Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin’s cloak,
Conceals2 his cloven hoof3.
ANONYMOUS4.
Julian Peveril had scarce set sail for Whitehaven, when Alice Bridgenorth and her governante, at the hasty command of her father, were embarked5 with equal speed and secrecy6 on board of a bark bound for Liverpool. Christian7 accompanied them on their voyage, as the friend to whose guardianship9 Alice was to be consigned10 during any future separation from her father, and whose amusing conversation, joined to his pleasing though cold manners, as well as his near relationship, induced Alice, in her forlorn situation, to consider her fate as fortunate in having such a guardian8.
At Liverpool, as the reader already knows, Christian took the first overt11 step in the villainy which he had contrived13 against the innocent girl, by exposing her at a meeting-house to the unhallowed gaze of Chiffinch, in order to convince him she was possessed14 of such uncommon15 beauty as might well deserve the infamous16 promotion17 to which they meditated18 to raise her.
Highly satisfied with her personal appearance, Chiffinch was no less so with the sense and delicacy19 of her conversation, when he met her in company with her uncle afterwards in London. The simplicity20, and at the same time the spirit of her remarks, made him regard her as his scientific attendant the cook might have done a newly invented sauce, sufficiently21 piquante in its qualities to awaken22 the jaded23 appetite of a cloyed24 and gorged25 epicure26. She was, he said and swore, the very corner-stone on which, with proper management, and with his instruction, a few honest fellows might build a Court fortune.
That the necessary introduction might take place, the confederates judged fit she should be put under the charge of an experienced lady, whom some called Mistress Chiffinch, and others Chiffinch’s mistress — one of those obliging creatures who are willing to discharge all the duties of a wife, without the inconvenient27 and indissoluble ceremony.
It was one, and not perhaps the least prejudicial consequence of the license28 of that ill-governed time, that the bounds betwixt virtue29 and vice30 were so far smoothed down and levelled, that the frail31 wife, or the tender friend who was no wife, did not necessarily lose their place in society; but, on the contrary, if they moved in the higher circles, were permitted and encouraged to mingle32 with women whose rank was certain, and whose reputation was untainted.
A regular liaison33, like that of Chiffinch and his fair one, inferred little scandal; and such was his influence, as prime minister of his master’s pleasures, that, as Charles himself expressed it, the lady whom we introduced to our readers in the last chapter, had obtained a brevet commission to rank as a married woman. And to do the gentle dame34 justice, no wife could have been more attentive35 to forward his plans, or more liberal in disposing of his income.
She inhabited a set of apartments called Chiffinch’s — the scene of many an intrigue36, both of love and politics; and where Charles often held his private parties for the evening, when, as frequently happened, the ill-humour of the Duchess of Portsmouth, his reigning38 Sultana, prevented his supping with her. The hold which such an arrangement gave a man like Chiffinch, used as he well knew how to use it, made him of too much consequence to be slighted even by the first persons in the state, unless they stood aloof39 from all manner of politics and Court intrigue.
In the charge of Mistress Chiffinch, and of him whose name she bore, Edward Christian placed the daughter of his sister, and of his confiding40 friend, calmly contemplating41 her ruin as an event certain to follow; and hoping to ground upon it his own chance of a more assured fortune, than a life spent in intrigue had hitherto been able to procure42 for him.
The innocent Alice, without being able to discover what was wrong either in the scenes of unusual luxury with which she was surrounded, or in the manners of her hostess, which, both from nature and policy, were kind and caressing43 — felt nevertheless an instinctive44 apprehension45 that all was not right — a feeling in the human mind, allied46, perhaps, to that sense of danger which animals exhibit when placed in the vicinity of the natural enemies of their race, and which makes birds cower47 when the hawk48 is in the air, and beasts tremble when the tiger is abroad in the desert. There was a heaviness at her heart which she could not dispel49; and the few hours which she had already spent at Chiffinch’s were like those passed in prison by one unconscious of the cause or event of his captivity50. It was the third morning after her arrival in London, that the scene took place which we now recur51 to.
The impertinence and vulgarity of Empson, which was permitted to him as an unrivalled performer upon his instrument, were exhausting themselves at the expense of all other musical professors, and Mrs. Chiffinch was listening with careless indifference52, when some one was heard speaking loudly, and with animation53, in the inner apartment.
“Oh, gemini and gilliflower water!” exclaimed the damsel, startled out of her fine airs into her natural vulgarity of exclamation54, and running to the door of communication —“if he has not come back again after all! — and if old Rowley ——”
A tap at the farther and opposite door here arrested her attention — she quitted the handle of that which she was about to open as speedily as if it had burnt her fingers, and, moving back towards her couch, asked, “Who is there?”
“Old Rowley himself, madam,” said the King, entering the apartment with his usual air of easy composure.
“O crimini! — your Majesty55! — I thought ——”
“That I was out of hearing, doubtless,” said the King; “and spoke56 of me as folk speak of absent friends. Make no apology. I think I have heard ladies say of their lace, that a rent is better than a darn. — Nay57, be seated. — Where is Chiffinch?”
“He is down at York House, your Majesty,” said the dame, recovering, though with no small difficulty, the calm affectation of her usual demeanour. “Shall I send your Majesty’s commands?”
“I will wait his return,” said the King. —“Permit me to taste your chocolate.”
“There is some fresh frothed in the office,” said the lady; and using a little silver call, or whistle, a black boy, superbly dressed, like an Oriental page, with gold bracelets58 on his naked arms, and a gold collar around his equally bare neck, attended with the favourite beverage59 of the morning, in an apparatus60 of the richest china.
While he sipped61 his cup of chocolate, the King looked round the apartment, and observing Fenella, Peveril, and the musician, who remained standing62 beside a large Indian screen, he continued, addressing Mistress Chiffinch, though with polite indifference, “I sent you the fiddles63 this morning — or rather the flute64 — Empson, and a fairy elf whom I met in the Park, who dances divinely. She has brought us the very newest saraband from the Court of Queen Mab, and I sent her here, that you may see it at leisure.”
“Your Majesty does me by far too much honour,” said Chiffinch, her eyes properly cast down, and her accents minced65 into becoming humility66.
“Nay, little Chiffinch,” answered the King, in a tone of as contemptuous familiarity as was consistent with his good-breeding, “it was not altogether for thine own private ear, though quite deserving of all sweet sounds; but I thought Nelly had been with thee this morning.”
“I can send Bajazet for her, your Majesty,” answered the lady.
“Nay, I will not trouble your little heathen sultan to go so far. Still it strikes me that Chiffinch said you had company — some country cousin, or such a matter — Is there not such a person?”
“There is a young person from the country,” said Mistress Chiffinch, striving to conceal1 a considerable portion of embarrassment67; “but she is unprepared for such an honour as to be admitted into your Majesty’s presence, and ——”
“And therefore the fitter to receive it, Chiffinch. There is nothing in nature so beautiful as the first blush of a little rustic68 between joy and fear, and wonder and curiosity. It is the down on the peach — pity it decays so soon! — the fruit remains69, but the first high colouring and exquisite70 flavour are gone. — Never put up thy lip for the matter, Chiffinch, for it is as I tell you; so pray let us have la belle71 cousine.”
Mistress Chiffinch, more embarrassed than ever, again advanced towards the door of communication, which she had been in the act of opening when his Majesty entered. But just as she coughed pretty loudly, perhaps as a signal to some one within, voices were again heard in a raised tone of altercation72 —— the door was flung open, and Alice rushed out of the inner apartment, followed to the door of it by the enterprising Duke of Buckingham, who stood fixed73 with astonishment74 on finding his pursuit of the flying fair one had hurried him into the presence of the King.
Alice Bridgenorth appeared too much transported with anger to permit her to pay attention to the rank or character of the company into which she had thus suddenly entered. “I remain no longer here, madam,” she said to Mrs. Chiffinch, in a tone of uncontrollable resolution; “I leave instantly a house where I am exposed to company which I detest75, and to solicitations which I despise.”
The dismayed Mrs. Chiffinch could only implore76 her, in broken whispers, to be silent; adding, while she pointed77 to Charles, who stood with his eyes fixed rather on his audacious courtier than on the game which he pursued, “The King — the King!”
“If I am in the King’s presence,” said Alice aloud, and in the same torrent78 of passionate79 feeling, while her eye sparkled through tears of resentment80 and insulted modesty81, “it is the better — it is his Majesty’s duty to protect me; and on his protection I throw myself.”
These words, which were spoken aloud, and boldly, at once recalled Julian to himself, who had hitherto stood, as it were, bewildered. He approached Alice, and, whispering in her ear that she had beside her one who would defend her with his life, implored82 her to trust to his guardianship in this emergency.
Clinging to his arm in all the ecstasy83 of gratitude84 and joy, the spirit which had so lately invigorated Alice in her own defence, gave way in a flood of tears, when she saw herself supported by him whom perhaps she most wished to recognise as her protector. She permitted Peveril gently to draw her back towards the screen before which he had been standing; where, holding by his arm, but at the same time endeavouring to conceal herself behind him, they waited the conclusion of a scene so singular.
The King seemed at first so much surprised at the unexpected apparition85 of the Duke of Buckingham, as to pay little or no attention to Alice, who had been the means of thus unceremoniously introducing his Grace into the presence at a most unsuitable moment. In that intriguing86 Court, it had not been the first time that the Duke had ventured to enter the lists of gallantry in rivalry88 of his Sovereign, which made the present insult the more intolerable. His purpose of lying concealed89 in those private apartments was explained by the exclamations90 of Alice; and Charles, notwithstanding the placidity91 of his disposition92, and his habitual93 guard over his passions, resented the attempt to seduce94 his destined95 mistress, as an Eastern Sultan would have done the insolence96 of a vizier, who anticipated his intended purchases of captive beauty in the slave-market. The swarthy features of Charles reddened, and the strong lines on his dark visage seemed to become inflated97, as he said, in a voice which faltered98 with passion, “Buckingham, you dared not have thus insulted your equal! To your master you may securely offer any affront99, since his rank glues his sword to the scabbard.”
The haughty100 Duke did not brook101 this taunt102 unanswered. “My sword,” he said, with emphasis, “was never in the scabbard, when your Majesty’s service required it should be unsheathed.”
“Your Grace means, when its service was required for its master’s interest,” said the King; “for you could only gain the coronet of a Duke by fighting for the royal crown. But it is over — I have treated you as a friend — a companion — almost an equal — you have repaid me with insolence and ingratitude103.”
“Sire,” answered the Duke firmly, but respectfully, “I am unhappy in your displeasure; yet thus far fortunate, that while your words can confer honour, they cannot impair105 or take it away. — It is hard,” he added, lowering his voice, so as only to be heard by the King — “It is hard that the squall of a peevish106 wench should cancel the services of so many years!”
“It is harder,” said the King, in the same subdued107 tone, which both preserved through the rest of the conversation, “that a wench’s bright eyes can make a nobleman forget the decencies due to his Sovereign’s privacy.”
“May I presume to ask your Majesty what decencies are those?” said the Duke.
Charles bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. “Buckingham,” he said, “this is a foolish business; and we must not forget (as we have nearly done), that we have an audience to witness this scene, and should walk the stage with dignity. I will show you your fault in private.”
“It is enough that your Majesty has been displeased108, and that I have unhappily been the occasion,” said the Duke, kneeling; “although quite ignorant of any purpose beyond a few words of gallantry; and I sue thus low for your Majesty’s pardon.”
So saying, he kneeled gracefully109 down. “Thou hast it, George,” said the placable Prince. “I believe thou wilt110 be sooner tired of offending than I of forgiving.”
“Long may your Majesty live to give the offence, with which it is your royal pleasure at present to charge my innocence111,” said the Duke.
“What mean you by that, my lord?” said Charles, the angry shade returning to his brow for a moment.
“My Liege,” replied the Duke, “you are too honourable112 to deny your custom of shooting with Cupid’s bird-bolts in other men’s warrens. You have ta’en the royal right of free-forestry over every man’s park. It is hard that you should be so much displeased at hearing a chance arrow whizz near your own pales.”
“No more on’t,” said the King; “but let us see where the dove has harboured.”
“The Helen has found a Paris while we were quarrelling,” replied the Duke.
“Rather an Orpheus,” said the King; “and what is worse, one that is already provided with a Eurydice — She is clinging to the fiddler.”
“It is mere113 fright,” said Buckingham, “like Rochester’s, when he crept into the bass-viol to hide himself from Sir Dermot O’Cleaver.”
“We must make the people show their talents,” said the King, “and stop their mouths with money and civility, or we shall have this foolish encounter over half the town.”
The King then approached Julian, and desired him to take his instrument, and cause his female companion to perform a saraband.
“I had already the honour to inform your Majesty,” said Julian, “that I cannot contribute to your pleasure in the way you command me; and that this young person is ——”
“A retainer of the Lady Powis,” said the King, upon whose mind things not connected with his pleasures made a very slight impression. “Poor lady, she is in trouble about the lords in the Tower.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said Julian, “she is a dependant114 of the Countess of Derby.”
“True, true,” answered Charles; “it is indeed of Lady Derby, who hath also her own distresses115 in these times. Do you know who taught the young person to dance? Some of her steps mightily116 resemble Le Jeune’s of Paris.”
“I presume she was taught abroad, sir,” said Julian; “for myself, I am charged with some weighty business by the Countess, which I would willingly communicate to your Majesty.”
“We will send you to our Secretary of State,” said the King. “But this dancing envoy117 will oblige us once more, will she not? — Empson, now that I remember, it was to your pipe that she danced — Strike up, man, and put mettle118 into her feet.”
Empson began to play a well-known measure; and, as he had threatened, made more than one false note, until the King, whose ear was very accurate, rebuked119 him with, “Sirrah, art thou drunk at this early hour, or must thou too be playing thy slippery tricks with me? Thou thinkest thou art born to beat time, but I will have time beat into thee.”
The hint was sufficient, and Empson took good care so to perform his air as to merit his high and deserved reputation. But on Fenella it made not the slightest impression. She rather leant than stood against the wall of the apartment; her countenance120 as pale as death, her arms and hands hanging down as if stiffened121, and her existence only testified by the sobs123 which agitated124 her bosom125, and the tears which flowed from her half-closed eyes.
“A plague on it,” said the King, “some evil spirit is abroad this morning; and the wenches are all bewitched, I think. Cheer up, my girl. What, in the devil’s name, has changed thee at once from a Nymph to a Niobe? If thou standest there longer thou wilt grow to the very marble wall — Or — oddsfish, George, have you been bird-bolting in this quarter also?”
Ere Buckingham could answer to this charge, Julian again kneeled down to the King, and prayed to be heard, were it only for five minutes. “The young woman,” he said, “had been long in attendance of the Countess of Derby. She was bereaved127 of the faculties128 of speech and hearing.”
“Oddsfish, man, and dances so well?” said the King. “Nay, all Gresham College shall never make me believe that.”
“I would have thought it equally impossible, but for what I today witnessed,” said Julian; “but only permit me, sir, to deliver the petition of my lady the Countess.”
“And who art thou thyself, man?” said the Sovereign; “for though everything which wears bodice and breast-knot has a right to speak to a King, and be answered, I know not that they have a title to audience through an envoy extraordinary.”
“I am Julian Peveril of Derbyshire,” answered the supplicant129, “the son of Sir Geoffrey Peveril of Martindale Castle, who ——”
“Body of me — the old Worcester man?” said the King. “Oddsfish, I remember him well — some harm has happened to him, I think — Is he not dead, or very sick at least?”
“Ill at ease, and it please your Majesty, but not ill in health. He has been imprisoned130 on account of an alleged131 accession to this Plot.”
“Look you there,” said the King; “I knew he was in trouble; and yet how to help the stout132 old Knight133, I can hardly tell. I can scarce escape suspicion of the Plot myself, though the principal object of it is to take away my own life. Were I to stir to save a plotter, I should certainly be brought in as an accessory. — Buckingham, thou hast some interest with those who built this fine state engine, or at least who have driven it on — be good-natured for once, though it is scarcely thy wont134, and interfere135 to shelter our old Worcester friend, Sir Godfrey. You have not forgot him?”
“No, sir,” answered the Duke; “for I never heard the name.”
“It is Sir Geoffrey his Majesty would say,” said Julian.
“And if his Majesty did say Sir Geoffrey, Master Peveril, I cannot see of what use I can be to your father,” replied the Duke coldly. “He is accused of a heavy crime; and a British subject so accused, can have no shelter either from prince or peer, but must stand to the award and deliverance of God and his country.”
“Now, Heaven forgive thee thy hypocrisy136, George,” said the King hastily. “I would rather hear the devil preach religion than thee teach patriotism137. Thou knowest as well as I, that the nation is in a scarlet138 fever for fear of the poor Catholics, who are not two men to five hundred; and that the public mind is so harassed139 with new narrations140 of conspiracy141, and fresh horrors every day, that people have as little real sense of what is just or unjust as men who talk in their sleep of what is sense or nonsense. I have borne, and borne with it — I have seen blood flow on the scaffold, fearing to thwart142 the nation in its fury — and I pray to God that I or mine be not called on to answer for it. I will no longer swim with the torrent, which honour and conscience call upon me to stem — I will act the part of a Sovereign, and save my people from doing injustice143, even in their own despite.”
Charles walked hastily up and down the room as he expressed these unwonted sentiments, with energy equally unwonted. After a momentary144 pause, the Duke answered him gravely, “Spoken like a Royal King, sir, but — pardon me — not like a King of England.”
Charles paused, as the Duke spoke, beside a window which looked full on Whitehall, and his eye was involuntarily attracted by the fatal window of the Banqueting House out of which his unhappy father was conducted to execution. Charles was naturally, or, more purposely, constitutionally brave; but a life of pleasure, together with the habit of governing his course rather by what was expedient145 than by what was right, rendered him unapt to dare the same scene of danger or of martyrdom, which had closed his father’s life and reign37; and the thought came over his half-formed resolution, like the rain upon a kindling146 beacon147. In another man, his perplexity would have seemed almost ludicrous; but Charles would not lose, even under these circumstances, the dignity and grace, which were as natural to him as his indifference and good humour. “Our Council must decide in this matter,” he said, looking to the Duke; “and be assured, young man,” he added, addressing Julian, “your father shall not want an intercessor in his King, so far as the laws will permit my interference in his behalf.”
Julian was about to retire, when Fenella, with a marked look, put into his hand a slip of paper, on which she had hastily written, “The packet — give him the packet.”
After a moment’s hesitation148, during which he reflected that Fenella was the organ of the Countess’s pleasure, Julian resolved to obey. “Permit me, then, Sire,” he said, “to place in your royal hands this packet, entrusted149 to me by the Countess of Derby. The letters have already been once taken from me; and I have little hope that I can now deliver them as they are addressed. I place them, therefore, in your royal hands, certain that they will evince the innocence of the writer.”
The King shook his head as he took the packet reluctantly. “It is no safe office you have undertaken, young man. A messenger has sometimes his throat cut for the sake of his despatches — But give them to me; and, Chiffinch, give me wax and a taper150.” He employed himself in folding the Countess’s packet in another envelope. “Buckingham,” he said, “you are evidence that I do not read them till the Council shall see them.”
Buckingham approached, and offered his services in folding the parcel, but Charles rejected his assistance; and having finished his task, he sealed the packet with his own signet-ring. The Duke bit his lip and retired151.
“And now, young man,” said the King, “your errand is sped, so far as it can at present be forwarded.”
Julian bowed deeply, as to take leave at these words, which he rightly interpreted as a signal for his departure. Alice Bridgenorth still clung to his arm, and motioned to withdraw along with him. The King and Buckingham looked at each other in conscious astonishment, and yet not without a desire to smile, so strange did it seem to them that a prize, for which, an instant before, they had been mutually contending, should thus glide152 out of their grasp, or rather be borne off by a third and very inferior competitor.
“Mistress Chiffinch,” said the King, with a hesitation which he could not disguise, “I hope your fair charge is not about to leave you?”
“Certainly not, your Majesty,” answered Chiffinch. “Alice, my love — you mistake — that opposite door leads to your apartments.”
“Pardon me, madam,” answered Alice; “I have indeed mistaken my road, but it was when I came hither.”
“The errant damosel,” said Buckingham, looking at Charles with as much intelligence as etiquette153 permitted him to throw into his eye, and then turning it towards Alice, as she still held by Julian’s arm, “is resolved not to mistake her road a second time. She has chosen a sufficient guide.”
“And yet stories tell that such guides have led maidens154 astray,” said the King.
Alice blushed deeply, but instantly recovered her composure so soon as she saw that her liberty was likely to depend upon the immediate155 exercise of resolution. She quitted, from a sense of insulted delicacy, the arm of Julian, to which she had hitherto clung; but as she spoke, she continued to retain a slight grasp of his cloak. “I have indeed mistaken my way,” she repeated still addressing Mrs. Chiffinch, “but it was when I crossed this threshold. The usage to which I have been exposed in your house has determined156 me to quit it instantly.”
“I will not permit that, my young mistress,” answered Mrs. Chiffinch, “until your uncle, who placed you under my care, shall relieve me of the charge of you.”
“I will answer for my conduct, both to my uncle, and, what is of more importance, to my father,” said Alice. “You must permit me to depart, madam; I am free-born, and you have no right to detain me.”
“Pardon me, my young madam,” said Mistress Chiffinch, “I have a right, and I will maintain it too.”
“I will know that before quitting this presence,” said Alice firmly; and, advancing a step or two, she dropped on her knee before the King. “Your Majesty,” said she, “if indeed I kneel before King Charles, is the father of your subjects.”
“Of a good many of them,” said the Duke of Buckingham apart.
“I demand protection of you, in the name of God, and of the oath your Majesty swore when you placed on your head the crown of this kingdom!”
“You have my protection,” said the King, a little confused by an appeal so unexpected and so solemn. “Do but remain quiet with this lady, with whom your parents have placed you; neither Buckingham nor any one else shall intrude157 on you.”
“His Majesty,” added Buckingham, in the same tone, and speaking from the restless and mischief-making spirit of contradiction, which he never could restrain, even when indulging it was most contrary, not only to propriety158, but to his own interest — “His Majesty will protect you, fair lady, from all intrusion save what must not be termed such.”
Alice darted159 a keen look on the Duke, as if to read his meaning; another on Charles, to know whether she had guessed it rightly. There was a guilty confession160 on the King’s brow, which confirmed Alice’s determination to depart. “Your Majesty will forgive me,” she said; “it is not here that I can enjoy the advantage of your royal protection. I am resolved to leave this house. If I am detained, it must be by violence, which I trust no one dare offer to me in your Majesty’s presence. This gentleman, whom I have long known, will conduct me to my friends.”
“We make but an indifferent figure in this scene, methinks,” said the King, addressing the Duke of Buckingham, and speaking in a whisper; “but she must go — I neither will, nor dare, stop her from returning to her father.”
“And if she does,” swore the Duke internally, “I would, as Sir Andrew Smith saith, I might never touch fair lady’s hand.” And stepping back, he spoke a few words with Empson the musician, who left the apartment, for a few minutes, and presently returned.
The King seemed irresolute161 concerning the part he should act under circumstances so peculiar162. To be foiled in a gallant87 intrigue, was to subject himself to the ridicule163 of his gay court; to persist in it by any means which approached to constraint164, would have been tyrannical; and, what perhaps he might judge as severe an imputation165, it would have been unbecoming a gentleman. “Upon my honour, young lady,” he said, with an emphasis, “you have nothing to fear in this house. But it is improper166, for your own sake, that you should leave it in this abrupt167 manner. If you will have the goodness to wait but a quarter of an hour, Mistress Chiffinch’s coach will be placed at your command, to transport you where you will. Spare yourself the ridicule, and me the pain of seeing you leave the house of one of my servants, as if you were escaping from a prison.”
The King spoke in good-natured sincerity168, and Alice was inclined for an instant to listen to his advice; but recollecting169 that she had to search for her father and uncle, or, failing them, for some suitable place of secure residence, it rushed on her mind that the attendants of Mistress Chiffinch were not likely to prove trusty guides or assistants in such a purpose. Firmly and respectfully she announced her purpose of instant departure. She needed no other escort, she said, than what this gentleman, Master Julian Peveril, who was well known to her father, would willingly afford her; nor did she need that farther than until she had reached her father’s residence.
“Farewell, then, lady, a God’s name!” said the King; “I am sorry so much beauty should be wedded170 to so many shrewish suspicions. — For you, Master Peveril, I should have thought you had enough to do with your own affairs without interfering171 with the humours of the fair sex. The duty of conducting all strayed damsels into the right path is, as matters go in this good city, rather too weighty an undertaking172 for your youth and inexperience.”
Julian, eager to conduct Alice from a place of which he began fully104 to appreciate the perils173, answered nothing to this taunt, but bowing reverently174, led her from the apartment. Her sudden appearance, and the animated175 scene which followed, had entirely176 absorbed, for the moment, the recollection of his father and of the Countess of Derby; and while the dumb attendant of the latter remained in the room, a silent, and, as it were, stunned177 spectator of all that had happened, Peveril had become, in the predominating interest of Alice’s critical situation, totally forgetful of her presence. But no sooner had he left the room, without noticing or attending to her, than Fenella, starting, as from a trance, drew herself up, and looked wildly around, like one waking from a dream, as if to assure herself that her companion was gone, and gone without paying the slightest attention to her. She folded her hands together, and cast her eyes upwards178, with an expression of such agony as explained to Charles (as he thought) what painful ideas were passing in her mind. “This Peveril is a perfect pattern of successful perfidy179, carrying off this Queen of the Amazons, but he has left us, I think, a disconsolate180 Ariadne in her place. — But weep not, my princess of pretty movements,” he said, addressing himself to Fenella; “if we cannot call in Bacchus to console you, we will commit you to the care of Empson, who shall drink with Liber Pater for a thousand pounds, and I will say done first.”
As the King spoke these words, Fenella rushed past him with her wonted rapidity of step, and, with much less courtesy than was due to the royal presence, hurried downstairs, and out of the house, without attempting to open any communication with the Monarch181. He saw her abrupt departure with more surprise than displeasure; and presently afterwards, bursting into a fit of laughter, he said to the Duke, “Oddsfish, George, this young spark might teach the best of us how to manage the wenches. I have had my own experience, but I could never yet contrive12 either to win or lose them with so little ceremony.”
“Experience, sir,” replied the duke, “cannot be acquired without years.”
“True, George; and you would, I suppose, insinuate,” said Charles, “that the gallant who acquires it, loses as much in youth as he gains in art? I defy your insinuation, George. You cannot overreach your master, old as you think him, either in love or politics. You have not the secret plumer la poule sans la faire crier, witness this morning’s work. I will give you odds126 at all games — ay, and at the Mall too, if thou darest accept my challenge. — Chiffinch, what for dost thou convulse thy pretty throat and face with sobbing182 and hatching tears, which seem rather unwilling183 to make their appearance!”
“It is for fear,” whined184 Chiffinch, “that your Majesty should think — that you should expect ——”
“That I should expect gratitude from a courtier, or faith from a woman?” answered the King, patting her at the same time under the chin, to make her raise her face —“Tush! chicken, I am not so superfluous185.”
“There it is now,” said Chiffinch, continuing to sob122 the more bitterly, as she felt herself unable to produce any tears; “I see your Majesty is determined to lay all the blame on me, when I am innocent as an unborn babe — I will be judged by his Grace.”
“No doubt, no doubt, Chiffie,” said the King. “His Grace and you will be excellent judges in each other’s cause, and as good witnesses in each other’s favour. But to investigate the matter impartially186, we must examine our evidence apart. — My Lord Duke, we meet at the Mall at noon, if your Grace dare accept my challenge.”
His Grace of Buckingham bowed, and retired.
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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3
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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4
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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5
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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6
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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7
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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8
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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9
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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10
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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11
overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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12
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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13
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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14
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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15
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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16
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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17
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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18
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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19
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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20
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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21
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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22
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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23
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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24
cloyed
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| v.发腻，倒胃口( cloy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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26
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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27
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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28
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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29
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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30
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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31
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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32
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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33
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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34
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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35
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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36
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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37
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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38
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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39
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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40
confiding
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|
| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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41
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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42
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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43
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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44
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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45
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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46
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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47
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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48
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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49
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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50
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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51
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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52
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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53
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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54
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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55
majesty
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|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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56
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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57
nay
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|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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58
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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59
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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60
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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61
sipped
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|
| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
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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63
fiddles
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|
| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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64
flute
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|
| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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65
minced
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|
| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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66
humility
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|
| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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67
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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68
rustic
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|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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69
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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70
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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71
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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72
altercation
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|
| n.争吵，争论 | |
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73
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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74
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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75
detest
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|
| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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76
implore
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|
| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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77
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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78
torrent
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|
| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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79
passionate
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|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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80
resentment
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|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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81
modesty
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|
| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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82
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
ecstasy
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|
| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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84
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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85
apparition
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|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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86
intriguing
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|
| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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87
gallant
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|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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88
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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89
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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90
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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91
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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92
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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93
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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94
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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95
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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96
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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97
inflated
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|
| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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98
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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99
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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100
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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101
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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102
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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103
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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104
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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105
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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106
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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107
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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108
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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109
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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110
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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111
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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112
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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113
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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114
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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115
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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116
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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117
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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118
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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119
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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121
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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122
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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123
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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124
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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125
bosom
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|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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126
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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127
bereaved
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|
| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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128
faculties
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|
| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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129
supplicant
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| adj.恳求的n.恳求者 | |
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130
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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133
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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134
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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135
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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136
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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137
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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138
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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139
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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140
narrations
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| 叙述事情的经过，故事( narration的名词复数 ) | |
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141
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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142
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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143
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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144
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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145
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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146
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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147
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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148
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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149
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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151
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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152
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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153
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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154
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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155
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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157
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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158
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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159
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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160
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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161
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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162
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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163
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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164
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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165
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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166
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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168
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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169
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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170
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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172
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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173
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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174
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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175
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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176
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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177
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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178
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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179
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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180
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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181
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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182
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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183
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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184
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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185
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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186
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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