that his penitence had atoned307 for his frailties308, and insured him felicity.
He now bade adieu to the Castle and its wretched owners, and accompanied Lady Martha and his sister to Thornbury, at which the burying-place of the family lay. Here he continued till the remains of his father arrived, and were interred309. He then proceeded to London to put into execution the plan he had projected for his father. He immediately advertised the Tudor estate. A step of this kind could not be concealed310 from Lady Martha; but the mortgages on the other estates he resolved carefully to guard from her knowledge, lest suspicions prejudicial to the memory of his father should arise in her mind. But, during this period, the idea of Amanda was not absent from his soul. Neither grief nor business could banish311 it a moment; and, again, a thousand fond and flattering hopes concerning her had revived, when a sudden blow dispersed312 them all, and plunged him, if possible, into greater wretchedness than he had ever before experienced. He heard it confidently reported that the Earl of Dunreath’s sister (for Oscar by this time had claimed, and been allowed to take the title of his grandfather) was to be married to Sir Charles Bingley. The friendship which he knew subsisted313 between the earl and Sir Charles rendered this too probable. But if a doubt concerning it still lingered in his mind, it was destroyed when Sir Charles waited on him to treat about the purchase of Tudor Hall; it instantly occurred to him that this purchase was made by the desire of Amanda. Unable to command his feelings, he referred Sir Charles to his agent, and abruptly314 retired. He called her cruel and ungrateful. After all his sufferings on her account, did he deserve so soon to be banished315 from her remembrance—so soon supplanted316 in her affections by another—by one, too, who never had, who never would have, an opportunity of giving such proofs as he had done of constancy and love. She is lost, then he sighed; she is lost forever! Oh! what avails the vindication317 of her fame? Is it not an augmentation of my misery? Oh! my father, of what a treasure did you despoil318 me! But let me not disturb the sacred ashes of the dead—rest, rest in peace, thou venerable author of my being! and may the involuntary[Pg 559] expression of heart-rending anguish be forgiven! Amanda, then, he continued, after a pause, will indeed be mistress of Tudor Hall; but never will a sigh for him who once was its owner heave her bosom. She will wander beneath those shades where so often she has heard my vows319 of unalterable love—vows which, alas! my heart has too fully observed—and listen to similar ones from Sir Charles: well, this is the last stroke fate can level at my peace.
Lord Mortimer (or, as in future we must style him, Lord Cherbury) had indeed imagined that the affections of Amanda, like his own, were unalterable; he had therefore indulged the rapturous idea, that, by again seeking an union with her, she should promote the happiness of both. It is true he knew she would possess a fortune infinitely superior to what he had now a right to expect; but after the proofs he had given of disinterested320 attachment, not only she, but the world, he was convinced, would acquit321 him of any selfish motives in the renewal322 of his addresses. His hopes destroyed—his prospect blasted by what he had heard, he resolved, as soon as affairs were settled, to go abroad. The death of his father had rendered his entering the army unnecessary, and his spirits were too much broken, his health too much impaired323, for him voluntarily now to embrace that destiny.
On the purchase of Tudor Hall being completed by Sir Charles, it was necessary for Lord Cherbury to see his steward324. He preferred going to sending for him, prompted indeed by a melancholy wish of paying a last visit to Tudor Hall, endeared to his heart by a thousand fond remembrances. On his arrival he took up his abode325 at the steward’s for a day or two. After a strict injunction to him of concealing326 his being there, it was after a ramble327 through every spot about the demesne328 which he had ever trodden with Amanda, that he repaired to the library and discovered her. He was ignorant of her being in the country. Oh! then, how great was her surprise—how exquisite his emotions, at seeing her in such unexpected circumstances!
I shall not attempt to go over the scene I have already tried to describe; suffice it to say, that the desire she betrayed of hastening from him he imputed to the alteration329 of her sentiments with respect to him and Sir Charles. When undeceived in this respect, his rapture was as great as ever it had before been at the idea of her love, and, like Amanda, he declared his suffering was now amply rewarded.
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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ridicule
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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stimulating
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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repugnance
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infinitely
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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38
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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39
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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40
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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41
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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42
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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43
agonize
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| v.使受苦，使苦闷 | |
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44
auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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45
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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46
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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47
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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48
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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49
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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50
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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51
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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52
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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53
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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54
accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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55
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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56
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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57
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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58
retracting
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的现在分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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59
infringement
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| n.违反；侵权 | |
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60
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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62
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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63
corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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64
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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66
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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67
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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68
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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69
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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70
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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71
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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72
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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73
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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74
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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75
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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76
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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77
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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78
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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79
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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80
bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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81
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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82
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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83
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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84
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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85
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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86
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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87
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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88
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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89
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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90
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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91
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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92
exculpate
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| v.开脱，使无罪 | |
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93
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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94
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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95
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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96
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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97
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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98
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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99
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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100
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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101
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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102
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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104
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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105
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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106
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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107
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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108
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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109
eclat
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| n.显赫之成功，荣誉 | |
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110
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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111
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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112
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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113
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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114
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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115
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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116
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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117
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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118
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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119
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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120
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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121
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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122
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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123
inveigh
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| v.痛骂 | |
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124
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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125
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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126
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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127
enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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129
transpire
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| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
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130
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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131
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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132
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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133
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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134
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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135
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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136
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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137
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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138
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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139
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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140
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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141
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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142
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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144
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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145
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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146
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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147
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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148
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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149
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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150
contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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151
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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152
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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153
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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154
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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155
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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156
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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157
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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158
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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159
stifled
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|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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160
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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161
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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162
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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163
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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164
reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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167
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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168
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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169
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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170
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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171
alleviates
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的名词复数 ) | |
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172
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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173
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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174
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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175
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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176
alleviating
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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177
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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178
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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179
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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180
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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182
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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183
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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184
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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185
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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186
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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187
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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188
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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189
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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190
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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191
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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192
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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193
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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194
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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195
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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196
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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197
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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198
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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199
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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200
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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201
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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202
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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203
defrauding
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的现在分词 ) | |
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204
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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205
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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206
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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207
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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208
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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209
irreconcilably
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| （观点、目标或争议）不可调和的，不相容的 | |
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210
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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211
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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212
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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213
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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214
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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215
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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216
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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217
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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218
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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219
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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220
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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221
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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222
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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223
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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224
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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225
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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226
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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227
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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228
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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229
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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230
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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231
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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232
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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233
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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234
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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235
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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236
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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237
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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238
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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239
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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240
retaliating
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|
| v.报复，反击( retaliate的现在分词 ) | |
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241
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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242
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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243
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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244
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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245
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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246
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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247
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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248
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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249
plunging
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|
| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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250
frightful
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|
| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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251
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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252
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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253
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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254
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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255
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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256
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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257
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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258
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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259
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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260
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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261
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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262
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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263
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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264
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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265
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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266
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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267
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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268
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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269
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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270
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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271
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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272
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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273
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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274
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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275
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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276
acquiescing
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的现在分词 ) | |
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277
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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278
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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279
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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280
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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281
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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282
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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283
lamented
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|
| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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284
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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285
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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286
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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287
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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288
illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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289
retaliated
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| v.报复，反击( retaliate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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290
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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291
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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292
equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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294
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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295
sequester
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| vt.使退隐，使隔绝 | |
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296
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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297
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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298
specifying
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| v.指定( specify的现在分词 )；详述；提出…的条件；使具有特性 | |
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299
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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301
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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302
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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303
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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304
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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305
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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306
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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307
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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308
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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309
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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310
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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311
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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312
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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313
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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314
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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315
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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316
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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317
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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318
despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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319
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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320
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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321
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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322
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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323
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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324
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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325
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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326
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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327
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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328
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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329
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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