“A naughty night to swim in.”— SHAKESPEARE.
The evening of the day succeeding the adventure of the angler was dark and tempestuous1. The rain descended2 almost in a continuous sheet; and occasional powerful gusts3 of wind drove it hard against the northeastern windows of Hugh Crombie’s inn. But at least one apartment of the interior presented a scene of comfort and of apparent enjoyment4, the more delightful5 from its contrast with the elemental fury that raged without. A fire, which the dullness of the evening, though a summer one, made necessary, was burning brightly on the hearth7; and in front was placed a small round table, sustaining wine and glasses. One of the guests for whom these preparations had been made was Edward Walcott; the other was a shy, awkward young man, distinguished8, by the union of classic and rural dress, as having but lately become a student of Harley College. He seemed little at his ease, probably from a consciousness that he was on forbidden ground, and that the wine, of which he nevertheless swallowed a larger share than his companion, was an unlawful draught9.
In the catalogue of crimes provided against by the laws of Harley College, that of tavern-haunting was one of the principal. The secluded10 situation of the seminary, indeed, gave its scholars but a very limited choice of vices11; and this was, therefore, the usual channel by which the wildness of youth discharged itself. Edward Walcott, though naturally temperate13, had been not an unfrequent offender14 in this respect, for which a superfluity both of time and money might plead some excuse. But, since his acquaintance with Ellen Langton, he had rarely entered Hugh Crombie’s doors; and an interruption in that acquaintance was the cause of his present appearance there.
Edward’s jealous pride had been considerably15 touched on Ellen’s compliance16 with the request of the angler. He had, by degrees, imperceptible perhaps to himself, assumed the right of feeling displeased17 with her conduct; and she had, as imperceptibly, accustomed herself to consider what would be his wishes, and to act accordingly. He would, indeed, in no contingency18 have ventured an open remonstrance19; and such a proceeding20 would have been attended by a result the reverse of what he desired. But there existed between them a silent compact (acknowledged perhaps by neither, but felt by both), according to which they had regulated the latter part of their intercourse21. Their lips had yet spoken no word of love; but some of love’s rights and privileges had been assumed on the one side, and at least not disallowed23 on the other.
Edward’s penetration24 had been sufficiently25 quick to discover that there was a mystery about the angler, that there must have been a cause for the blush that rose so proudly on Ellen’s cheek; and his Quixotism had been not a little mortified26, because she did not immediately appeal to his protection. He had, however, paid his usual visit the next day at Dr. Melmoth’s, expecting that, by a smile of more than common brightness, she would make amends27 to his wounded feelings; such having been her usual mode of reparation in the few instances of disagreement that had occurred between them. But he was disappointed. He found her cold, silent, and abstracted, inattentive when he spoke22, and indisposed to speak herself. Her eye was sedulously28 averted29 from his; and the casual meeting of their glances only proved that there were feelings in her bosom30 which he did not share. He was unable to account for this change in her deportment; and, added to his previous conceptions of his wrongs, it produced an effect upon his rather hasty temper, that might have manifested itself violently, but for the presence of Mrs. Melmoth. He took his leave in very evident displeasure; but, just as he closed the door, he noticed an expression in Ellen’s countenance31, that, had they been alone, and had not he been quite so proud, would have drawn32 him down to her feet. Their eyes met, when, suddenly, there was a gush33 of tears into those of Ellen; and a deep sadness, almost despair, spread itself over her features. He paused a moment, and then went his way, equally unable to account for her coldness, or for her grief. He was well aware, however, that his situation in respect to her was unaccountably changed,— a conviction so disagreeable, that, but for a hope that is latent even in the despair of youthful hearts, he would have been sorely tempted34 to shoot himself.
The gloom of his thoughts — a mood of mind the more intolerable to him, because so unusual — had driven him to Hugh Crombie’s inn in search of artificial excitement. But even the wine had no attractions; and his first glass stood now almost untouched before him, while he gazed in heavy thought into the glowing embers of the fire. His companion perceived his melancholy35, and essayed to dispel36 it by a choice of such topics of conversation as he conceived would be most agreeable.
“There is a lady in the house,” he observed. “I caught a glimpse of her in the passage as we came in. Did you see her, Edward?”
“A lady!” repeated Edward, carelessly. “What know you of ladies? No, I did not see her; but I will venture to say that it was Dame37 Crombie’s self, and no other.”
“Well, perhaps it might,” said the other, doubtingly. “Her head was turned from me, and she was gone like a shadow.”
“Dame Crombie is no shadow, and never vanishes like one,” resumed Edward. “You have mistaken the slipshod servant-girl for a lady.”
“Ay; but she had a white hand, a small white hand,” said the student, piqued38 at Edward’s contemptuous opinion of his powers of observation; “as white as Ellen Langton’s.” He paused; for the lover was offended by the profanity of the comparison, as was made evident by the blood that rushed to his brow.
“We will appeal to the landlord,” said Edward, recovering his equanimity40, and turning to Hugh, who just then entered the room. “Who is this angel, mine host, that has taken up her abode41 in the Hand and Bottle?”
Hugh cast a quick glance from one to another before he answered, “I keep no angels here, gentlemen. Dame Crombie would make the house anything but heaven for them and me.”
“And yet Glover has seen a vision in the passage-way,— a lady with a small white hand.”
“Ah, I understand! A slight mistake of the young gentleman’s,” said Hugh, with the air of one who could perfectly42 account for the mystery. “Our passageway is dark; or perhaps the light had dazzled his eyes. It was the Widow Fowler’s daughter, that came to borrow a pipe of tobacco for her mother. By the same token, she put it into her own sweet mouth, and puffed43 as she went along.”
“But the white hand,” said Glover, only half convinced.
“Nay, I know not,” answered Hugh. “But her hand was at least as white as her face: that I can swear. Well, gentlemen, I trust you find everything in my house to your satisfaction. When the fire needs renewing, or the wine runs low, be pleased to tap on the table. I shall appear with the speed of a sunbeam.”
After the departure of the landlord, the conversation of the young men amounted to little more than monosyllables. Edward Walcott was wrapped in his own contemplations; and his companion was in a half-slumberous state, from which he started every quarter of an hour, at the chiming of the clock that stood in a corner. The fire died gradually away; the lamps began to burn dim; and Glover, rousing himself from one of his periodical slumbers44, was about to propose a return to their chambers45. He was prevented, however, by the approach of footsteps along the passageway; and Hugh Crombie, opening the door, ushered47 a person into the room, and retired48.
The new-comer was Fanshawe. The water that poured plentifully49 from his cloak evinced that he had but just arrived at the inn; but, whatever was his object, he seemed not to have attained50 it in meeting with the young men. He paused near the door, as if meditating51 whether to retire.
“My intrusion is altogether owing to a mistake, either of the landlord’s or mine,” he said. “I came hither to seek another person; but, as I could not mention his name, my inquiries52 were rather vague.”
“I thank Heaven for the chance that sent you to us,” replied Edward, rousing himself. “Glover is wretched company; and a duller evening have I never spent. We will renew our fire and our wine, and you must sit down with us. And for the man you seek,” he continued in a whisper, “he left the inn within a half-hour after we encountered him. I inquired of Hugh Crombie last night.”
Fanshawe did not express his doubts of the correctness of the information on which Edward seemed to rely. Laying aside his cloak, he accepted his invitation to make one of the party, and sat down by the fireside.
The aspect of the evening now gradually changed. A strange wild glee spread from one to another of the party, which, much to the surprise of his companions, began with and was communicated from, Fanshawe. He seemed to overflow53 with conceptions inimitably ludicrous, but so singular, that, till his hearers had imbibed54 a portion of his own spirit, they could only wonder at, instead of enjoying them. His applications to the wine were very unfrequent; yet his conversation was such as one might expect from a bottle of champagne55 endowed by a fairy with the gift of speech. The secret of this strange mirth lay in the troubled state of his spirits, which, like the vexed56 ocean at midnight (if the simile57 be not too magnificent), tossed forth58 a mysterious brightness. The undefined apprehensions59 that had drawn him to the inn still distracted his mind; but, mixed with them, there was a sort of joy not easily to be described. By degrees, and by the assistance of the wine, the inspiration spread, each one contributing such a quantity, and such quality of wit and whim60, as was proportioned to his genius; but each one, and all, displaying a greater share of both than they had ever been suspected of possessing.
At length, however, there was a pause,— the deep pause of flagging spirits, that always follows mirth and wine. No one would have believed, on beholding61 the pensive62 faces, and hearing the involuntary sighs of the party, that from these, but a moment before, had arisen so loud and wild a laugh. During this interval63 Edward Walcott (who was the poet of his class) volunteered the following song, which, from its want of polish, and from its application to his present feelings, might charitably be taken for an extemporaneous64 production:—
The wine is bright, the wine is bright;
And gay the drinkers be:
Of all that drain the bowl to-night,
Most jollily drain we.
Oh, could one search the weary earth,—
The earth from sea to sea,—
He’d turn and mingle65 in our mirth;
For we’re the merriest three.
Yet there are cares, oh, heavy cares!
We know that they are nigh:
When forth each lonely drinker fares,
Mark then his altered eye.
Care comes upon us when the jest
And frantic66 laughter die;
And care will watch the parting guest —
Oh late, then let us fly!
Hugh Crombie, whose early love of song and minstrelsy was still alive, had entered the room at the sound of Edward’s voice, in sufficient time to accompany the second stanza67 on the violin. He now, with the air of one who was entitled to judge in these matters, expressed his opinion of the performance.
“Really, Master Walcott, I was not prepared for this,” he said in the tone of condescending68 praise that a great man uses to his inferior when he chooses to overwhelm him with excess of joy. “Very well, indeed, young gentleman! Some of the lines, it is true, seem to have been dragged in by the head and shoulders; but I could scarcely have done much better myself at your age. With practice, and with such instruction as I might afford you, I should have little doubt of your becoming a distinguished poet. A great defect in your seminary, gentlemen,— the want of due cultivation69 in this heavenly art.”
“Perhaps, sir,” said Edward, with much gravity, “you might yourself be prevailed upon to accept the professorship of poetry?”
“Why, such an offer would require consideration,” replied the landlord. “Professor Hugh Crombie of Harley College: it has a good sound, assuredly. But I am a public man, Master Walcott; and the public would be loath70 to spare me from my present office.”
“Will Professor Crombie favor us with a specimen71 of his productions?” inquired Edward.
“Ahem, I shall be happy to gratify you, young gentleman,” answered Hugh. “It is seldom, in this rude country, Master Walcott, that we meet with kindred genius; and the opportunity should never be thrown away.”
Thus saying, he took a heavy draught of the liquor by which he was usually inspired, and the praises of which were the prevailing72 subject of his song; then, after much hemming73, thrumming, and prelusion, and with many queer gestures and gesticulations, he began to effuse a lyric74 in the following fashion:—
I’ve been a jolly drinker this five-and-twenty year,
And still a jolly drinker, my friends, you see me here:
I sing the joys of drinking; bear a chorus, every man,
With pint75 pot and quart pot and clattering76 of can.
The sense of the professor’s first stanza was not in exact proportion to the sound; but, being executed with great spirit, it attracted universal applause. This Hugh appropriated with a condescending bow and smile; and, making a signal for silence, he went on,—
King Solomon of old, boys (a jolly king was he),—
But here he was interrupted by a clapping of hands, that seemed a continuance of the applause bestowed78 on his former stanza. Hugh Crombie, who, as is the custom of many great performers, usually sang with his eyes shut, now opened them, intending gently to rebuke79 his auditors80 for their unseasonable expression of delight. He immediately perceived, however, that the fault was to be attributed to neither of the three young men; and, following the direction of their eyes, he saw near the door, in the dim background of the apartment, a figure in a cloak. The hat was flapped forward, the cloak muffled81 round the lower part of the face; and only the eyes were visible.
The party gazed a moment in silence, and then rushed en masse upon the intruder, the landlord bringing up the rear, and sounding a charge upon his fiddle82. But, as they drew nigh, the black cloak began to assume a familiar look; the hat, also, was an old acquaintance; and, these being removed, from beneath them shone forth the reverend face and form of Dr. Melmoth.
The president, in his quality of clergyman, had, late in the preceding afternoon, been called to visit an aged6 female who was supposed to be at the point of death. Her habitation was at the distance of several miles from Harley College; so that it was nightfall before Dr. Melmoth stood at her bedside. His stay had been lengthened83 beyond his anticipation84, on account of the frame of mind in which he found the dying woman; and, after essaying to impart the comforts of religion to her disturbed intellect, he had waited for the abatement85 of the storm that had arisen while he was thus engaged. As the evening advanced, however, the rain poured down in undiminished cataracts86; and the doctor, trusting to the prudence88 and sure-footedness of his steed, had at length set forth on his return. The darkness of the night, and the roughness of the road, might have appalled89 him, even had his horsemanship and his courage been more considerable than they were; but by the special protection of Providence90, as he reasonably supposed (for he was a good man, and on a good errand), he arrived safely as far as Hugh Crombie’s inn. Dr. Melmoth had no intention of making a stay there; but, as the road passed within a very short distance, he saw lights in the windows, and heard the sound of song and revelry. It immediately occurred to him, that these midnight rioters were, probably, some of the young men of his charge; and he was impelled91, by a sense of duty, to enter and disperse92 them. Directed by the voices, he found his way, with some difficulty, to the apartment, just as Hugh concluded his first stanza; and, amidst the subsequent applause, his entrance had been unperceived.
There was a silence of a moment’s continuance after the discovery of Dr. Melmoth, during which he attempted to clothe his round, good-natured face in a look of awful dignity. But, in spite of himself, there was a little twisting of the corners of his mouth, and a smothered93 gleam in his eye.
“This has, apparently94, been a very merry meeting, young gentlemen,” he at length said; “but I fear my presence has cast a damp upon it.”
“Oh yes! your reverence95’s cloak is wet enough to cast a damp upon anything,” exclaimed Hugh Crombie, assuming a look of tender anxiety. “The young gentlemen are affrighted for your valuable life. Fear deprives them of utterance96: permit me to relieve you of these dangerous garments.”
“Trouble not yourself, honest man,” replied the doctor, who was one of the most gullible97 of mortals. “I trust I am in no danger; my dwelling98 being near at hand. But for these young men”—
“Would your reverence but honor my Sunday suit,— the gray broadcloth coat, and the black velvet99 smallclothes, that have covered my unworthy legs but once? Dame Crombie shall have them ready in a moment,” continued Hugh, beginning to divest100 the doctor of his garments.
“I pray you to appease101 your anxiety,” cried Dr. Melmoth, retaining a firm hold on such parts of his dress as yet remained to him. “Fear not for my health. I will but speak a word to those misguided youth, and be gone.”
“Misguided youth, did your reverence say?” echoed Hugh, in a tone of utter astonishment102. “Never were they better guided than when they entered my poor house. Oh, had your reverence but seen them, when I heard their cries, and rushed forth to their assistance. Dripping with wet were they, like three drowned men at the resurrec — Ahem!” interrupted Hugh, recollecting103 that the comparison he meditated105 might not suit the doctor’s ideas of propriety106.
“But why were they abroad on such a night?” inquired the president.
“Ah! doctor, you little know the love these good young gentlemen bear for you,” replied the landlord. “Your absence, your long absence, had alarmed them; and they rushed forth through the rain and darkness to seek you.”
“And was this indeed so?” asked the doctor, in a softened107 tone, and casting a tender and grateful look upon the three students. They, it is but justice to mention, had simultaneously108 made a step forward in order to contradict the egregious109 falsehoods of which Hugh’s fancy was so fertile; but he assumed an expression of such ludicrous entreaty110, that it was irresistible112.
“But methinks their anxiety was not of long continuance,” observed Dr. Melmoth, looking at the wine, and remembering the song that his entrance had interrupted.
“Ah! your reverence disapproves113 of the wine, I see,” answered Hugh Crombie. “I did but offer them a drop to keep the life in their poor young hearts. My dame advised strong waters; ‘But, Dame Crombie,’ says I, ‘would ye corrupt114 their youth?’ And in my zeal115 for their good, doctor, I was delighting them, just at your entrance, with a pious116 little melody of my own against the sin of drunkenness.”
“Truly, I remember something of the kind,” observed Dr. Melmoth. “And, as I think, it seemed to meet with good acceptance.”
“Ay, that it did!” said the landlord. “Will it please your reverence to hear it?—
King Solomon of old, boys (a wise man I’m thinking),
Has warned you to beware of the horrid117 vice12 of drinking —
“But why talk I of drinking, foolish man that I am! And all this time, doctor, you have not sipped118 a drop of my wine. Now I entreat111 your reverence, as you value your health and the peace and quiet of these youth.”
Dr. Melmoth drank a glass of wine, with the benevolent119 intention of allaying120 the anxiety of Hugh Crombie and the students. He then prepared to depart; for a strong wind had partially121 dispersed122 the clouds, and occasioned an interval in the cataract87 of rain. There was, perhaps, a little suspicion yet remaining in the good man’s mind respecting the truth of the landlord’s story: at least, it was his evident intention to see the students fairly out of the inn before he quitted it himself. They therefore proceeded along the passageway in a body. The lamp that Hugh Crombie held but dimly enlightened them; and the number and contiguity123 of the doors caused Dr. Melmoth to lay his hand upon the wrong one.
“Not there, not there, doctor! It is Dame Crombie’s bedchamber,” shouted Hugh, most energetically. “Now Beelzebub defend me!” he muttered to himself, perceiving that his exclamation124 had been a moment too late.
“Heavens! what do I see?” ejaculated Dr. Melmoth, lifting his hands, and starting back from the entrance of the room. The three students pressed forward; Mrs. Crombie and the servant-girl had been drawn to the spot by the sound of Hugh’s voice; and all their wondering eyes were fixed125 on poor Ellen Langton.
The apartment in the midst of which she stood was dimly lighted by a solitary126 candle at the farther extremity127; but Ellen was exposed to the glare of the three lamps, held by Hugh, his wife, and the servant-girl. Their combined rays seemed to form a focus exactly at the point where they reached her; and the beholders, had any been sufficiently calm, might have watched her features in their agitated128 workings and frequent change of expression, as perfectly as by the broad light of day. Terror had at first blanched129 her as white as a lily, or as a marble statue, which for a moment she resembled, as she stood motionless in the centre of the room. Shame next bore sway; and her blushing countenance, covered by her slender white fingers, might fantastically be compared to a variegated130 rose with its alternate stripes of white and red. The next instant, a sense of her pure and innocent intentions gave her strength and courage; and her attitude and look had now something of pride and dignity. These, however, in their turn, gave way; for Edward Walcott pressed forward, and attempted to address her.
“Ellen, Ellen!” he said, in an agitated and quivering whisper; but what was to follow cannot be known; for his emotion checked his utterance. His tone and look, however, again overcame Ellen Langton, and she burst into tears. Fanshawe advanced, and took Edward’s arm. “She has been deceived,” he whispered. “She is innocent: you are unworthy of her if you doubt it.”
“Why do you interfere131, sir?” demanded Edward, whose passions, thoroughly132 excited, would willingly have wreaked133 themselves on any one. “What right have you to speak of her innocence134? Perhaps,” he continued, an undefined and ridiculous suspicion arising in his mind,—“perhaps you are acquainted with her intentions. Perhaps you are the deceiver.”
Fanshawe’s temper was not naturally of the meekest135 character; and having had a thousand bitter feelings of his own to overcome, before he could attempt to console Edward, this rude repulse136 had almost aroused him to fierceness. But his pride, of which a more moderate degree would have had a less peaceable effect, came to his assistance; and he turned calmly and contemptuously away.
Ellen, in the mean time, had been restored to some degree of composure. To this effect, a feeling of pique39 against Edward Walcott had contributed. She had distinguished his voice in the neighboring apartment, had heard his mirth and wild laughter, without being aware of the state of feeling that produced them. She had supposed that the terms on which they parted in the morning (which had been very grievous to herself) would have produced a corresponding sadness in him. But while she sat in loneliness and in tears, her bosom distracted by a thousand anxieties and sorrows, of many of which Edward was the object, his reckless gayety had seemed to prove the slight regard in which he held her. After the first outbreak of emotion, therefore, she called up her pride (of which, on proper occasions, she had a reasonable share), and sustained his upbraiding137 glance with a passive composure, which women have more readily at command than men.
Dr. Melmoth’s surprise had during this time kept him silent and inactive. He gazed alternately from one to another of those who stood around him, as if to seek some explanation of so strange an event. But the faces of all were as perplexed138 as his own; even Hugh Crombie had assumed a look of speechless wonder,— speechless, because his imagination, prolific139 as it was, could not supply a plausible140 falsehood.
“Ellen, dearest child,” at length said the doctor, “what is the meaning of this?”
Ellen endeavored to reply; but, as her composure was merely external, she was unable to render her words audible. Fanshawe spoke in a low voice to Dr. Melmoth, who appeared grateful for his advice.
“True, it will be the better way,” he replied. “My wits are utterly141 confounded, or I should not have remained thus long. Come, my dear child,” he continued, advancing to Ellen, and taking her hand, “let us return home, and defer142 the explanation till the morrow. There, there: only dry your eyes, and we will say no more about it.”
“And that will be your wisest way, old gentleman,” muttered Hugh Crombie.
Ellen at first exhibited but little desire, or, rather, an evident reluctance143, to accompany her guardian144. She hung back, while her glance passed almost imperceptibly over the faces that gazed so eagerly at her; but the one she sought was not visible among them. She had no alternative, and suffered herself to be led from the inn.
Edward Walcott alone remained behind, the most wretched being (at least such was his own opinion) that breathed the vital air. He felt a sinking and sickness of the heart, and alternately a feverish145 frenzy146, neither of which his short and cloudless existence had heretofore occasioned him to experience. He was jealous of, he knew not whom, and he knew not what. He was ungenerous enough to believe that Ellen — his pure and lovely Ellen — had degraded herself; though from what motive147, or by whose agency, he could not conjecture148. When Dr. Melmoth had taken her in charge, Edward returned to the apartment where he had spent the evening. The wine was still upon the table; and, in the desperate hope of stupefying his faculties149, he unwisely swallowed huge successive draughts150. The effect of his imprudence was not long in manifesting itself; though insensibility, which at another time would have been the result, did not now follow. Acting151 upon his previous agitation152, the wine seemed to set his blood in a flame; and, for the time being, he was a perfect madman.
A phrenologist would probably have found the organ of destructiveness in strong development, just then, upon Edward’s cranium; for he certainly manifested an impulse to break and destroy whatever chanced to be within his reach. He commenced his operations by upsetting the table, and breaking the bottles and glasses. Then, seizing a tall heavy chair in each hand, he hurled153 them with prodigious154 force,— one through the window, and the other against a large looking-glass, the most valuable article of furniture in Hugh Crombie’s inn. The crash and clatter77 of these outrageous155 proceedings156 soon brought the master, mistress, and maid-servant to the scene of action; but the two latter, at the first sight of Edward’s wild demeanor157 and gleaming eyes, retreated with all imaginable expedition. Hugh chose a position behind the door, from whence, protruding158 his head, he endeavored to mollify his inebriated159 guest. His interference, however, had nearly been productive of most unfortunate consequences; for a massive andiron, with round brazen160 head, whizzed past him, within a hair’s-breadth of his ear.
“I might as safely take my chance in a battle,” exclaimed Hugh, withdrawing his head, and speaking to a man who stood in the passageway. “A little twist of his hand to the left would have served my turn as well as if I stood in the path of a forty-two pound ball. And here comes another broadside,” he added, as some other article of furniture rattled161 against the door.
“Let us return his fire, Hugh,” said the person whom he addressed, composedly lifting the andiron. “He is in want of ammunition162: let us send him back his own.”
The sound of this man’s voice produced a most singular effect upon Edward. The moment before, his actions had been those of a raving163 maniac164; but, when the words struck his ear, he paused, put his hand to his forehead, seemed to recollect104 himself, and finally advanced with a firm and steady step. His countenance was dark and angry, but no longer wild.
“I have found you, villain165!” he said to the angler. “It is you who have done this.”
“And, having done it, the wrath166 of a boy — his drunken wrath — will not induce me to deny it,” replied the other, scornfully.
“The boy will require a man’s satisfaction,” returned Edward, “and that speedily.”
“Will you take it now?” inquired the angler, with a cool, derisive167 smile, and almost in a whisper. At the same time he produced a brace168 of pistols, and held them towards the young man.
“Willingly,” answered Edward, taking one of the weapons. “Choose your distance.”
The angler stepped back a pace; but before their deadly intentions, so suddenly conceived, could be executed, Hugh Crombie interposed himself between them.
“Do you take my best parlor169 for the cabin of the Black Andrew, where a pistol-shot was a nightly pastime?” he inquired of his comrade. “And you, Master Edward, with what sort of a face will you walk into the chapel170 to morning prayers, after putting a ball through this man’s head, or receiving one through your own? Though, in this last case, you will be past praying for, or praying either.”
“Stand aside: I will take the risk. Make way, or I will put the ball through your own head,” exclaimed Edward, fiercely: for the interval of rationality that circumstances had produced was again giving way to intoxication171.
“You see how it is,” said Hugh to his companion, unheard by Edward. “You shall take a shot at me, sooner than at the poor lad in his present state. You have done him harm enough already, and intend him more. I propose,” he continued aloud, and with a peculiar172 glance towards the angler, “that this affair be decided173 tomorrow, at nine o’clock, under the old oak, on the bank of the stream. In the mean time, I will take charge of these popguns, for fear of accidents.”
“Well, mine host, be it as you wish,” said his comrade. “A shot more or less is of little consequence to me.” He accordingly delivered his weapon to Hugh Crombie and walked carelessly away.
“Come, Master Walcott, the enemy has retreated. Victoria! And now, I see, the sooner I get you to your chamber46, the better,” added he aside; for the wine was at last beginning to produce its legitimate174 effect, in stupefying the young man’s mental and bodily faculties.
Hugh Crombie’s assistance, though not, perhaps, quite indispensable, was certainly very convenient to our unfortunate hero, in the course of the short walk that brought him to his chamber. When arrived there, and in bed, he was soon locked in a sleep scarcely less deep than that of death.
The weather, during the last hour, had appeared to be on the point of changing: indeed, there were, every few minutes, most rapid changes. A strong breeze sometimes drove the clouds from the brow of heaven, so as to disclose a few of the stars; but, immediately after, the darkness would again become Egyptian, and the rain rush like a torrent175 from the sky.
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tempestuous
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descended
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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aged
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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11
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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13
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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14
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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15
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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16
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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17
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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18
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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19
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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20
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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21
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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22
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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23
disallowed
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| v.不承认（某事物）有效( disallow的过去式和过去分词 )；不接受；不准；驳回 | |
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24
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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25
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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26
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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27
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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28
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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29
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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30
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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31
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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32
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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33
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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34
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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35
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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36
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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37
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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38
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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39
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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40
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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41
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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42
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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43
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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44
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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45
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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46
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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47
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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49
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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50
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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51
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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52
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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53
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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54
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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55
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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56
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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57
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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58
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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59
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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60
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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61
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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62
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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63
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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64
extemporaneous
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| adj.即席的，一时的 | |
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65
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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66
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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67
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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68
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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69
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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70
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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71
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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72
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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73
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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74
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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75
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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76
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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77
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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78
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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80
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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81
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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82
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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83
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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85
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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86
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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87
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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88
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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89
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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90
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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91
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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92
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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93
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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94
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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95
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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96
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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97
gullible
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| adj.易受骗的；轻信的 | |
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98
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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99
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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100
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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101
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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102
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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103
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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104
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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105
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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106
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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107
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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108
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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109
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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110
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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111
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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112
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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113
disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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115
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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116
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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117
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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118
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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120
allaying
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的现在分词 ) | |
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121
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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122
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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123
contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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124
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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125
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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126
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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127
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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128
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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129
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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130
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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131
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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132
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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133
wreaked
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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135
meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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136
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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137
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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148
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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149
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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150
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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151
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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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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153
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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156
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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inebriated
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| adj.酒醉的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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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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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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