Essex had gone away to Wanstead, where he remained in a disturbed, uncertain, and unhappy condition. The alternating contradictions in his state of mind grew more extreme than ever. There were moments when he felt that he must fling himself at the feet of his mistress, that, come what might, he must regain1 her affection, her companionship, and all the sweets of the position that had so long been his. He could not — he would not — think that he had been in the wrong; she had treated him with an indignity2 that was unbearable3; and then as he brooded over what had happened, anger flamed up in his heart. He would tell her what he thought of her. Had he not always done so — ever since that evening, more than ten years ago, when he had chided her so passionately6, with Raleigh standing7 at the door? He would chide4 her now, no less passionately, but, as was fitting, in a deeper and a sadder tone. “Madam,” he wrote, “When I think how I have preferred your beauty above all things, and received no pleasure in life but by the increase of your favour towards me, I wonder at myself what cause there could be to make me absent myself one day from you. But when I remember that your Majesty9 hath, by the intolerable wrong you have done both me and yourself, not only broken all laws of affection, but done against the honour of your sex, I think all places better than that where I am, and all dangers well undertaken, so I might retire myself from the memory of my false, inconstant and beguiling10 pleasures . . . I was never proud, till your Majesty sought to make me too base. And now, since my destiny is no better, my despair shall be as my love was, without repentance11. . . . I must commend my faith to be judged by Him who judgeth all hearts, since on earth I find no right. Wishing your Majesty all comforts and joys in the world, and no greater punishment for your wrongs to me, than to know the faith of him you have lost, and the baseness of those you shall keep,
“Your Majesty’s most humble12 servant,
“R Essex.”
When the news of the disaster on the Blackwater reached him, he sent another letter, offering his services, and hurried to Whitehall. He was not admitted. “He hath played long enough upon me,” Elizabeth was heard to remark, “and now I mean to play awhile upon him, and stand as much upon my greatness as he hath upon stomach.” He wrote a long letter of expostulation, with quotations13 from Horace, and vows14 of duty. “I stay in this place for no other purpose but to attend your commandment.” She sent him a verbal message in reply. “Tell the Earl that I value myself at as great a price as he values himself.” He wrote again:
“I do confess that, as a man, I have been more subject to your natural beauty than as a subject to the power of a king.” He obtained an interview; the Queen was not ungracious; the onlookers15 supposed that all was well again. But it was not, and he returned to Wanstead in darker dudgeon than ever.
It was clear that what Elizabeth was waiting for was some apology. Since this was not forthcoming, a deadlock17 had apparently18 been reached, and it seemed to the moderate men at Court that it was time an effort should be made to induce the Earl to realise the essence of the situation. The Lord Keeper Egerton, therefore, composed an elaborate appeal. Did not Essex understand, he asked, that his present course was full of danger? Did he not see that he was encouraging his enemies? Had he forgotten his friends? Had he forgotten his country? There was only one thing to do — he must beg for the Queen’s forgiveness; whether he was right or wrong could make no difference. “Have you given cause, and yet take scandal to yourself? Why then, all you can do is too little to give satisfaction. Is cause of scandal given to you? Let policy, duty, and religion enforce you to yield, and submit to your sovereign, between whom and you there can be no proportion of duty.”
“The difficulty, my good Lord,” Egerton concluded, “is to conquer yourself, which is the height of all true valour and fortitude20, whereunto all your honourable21 actions have tended. Do it in this, and God will be pleased, her Majesty well satisfied, your country will take good, and your friends comfort by it; yourself shall receive honour; and your enemies, if you have any, shall be disappointed of their bitter-sweet hope.”
Essex’s reply was most remarkable22. In a style no less elaborate than the Lord Keeper’s, he rebutted23 all his arguments. He denied that he was doing wrong either to himself or his friends; the Queen’s conduct, he said, made it impossible for him to act in any other way. How could he serve his country when she had “driven him into a private kind of life”— when she had “dismissed, discharged, and disabled” him? “The indissoluble duty,” he continued, “which I owe to her Majesty is only the duty of allegiance, which I never will, nor never can, fail in. The duty of attendance is no indissoluble duty. I owe to her Majesty the duty of an Earl and Lord Marshal of England. I have been content to do her Majesty the service of a clerk, but can never serve her as a villain24 or a slave.” As he wrote, he grew warmer. “But, say you, I must yield and submit; I can neither yield myself to be guilty, or this imputation25 laid upon me to be just . . . Have I given cause, ask you, and take scandal when I have done? No, I give no cause . . . I patiently bear all, and sensibly feel all, that I then received when this scandal was given me. Nay26 more”— and now he could hold himself in no longer —“when the vilest27 of all indignities28 are done unto me, doth religion enforce me to sue?” The whole heat of his indignation was flaring29 out. “Doth God require it? Is it impiety30 not to do it? What, cannot princes err8? Cannot subjects receive wrong? Is an earthly power or authority infinite? Pardon me, pardon me, my good Lord, I can never subscribe31 to these principles. Let Solomon’s fool laugh when he is stricken; let those that mean to make their profit of princes shew to have no sense of princes’ injuries; let them acknowledge an infinite absoluteness on earth, that do not believe in an absolute infiniteness in heaven. As for me, I have received wrong, and feel it. My cause is good, I know it; and whatsoever32 come, all the powers on earth can never shew more strength and constancy in oppressing than I can shew in suffering whatsoever can or shall be imposed on me.”
Magnificent words, certainly, but dangerous, portentous33, and not wise. What good could come of flaunting34 republican sentiments under the calm nose of a Tudor? Such oratory35 was too early or too late. Hampden would have echoed it; but in truth it was the past rather than the future that was speaking with the angry pen of Robert Devereux. The blood of a hundred Barons37 who had paid small heed38 to the Lord’s Anointed was pulsing in his heart. Yes! If it was a question of birth, why should the heir of the ancient aristocracy of England bow down before the descendant of some Bishop39’s butler in Wales? Such were his wild feelings — the last extravagance of the Middle Ages flickering40 through the high Renaissance41 nobleman. The facts vanished; his outraged42 imagination preferred to do away with them. For, after all, what had actually happened? Simply this, he had been rude to an old lady, who was also a Queen, and had had his ears boxed. There were no principles involved, and there was no oppression. It was merely a matter of bad temper and personal pique43.
A realistic observer would have seen that in truth there were only two alternatives for one in Essex’s position — a graceful44 apology followed by a genuine reconciliation45 with the Queen, or else a complete and final retirement46 from public life. More than once his mind swayed — as so often before — towards the latter solution; but he was not a realist, he was a romantic — passionate5, restless, confused — and he shut his eyes to what was obvious — that, as things stood, if he could not bring himself to be one of those who “make their profit of princes” he must indeed make up his mind to a life of books and hunting at Chartley. Nor were those who surrounded him any more realistic than himself. Francis Bacon had for many months past avoided his company; Anthony was an enthusiastic devotee; Henry Cuffe was rash and cynical47; his sisters were too ambitious, his mother was too much biased48 by her lifelong quarrel with Elizabeth to act as a restraining force. Two other followers49 completed his intimate domestic circle. His mother’s husband — for Lady Leicester had married a third time — was Sir Christopher Blount. A sturdy soldier and a Roman Catholic, he had served his stepson faithfully for many years, and, it was clear, would continue to do so, whatever happened, to the end.
More dubious52, from every point of view, was the position of Charles Blount, Lord Mountjoy. The tall young man with the brown hair and the beautiful complexion53, who had won Elizabeth’s favour by his feats54 at tilting55, and who had fought a duel56 with Essex over the golden chessman given him by the Queen, had grown and prospered57 with the years. The death of his elder brother had brought him the family peerage; he had distinguished58 himself as Essex’s lieutenant59 in all his expeditions, and he had never lost the favour of Elizabeth. But he was united to Essex by something more than a common military service — by a singular romance. The Earl’s favourite sister, Lady Penelope, had been the Stella Sir Philip Sidney had vainly loved. She had married Lord Rich, while Sidney had married Walsingham’s daughter, who, on Sir Philip’s death, had become the wife of Essex. Penelope had not been happy; Lord Rich was an odious60 husband, and she had fallen in love with Lord Mountjoy. A liaison61 sprang up — a lifelong liaison — one of those indisputable and yet ambiguous connexions which are at once recognised and ignored by society — between Essex’s friend and Essex’s sister. Thus Mountjoy, doubly bound to the Earl, had become — or so it seemed — the most faithful of his adherents62. The little group — Essex, Lady Essex, Mountjoy, and Penelope Rich — was held together by the deepest feelings of desire and affection; while behind and above them all there hovered63, in sainted knightliness64, the shade of Sir Philip Sidney.
And so there was no barrier to hold Essex back from folly65 and intemperance66; on the contrary, the characteristics of his environment — personal devotion, family pride, and military zeal67 — all conspired68 to urge him on. More remote influences worked in the same direction. Throughout the country the Earl’s popularity was a growing force. The reasons for this were vague, but none the less effectual. His gallant69 figure had taken hold of the popular imagination; he was generous and courteous70; he was the enemy of Raleigh, who was everywhere disliked; and now he was out of favour and seemed to be hardly used. The puritanical71 City of London especially, tending, as it always did, to be hostile to the Court, paid an incongruous devotion to the unregenerate Earl. The word went round that he was a pillar of Protestantism, and Essex, who was ready enough to be all things to all men, was not unwilling72 to accept the r?le. Evidence of another kind of esteem73 appeared when, on the death of Burghley, the University of Cambridge at once elected him to fill the vacant place of Chancellor74. He was delighted by the compliment, and as a mark of gratitude75 presented the University with a silver cup of rare design. The curious goblet76 still stands on the table of the Vice-Chancellor, to remind the passing generations of Englishmen at once of the tumult77 of the past and of the placid78 continuity of their history.
Egged on by private passion and public favour, the headstrong man gave vent79, in moments of elation80, to strange expressions of anger and revolt. Sir Christopher Blount was present at Wanstead when one of these explosions occurred, and, though his stepson’s words were whirling and indefinite, they revealed to him with startling vividness a state of mind that was full, as he said afterwards, of “dangerous discontentment.” But the moments of elation passed, to be succeeded by gloom and hesitation81. What was to be done? There was no satisfaction anywhere; retirement, submission82, defiance83 — each was more wretched than the others; and the Queen still made no sign.
In reality, of course, Elizabeth too was wavering. She kept up a bold front; she assured everybody, including herself, that this time she was really going to be firm; but she knew well enough how many times before she had yielded in like circumstances, and experience indicated that the future would resemble the past. As usual, the withdrawal84 of that radiant presence was becoming insupportable. She thought of Wanstead — so near, so far — and almost capitulated. Yet no, she would do nothing, she would go on waiting; only a little longer, perhaps, and the capitulation would come from the other side. And then one dimly discerns that, while she paused and struggled, a new and a sinister85 element of uncertainty86 was beginning to join the others to increase the fluctuation87 of her mind. At all times she kept her eyes and her ears open; her sense of the drifts of feeling and opinion was extremely shrewd, and there were many about her who were ready enough to tell unpleasant stories of the absent favourite and expatiate88 on his growing — his extraordinary — popularity all over the country. One day a copy of the letter to Egerton was put into her hand. She read it, and her heart sank; she scrupulously89 concealed90 her feelings, but she could no longer hide from herself that the preoccupation which had now come to wind itself among the rest that perturbed91 her spirit was one of alarm. If that was his state of mind — if that was his position in the country . . . she did not like it at all. The lion-hearted heroine of tradition would not have hesitated in such circumstances — would have cleared up the situation in one bold and final stroke. But that was very far indeed from being Elizabeth’s way. “Pusillanimity,” the Spanish ambassadors had reported; a crude diagnosis92; what really actuated her in the face of peril93 or hostility94 was an innate95 predisposition to hedge. If there was indeed danger in the direction of Wanstead she would not go out to meet it — oh no!— she would propitiate96 it, she would lull97 it into unconsciousness, she would put it off, and put it off. That was her instinct; and yet, in the contradictory98 convolutions of her character, another and a completely opposite propensity99 may be perceived, which nevertheless — such is the strange mechanism100 of the human soul — helped to produce the same result. Deep in the recesses101 of her being, a terrific courage possessed102 her. She balanced and balanced, and if one day she was to find that she was exercising her prodigies103 of agility104 on a tight-rope over an abyss — so much the better! She knew that she was equal to any situation. All would be well. She relished105 everything — the diminution106 of risks and the domination of them; and she would proceed, in her extraordinary way, with her life’s work, which consisted of what? Putting out flames? Or playing with fire? She laughed; it was not for her to determine!
Thus it happened that when the inevitable107 reconciliation came it was not a complete one. The details are hidden from us; we do not know the terms of the peace; we only know that the pretext108 for it was yet another misfortune in Ireland. Sir Richard Bingham had been sent out to take command of the military operations, and early in October, immediately upon his arrival at Dublin, he died. All was in confusion once more; Essex again offered his services; and this time they were accepted. Soon the Queen and the favourite were as much together as they had ever been. It appeared that the past had been obliterated109, and that the Earl — as was his wont110 — had triumphantly111 regained112 his old position, as if there had never been a quarrel. In reality it was not so; the situation was a new one; mutual113 confidence had departed. For the first time, each side was holding something back. Essex, whatever his words, his looks, and even his passing moods may have been, had not uprooted114 from his mind the feelings of injury and defiance that had dictated115 his letter to Egerton. He had returned to Court as unchastened and undecided as ever, blindly impelled116 by the enticement117 of power. And Elizabeth on her side had by no means forgotten what had happened; the scene in the Council Chamber118 still rankled119; she perceived that there was something wrong with those protestations; and, while she conversed120 and flirted121 as of old, she kept open a weather eye.
But these were subtleties122 it was very difficult to make sure of, as the days whirled along at Whitehall and Greenwich and Nonesuch; and even Francis Bacon could not quite decide what had occurred. Possibly Essex was really again in the ascendant; possibly, after the death of Burghley the star of Cecil was declining; it was most unwise to be too sure. For more than a year, gradually moving towards the Cecils, he had kept out of the Earl’s way. In repeated letters he had paid his court to the Secretary, and his efforts had at last been rewarded in a highly gratifying manner. A new assassination123 plot had come to light — a new Catholic conspiracy124; the suspects had been seized; and Bacon was instructed to assist the Government in the unravelling125 of the mystery. The work suited him very well, for, while it provided an excellent opportunity for the display of intelligence, it also brought him into a closer contact with great persons than he had hitherto enjoyed. And it turned out that he was particularly in need of such support. He had been unable to set his finances in order. The Mastership of the Rolls and Lady Hatton had both eluded126 him; and he had been obliged to content himself with the reversion to the Clerkship of the Star Chamber — with the prospect127, instead of the reality, of emolument128. Yet it had seemed for a moment as if the prospect were unexpectedly close at hand. The actual Clerk was accused of peculation129, and the Lord Keeper Egerton was appointed, with others, to examine into the case. If the Clerk were removed, Bacon would succeed to the office. He wrote a secret letter to Egerton; he promised, in that eventuality, to resign the office to Egerton’s son, on the understanding that the Lord Keeper on his side would do his best to obtain for him some compensating130 position. The project failed, for the Clerk was not removed, and Bacon did not come into his reversion for ten years. In the meantime, an alarming poverty stared him in the face. He continued to borrow — from his brother, from his mother, from Mr. Trott; the situation grew more and more serious; at last, one day, as he was returning from the Tower after an examination of the prisoners concerned in the assassination plot, he was positively131 arrested for debt. Robert Cecil and Egerton, however, to whom he immediately applied132 for assistance, were able between them to get him out of this difficulty, and his public duties were not interrupted again.
But, if the Secretary was useful, the Earl might be useful too. Now that he was back at Court, it would be well to write to him. “That your Lordship,” Bacon said, “is in statu quo primo no man taketh greater gladness than I do; the rather because I assure myself that of your eclipses, as this hath been the longest, it shall be the last.” He hoped that “upon this, experience may found more perfect knowledge, and upon knowledge more true consent . . . And therefore, as bearing unto your Lordship, after her Majesty, of all public persons the second duty, I could not but signify unto you my affectionate gratulation.”
So far so good; but now the clouds of a new, tempest were seen to be gathering133 on the horizon, filling the hearts of the watchers at Whitehall with perplexity and perturbation. It was absolutely necessary that someone should be made Lord Deputy of Ireland. After the shattering scene in the summer, nothing had been done; the question was urgent; upon its solution so much, so very much, depended! The Queen believed that she had found the right man — Lord Mountjoy. Besides admiring his looks intensely, she had a high opinion of his competence134. He was approached on the subject, and it was found that he was willing to go. For a short time it appeared that the matter was happily settled — that Mountjoy was the deus ex machina who would bring peace not only to Ireland but to Whitehall. But again the wind shifted. Essex once more protested against the appointment of one of his own supporters; Mountjoy, he declared, was unfit for the post — he was a scholar rather than a general. It looked as if the fatal round of refusal and recrimination was about to begin all over again. Who then, Essex was asked, did he propose? Some years before, Bacon had written him a letter of advice precisely135 on this affair of Ireland. “I think,” said the man of policy, “if your Lordship lent your reputation in this case — that is, to pretend that you would accept the charge — I think it would help you to settle Tyrone in his seeking accord, and win you a great deal of honour gratis136.” There was only one objection, Bacon thought, to this line of conduct: “Your Lordship is too quick to pass in such cases from dissimulation137 to verity138.” We cannot trace all the moves — complicated, concealed, and fevered — that passed at the Council table; but it seems probable that Essex, when pressed to name a substitute for Mountjoy, remembered Bacon’s advice. He gave it as his opinion, Camden tells us, that “into Ireland must be sent some prime man of the nobility which was strong in power, honour, and wealth, in favour with military men, and which had before been general of an army; so as he seemed with the finger to point to himself.” The Secretary, with his face of gentle conscientiousness139, sat silent at the Board. What were his thoughts? If the Earl were indeed to go to Ireland — it would be a hazardous140 decision; but if he himself wished it — perhaps it would be better so. He scrutinised the future, weighing the possibilities with deliberate care. It was conceivable that the Earl, after all, was dissembling, that he understood how dangerous it would be for him to leave England, and was only making a show. But Cecil knew, as well as his cousin, the weak places in that brave character — knew the magnetism141 of arms and action — knew the tendency “to pass from dissimulation to verity.” He thought he saw what would happen. “My Lord Mountjoy,” he told a confidential142 correspondent, “is named; but to you, in secret I speak of it, not as a secretary but as a friend, that I think the Earl of Essex shall go Lieutenant of the Kingdom.” He sat writing; we do not know of his other faint imperceptible movements. We only know that, in the Council, there were some who still pressed for the appointment of Mountjoy, that the Earl’s indication of himself was opposed or neglected, and that then the candidature of Sir William Knollys was suddenly revived.
Opposition143 always tended to make Essex lose his head. He grew angry; the Mountjoy proposal seriously vexed144 him, and the renewal145 of Knollys’ name was the last straw. He fulminated against such notions, and, as he did so, slipped — after what he had himself said, it was an easy, an almost inevitable transition — into an assertion of his own claims. Some councillors supported him, declaring that all would be well if the Earl went; the Queen was impressed; Essex had embarked146 on a heated struggle — he had pitted himself against Knollys and Mountjoy, and he would win. Francis Bacon had prophesied147 all too truly — the reckless man had indeed “passed from dissimulation to verity.” Win he did. The Queen, bringing the discussion to a close, announced her decision: since Essex was convinced that he could pacify148 Ireland, and since he was so anxious for the office, he should have it; she would make him her Lord Deputy. With long elated strides and flashing glances he left the room in triumph; and so — with shuffling149 gait and looks of mild urbanity — did Robert Cecil.
It was long before Essex began to realise fully51 what had happened. The sense of victory, both at the moment and in anticipation150 — both at home and in Ireland — buoyed151 him up and carried him forward. “I have beaten Knollys and Mountjoy in the Council,” he wrote to his friend and follower50, John Harington, “and by God I will beat Tyrone in the field; for nothing worthy152 her Majesty’s honour hath yet been achieved.”
Naturally enough the old story was repeated, and the long, accustomed train of difficulties, disappointments, and delays dragged itself out. Elizabeth chaffered over every detail, changed from day to day the size and nature of the armament that she was fitting out, and disputed fiercely upon the scope of the authority with which the new Lord Deputy was to be invested. As the weeks passed in angry bickering153 Essex sank slowly downwards154 from elation to gloom. Perhaps he had acted unwisely; regrets attacked him; the future was dark and difficult; what was he heading for? He was overwhelmed by miserable155 sensations; but it was too late now to draw back, and he must face the inevitable with courage. “Into Ireland I go,” he told the young Earl of Southampton, who had become his devoted156 disciple157; “the Queen hath irrevocably decreed it, the Council do passionately urge it, and I am tied in my own reputation to use no tergiversation; and, as it were indecorum to slip collar now, so would it also be minime tutum; for Ireland would be lost, and though it perished by destiny I should only be accused of it, because I saw the fire burn and was called to quench158 it, but gave no help.” He was well aware, he said, of the disadvantages of absence —“the opportunities of practising enemies” and “the construction of Princes, under whom magnafama is more dangerous than mala.” He realised and enumerated159 the difficulties of an Irish campaign. “All these things,” he declared, “which I am like to see, I do now foresee.” Yet to every objection he did his best to summon up an answer. “‘Too ill success will be dangerous’— let them fear that who allow excuses, or can be content to overlive their honour. ‘Too great will be envious’— I will never foreswear virtue160 for fear of ostracism161. ‘The Court is the centre.’— But methinks it is the fairer choice to command armies than humours.” . . . “These are the very private problems,” he concluded, “and nightly disputations, which from your Lordship, whom I account another myself, I cannot hide.”
At moments the gloom lifted, and hope returned. The Queen smiled; disagreements vanished; something like the old happy confidence was in the air once more. On Twelfth Night, 1599, there was a grand party for the Danish ambassador, and the Queen and the Earl danced hand in hand before the assembled Court. Visions of that other Twelfth Night, five short years before — that apogee162 of happiness — must have flitted through many memories. Five short years — what a crowded gulf163 between then and now! And yet, now as then, those two figures were together in their passion and their mystery, while the viols played their beautiful tunes164 and the jewels glittered in the torchlight. What was passing? Perhaps, in that strange companionship, there was delight, as of old . . . and for the last time.
Elizabeth had much to trouble her — Ireland, Essex, the eternal question of War and Peace — but she brushed it all aside, and sat for hours translating the “Ars Poetica” into English prose. As for Ireland, she had grown accustomed to that; and Essex, though fretful, seemed only anxious to cut a figure as Lord Deputy — she could ignore those uncomfortable suspicions of a few months ago. There remained the Spanish War; but that too seemed to have solved itself very satisfactorily. It drifted on, in complete ambiguity165, while peace was indefinitely talked of, with no fighting and no expense; a war that was no war, in fact — precisely what was most to her liking166.
One day, however, she had a shock. A book fell into her hands — a History of Henry the Fourth — she looked at it — there was a Latin dedication167 to Essex. “To the most illustrious and honoured Robert Earl of Essex and Ewe, Earl Marshal of England, Viscount of Hereford and Bourchier, Baron36 Ferrars of Chartley, Lord Bourchier and Louen”— what was all this? She glanced through the volume, and found that it contained an elaborate account of the defeat and deposition168 of Richard the Second — a subject, implying as it did the possibility of the removal of a sovereign from the throne of England, to which she particularly objected. It, was true, no doubt, that the Bishop of Carlisle was made to deliver an elaborate speech against the King’s deposition; but why bring the matter before the public at all? What could be the purpose of this wretched book? She looked again at the dedication, and as she looked the blood rushed to her head. The tone was one of gross adulation, but that was by no means all; there was a phrase upon which a most disgraceful construction might be put. “Most illustrious Earl, with your name adorning169 the front of our Henry, he may go forth16 to the public happier and safer.”1 The man would, no doubt, pretend that “our Henry” referred to the book; but was there not another very possible interpretation170?— that if Henry IV had possessed the name and titles of Essex his right to the throne would have been better and more generally recognised. It was treason! She sent for Francis Bacon. “Cannot this man — this John Hayward — be prosecuted171 for treason?” she asked. “Not, I think, for treason, Madam,” was the reply, “but for felony.”
“How so?”
“He has stolen so many passages from Tacitus . . . ”
“I suspect the worst. I shall force the truth from him. The rack.” Bacon did what he could to calm her; but she was only partially172 pacified173; and the unfortunate Hayward, though he was spared the rack, was sent to the Tower, where he remained for the rest of the reign19.
Her suspicions, having flamed up in this unexpected manner, sank down again, and, after a slight scene with Essex, she finally signed his appointment as Lord Deputy. He departed at the end of March, passing through the streets of London amid the acclamations of the citizens. In the popular expectation, all would be well in Ireland, now that the Protestant Earl had gone there to put things to rights. But, at Court, there were those whose view of the future was different. Among them was Bacon. He had followed the fluctuations174 of the Irish appointment with interest and astonishment175. Was it really possible that, with his eyes open, that rash man had fallen into such a trap? When he found that it was indeed the case, and that Essex was actually going, he wrote him a quiet, encouraging letter, giving no expression to his fears or his doubts. There was nothing else to be done; the very intensity176 of his private conviction made a warning useless and impossible. “I did as plainly see,” he afterwards wrote, “his overthrow177 chained, as it were, by destiny to that journey as it is possible for a man to ground a judgment178 upon future contingents179.”
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regain
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indignity
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unbearable
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chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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passionate
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passionately
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standing
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err
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majesty
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beguiling
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repentance
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humble
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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17
deadlock
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| n.僵局，僵持 | |
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18
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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19
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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20
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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21
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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22
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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23
rebutted
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| v.反驳，驳回( rebut的过去式和过去分词 )；击退 | |
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24
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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25
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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26
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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27
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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28
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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29
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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30
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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31
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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32
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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33
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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34
flaunting
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|
| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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35
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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36
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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37
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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38
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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39
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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40
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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41
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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42
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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43
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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44
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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45
reconciliation
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|
| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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46
retirement
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|
| n.退休，退职 | |
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47
cynical
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|
| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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48
biased
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| a.有偏见的 | |
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49
followers
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|
| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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50
follower
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|
| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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51
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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52
dubious
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|
| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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53
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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54
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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55
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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56
duel
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|
| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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57
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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59
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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60
odious
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|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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61
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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62
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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63
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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64
knightliness
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| 骑士的，勋爵士的，骑士似的 | |
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65
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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66
intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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67
zeal
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|
| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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68
conspired
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|
| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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69
gallant
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|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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70
courteous
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|
| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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71
puritanical
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|
| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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72
unwilling
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|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
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73
esteem
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|
| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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74
chancellor
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|
| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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75
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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76
goblet
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|
| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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77
tumult
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|
| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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78
placid
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|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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79
vent
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|
| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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80
elation
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|
| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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81
hesitation
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|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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82
submission
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|
| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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83
defiance
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|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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84
withdrawal
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|
| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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85
sinister
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|
| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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86
uncertainty
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|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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87
fluctuation
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|
| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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88
expatiate
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|
| v.细说，详述 | |
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89
scrupulously
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|
| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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90
concealed
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|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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91
perturbed
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|
| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
diagnosis
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|
| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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93
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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94
hostility
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|
| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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95
innate
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|
| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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96
propitiate
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|
| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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97
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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98
contradictory
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|
| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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99
propensity
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|
| n.倾向；习性 | |
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100
mechanism
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|
| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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101
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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102
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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103
prodigies
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|
| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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104
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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105
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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106
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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107
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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108
pretext
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|
| n.借口，托词 | |
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109
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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110
wont
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|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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111
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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112
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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113
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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114
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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115
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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116
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
enticement
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| n.诱骗，诱人 | |
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118
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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119
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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121
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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123
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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124
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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125
unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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126
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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127
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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128
emolument
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| n.报酬，薪水 | |
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129
peculation
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| n.侵吞公款[公物] | |
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130
compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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131
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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132
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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133
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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134
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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135
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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136
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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137
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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138
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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139
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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140
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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141
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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142
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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143
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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144
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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145
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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146
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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147
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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149
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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150
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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151
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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152
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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153
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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154
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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155
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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156
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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157
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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158
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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159
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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161
ostracism
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| n.放逐；排斥 | |
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162
apogee
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| n.远地点；极点；顶点 | |
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163
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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164
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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165
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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166
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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167
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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168
deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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169
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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170
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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171
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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172
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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173
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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174
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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175
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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176
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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177
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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178
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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179
contingents
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| （志趣相投、尤指来自同一地方的）一组与会者( contingent的名词复数 )； 代表团； （军队的）分遣队； 小分队 | |
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