That I may sleep away this gap of time.
Antony and Cleopatra.
There passed, as we hinted at the conclusion of the last chapter, four or five years after the period we have dilated1 upon; the events of which scarcely require to be discussed, so far as our present purpose is concerned, in as many lines. The Knight2 and his Lady continued to reside at their Castle — she, with prudence3 and with patience, endeavouring to repair the damages which the Civil Wars had inflicted4 upon their fortune; and murmuring a little when her plans of economy were interrupted by the liberal hospitality, which was her husband’s principal expense, and to which he was attached, not only from his own English heartiness5 of disposition6, but from ideas of maintaining the dignity of his ancestry7 — no less remarkable8, according to the tradition of their buttery, kitchen, and cellar, for the fat beeves which they roasted, and the mighty9 ale which they brewed10, than for their extensive estates, and the number of their retainers.
The world, however, upon the whole, went happily and easily with the worthy11 couple. Sir Geoffrey’s debt to his neighbour Bridgenorth continued, it is true, unabated; but he was the only creditor12 upon the Martindale estate — all others being paid off. It would have been most desirable that this encumbrance13 also should be cleared, and it was the great object of Dame14 Margaret’s economy to effect the discharge; for although interest was regularly settled with Master Win-the-Fight, the Chesterfield attorney, yet the principal sum, which was a large one, might be called for at an inconvenient15 time. The man, too, was gloomy, important, and mysterious, and always seemed as if he was thinking upon his broken head in the churchyard of Martindale-cum-Moultrassie.
Dame Margaret sometimes transacted16 the necessary business with him in person; and when he came to the Castle on these occasions, she thought she saw a malicious17 and disobliging expression in his manner and countenance18. Yet his actual conduct was not only fair, but liberal; for indulgence was given, in the way of delay of payment, whenever circumstances rendered it necessary to the debtor19 to require it. It seemed to Lady Peveril that the agent, in such cases, was acting20 under the strict orders of his absent employer, concerning whose welfare she could not help feeling a certain anxiety.
Shortly after the failure of the singular negotiation21 for attaining22 peace by combat, which Peveril had attempted to open with Major Bridgenorth, that gentleman left his seat of Moultrassie Hall in the care of his old housekeeper23, and departed, no one knew whither, having in company with him his daughter Alice and Mrs. Deborah Debbitch, now formally installed in all the duties of a governante; to these was added the Reverend Master Solsgrace. For some time public rumour24 persisted in asserting, that Major Bridgenorth had only retreated to a distant part of the country for a season, to achieve his supposed purpose of marrying Mrs. Deborah, and of letting the news be cold, and the laugh of the neighbourhood be ended, ere he brought her down as mistress of Moultrassie Hall. This rumour died away; and it was then affirmed, that he had removed to foreign parts, to ensure the continuance of health in so delicate a constitution as that of little Alice. But when the Major’s dread25 of Popery was remembered, together with the still deeper antipathies26 of worthy Master Nehemiah Solsgrace, it was resolved unanimously, that nothing less than what they might deem a fair chance of converting the Pope would have induced the parties to trust themselves within Catholic dominions27. The most prevailing28 opinion was, that they had gone to New England, the refuge then of many whom too intimate concern with the affairs of the late times, or the desire of enjoying uncontrolled freedom of conscience, had induced to emigrate from Britain.
Lady Peveril could not help entertaining a vague idea, that Bridgenorth was not so distant. The extreme order in which everything was maintained at Moultrassie Hall, seemed — no disparagement29 to the care of Dame Dickens the housekeeper, and the other persons engaged — to argue, that the master’s eye was not so very far off, but that its occasional inspection31 might be apprehended32. It is true, that neither the domestics nor the attorney answered any questions respecting the residence of Master Bridgenorth; but there was an air of mystery about them when interrogated34, that seemed to argue more than met the ear.
About five years after Master Bridgenorth had left the country, a singular incident took place. Sir Geoffrey was absent at the Chesterfield races, and Lady Peveril, who was in the habit of walking around every part of the neighbourhood unattended, or only accompanied by Ellesmere, or her little boy, had gone down one evening upon a charitable errand to a solitary36 hut, whose inhabitant lay sick of a fever, which was supposed to be infectious. Lady Peveril never allowed apprehensions37 of this kind to stop “devoted charitable deeds;” but she did not choose to expose either her son or her attendant to the risk which she herself, in some confidence that she knew precautions for escaping the danger, did not hesitate to incur39.
Lady Peveril had set out at a late hour in the evening, and the way proved longer than she expected — several circumstances also occurred to detain her at the hut of her patient. It was a broad autumn moonlight, when she prepared to return homeward through the broken glades40 and upland which divided her from the Castle. This she considered as a matter of very little importance, in so quiet and sequestered41 a country, where the road lay chiefly through her own domains42, especially as she had a lad about fifteen years old, the son of her patient, to escort her on the way. The distance was better than two miles, but might be considerably43 abridged44 by passing through an avenue belonging to the estate of Moultrassie Hall, which she had avoided as she came, not from the ridiculous rumours45 which pronounced it to be haunted, but because her husband was much displeased46 when any attempt was made to render the walks of the Castle and Hall common to the inhabitants of both. The good lady, in consideration, perhaps, of extensive latitude47 allowed to her in the more important concerns of the family, made a point of never interfering48 with her husband’s whims49 or prejudices; and it is a compromise which we would heartily50 recommend to all managing matrons of our acquaintance; for it is surprising how much real power will be cheerfully resigned to the fair sex, for the pleasure of being allowed to ride one’s hobby in peace and quiet.
Upon the present occasion, however, although the Dobby’s Walk* was within the inhabited domains of the Hall, the Lady Peveril determined52 to avail herself of it, for the purpose of shortening her road home, and she directed her steps accordingly. But when the peasant-boy, her companion, who had hitherto followed her, whistling cheerily, with a hedge-bill in his hand, and his hat on one side, perceived that she turned to the stile which entered to the Dobby’s Walk, he showed symptoms of great fear, and at length coming to the lady’s side, petitioned her, in a whimpering tone — “Don’t ye now — don’t ye now, my lady, don’t ye go yonder.”
* Dobby, an old English name for goblin.
Lady Peveril, observing that his teeth chattered53 in his head, and that his whole person exhibited great signs of terror, began to recollect54 the report, that the first Squire55 of Moultrassie, the brewer56 of Chesterfield, who had brought the estate, and then died of melancholy57 for lack of something to do (and, as was said, not without suspicions of suicide), was supposed to walk in this sequestered avenue, accompanied by a large headless mastiff, which, when he was alive, was a particular favourite of the ex-brewer. To have expected any protection from her escort, in the condition to which superstitious58 fear had reduced him, would have been truly a hopeless trust; and Lady Peveril, who was not apprehensive59 of any danger, thought there would be great cruelty in dragging the cowardly boy into a scene which he regarded with so much apprehension38. She gave him, therefore, a silver piece, and permitted him to return. The latter boon60 seemed even more acceptable than the first; for ere she could return the purse into her pocket, she heard the wooden clogs61 of her bold convoy62 in full retreat, by the way from whence they came.
Smiling within herself at the fear she esteemed63 so ludicrous, Lady Peveril ascended64 the stile, and was soon hidden from the broad light of the moonbeams, by the numerous and entangled65 boughs66 of the huge elms, which, meeting from either side, totally overarched the old avenue. The scene was calculated to excite solemn thoughts; and the distant glimmer67 of a light from one of the numerous casements68 in the front of Moultrassie Hall, which lay at some distance, was calculated to make them even melancholy. She thought of the fate of that family — of the deceased Mrs. Bridgenorth, with whom she had often walked in this very avenue, and who, though a woman of no high parts or accomplishments69, had always testified the deepest respect, and the most earnest gratitude70, for such notice as she had shown to her. She thought of her blighted71 hopes — her premature72 death — the despair of her self-banished husband — the uncertain fate of their orphan73 child, for whom she felt, even at this distance of time, some touch of a mother’s affection.
Upon such sad subjects her thoughts were turned, when, just as she attained74 the middle of the avenue, the imperfect and checkered75 light which found its way through the silvan archway, showed her something which resembled the figure of a man. Lady Peveril paused a moment, but instantly advanced; — her bosom76, perhaps, gave one startled throb77, as a debt to the superstitious belief of the times, but she instantly repelled78 the thought of supernatural appearances. From those that were merely mortal, she had nothing to fear. A marauder on the game was the worst character whom she was likely to encounter; and he would be sure to hide himself from her observation. She advanced, accordingly, steadily79; and, as she did so, had the satisfaction to observe that the figure, as she expected, gave place to her, and glided80 away amongst the trees on the left-hand side of the avenue. As she passed the spot on which the form had been so lately visible, and bethought herself that this wanderer of the night might, nay81 must, be in her vicinity, her resolution could not prevent her mending her pace, and that with so little precaution, that, stumbling over the limb of a tree, which, twisted off by a late tempest, still lay in the avenue, she fell, and, as she fell, screamed aloud. A strong hand in a moment afterwards added to her fears by assisting her to rise, and a voice, to whose accents she was not a stranger, though they had been long unheard, said, “Is it not you, Lady Peveril?”
“It is I,” said she, commanding her astonishment82 and fear; “and if my ear deceive me not, I speak to Master Bridgenorth.”
“I was that man,” said he, “while oppression left me a name.”
He spoke83 nothing more, but continued to walk beside her for a minute or two in silence. She felt her situation embarrassing; and to divest84 it of that feeling, as well as out of real interest in the question, she asked him, “How her god-daughter Alice now was?”
“Of god-daughter, madam,” answered Major Bridgenorth, “I know nothing; that being one of the names which have been introduced, to the corruption85 and pollution of God’s ordinances86. The infant who owed to your ladyship (so called) her escape from disease and death, is a healthy and thriving girl, as I am given to understand by those in whose charge she is lodged87, for I have not lately seen her. And it is even the recollection of these passages, which in a manner impelled88 me, alarmed also by your fall, to offer myself to you at this time and mode, which in other respects is no way consistent with my present safety.”
“With your safety, Master Bridgenorth?” said the Lady Peveril; “surely, I could never have thought that it was in danger!”
“You have some news, then, yet to learn, madam,” said Major Bridgenorth; “but you will hear in the course of tomorrow, reasons why I dare not appear openly in the neighbourhood of my own property, and wherefore there is small judgment89 in committing the knowledge of my present residence to any one connected with Martindale Castle.”
“Master Bridgenorth,” said the lady, “you were in former times prudent90 and cautious — I hope you have been misled by no hasty impression — by no rash scheme — I hope ——”
“Pardon my interrupting you, madam,” said Bridgenorth. “I have indeed been changed — ay, my very heart within me hath been changed. In the times to which your ladyship (so called) thinks proper to refer, I was a man of this world — bestowing92 on it all my thoughts — all my actions, save formal observances — little deeming what was the duty of a Christian93 man, and how far his self-denial ought to extend — even unto his giving all as if he gave nothing. Hence I thought chiefly on carnal things — on the adding of field to field, and wealth to wealth — of balancing between party and party — securing a friend here, without losing a friend there — But Heaven smote94 me for my apostasy95, the rather that I abused the name of religion, as a self-seeker, and a most blinded and carnal will-worshipper — But I thank Him who hath at length brought me out of Egypt.”
In our day — although we have many instances of enthusiasm among us — we might still suspect one who avowed96 it thus suddenly and broadly of hypocrisy97, or of insanity98; but according to the fashion of the times, such opinions as those which Bridgenorth expressed were openly pleaded, as the ruling motives99 of men’s actions. The sagacious Vane — the brave and skilful100 Harrison — were men who acted avowedly101 under the influence of such. Lady Peveril, therefore, was more grieved than surprised at the language she heard Major Bridgenorth use, and reasonably concluded that the society and circumstances in which he might lately have been engaged, had blown into a flame the spark of eccentricity102 which always smouldered in his bosom. This was the more probable, considering that he was melancholy by constitution and descent — that he had been unfortunate in several particulars — and that no passion is more easily nursed by indulgence, than the species of enthusiasm of which he now showed tokens. She therefore answered him by calmly hoping, “That the expression of his sentiments had not involved him in suspicion or in danger.”
“In suspicion, madam?” answered the Major; —“for I cannot forbear giving to you, such is the strength of habit, one of those idle titles by which we poor potsherds are wont103, in our pride, to denominate each other — I walk not only in suspicion, but in that degree of danger, that, were your husband to meet me at this instant — me, a native Englishman, treading on my own lands — I have no doubt he would do his best to offer me to the Moloch of Roman superstition104, who now rages abroad for victims among God’s people.”
“You surprise me by your language, Major Bridgenorth,” said the lady, who now felt rather anxious to be relieved from his company, and with that purpose walked on somewhat hastily. He mended his pace, however, and kept close by her side.
“Know you not,” said he, “that Satan hath come down upon earth with great wrath105, because his time is short? The next heir to the crown is an avowed Papist; and who dare assert, save sycophants106 and time-servers, that he who wears it is not equally ready to stoop to Rome, were he not kept in awe107 by a few noble spirits in the Commons’ House? You believe not this — yet in my solitary and midnight walks, when I thought on your kindness to the dead and to the living, it was my prayer that I might have the means granted to warn you — and lo! Heaven hath heard me.”
“What I was while in the gall108 of bitterness and in the bond of iniquity109, it signifies not to recall,” answered he. “I was then like to Gallio, who cared for none of these things. I doted on creature comforts — I clung to worldly honour and repute — my thoughts were earthward — or those I turned to Heaven were cold, formal, pharisaical meditations110 — I brought nothing to the altar save straw and stubble. Heaven saw need to chastise111 me in love — I was stript of all I clung to on earth — my worldly honour was torn from me — I went forth112 an exile from the home of my fathers, a deprived and desolate113 man — a baffled, and beaten, and dishonoured114 man. But who shall find out the ways of Providence115? Such were the means by which I was chosen forth as a champion for the truth — holding my life as nothing, if thereby116 that may be advanced. But this was not what I wished to speak of. Thou hast saved the earthly life of my child — let me save the eternal welfare of yours.”
Lady Peveril was silent. They were now approaching the point where the avenue terminated in a communication with a public road, or rather pathway, running through an unenclosed common field; this the lady had to prosecute117 for a little way, until a turn of the path gave her admittance into the Park of Martindale. She now felt sincerely anxious to be in the open moonshine, and avoided reply to Bridgenorth that she might make the more haste. But as they reached the junction118 of the avenue and the public road, he laid his hand on her arm, and commanded rather than requested her to stop. She obeyed. He pointed119 to a huge oak, of the largest size, which grew on the summit of a knoll120 in the open ground which terminated the avenue, and was exactly so placed as to serve for a termination to the vista121. The moonshine without the avenue was so strong, that, amidst the flood of light which it poured on the venerable tree, they could easily discover, from the shattered state of the boughs on one side, that it had suffered damage from lightning. “Remember you,” he said, “when we last looked together on that tree? I had ridden from London, and brought with me a protection from the committee for your husband; and as I passed the spot — here on this spot where we now stand, you stood with my lost Alice — two — the last two of my beloved infants gambolled122 before you. I leaped from my horse — to her I was a husband — to those a father — to you a welcome and revered123 protector — What am I now to any one?” He pressed his hand on his brow, and groaned124 in agony of spirit.
It was not in the Lady Peveril’s nature to hear sorrow without an attempt at consolation125. “Master Bridgenorth,” she said, “I blame no man’s creed126, while I believe and follow my own; and I rejoice that in yours you have sought consolation for temporal afflictions. But does not every Christian creed teach us alike, that affliction should soften127 our heart?”
“Ay, woman,” said Bridgenorth sternly, “as the lightning which shattered yonder oak hath softened128 its trunk. No; the seared wood is the fitter for the use of the workmen — the hardened and the dried-up heart is that which can best bear the task imposed by these dismal129 times. God and man will no longer endure the unbridled profligacy130 of the dissolute — the scoffing131 of the profane132 — the contempt of the divine laws — the infraction133 of human rights. The times demand righters and avengers, and there will be no want of them.”
“I deny not the existence of much evil,” said Lady Peveril, compelling herself to answer, and beginning at the same time to walk forward; “and from hearsay134, though not, I thank Heaven, from observation, I am convinced of the wild debauchery of the times. But let us trust it may be corrected without such violent remedies as you hint at. Surely the ruin of a second civil war — though I trust your thoughts go not that dreadful length — were at best a desperate alternative.”
“Sharp, but sure,” replied Bridgenorth. “The blood of the Paschal lamb chased away the destroying angel — the sacrifices offered on the threshing-floor of Araunah, stayed the pestilence135. Fire and sword are severe remedies, but they pure and purify.”
“Alas! Major Bridgenorth,” said the lady, “wise and moderate in your youth, can you have adopted in your advanced life the thoughts and language of those whom you yourself beheld136 drive themselves and the nation to the brink137 of ruin?”
“I know not what I then was — you know not what I now am,” he replied, and suddenly broke off; for they even then came forth into the open light, and it seemed as if, feeling himself under the lady’s eye, he was disposed to soften his tone and his language.
At the first distinct view which she had of his person, she was aware that he was armed with a short sword, a poniard, and pistols at his belt — precautions very unusual for a man who formerly138 had seldom, and only on days of ceremony, carried a walking rapier, though such was the habitual139 and constant practice of gentlemen of his station in life. There seemed also something of more stern determination than usual in his air, which indeed had always been rather sullen140 than affable; and ere she could repress the sentiment, she could not help saying, “Master Bridgenorth, you are indeed changed.”
“You see but the outward man,” he replied; “the change within is yet deeper. But it was not of myself that I desired to talk — I have already said, that as you have preserved my child from the darkness of the grave, I would willingly preserve yours from that more utter darkness, which, I fear, hath involved the path and walks of his father.”
“I must not hear this of Sir Geoffrey,” said the Lady Peveril; “I must bid you farewell for the present; and when we again meet at a more suitable time, I will at least listen to your advice concerning Julian, although I should not perhaps incline to it.”
“That more suitable time may never come,” replied Bridgenorth. “Time wanes141, eternity142 draws nigh. Hearken! it is said to be your purpose to send the young Julian to be bred up in yonder bloody143 island, under the hand of your kinswoman, that cruel murderess, by whom was done to death a man more worthy of vital existence than any that she can boast among her vaunted ancestry. These are current tidings — Are they true?”
“I do not blame you, Master Bridgenorth, for thinking harshly of my cousin of Derby,” said Lady Peveril; “nor do I altogether vindicate144 the rash action of which she hath been guilty. Nevertheless, in her habitation, it is my husband’s opinion and my own, that Julian may be trained in the studies and accomplishments becoming his rank, along with the young Earl of Derby.”
“Under the curse of God, and the blessing145 of the Pope of Rome,” said Bridgenorth. “You, lady, so quick-sighted in matters of earthly prudence, are you blind to the gigantic pace at which Rome is moving to regain146 this country, once the richest gem30 in her usurped147 tiara? The old are seduced148 by gold — the youth by pleasure — the weak by flattery — cowards by fear — and the courageous149 by ambition. A thousand baits for each taste, and each bait concealing150 the same deadly hook.”
“I am well aware, Master Bridgenorth,” said Lady Peveril, “that my kinswoman is a Catholic;* but her son is educated in the Church of England’s principles, agreeably to the command of her deceased husband.”
* I have elsewhere noticed that this is a deviation151 from the truth — Charlotte, Countess of Derby, was a Huguenot.
“Is it likely,” answered Bridgenorth, “that she, who fears not shedding the blood of the righteous, whether on the field or scaffold, will regard the sanction of her promise when her religion bids her break it? Or, if she does, what shall your son be the better, if he remain in the mire152 of his father? What are your Episcopal tenets but mere35 Popery? save that ye have chosen a temporal tyrant153 for your Pope, and substitute a mangled154 mass in English for that which your predecessors155 pronounced in Latin. — But why speak I of these things to one who hath ears, indeed, and eyes, yet cannot see, listen to, or understand what is alone worthy to be heard, seen, and known? Pity that what hath been wrought156 so fair and exquisite157 in form and disposition, should be yet blind, deaf, and ignorant, like the things which perish!”
“We shall not agree on these subjects, Master Bridgenorth,” said the lady, anxious still to escape from this strange conference, though scarce knowing what to apprehend33; “once more, I must bid you farewell.”
“Stay yet an instant,” he said, again laying his hand on her arm; “I would stop you if I saw you rushing on the brink of an actual precipice158 — let me prevent you from a danger still greater. How shall I work upon your unbelieving mind? Shall I tell you that the debt of bloodshed yet remains159 a debt to be paid by the bloody house of Derby? And wilt160 thou send thy son to be among those from whom it shall be exacted?”
“You wish to alarm me in vain, Master Bridgenorth,” answered the lady; “what penalty can be exacted from the Countess, for an action, which I have already called a rash one, has been long since levied161.”
“You deceive yourself,” retorted he sternly. “Think you a paltry162 sum of money, given to be wasted on the debaucheries of Charles, can atone163 for the death of such a man as Christian — a man precious alike to heaven and to earth? Not on such terms is the blood of the righteous to be poured forth! Every hour’s delay is numbered down as adding interest to the grievous debt, which will one day be required from that blood-thirsty woman.”
At this moment the distant tread of horses was heard on the road on which they held this singular dialogue. Bridgenorth listened a moment, and then said, “Forget that you have seen me — name not my name to your nearest or dearest — lock my counsel in your breast — profit by it, and it shall be well with you.”
So saying, he turned from her, and plunging164 through a gap in the fence, regained165 the cover of his own wood, along which the path still led.
The noise of horses advancing at full trot166 now came nearer; and Lady Peveril was aware of several riders, whose forms rose indistinctly on the summit of the rising ground behind her. She became also visible to them; and one or two of the foremost made towards her at increased speed, challenging her as they advanced with the cry of “Stand! Who goes there?” The foremost who came up, however, exclaimed, “Mercy on us, if it be not my lady!” and Lady Peveril, at the same moment, recognised one of her own servants. Her husband rode up immediately afterwards, with, “How now, Dame Margaret? What makes you abroad so far from home and at an hour so late?”
Lady Peveril mentioned her visit at the cottage, but did not think it necessary to say aught of having seen Major Bridgenorth; afraid, it may be, that her husband might be displeased with that incident.
“Charity is a fine thing and a fair,” answered Sir Geoffrey; “but I must tell you, you do ill, dame, to wander about the country like a quacksalver, at the call of every old woman who has a colic-fit; and at this time of night especially, and when the land is so unsettled besides.”
“I am sorry to hear that it so,” said the lady. “I had heard no such news.”
“News?” repeated Sir Geoffrey, “why, here has a new plot broken out among the Roundheads, worse than Venner’s by a butt’s length;* and who should be so deep in it as our old neighbour Bridgenorth? There is search for him everywhere; and I promise you if he is found, he is like to pay old scores.”
* The celebrated167 insurrection of the Anabaptists and Fifth Monarchy168 men in London, in the year 1661.
“Then I am sure, I trust he will not be found,” said Lady Peveril.
“Do you so?” replied Sir Geoffrey. “Now I, on my part hope that he will; and it shall not be my fault if he be not; for which effect I will presently ride down to Moultrassie, and make strict search, according to my duty; there shall neither rebel nor traitor169 earth so near Martindale Castle, that I will assure them. And you, my lady, be pleased for once to dispense170 with a pillion, and get up, as you have done before, behind Saunders, who shall convey you safe home.”
The Lady obeyed in silence; indeed she did not dare to trust her voice in an attempt to reply, so much was she disconcerted with the intelligence she had just heard.
She rode behind the groom171 to the Castle, where she awaited in great anxiety the return of her husband. He came back at length; but to her great relief, without any prisoner. He then explained more fully51 than his haste had before permitted, that an express had come down to Chesterfield, with news from Court of a proposed insurrection amongst the old Commonwealth172 men, especially those who had served in the army; and that Bridgenorth, said to be lurking173 in Derbyshire, was one of the principal conspirators174.
After some time, this report of a conspiracy175 seemed to die away like many others of that period. The warrants were recalled, but nothing more was seen or heard of Major Bridgenorth; although it is probable he might safely enough have shown himself as openly as many did who lay under the same circumstances of suspicion.
About this time also, Lady Peveril, with many tears, took a temporary leave of her son Julian, who was sent, as had long been intended, for the purpose of sharing the education of the young Earl of Derby. Although the boding176 words of Bridgenorth sometimes occurred to Lady Peveril’s mind, she did not suffer them to weigh with her in opposition177 to the advantages which the patronage178 of the Countess of Derby secured to her son.
The plan seemed to be in every respect successful; and when, from time to time, Julian visited the house of his father, Lady Peveril had the satisfaction to see him, on every occasion, improved in person and in manner, as well as ardent179 in the pursuit of more solid acquirements. In process of time he became a gallant180 and accomplished181 youth, and travelled for some time upon the continent with the young Earl. This was the more especially necessary for the enlarging of their acquaintance with the world; because the Countess had never appeared in London, or at the Court of King Charles, since her flight to the Isle91 of Man in 1660; but had resided in solitary and aristocratic state, alternately on her estates in England and in that island.
This had given to the education of both the young men, otherwise as excellent as the best teachers could render it, something of a narrow and restricted character; but though the disposition of the young Earl was lighter182 and more volatile183 than that of Julian, both the one and the other had profited, in a considerable degree, by the opportunities afforded them. It was Lady Derby’s strict injunction to her son, now returning from the continent, that he should not appear at the Court of Charles. But having been for some time of age, he did not think it absolutely necessary to obey her in this particular; and had remained for some time in London, partaking the pleasures of the gay Court there, with all the ardour of a young man bred up in comparative seclusion184.
In order to reconcile the Countess to this transgression185 of her authority (for he continued to entertain for her the profound respect in which he had been educated), Lord Derby agreed to make a long sojourn186 with her in her favourite island, which he abandoned almost entirely187 to her management.
Julian Peveril had spent at Martindale Castle a good deal of the time which his friend had bestowed188 in London; and at the period to which, passing over many years, our story has arrived, as it were, per saltum, they were both living as the Countess’s guests, in the Castle of Rushin, in the venerable kingdom of Man.
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1
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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12
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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13
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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14
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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15
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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16
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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17
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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18
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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19
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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20
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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21
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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22
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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23
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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24
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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25
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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26
antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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27
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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28
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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29
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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30
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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31
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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32
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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33
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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34
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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37
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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38
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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39
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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40
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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41
sequestered
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|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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42
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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43
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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44
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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45
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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46
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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47
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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48
interfering
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|
| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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49
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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50
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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51
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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52
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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53
chattered
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|
| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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54
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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55
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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56
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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57
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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58
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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59
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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60
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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61
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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62
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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63
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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64
ascended
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|
| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
entangled
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|
| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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67
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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68
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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69
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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70
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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71
blighted
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|
| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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72
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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73
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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74
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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75
checkered
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|
| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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76
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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77
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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78
repelled
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|
| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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79
steadily
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|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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80
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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81
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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82
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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83
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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84
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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85
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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86
ordinances
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| n.条例，法令( ordinance的名词复数 ) | |
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87
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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88
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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89
judgment
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|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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90
prudent
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|
| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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91
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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92
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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93
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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94
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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95
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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96
avowed
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|
| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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97
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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98
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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99
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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100
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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101
avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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102
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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103
wont
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|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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104
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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105
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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106
sycophants
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| n.谄媚者，拍马屁者( sycophant的名词复数 ) | |
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107
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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108
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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109
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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110
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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111
chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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112
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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113
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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114
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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115
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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116
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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117
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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118
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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119
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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120
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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121
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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122
gambolled
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
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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125
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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126
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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127
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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128
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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129
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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130
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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131
scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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132
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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133
infraction
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| n.违反；违法 | |
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134
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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135
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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136
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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137
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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138
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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139
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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140
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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141
wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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142
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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143
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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144
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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145
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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146
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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147
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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148
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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149
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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150
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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151
deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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152
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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153
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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154
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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155
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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156
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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157
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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158
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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159
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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160
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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161
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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162
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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163
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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164
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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165
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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166
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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167
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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168
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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169
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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170
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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171
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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172
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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173
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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174
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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175
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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176
boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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177
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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178
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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179
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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180
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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181
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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182
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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183
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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184
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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185
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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186
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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187
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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188
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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