A human heart. Vast city, where reside
All glories and all vilenesses; while foul2,
Yet silent, through the roar of passions rolls
The river of the Darling Sin, and bears
A life and yet a poison on its tide.
. . . . . . . . . . . . ..
Clem. Thy wife?
Vict. Avaunt! I’ve changed that word to “scorn”!
Clem. Thy child?
Vict. Ay, that strikes home — my child, my child!
Love and Hatred4, by ————
To an obscure town in shire there came to reside a young couple, whose appearance and habits drew towards them from the neighbouring gossips a more than ordinary attention. They bore the name of Welford. The man assumed the profession of a solicitor5. He came without introduction or recommendation; his manner of life bespoke6 poverty; his address was reserved and even sour; and despite the notice and scrutiny8 with which he was regarded, he gained no clients and made no lawsuits9. The want of all those decent charlatanisms which men of every profession are almost necessitated10 to employ, and the sudden and unushered nature of his coming were, perhaps, the cause of this ill-success. “His house was too small,” people said, “for respectability.” And little good could be got from a solicitor the very rails round whose door were so sadly in want of repainting! Then, too, Mrs. Welford made a vast number of enemies. She was, beyond all expression, beautiful; and there was a certain coquetry in her manner which showed she was aware of her attractions. All the ladies of ———— hated her. A few people called on the young couple. Welford received them coldly; their invitations were unaccepted, and, what was worse, they were never returned. The devil himself could not have supported an attorney under such circumstances. Reserved, shabby, poor, rude, introductionless, a bad house, an unpainted railing, and a beautiful wife! Nevertheless, though Welford was not employed, he was, as we have said, watched. On their first arrival, which was in summer, the young pair were often seen walking together in the fields or groves11 which surrounded their home. Sometimes they walked affectionately together, and it was observed with what care Welford adjusted his wife’s cloak or shawl around her slender shape, as the cool of the evening increased. But often his arm was withdrawn12; he lingered behind, and they continued their walk or returned homeward in silence and apart. By degrees whispers circulated throughout the town that the new-married couple lived by no means happily. The men laid the fault on the stern-looking husband; the women, on the minx of a wife. However, the solitary13 servant whom they kept declared that though Mr. Welford did sometimes frown, and Mrs. Welford did sometimes weep, they were extremely attached to each other, and only quarrelled through love. The maid had had four lovers herself, and was possibly experienced in such matters. They received no visitors, near or from a distance; and the postman declared he had never seen a letter directed to either. Thus a kind of mystery hung over the pair, and made them still more gazed on and still more disliked — which is saying a great deal — than they would have otherwise been. Poor as Welford was, his air and walk eminently14 bespoke what common persons term gentility. And in this he had greatly the advantage of his beautiful wife, who, though there was certainly nothing vulgar or plebeian15 in her aspect, altogether wanted the refinement16 of manner, look, and phrase which characterized Welford. For about two years they lived in this manner, and so frugally17 and tranquilly19 that though Welford had not any visible means of subsistence, no one could well wonder in what manner they did subsist20. About the end of that time Welford suddenly embarked21 a small sum in a county speculation22. In the course of this adventure, to the great surprise of his neighbours, he evinced an extraordinary turn for calculation, and his habits plainly bespoke a man both of business and ability. This disposal of capital brought a sufficient return to support the Welfords, if they had been so disposed, in rather a better style than heretofore. They remained, however, in much the same state; and the only difference that the event produced was the retirement24 of Mr. Welford from the profession he had embraced. He was no longer a solicitor! It must be allowed that he resigned no great advantages in this retirement. About this time some officers were quartered at ———; and one of them, a handsome lieutenant25, was so struck with the charms of Mrs. Welford, whom he saw at church, that he lost no opportunity of testifying his admiration26. It was maliciously27 yet not unfoundedly remarked that though no absolute impropriety could be detected in the manner of Mrs. Welford, she certainly seemed far from displeased28 with the evident homage29 of the young lieutenant. A blush tinged30 her cheek when she saw him; and the gallant31 coxcomb32 asserted that the blush was not always without a smile. Emboldened33 by the interpretations34 of his vanity, and contrasting, as every one else did, his own animated35 face and glittering garb36 with the ascetic37 and gloomy countenance38, the unstudied dress, and austere39 gait which destroyed in Welford the effect of a really handsome person, our lieutenant thought fit to express his passion by a letter, which he conveyed to Mrs. Welford’s pew. Mrs. Welford went not to church that day; the letter was found by a good-natured neighbour, and inclosed anonymously40 to the husband.
Whatever, in the secrecy42 of domestic intercourse43, took place on this event was necessarily unknown; but the next Sunday the face of Mr. Welford, which had never before appeared at church, was discerned by one vigilant44 neighbour — probably the anonymous41 friend — not in the same pew with his wife, but in a remote corner of the sacred house. And once, when the lieutenant was watching to read in Mrs. Welford’s face some answer to his epistle, the same obliging inspector45 declared that Welford’s countenance assumed a sardonic46 and withering47 sneer48 that made his very blood to creep. However this be, the lieutenant left his quarters, and Mrs. Welford’s reputation remained dissatisfactorily untarnished. Shortly after this the county speculation failed, and it was understood that the Welfords were about to leave the town, whither none knew — some said to jail; but then, unhappily, no debts could be discovered. Their bills had been “next to nothing;” but, at least, they had been regularly paid. However, before the rumoured49 emigration took place, a circumstance equally wonderful to the good people of occurred. One bright spring morning a party of pleasure from a great house in the vicinity passed through that town. Most conspicuous50 of these was a young horseman, richly dressed, and of a remarkably51 showy and handsome appearance. Not a little sensible of the sensation he created, this cavalier lingered behind his companions in order to eye more deliberately52 certain damsels stationed in a window, and who were quite ready to return his glances with interest. At this moment the horse, which was fretting54 itself fiercely against the rein55 that restrained it from its fellows, took a fright at a knife-grinder, started violently to one side, and the graceful56 cavalier, who had been thinking, not of the attitude best adapted to preserve his equilibrium57, but to display his figure, was thrown with some force upon a heap of bricks and rubbish which had long, to the scandal of the neighbourhood, stood before the paintless railings around Mr. Welford’s house. Welford himself came out at the time, and felt compelled — for he was by no means one whose sympathetic emotions flowed easily — to give a glance to the condition of a man who lay motionless before his very door. The horseman quickly recovered his senses, but found himself unable to rise; one of his legs was broken. Supported in the arms of his groom58, he looked around, and his eye met Welford’s. An instant recognition gave life to the face of the former, and threw a dark blush over the sullen59 features of the latter.
“Heavens!” said the cavalier, “is that —”
“Hist, my lord!” cried Welford, quickly interrupting him, and glancing round. “But you are hurt — will you enter my house?”
The horseman signified his assent60, and, between the groom and Welford, was borne within the shabby door of the ex-solicitor. The groom was then despatched with an excuse to the party, many of whom were already hastening around the house; and though one or two did force themselves across the inhospitable threshold, yet so soon as they had uttered a few expletives, and felt their stare sink beneath the sullen and chilling asperity61 of the host, they satisfied themselves that though it was d —— d unlucky for their friend, yet they could do nothing for him at present; and promising62 to send to inquire after him the next day, they remounted and rode homeward, with an eye more attentive63 than usual to the motion of their steeds. They did not, however, depart till the surgeon of the town had made his appearance, and declared that the patient must not on any account be moved. A lord’s leg was a windfall that did not happen every day to the surgeon of ————. All this while we may imagine the state of anxiety experienced in the town, and the agonized65 endurance of those rural nerves which are produced in scanty66 populations, and have so Taliacotian a sympathy with the affairs of other people. One day, two days, three days, a week, a fortnight, nay67, a month, passed, and the lord was still the inmate68 of Mr. Welford’s abode69. Leaving the gossips to feed on their curiosity — “cannibals of their own hearts,”— we must give a glance towards the interior of the inhospitable mansion70 of the ex-solicitor.
It was towards evening, the sufferer was supported on a sofa, and the beautiful Mrs. Welford, who had officiated as his nurse, was placing the pillow under the shattered limb. He himself was attempting to seize her hand, which she coyly drew back, and uttering things sweeter and more polished than she had ever listened to before. At this moment Welford softly entered; he was unnoticed by either; and he stood at the door contemplating71 them with a smile of calm and self-hugging derision. The face of Mephistopheles regarding Margaret and Faust might suggest some idea of the picture we design to paint; but the countenance of Welford was more lofty, as well as comelier72, in character, though not less malignant73 in expression, than that which the incomparable Retsch has given to the mocking fiend. So utter, so congratulatory, so lordly was the contempt on Welford’s dark and striking features, that though he was in that situation in which ridicule74 usually attaches itself to the husband, it was the gallant and the wife that would have appeared to the beholder75 in a humiliating and unenviable light.
After a momentary76 pause Welford approached with a heavy step. The wife started; but with a bland77 and smooth expression, which since his sojourn78 in the town of had been rarely visible in his aspect, the host joined the pair, smiled on the nurse, and congratulated the patient on his progress towards recovery. The nobleman, well learned in the usages of the world, replied easily and gayly; and the conversation flowed on cheerfully enough till the wife, who had sat abstracted and apart, stealing ever and anon timid glances towards her husband and looks of a softer meaning towards the patient, retired79 from the room. Welford then gave a turn to the conversation; he reminded the nobleman of the pleasant days they had passed in Italy — of the adventures they had shared, and the intrigues80 they had enjoyed. As the conversation warmed, it assumed a more free and licentious82 turn; and not a little, we ween, would the good folks of ——— have been amazed, could they have listened to the gay jests and the libertine83 maxims84 which flowed from the thin lips of that cold and severe Welford, whose countenance gave the lie to mirth. Of women in general they spoke7 with that lively contempt which is the customary tone with men of the world; only in Welford it assumed a bitterer, a deeper, and a more philosophical85 cast than it did in his more animated yet less energetic guest.
The nobleman seemed charmed with his friend; the conversation was just to his taste; and when Welford had supported him up to bed, he shook that person cordially by the hand, and hoped he should soon see him in very different circumstances. When the peer’s door was closed on Welford, he stood motionless for some moments; he then with a soft step ascended86 to his own chamber87. His wife slept soundly; beside the bed was the infant’s cradle. As his eyes fell on the latter, the rigid88 irony89, now habitual90 to his features, relaxed; he bent91 over the cradle long and in deep silence. The mother’s face, blended with the sire’s, was stamped on the sleeping and cherub92 countenance before him; and as at length, rousing from his revery, he kissed it gently, he murmured —
“When I look on you I will believe that she once loved me. Pah!” he said abruptly95, and rising, “this fatherly sentiment for a ———‘s offering is exquisite96 in me!” So saying, without glancing towards his wife, who, disturbed by the loudness of his last words, stirred uneasily, he left the room, and descended97 into that where he had conversed98 with his guest. He shut the door with caution, and striding to and fro the humble100 apartment, gave vent23 to thoughts marshalled somewhat in the broken array in which they now appear to the reader:—
“Ay, ay, she has been my ruin! and if I were one of your weak fools who make a gospel of the silliest and most mawkish101 follies102 of this social state, she would now be my disgrace; but instead of my disgrace, I will make her my footstool to honour and wealth. And, then, to the devil with the footstool! Yes! two years I have borne what was enough to turn my whole blood into gall18 — inactivity, hopelessness, a wasted heart and life in myself; contumely from the world; coldness, bickering103, ingratitude104 from the one for whom (oh, ass3 that I was!) I gave up the most cherished part of my nature — rather, my nature itself! Two years I have borne this, and now will I have my revenge. I will sell her — sell her! God! I will sell her like the commonest beast of a market! And this paltry105 piece of false coin shall buy me — my world! Other men’s vengeance106 comes from hatred — a base, rash, unphilosophical sentiment! mine comes from scorn — the only wise state for the reason to rest in. Other men’s vengeance ruins themselves; mine shall save me! Ha! how my soul chuckles107 when I look at this pitiful pair, who think I see them not, and know that every movement they make is on a mesh108 of my web! Yet,” and Welford paused slowly — “yet I cannot but mock myself when I think of the arch gull109 that this boy’s madness, love — love, indeed! the very word turns me sick with loathing110 — made of me. Had that woman, silly, weak, automatal as she is, really loved me; had she been sensible of the unspeakable sacrifice I had made to her (Antony’s was nothing to it — he lost a real world only; mine was the world of imagination); had she but condescended111 to learn my nature, to subdue112 the woman’s devil at her own — I could have lived on in this babbling113 hermitage forever, and fancied myself happy and resigned — I could have become a different being. I fancy I could have become what your moralists (quacks!) call ‘good.’ But this fretting frivolity114 of heart, this lust115 of fool’s praise, this peevishness117 of temper, this sullenness118 in answer to the moody119 thought, which in me she neither fathomed120 nor forgave, this vulgar, daily, hourly pining at the paltry pinches of the body’s poverty, the domestic whine121, the household complaint — when I— I have not a thought for such pitiful trials of affection; and all this while my curses, my buried hope and disguised spirit and sunken name not thought of; the magnitude of my surrender to her not even comprehended; nay, her ‘inconveniences’— a dim hearth122, I suppose, or a daintiless table — compared, ay, absolutely compared, with all which I abandoned for her sake! As if it were not enough — had I been a fool, an ambitionless, soulless fool,-the mere123 thought that I had linked my name to that of a tradesman — I beg pardon, a retired tradesman! — as if that knowledge — a knowledge I would strangle my whole race, every one who has ever met, seen me, rather than they should penetrate124 — were not enough, when she talks of ‘comparing,’ to make me gnaw125 the very flesh from my bones! No, no, no! Never was there so bright a turn in my fate as when this titled coxcomb, with his smooth voice and gaudy126 fripperies, came hither! I will make her a tool to carve my escape from this cavern127 wherein she has plunged128 me. I will foment130 ‘my lord’s’ passion, till ‘my lord’ thinks ‘the passion’ (a butterfly’s passion!) worth any price. I will then make my own terms, bind131 ‘my lord’ to secrecy, and get rid of my wife, my shame, and the obscurity of Mr. Welford forever. Bright, bright prospects132! let me shut my eyes to enjoy you! But softly! my noble friend calls himself a man of the world, skilled in human nature, and a derider133 of its prejudices; true enough, in his own little way — thanks not to enlarged views, but a vicious experience — so he is! The book of the world is a vast miscellany; he is perfectly134 well acquainted, doubtless, with those pages that treat of the fashions — profoundly versed99, I warrant, in the ‘Magasin des Modes’ tacked135 to the end of the index. But shall I, even with all the mastership which my mind must exercise over his — shall I be able utterly136 to free myself in this ‘peer of the world’s’ mind from a degrading remembrance? Cuckold! cuckold! ‘t is an ugly word; a convenient, willing cuckold, humph! — there is no grandeur137, no philosophical varnish138 in the phrase. Let me see — yes! I have a remedy for all that. I was married privately139 — well! under disguised names — well! It was a stolen marriage, far from her town — well! witnesses unknown to her — well! proofs easily secured to my possession — excellent! The fool shall believe it a forged marriage, an ingenious gallantry of mine; I will wash out the stain cuckold with the water of another word; I will make market of a mistress, not a wife. I will warn him not to acquaint her with this secret; let me consider for what reason — oh! my son’s legitimacy140 may be convenient to me hereafter. He will understand that reason, and I will have his ‘honour’ thereon. And by the way, I do care for that legitimacy, and will guard the proofs. I love my child — ambitious men do love their children. I may become a lord myself, and may wish for a lord to succeed me; and that son is mine, thank Heaven! I am sure on that point — the only child, too, that ever shall arise to me. Never, I swear, will I again put myself beyond my own power! All my nature, save one passion, I have hitherto mastered; that passion shall henceforth be my slave, my only thought be ambition, my only mistress be the world!”
As thus terminated the revery of a man whom the social circumstances of the world were calculated, as if by system, to render eminently and basely wicked, Welford slowly ascended the stairs, and re-entered his chamber. His wife was still sleeping. Her beauty was of the fair and girlish and harmonized order, which lovers and poets would express by the word “angelic;” and as Welford looked upon her face, hushed and almost hallowed by slumber141, a certain weakness and irresolution142 might have been discernible in the strong lines of his haughty143 features. At that moment, as if forever to destroy the return of hope or virtue144 to either, her lips moved, they uttered one word — it was the name of Welford’s courtly guest.
About three weeks from that evening Mrs. Welford eloped with the young nobleman, and on the morning following that event the distracted husband with his child disappeared forever from the town of ———. From that day no tidings whatsoever145 respecting him ever reached the titillated146 ears of his anxious neighbours; and doubt, curiosity, discussion, gradually settled into the belief that his despair had hurried him into suicide.
Although the unfortunate Mrs. Welford was in reality of a light and frivolous147 turn, and, above all, susceptible148 to personal vanity, she was not without ardent149 affections and keen sensibilities. Her marriage had been one of love — that is to say, on her part, the ordinary love of girls, who love not through actual and natural feeling so much as forced predisposition. Her choice had fallen on one superior to herself in birth, and far above all, in person and address, whom she had habitually150 met. Thus her vanity had assisted her affection, and something strange and eccentric in the temper and mind of Welford had, though at times it aroused her fear, greatly contributed to inflame151 her imagination. Then, too, though an uncourtly, he had been a passionate152 and a romantic lover. She was sensible that he gave up for her much that he had previously153 conceived necessary to his existence; and she stopped not to inquire how far this devotion was likely to last, or what conduct on her part might best perpetuate154 the feelings from which it sprang. She had eloped with him. She had consented to a private marriage. She had passed one happy month, and then delusion155 vanished! Mrs. Welford was not a woman who could give to reality, or find in it, the charm equal to delusion. She was perfectly unable to comprehend the intricate and dangerous character of her husband.
She had not the key to his virtues156, nor the spell for his vices157. Neither was the state to which poverty compelled them one well calculated for that tender meditation158, heightened by absence and cherished in indolence, which so often supplies one who loves with the secret to the nature of the one beloved. Though not equal to her husband in birth or early prospects, Mrs. Welford had been accustomed to certain comforts, often more felt by those who belong to the inferior classes than by those appertaining to the more elevated, who in losing one luxury will often cheerfully surrender all. A fine lady can submit to more hardships than her woman; and every gentleman who travels smiles at the privations which agonize64 his valet. Poverty and its grim comrades made way for a whole host of petty irritations159 and peevish116 complaints; and as no guest or visitor ever relieved the domestic discontent, or broke on the domestic bickering, they generally ended in that moody sullenness which so often finds love a grave in repentance160. Nothing makes people tire of each other like a familiarity that admits of carelessness in quarrelling and coarseness in complaining. The biting sneer of Welford gave acrimony to the murmur93 of his wife; and when once each conceived the other the injurer, or him or herself the wronged, it was vain to hope that one would be more wary161, or the other more indulgent. They both exacted too much, and the wife in especial conceded too little. Mrs. Welford was altogether and emphatically what a libertine calls “a woman,”— such as a frivolous education makes a woman — generous in great things, petty in small; vain, irritable162, full of the littleness of herself and her complaints, ready to plunge129 into an abyss with her lover, but equally ready to fret53 away all love with reproaches when the plunge had been made. Of all men, Welford could bear this the least. A woman of a larger heart, a more settled experience, and an intellect capable of appreciating his character and sounding all his qualities, might have made him perhaps a useful and a great man, and, at least, her lover for life. Amidst a harvest of evil feelings the mere strength of his nature rendered him especially capable of intense feeling and generous emotion. One who relied on him was safe; one who rebelled against him trusted only to the caprice of his scorn. Still, however, for two years, love, though weakening with each hour, fought on in either breast, and could scarcely be said to be entirely163 vanquished164 in the wife, even when she eloped with her handsome seducer165. A French writer has said pithily166 enough: “Compare for a moment the apathy167 of a husband with the attention, the gallantry, the adoration168 of a lover, and can you ask the result?” He was a French writer; but Mrs. Welford had in her temper much of the Frenchwoman. A suffering patient, young, handsome, well versed in the arts of intrigue81, contrasted with a gloomy husband whom she had never comprehended, long feared, and had lately doubted if she disliked — ah! a much weaker contrast has made many a much better woman food for the lawyers! Mrs. Welford eloped; but she felt a revived tenderness for her husband on the very morning that she did so. She carried away with her his letters of love as well as her own, which when they first married she had in an hour of fondness collected together — then an inestimable board! — and never did her new lover receive from her beautiful lips half so passionate a kiss as she left on the cheek of her infant. For some months she enjoyed with her paramour all for which she had sighed in her home. The one for whom she had forsaken169 her legitimate170 ties was a person so habitually cheerful, courteous171, and what is ordinarily termed “good-natured” (though he had in him as much of the essence of selfishness as any nobleman can decently have), that he continued gallant to her without an effort long after he had begun to think it possible to tire even of so lovely a face. Yet there were moments when the fickle172 wife recalled her husband with regret, and contrasting him with her seducer, did not find all the colourings of the contrast flattering to the latter. There is something in a powerful and marked character which women and all weak natures feel themselves constrained173 to respect; and Welford’s character thus stood in bold and therefore advantageous174 though gloomy relief when opposed to the levities175 and foibles of this guilty woman’s present adorer. However this be, the die was cast; and it would have been policy for the lady to have made the best of her present game. But she who had murmured as a wife was not complaisant177 as a mistress. Reproaches made an interlude to caresses178, which the noble lover by no means admired. He was not a man to retort, he was too indolent; but neither was he one to forbear. “My charming friend,” said he one day, after a scene, “you weary of me — nothing more natural! Why torment179 each other? You say I have ruined you; my sweet friend, let me make you reparation. Become independent; I will settle an annuity180 upon you; fly me — seek happiness elsewhere, and leave your unfortunate, your despairing lover to his fate.”
“Do you taunt181 me, my lord?” cried the angry fair; “or do you believe that money can replace the rights of which you have robbed me? Can you make me again a wife — a happy, a respected wife? Do this, my lord, and you atone182 to me!”
The nobleman smiled, and shrugged183 his shoulders. The lady yet more angrily repeated her question. The lover answered by an innuendo184, which at once astonished and doubly enraged185 her. She eagerly demanded explanation; and his lordship, who had gone further than he intended, left the room. But his words had sunk deep into the breast of this unhappy woman, and she resolved to procure186 an elucidation187. Agreeably to the policy which stripped the fabled188 traveller of his cloak, she laid aside the storm and preferred the sunshine: she watched a moment of tenderness, turned the opportunity to advantage, and by little and little she possessed189 herself of a secret which sickened her with shame, disgust, and dismay. Sold! bartered191! the object of a contemptuous huxtering to the purchaser and the seller, sold, too, with a lie that debased her at once into an object for whom even pity was mixed with scorn! Robbed already of the name and honour of a wife, and transferred as a harlot from the wearied arms of one leman to the capricious caresses of another! Such was the image that rose before her; and while it roused at one moment all her fiercer passions into madness, humbled192, with the next, her vanity into the dust. She, who knew the ruling passion of Welford, saw at a glance the object of scorn and derision which she had become to him. While she imagined herself the betrayer, she had been betrayed; she saw vividly193 before her (and shuddered194 as she saw) her husband’s icy smile, his serpent eye, his features steeped in sarcasm195, and all his mocking soul stamped upon the countenance, whose lightest derision was so galling196. She turned from this picture, and saw the courtly face of the purchaser — his subdued197 smile at her reproaches — his latent sneer at her claims to a station which he had been taught by the arch plotter to believe she had never possessed. She saw his early weariness of her attractions, expressed with respect indeed — an insulting respect — but felt without a scruple198 of remorse199. She saw in either — as around — only a reciprocation200 of contempt. She was in a web of profound abasement201. Even that haughty grief of conscience for crime committed to another, which if it stings humbles202 not, was swallowed up in a far more agonizing203 sensation, to one so vain as the adulteress — the burning sense of shame at having herself, while sinning, been the duped and deceived. Her very soul was appalled204 with her humiliation205. The curse of Welford’s vengeance was on her, and it was wreaked206 to the last! Whatever kindly207 sentiment she might have experienced towards her protector, was swallowed up at once by this discovery. She could not endure the thought of meeting the eye of one who had been the gainer by this ignominious208 barter190; the foibles and weaknesses of the lover assumed a despicable as well as hateful dye. And in feeling herself degraded, she loathed209 him. The day after she had made the discovery we have referred to, Mrs. Welford left the house of her protector, none knew whither. For two years from that date, all trace of her history was lost. At the end of that time what was Welford? A man rapidly rising in the world, distinguished210 at the Bar, where his first brief had lifted him into notice, commencing a flattering career in the senate, holding lucrative211 and honourable212 offices, esteemed213 for the austere rectitude of his moral character, gathering214 the golden opinions of all men, as he strode onward215 to public reputation. He had re-assumed his hereditary216 name; his early history was unknown; and no one in the obscure and distant town of ——— had ever guessed that the humble Welford was the William Brandon whose praise was echoed in so many journals, and whose rising genius was acknowledged by all. That asperity, roughness, and gloom which had noted217 him at ——— and which, being natural to him, he deigned218 not to disguise in a station ungenial to his talents and below his hopes, were now glitteringly varnished219 over by an hypocrisy220 well calculated to aid his ambition. So learnedly could this singular man fit himself to others that few among the great met him as a companion, nor left him without the temper to become his friend. Through his noble rival — that is (to make our reader’s “surety doubly sure”), through Lord Mauleverer — he had acquired his first lucrative office, a certain patronage221 from government, and his seat in parliament. If he had persevered222 at the Bar rather than given himself entirely to State intrigues, it was only because his talents were eminently more calculated to advance him in the former path to honour than in the latter. So devoted223 was he become to public life that he had only permitted himself to cherish one private source of enjoyment224 — his son. As no one, not even his brother, knew he had been married (during the two years of his disguised name, he had been supposed abroad), the appearance of this son made the only piece of scandal whispered against the rigid morality of his fair fame; but he himself, waiting his own time for avowing225 a legitimate heir, gave out that it was the orphan226 child of a dear friend whom he had known abroad; and the puritan demureness227 not only of life, but manner, which he assumed, gained a pretty large belief to the statement. This son Brandon idolized. As we have represented himself to say, ambitious men are commonly fond of their children, beyond the fondness of other sires. The perpetual reference which the ambitious make to posterity228 is perhaps the main reason. But Brandon was also fond of children generally; philoprogenitiveness was a marked trait in his character, and would seem to belie94 the hardness and artifice229 belonging to that character, were not the same love so frequently noticeable in the harsh and the artificial. It seems as if a half-conscious but pleasing feeling that they too were once gentle and innocent, makes them delight in reviving any sympathy with their early state.
Often after the applause and labour of the day, Brandon would repair to his son’s chamber and watch his slumber for hours; often before his morning toil230 commenced, he would nurse the infant in his arms with all a woman’s natural tenderness and gushing231 joy; and often, as a graver and more characteristic sentiment stole over him, he would mentally say, “You shall build up our broken name on a better foundation than your sire. I begin too late in life, and I labour up a painful and stony232 road; but I shall make the journey to Fame smooth and accessible for you. Never, too, while you aspire233 to honour, shall you steel your heart to tranquillity234. For you, my child, shall be the joys of home and love, and a mind that does not sicken at the past, and strain, through mere forgetfulness, towards a solitary and barren distinction for the future. Not only what your father gains you shall enjoy, but what has cursed him his vigilance shall lead you to shun235!”
It was thus not only that his softer feelings, but all the better and nobler ones, which even in the worst and hardest bosom236 find some root, turned towards his child, and that the hollow and vicious man promised to become the affectionate and perhaps the wise parent.
One night Brandon was returning home on foot from a ministerial dinner. The night was frosty and clear, the hour was late, and his way lay through the longest and best-lighted streets of the metropolis237. He was, as usual, buried in thought, when he was suddenly aroused from his revery by a light touch laid on his arm. He turned, and saw one of the unhappy persons who haunt the midnight streets of cities, standing238 right before his path. The gaze of each fell upon the other; and it was thus, for the first time since they laid their heads on the same pillow, that the husband met the wife. The skies were intensely clear, and the lamplight was bright and calm upon the faces of both. There was no doubt in the mind of either. Suddenly, and with a startled and ghastly consciousuess, they recognized each other. The wife staggered, and clung to a post for support; Brandon’s look was calm and unmoved. The hour that his bitter and malignant spirit had yearned239 for was come; his nerves expanded in a voluptuous240 calmness, as if to give him a deliberate enjoyment of his hope fulfilled. Whatever the words that in that unwitnessed and almost awful interview passed between them, we may be sure that Brandon spared not one atom of his power. The lost and abandoned wife returned home; and all her nature, embruted as it had become by guilt176 and vile1 habits, hardened into revenge — that preternatural feeling which may be termed the hope of despair.
Three nights from that meeting Brandon’s house was broken into. Like the houses of many legal men, it lay in a dangerous and thinly populated outskirt of the town, and was easily accessible to robbery. He was awakened241 by a noise; he started, and found himself in the grasp of two men. At the foot of the bed stood a female, raising a light; and her face, haggard with searing passions, and ghastly with the leprous whiteness of disease and approaching death, glared full upon him.
“It is now my turn,” said the female, with a grin of scorn which Brandon himself might have envied; “you have cursed me, and I return the curse! You have told me that my child shall never name me but to blush. Fool! I triumph over you; you he shall never know to his dying day! You have told me that to my child and my child’s child (a long transmission of execration) my name — the name of the wife you basely sold to ruin and to hell — should be left as a legacy242 of odium and shame! Man, you shall teach that child no further lesson whatever: you shall know not whether he live or die, or have children to carry on your boasted race; or whether, if he have, those children be not outcasts of the earth, the accursed of man and God, the fit offspring of the thing you have made me. Wretch243! I hurl244 back on you the denunciation with which, when we met three nights since, you would have crushed the victim of your own perfidy245. You shall tread the path of your ambition childless and objectless and hopeless. Disease shall set her stamp upon your frame. The worm shall batten upon your heart. You shall have honours and enjoy them not; you shall gain your ambition, and despair; you shall pine for your son, and find him not; or, if you find him, you shall curse the hour in which he was born. Mark me, man — I am dying while I speak — I know that I am a prophet in my curse. From this hour I am avenged246, and you are my scorn!”
As the hardest natures sink appalled before the stony eye of the maniac247, so, in the dead of the night, pinioned248 by ruffians, the wild and solemn voice, sharpened by passion and partial madness, of the ghastly figure before him curdling249 through his veins250, even the haughty and daring character of William Brandon quailed251! He uttered not a word. He was found the next morning bound by strong cords to his bed. He spoke not when he was released, but went in silence to his child’s chamber — the child was gone! Several articles of property were also stolen; the desperate tools the mother had employed worked not perhaps without their own reward.
We need scarcely add that Brandon set every engine and channel of justice in motion for the discovery of his son. All the especial shrewdness and keenness of his own character, aided by his professional experience, he employed for years in the same pursuit. Every research was wholly in vain; not the remotest vestige252 towards discovery could be traced until were found (we have recorded when) some of the articles that had been stolen. Fate treasured in her gloomy womb, altogether undescried by man, the hour and the scene in which the most ardent wish of William Brandon was to be realized.
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1
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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4
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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5
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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6
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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7
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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8
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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12
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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13
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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14
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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15
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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16
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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17
frugally
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| adv. 节约地, 节省地 | |
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18
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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20
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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21
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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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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23
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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24
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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25
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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26
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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27
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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28
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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29
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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30
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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32
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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33
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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35
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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36
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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37
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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38
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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39
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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40
anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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41
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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42
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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43
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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44
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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45
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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46
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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47
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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48
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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49
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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50
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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51
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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52
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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53
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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54
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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55
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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56
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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57
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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58
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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59
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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60
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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61
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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62
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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63
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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64
agonize
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| v.使受苦，使苦闷 | |
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65
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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66
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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67
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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68
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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69
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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70
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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71
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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72
comelier
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| adj.英俊的，好看的( comely的比较级 ) | |
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73
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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74
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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75
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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76
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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77
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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78
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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79
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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80
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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81
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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82
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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83
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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84
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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85
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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86
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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88
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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89
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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90
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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91
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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92
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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93
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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94
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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95
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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96
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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97
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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98
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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99
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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100
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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101
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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102
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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103
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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104
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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105
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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106
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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107
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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108
mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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109
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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110
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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111
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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112
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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113
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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114
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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115
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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116
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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117
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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118
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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119
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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120
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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121
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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122
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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123
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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124
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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125
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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126
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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127
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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128
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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129
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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130
foment
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| v.煽动，助长 | |
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131
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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132
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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133
derider
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| 愚弄者，嘲笑者 | |
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134
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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135
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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136
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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137
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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138
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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139
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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140
legitimacy
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| n.合法，正当 | |
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141
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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142
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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143
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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144
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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145
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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146
titillated
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| v.使觉得痒( titillate的过去式和过去分词 )；逗引；激发；使高兴 | |
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147
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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148
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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149
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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150
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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151
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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152
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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153
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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154
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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155
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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156
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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157
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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158
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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159
irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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160
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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161
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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162
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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163
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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164
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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165
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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166
pithily
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| adv.有力地，简洁地 | |
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167
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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168
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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169
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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170
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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171
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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172
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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173
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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174
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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175
levities
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| n.欠考虑( levity的名词复数 )；不慎重；轻率；轻浮 | |
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176
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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177
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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178
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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179
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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180
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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181
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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182
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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183
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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184
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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185
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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186
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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187
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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188
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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189
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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190
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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191
bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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193
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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194
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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195
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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196
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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197
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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198
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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199
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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200
reciprocation
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| n.互换 | |
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201
abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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202
humbles
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| v.使谦恭( humble的第三人称单数 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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203
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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204
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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205
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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206
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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207
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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208
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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209
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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210
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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211
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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212
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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213
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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214
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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215
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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216
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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217
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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218
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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219
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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220
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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221
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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222
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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224
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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225
avowing
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
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226
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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227
demureness
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| n.demure（拘谨的，端庄的）的变形 | |
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228
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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229
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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230
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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231
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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232
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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233
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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234
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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235
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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236
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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237
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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238
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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239
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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240
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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241
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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242
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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243
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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244
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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245
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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246
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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247
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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248
pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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249
curdling
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| n.凝化v.（使）凝结( curdle的现在分词 ) | |
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250
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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251
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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