The banners of their rightful liege,
At their she-captain’s call,
Who, miracle of womankind!
Lent mettle1 to the meanest hind2
That mann’d her castle wall.
WILLIAM S. ROSE.
On the morning succeeding the feast, the Lady Peveril, fatigued3 with the exertions4 and the apprehensions6 of the former day, kept her apartment for two or three hours later than her own active habits, and the matutinal custom of the time, rendered usual. Meanwhile, Mistress Ellesmere, a person of great trust in the family, and who assumed much authority in her mistress’s absence, laid her orders upon Deborah, the governante, immediately to carry the children to their airing in the park, and not to let any one enter the gilded7 chamber8, which was usually their sporting-place. Deborah, who often rebelled, and sometimes successfully, against the deputed authority of Ellesmere, privately10 resolved that it was about to rain, and that the gilded chamber was a more suitable place for the children’s exercise than the wet grass of the park on a raw morning.
But a woman’s brain is sometimes as inconstant as a popular assembly; and presently after she had voted the morning was like to be rainy, and that the gilded chamber was the fittest play-room for the children, Mistress Deborah came to the somewhat inconsistent resolution, that the park was the fittest place for her own morning walk. It is certain, that during the unrestrained joviality11 of the preceding evening, she had danced till midnight with Lance Outram the park-keeper; but how far the seeing him just pass the window in his woodland trim, with a feather in his hat, and a crossbow under his arm, influenced the discrepancy12 of the opinions Mistress Deborah formed concerning the weather, we are far from presuming to guess. It is enough for us, that, so soon as Mistress Ellesmere’s back was turned, Mistress Deborah carried the children into the gilded chamber, not without a strict charge (for we must do her justice) to Master Julian to take care of his little wife, Mistress Alice; and then, having taken so satisfactory a precaution, she herself glided13 into the park by the glass-door of the still-room, which was nearly opposite to the great breach14.
The gilded chamber in which the children were, by this arrangement, left to amuse themselves, without better guardianship15 than what Julian’s manhood afforded, was a large apartment, hung with stamped Spanish leather, curiously17 gilded, representing, in a manner now obsolete18, but far from unpleasing, a series of tilts19 and combats betwixt the Saracens of Grenada, and the Spaniards under the command of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, during that memorable20 siege, which was terminated by the overthrow21 of the last fragments of the Moorish22 empire in Spain.
The little Julian was careering about the room for the amusement of his infant friend, as well as his own, mimicking23 with a reed the menacing attitude of the Abencerrages and Zegris engaged in the Eastern sport of hurling24 the JERID, or javelin25; and at times sitting down beside her, and caressing26 her into silence and good humour, when the petulant27 or timid child chose to become tired of remaining an inactive spectator of his boisterous28 sport; when, on a sudden, he observed one of the panelled compartments29 of the leather hangings slide apart, so as to show a fair hand, with its fingers resting upon its edge, prepared, it would seem, to push it still farther back. Julian was much surprised, and somewhat frightened, at what he witnessed, for the tales of the nursery had strongly impressed on his mind the terrors of the invisible world. Yet, naturally bold and high-spirited, the little champion placed himself beside his defenceless sister, continuing to brandish30 his weapon in her defence, as boldly as he had himself been an Abencerrage of Grenada.
The panel, on which his eye was fixed31, gradually continued to slide back, and display more and more the form to which the hand appertained, until, in the dark aperture32 which was disclosed, the children saw the figure of a lady in a mourning dress, past the meridian33 of life, but whose countenance34 still retained traces of great beauty, although the predominant character both of her features and person was an air of almost royal dignity. After pausing a moment on the threshold of the portal which she had thus unexpectedly disclosed, and looking with some surprise at the children, whom she had not probably observed while engaged with the management of the panel, the stranger stepped into the apartment, and the panel, upon a touch of a spring, closed behind her so suddenly, that Julian almost doubted it had ever been open, and began to apprehend35 that the whole apparition36 had been a delusion37.
The stately lady, however, advanced to him, and said, “Are not you the little Peveril?”
“Yes,” said the boy, reddening, not altogether without a juvenile38 feeling of that rule of chivalry39 which forbade any one to disown his name, whatever danger might be annexed40 to the avowal41 of it.
“Then,” said the stately stranger, “go to your mother’s room, and tell her to come instantly to speak with me.”
“I wo’not,” said the little Julian.
“How?” said the lady — “so young and so disobedient? — but you do but follow the fashion of the time. Why will you not go, my pretty boy, when I ask it of you as a favour?”
“I would go, madam,” said the boy, “but”— and he stopped short, still drawing back as the lady advanced on him, but still holding by the hand Alice Bridgenorth, who, too young to understand the nature of the dialogue, clung, trembling, to her companion.
The stranger saw his embarrassment42, smiled, and remained standing43 fast, while she asked the child once more, “What are you afraid of, my brave boy — and why should you not go to your mother on my errand?”
“Because,” answered Julian firmly, “if I go, little Alice must stay alone with you.”
“You are a gallant44 fellow,” said the lady, “and will not disgrace your blood, which never left the weak without protection.”
The boy understood her not, and still gazed with anxious apprehension5, first on her who addressed him, and then upon his little companion, whose eyes, with the vacant glance of infancy45, wandered from the figure of the lady to that of her companion and protector, and at length, infected by a portion of the fear which the latter’s magnanimous efforts could not entirely46 conceal47, she flew into Julian’s arms, and, clinging to him, greatly augmented48 his alarm, and by screaming aloud, rendered it very difficult for him to avoid the sympathetic fear which impelled49 him to do the same.
There was something in the manner and bearing of this unexpected inmate50 which might justify51 awe52 at least, if not fear, when joined to the singular and mysterious mode in which she had made her appearance. Her dress was not remarkable53, being the hood16 and female riding attire54 of the time, such as was worn by the inferior class of gentlewomen; but her black hair was very long, and, several locks having escaped from under her hood, hung down dishevelled on her neck and shoulders. Her eyes were deep black, keen, and piercing, and her features had something of a foreign expression. When she spoke55, her language was marked by a slight foreign accent, although, in construction, it was pure English. Her slightest tone and gesture had the air of one accustomed to command and to be obeyed; the recollection of which probably suggested to Julian the apology he afterwards made for being frightened, that he took the stranger for an “enchanted queen.”
While the stranger lady and the children thus confronted each other, two persons entered almost at the same instant, but from different doors, whose haste showed that they had been alarmed by the screams of the latter.
The first was Major Bridgenorth, whose ears had been alarmed with the cries of his child, as he entered the hall, which corresponded with what was called the gilded chamber. His intention had been to remain in the more public apartment, until the Lady Peveril should make her appearance, with the good-natured purpose of assuring her that the preceding day of tumult57 had passed in every respect agreeably to his friends, and without any of those alarming consequences which might have been apprehended58 from a collision betwixt the parties. But when it is considered how severely59 he had been agitated60 by apprehensions for his child’s safety and health, too well justified61 by the fate of those who had preceded her, it will not be thought surprising that the infantine screams of Alice induced him to break through the barriers of form, and intrude62 farther into the interior of the house than a sense of strict propriety63 might have warranted.
He burst into the gilded chamber, therefore, by a side-door and narrow passage, which communicated betwixt that apartment and the hall, and, snatching the child up in his arms, endeavoured, by a thousand caresses65, to stifle66 the screams which burst yet more violently from the little girl, on beholding67 herself in the arms of one to whose voice and manner she was, but for one brief interview, an entire stranger.
Of course, Alice’s shrieks68 were redoubled, and seconded by those of Julian Peveril, who, on the appearance of this second intruder, was frightened into resignation of every more manly69 idea of rescue than that which consisted in invoking70 assistance at the very top of his lungs.
Alarmed by this noise, which in half a minute became very clamorous71, Lady Peveril, with whose apartment the gilded chamber was connected by a private door of communication opening into her wardrobe, entered on the scene. The instant she appeared, the little Alice, extricating72 herself from the grasp of her father, ran towards her protectress, and when she had once taken hold of her skirts, not only became silent, but turned her large blue eyes, in which the tears were still glistening73, with a look of wonder rather than alarm, towards the strange lady. Julian manfully brandished74 his reed, a weapon which he had never parted with during the whole alarm, and stood prepared to assist his mother if there should be danger in the encounter betwixt her and the stranger.
In fact, it might have puzzled an older person to account for the sudden and confused pause which the Lady Peveril made, as she gazed on her unexpected guest, as if dubious75 whether she did, or did not recognise, in her still beautiful though wasted and emaciated76 features, a countenance which she had known well under far different circumstances.
The stranger seemed to understand the cause of hesitation77, for she said in that heart-thrilling voice which was peculiarly her own —
“Time and misfortune have changed me much, Margaret — that every mirror tells me — yet methinks, Margaret Stanley might still have known Charlotte de la Tremouille.”
The Lady Peveril was little in the custom of giving way to sudden emotion, but in the present case she threw herself on her knees in a rapture78 of mingled79 joy and grief, and, half embracing those of the stranger, exclaimed, in broken language —
“My kind, my noble benefactress — the princely Countess of Derby — the royal queen in Man — could I doubt your voice, your features, for a moment — Oh, forgive, forgive me!”
The Countess raised the suppliant80 kinswoman of her husband’s house, with all the grace of one accustomed from early birth to receive homage81 and to grant protection. She kissed the Lady Peveril’s forehead, and passed her hand in a caressing manner over her face as she said —
“You too are changed, my fair cousin, but it is a change becomes you, from a pretty and timid maiden82 to a sage64 and comely83 matron. But my own memory, which I once held a good one, has failed me strangely, if this gentleman be Sir Geoffrey Peveril.”
“A kind and good neighbour only, madam,” said Lady Peveril; “Sir Geoffrey is at Court.”
“I understood so much,” said the Countess of Derby, “when I arrived here last night.”
“How, madam!” said Lady Peveril —“Did you arrive at Martindale Castle — at the house of Margaret Stanley, where you have such right to command, and did not announce your presence to her?”
“Oh, I know you are a dutiful subject, Margaret,” answered the Countess, “though it be in these days a rare character — but it was our pleasure,” she added, with a smile, “to travel incognito84 — and finding you engaged in general hospitality, we desired not to disturb you with our royal presence.”
“But how and where were you lodged86, madam?” said Lady Peveril; “or why should you have kept secret a visit which would, if made, have augmented tenfold the happiness of every true heart that rejoiced here yesterday?”
“My lodging87 was well cared for by Ellesmere — your Ellesmere now, as she was formerly88 mine — she has acted as quartermaster ere now, you know, and on a broader scale; you must excuse her — she had my positive order to lodge85 me in the most secret part of your Castle”—(here she pointed89 to the sliding panel)—“she obeyed orders in that, and I suppose also in sending you now hither.”
“Indeed I have not yet seen her,” said the lady, “and therefore was totally ignorant of a visit so joyful90, so surprising.”
“And I,” said the Countess, “was equally surprised to find none but these beautiful children in the apartment where I thought I heard you moving. Our Ellesmere has become silly — your good-nature has spoiled her — she has forgotten the discipline she learned under me.”
“I saw her run through the wood,” said the Lady Peveril, after a moment’s recollection, “undoubtedly to seek the person who has charge of the children, in order to remove them.”
“Your own darlings, I doubt not,” said the Countess, looking at the children. “Margaret, Providence91 has blessed you.”
“That is my son,” said the Lady Peveril, pointing to Julian, who stood devouring92 their discourse93 with greedy ear; “the little girl — I may call mine too.” Major Bridgenorth, who had in the meantime again taken up his infant, and was engaged in caressing it, set it down as the Countess of Derby spoke, sighed deeply, and walked towards the oriel window. He was well aware that the ordinary rules of courtesy would have rendered it proper that he should withdraw entirely, or at least offer to do so; but he was not a man of ceremonious politeness, and he had a particular interest in the subjects on which the Countess’s discourse was likely to turn, which induced him to dispense94 with ceremony. The ladies seemed indeed scarce to notice his presence. The Countess had now assumed a chair, and motioned to the Lady Peveril to sit upon a stool which was placed by her side. “We will have old times once more, though there are here no roaring of rebel guns to drive you to take refuge at my side, and almost in my pocket.”
“I have a gun, madam,” said little Julian, “and the park-keeper is to teach me how to fire it next year.”
“I will list you for my soldier, then,” said the Countess.
“Ladies have no soldiers,” said the boy, looking wistfully at her.
“He has the true masculine contempt of our frail95 sex, I see,” said the Countess; “it is born with the insolent96 varlets of mankind, and shows itself so soon as they are out of their long clothes. — Did Ellesmere never tell you of Latham House and Charlotte of Derby, my little master?”
“A thousand thousand times,” said the boy, colouring; “and how the Queen of Man defended it six weeks against three thousand Roundheads, under Rogue97 Harrison the butcher.”
“It was your mother defended Latham House,” said the Countess, “not I, my little soldier — Hadst thou been there, thou hadst been the best captain of the three.”
“Do not say so, madam,” said the boy, “for mamma would not touch a gun for all the universe.”
“Not I, indeed, Julian,” said his mother; “there I was for certain, but as useless a part of the garrison98 ——”
“You forget,” said the Countess, “you nursed our hospital, and made lint99 for the soldiers’ wounds.”
“But did not papa come to help you?” said Julian.
“Papa came at last,” said the Countess, “and so did Prince Rupert — but not, I think, till they were both heartily100 wished for. — Do you remember that morning, Margaret, when the round-headed knaves101, that kept us pent up so long, retreated without bag or baggage, at the first glance of the Prince’s standards appearing on the hill — and how you took every high-crested captain you saw for Peveril of the Peak, that had been your partner three months before at the Queen’s mask? Nay102, never blush for the thought of it — it was an honest affection — and though it was the music of trumpets103 that accompanied you both to the old chapel104, which was almost entirely ruined by the enemy’s bullets; and though Prince Rupert, when he gave you away at the altar, was clad in buff and bandoleer, with pistols in his belt, yet I trust these warlike signs were no type of future discord105?”
“Heaven has been kind to me,” said the Lady Peveril, “in blessing106 me with an affectionate husband.”
“And in preserving him to you,” said the Countess, with a deep sigh; “while mine, alas107! sealed with his blood his devotion to his king*— Oh, had he lived to see this day!”
* The Earl of Derby and King in Man was beheaded at Bolton-on-the-Moors, after having been made prisoner in a previous skirmish in Wiggan Lane.
“Alas! alas! that he was not permitted!” answered Lady Peveril; “how had that brave and noble Earl rejoiced in the unhoped-for redemption of our captivity108!”
The Countess looked on Lady Peveril with an air of surprise.
“Thou hast not then heard, cousin, how it stands with our house? — How indeed had my noble lord wondered, had he been told that the very monarch109 for whom he had laid down his noble life on the scaffold at Bolton-le-Moor, should make it his first act of restored monarchy110 to complete the destruction of our property, already well-nigh ruined in the royal cause, and to persecute111 me his widow!”
“You astonish me, madam!” said the Lady Peveril. “It cannot be, that you — that you, the wife of the gallant, the faithful, the murdered Earl — you, Countess of Derby, and Queen in Man — you, who took on you even the character of a soldier, and seemed a man when so many men proved women — that you should sustain evil from the event which has fulfilled — exceeded — the hopes of every faithful subject — it cannot be!”
“Thou art as simple, I see, in this world’s knowledge as ever, my fair cousin,” answered the Countess. “This restoration, which has given others security, has placed me in danger — this change which relieved other Royalists, scarce less zealous113, I presume to think, than I— has sent me here a fugitive114, and in concealment115, to beg shelter and assistance from you, fair cousin.”
“From me,” answered the Lady Peveril —“from me, whose youth your kindness sheltered — from the wife of Peveril, your gallant Lord’s companion in arms — you have a right to command everything; but, alas! that you should need such assistance as I can render — forgive me, but it seems like some ill-omened vision of the night — I listen to your words as if I hoped to be relieved from their painful import by awaking.”
“It is indeed a dream — a vision,” said the Countess of Derby; “but it needs no seer to read it — the explanation hath been long since given — Put not your faith in princes. I can soon remove your surprise. — This gentleman, your friend, is doubtless honest?”
The Lady Peveril well knew that the Cavaliers, like other factions116, usurped117 to themselves the exclusive denomination118 of the honest party, and she felt some difficulty in explaining that her visitor was not honest in that sense of the word.
“Had we not better retire, madam?” she said to the Countess, rising, as if in order to attend her. But the Countess retained her seat.
“It was but a question of habit,” she said; “the gentleman’s principles are nothing to me, for what I have to tell you is widely blazed, and I care not who hears my share of it. You remember — you must have heard, for I think Margaret Stanley would not be indifferent to my fate — that after my husband’s murder at Bolton, I took up the standard which he never dropped until his death, and displayed it with my own hand in our Sovereignty of Man.”
“I did indeed hear so, madam,” said the Lady Peveril; “and that you had bidden a bold defiance119 to the rebel government, even after all other parts of Britain had submitted to them. My husband, Sir Geoffrey, designed at one time to have gone to your assistance with some few followers120; but we learned that the island was rendered to the Parliament party, and that you, dearest lady, were thrown into prison.”
“But you heard not,” said the Countess, “how that disaster befell me. — Margaret, I would have held out that island against the knaves as long as the sea continued to flow around it. Till the shoals which surround it had become safe anchorage — till its precipices121 had melted beneath the sunshine — till of all its strong abodes122 and castles not one stone remained upon another — would I have defended against these villainous hypocritical rebels, my dear husband’s hereditary123 dominion124. The little kingdom of Man should have been yielded only when not an arm was left to wield125 a sword, not a finger to draw a trigger in its defence. But treachery did what force could never have done. When we had foiled various attempts upon the island by open force — treason accomplished126 what Blake and Lawson, with their floating castles, had found too hazardous127 an enterprise — a base rebel, whom we had nursed in our own bosoms128, betrayed us to the enemy. This wretch129 was named Christian130 ——”
Major Bridgenorth started and turned towards the speaker, but instantly seemed to recollect56 himself, and again averted131 his face. The Countess proceeded, without noticing the interruption, which, however, rather surprised Lady Peveril, who was acquainted with her neighbour’s general habits of indifference132 and apathy133, and therefore the more surprised at his testifying such sudden symptoms of interest. She would once again have moved the Countess to retire to another apartment, but Lady Derby proceeded with too much vehemence134 to endure interruption.
“This Christian,” she said, “had eaten of my lord his sovereign’s bread, and drunk of his cup, even from childhood — for his fathers had been faithful servants to the House of Man and Derby. He himself had fought bravely by my husband’s side, and enjoyed all his confidence; and when my princely Earl was martyred by the rebels, he recommended to me, amongst other instructions communicated in the last message I received from him, to continue my confidence in Christian’s fidelity135. I obeyed, although I never loved the man. He was cold and phlegmatic136, and utterly137 devoid138 of that sacred fire which is the incentive139 to noble deeds, suspected, too, of leaning to the cold metaphysics of Calvinistic subtlety140. But he was brave, wise, and experienced, and, as the event proved, possessed141 but too much interest with the islanders. When these rude people saw themselves without hope of relief, and pressed by a blockade, which brought want and disease into their island, they began to fall off from the faith which they had hitherto shown.”
“What!” said the Lady Peveril, “could they forget what was due to the widow of their benefactor142 — she who had shared with the generous Derby the task of bettering their condition?”
“Do not blame them,” said the Countess; “the rude herd143 acted but according to their kind — in present distress144 they forgot former benefits, and, nursed in their earthen hovels, with spirits suited to their dwellings145, they were incapable146 of feeling the glory which is attached to constancy in suffering. But that Christian should have headed their revolt — that he, born a gentleman, and bred under my murdered Derby’s own care in all that was chivalrous147 and noble — that he should have forgot a hundred benefits — why do I talk of benefits? — that he should have forgotten that kindly148 intercourse149 which binds151 man to man far more than the reciprocity of obligation — that he should have headed the ruffians who broke suddenly into my apartment — immured152 me with my infants in one of my own castles, and assumed or usurped the tyranny of the island — that this should have been done by William Christian, my vassal153, my servant, my friend, was a deed of ungrateful treachery, which even this age of treason will scarcely parallel!”
“And you were then imprisoned154,” said the Lady Peveril, “and in your own sovereignty?”
“For more than seven years I have endured strict captivity,” said the Countess. “I was indeed offered my liberty, and even some means of support, if I would have consented to leave the island, and pledge my word that I would not endeavour to repossess my son in his father’s rights. But they little knew the princely house from which I spring — and as little the royal house of Stanley which I uphold, who hoped to humble155 Charlotte of Tremouille into so base a composition. I would rather have starved in the darkest and lowest vault156 of Rushin Castle, than have consented to aught which might diminish in one hair’s-breadth the right of my son over his father’s sovereignty!”
“And could not your firmness, in a case where hope seemed lost, induce them to be generous and dismiss you without conditions?”
“They knew me better than thou dost, wench,” answered the Countess; “once at liberty, I had not been long without the means of disturbing their usurpation157, and Christian would have as soon encaged a lioness to combat with, as have given me the slightest power of returning to the struggle with him. But time had liberty and revenge in store — I had still friends and partisans158 in the island, though they were compelled to give way to the storm. Even among the islanders at large, most had been disappointed in the effects which they expected from the change of power. They were loaded with exactions by their new masters, their privileges were abridged159, and their immunities160 abolished, under the pretext161 of reducing them to the same condition with the other subjects of the pretended republic. When the news arrived of the changes which were current in Britain, these sentiments were privately communicated to me. Calcott and others acted with great zeal112 and fidelity; and a rising, effected as suddenly and effectually as that which had made me a captive, placed me at liberty and in possession of the sovereignty of Man, as Regent for my son, the youthful Earl of Derby. Do you think I enjoyed that sovereignty long without doing justice on that traitor162 Christian?”
“How, madam,” said Lady Peveril, who, though she knew the high and ambitious spirit of the Countess, scarce anticipated the extremities163 to which it was capable of hurrying her —“have you imprisoned Christian?”
“Ay, wench — in that sure prison which felon164 never breaks from,” answered the Countess.
Bridgenorth, who had insensibly approached them, and was listening with an agony of interest which he was unable any longer to suppress, broke in with the stern exclamation165 —
“Lady, I trust you have not dared ——”
The Countess interrupted him in her turn.
“I know not who you are who question — and you know not me when you speak to me of that which I dare, or dare not do. But you seem interested in the fate of this Christian, and you shall hear it. — I was no sooner placed in possession of my rightful power, than I ordered the Dempster of the island to hold upon the traitor a High Court of Justice, with all the formalities of the isle166, as prescribed in its oldest records. The Court was held in the open air, before the Dempster and the Keys of the island, assembled under the vaulted167 cope of heaven, and seated on the terrace of the Zonwald Hill, where of old Druid and Scald held their courts of judgment168. The criminal was heard at length in his own defence, which amounted to little more than those specious169 allegations of public consideration, which are ever used to colour the ugly front of treason. He was fully9 convicted of his crime, and he received the doom170 of a traitor.”
“But which, I trust, is not yet executed?” said Lady Peveril, not without an involuntary shudder171.
“You are a fool, Margaret,” said the Countess sharply; “think you I delayed such an act of justice, until some wretched intrigues172 of the new English Court might have prompted their interference? No, wench — he passed from the judgment-seat to the place of execution, with no farther delay than might be necessary for his soul’s sake. He was shot to death by a file of musketeers in the common place of execution called Hango Hill.”
Bridgenorth clasped his hands together, wrung173 them, and groaned174 bitterly.
“As you seem interested for this criminal,” added the Countess, addressing Bridgenorth, “I do him but justice in repeating to you, that his death was firm and manly, becoming the general tenor175 of his life, which, but for that gross act of traitorous176 ingratitude177, had been fair and honourable178. But what of that? The hypocrite is a saint, and the false traitor a man of honour, till opportunity, that faithful touchstone, proves their metal to be base.”
“It is false, woman — it is false!” said Bridgenorth, no longer suppressing his indignation.
“What means this bearing, Master Bridgenorth?” said Lady Peveril, much surprised. “What is this Christian to you, that you should insult the Countess of Derby under my roof?”
“Speak not to me of countesses and of ceremonies,” said Bridgenorth; “grief and anger leave me no leisure for idle observances to humour the vanity of overgrown children. — O Christian — worthy179, well worthy, of the name thou didst bear! My friend — my brother — the brother of my blessed Alice — the only friend of my desolate180 estate! art thou then cruelly murdered by a female fury, who, but for thee, had deservedly paid with her own blood that of God’s saints, which she, as well as her tyrant181 husband, had spilled like water! — Yes, cruel murderess!” he continued, addressing the Countess, “he whom thou hast butchered in thy insane vengeance182, sacrificed for many a year the dictates183 of his own conscience to the interest of thy family, and did not desert it till thy frantic184 zeal for royalty185 had well-nigh brought to utter perdition the little community in which he was born. Even in confining thee, he acted but as the friends of the madman, who bind150 him with iron for his own preservation186; and for thee, as I can bear witness, he was the only barrier between thee and the wrath187 of the Commons of England; and but for his earnest remonstrances188, thou hadst suffered the penalty of thy malignancy, even like the wicked wife of Ahab.”
“Master Bridgenorth,” said the Lady Peveril, “I will allow for your impatience189 upon hearing these unpleasing tidings; but there is neither use nor propriety in farther urging this question. If in your grief you forget other restraints, I pray you to remember that the Countess is my guest and kinswoman, and is under such protection as I can afford her. I beseech190 you, in simple courtesy, to withdraw, as what must needs be the best and most becoming course in these trying circumstances.”
“Nay, let him remain,” said the Countess, regarding him with composure, not unmingled with triumph; “I would not have it otherwise; I would not that my revenge should be summed up in the stinted191 gratification which Christian’s death hath afforded. This man’s rude and clamorous grief only proves that the retribution I have dealt has been more widely felt than by the wretched sufferer himself. I would I knew that it had but made sore as many rebel hearts, as there were loyal breasts afflicted192 by the death of my princely Derby!”
“So please you, madam,” said Lady Peveril, “since Master Bridgenorth hath not the manners to leave us upon my request, we will, if your ladyship lists, leave him, and retire to my apartment. — Farewell, Master Bridgenorth; we will meet hereafter on better terms.”
“Pardon me, madam,” said the Major, who had been striding hastily through the room, but now stood fast, and drew himself up, as one who has taken a resolution; —“to yourself I have nothing to say but what is respectful; but to this woman I must speak as a magistrate193. She has confessed a murder in my presence — the murder too of my brother-inlaw — as a man, and as a magistrate, I cannot permit her to pass from hence, excepting under such custody194 as may prevent her farther flight. She has already confessed that she is a fugitive, and in search of a place of concealment, until she should be able to escape into foreign parts. — Charlotte, Countess of Derby, I attach thee of the crime of which thou hast but now made thy boast.”
“I shall not obey your arrest,” said the Countess composedly; “I was born to give, but not to receive such orders. What have your English laws to do with my acts of justice and of government, within my son’s hereditary kingdom? Am I not Queen in Man, as well as Countess of Derby? A feudatory Sovereign indeed; but yet independent so long as my dues of homage are duly discharged. What right can you assert over me?”
“That given by the precepts195 of Scripture,” answered Bridgenorth — “‘Whoso spilleth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be spilled.’ Think not the barbarous privileges of ancient feudal196 customs will avail to screen you from the punishment due for an Englishman murdered upon pretexts197 inconsistent with the act of indemnity198.”
“Master Bridgenorth,” said the Lady Peveril, “if by fair terms you desist not from your present purpose, I tell you that I neither dare, nor will, permit any violence against this honourable lady within the walls of my husband’s castle.”
“You will find yourself unable to prevent me from executing my duty, madam,” said Bridgenorth, whose native obstinacy199 now came in aid of his grief and desire of revenge; “I am a magistrate, and act by authority.”
“I know not that,” said Lady Peveril. “That you were a magistrate, Master Bridgenorth, under the late usurping200 powers, I know well; but till I hear of your having a commission in the name of the King, I now hesitate to obey you as such.”
“I shall stand on small ceremony,” said Bridgenorth. “Were I no magistrate, every man has title to arrest for murder against the terms of the indemnities201 held out by the King’s proclamations, and I will make my point good.”
“What indemnities? What proclamations?” said the Countess of Derby indignantly. “Charles Stuart may, if he pleases (and it doth seem to please him), consort202 with those whose hands have been red with the blood, and blackened with the plunder203, of his father and of his loyal subjects. He may forgive them if he will, and count their deeds good service. What has that to do with this Christian’s offence against me and mine? Born a Mankesman — bred and nursed in the island — he broke the laws under which he lived, and died for the breach of them, after the fair trial which they allowed. — Methinks, Margaret, we have enough of this peevish204 and foolish magistrate — I attend you to your apartment.”
Major Bridgenorth placed himself betwixt them and the door, in a manner which showed him determined205 to interrupt their passage; when the Lady Peveril, who thought she already showed more deference206 to him in this matter than her husband was likely to approve of, raised her voice, and called loudly on her steward207, Whitaker. That alert person, who had heard high talking, and a female voice with which he was unacquainted, had remained for several minutes stationed in the anteroom, much afflicted with the anxiety of his own curiosity. Of course he entered in an instant.
“Let three of the men instantly take arms,” said the lady; “bring them into the anteroom, and wait my farther orders.”
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1
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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9
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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11
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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12
discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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13
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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14
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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15
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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17
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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19
tilts
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| （意欲赢得某物或战胜某人的）企图，尝试( tilt的名词复数 ) | |
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20
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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21
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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22
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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23
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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24
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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25
javelin
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| n.标枪，投枪 | |
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26
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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27
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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29
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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30
brandish
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| v.挥舞，挥动；n.挥动，挥舞 | |
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31
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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32
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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33
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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34
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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35
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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36
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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37
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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38
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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39
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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40
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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41
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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42
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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43
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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44
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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45
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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46
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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47
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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48
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
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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50
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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51
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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52
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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53
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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54
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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55
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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56
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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57
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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58
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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59
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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60
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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61
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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62
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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63
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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64
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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66
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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67
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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68
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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71
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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72
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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73
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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74
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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75
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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76
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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77
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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78
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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79
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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80
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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81
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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82
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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83
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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84
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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85
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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86
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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87
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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88
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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89
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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90
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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91
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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92
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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93
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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94
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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95
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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96
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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97
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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98
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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99
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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100
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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101
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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102
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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103
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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104
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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105
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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106
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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107
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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108
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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109
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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110
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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111
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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112
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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113
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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114
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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115
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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116
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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117
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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118
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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119
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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120
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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121
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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122
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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123
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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124
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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125
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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126
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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127
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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128
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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129
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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130
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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131
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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132
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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133
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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134
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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135
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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136
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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137
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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138
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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139
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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140
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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141
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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142
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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143
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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144
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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145
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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146
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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147
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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148
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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149
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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150
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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151
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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152
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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154
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
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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156
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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157
usurpation
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| n.篡位；霸占 | |
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158
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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161
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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162
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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163
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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164
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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165
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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166
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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167
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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168
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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169
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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170
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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171
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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172
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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173
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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174
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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175
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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176
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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177
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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178
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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179
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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180
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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181
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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182
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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183
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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184
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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185
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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186
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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187
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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188
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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189
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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190
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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191
stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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192
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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194
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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195
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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196
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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197
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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198
indemnity
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| n.赔偿，赔款，补偿金 | |
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199
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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200
usurping
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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201
indemnities
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| n.保障( indemnity的名词复数 )；赔偿；赔款；补偿金 | |
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202
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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203
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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204
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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205
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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206
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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207
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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