Blend their bright colouring with the varied1 blossoms,
Their fierce eyes glittering like the spangled dew-drop;
In all so like what nature has most harmless,
That sportive innocence2, which dreads3 no danger,
Is poison’d unawares.
OLD PLAY.
Charles (we must now give him his own name) was easily reconciled to the circumstances which rendered his residence at Woodstock advisable. No doubt he would much rather have secured his safety by making an immediate4 escape out of England; but he had been condemned5 already to many uncomfortable lurking-places, and more disagreeable disguises, as well as to long and difficult journeys, during which, between pragmatical officers of justice belonging to the prevailing6 party, and parties of soldiers whose officers usually took on them to act on their own warrant, risk of discovery had more than once become very imminent7. He was glad, therefore, of comparative repose8, and of comparative safety.
Then it must be considered, that Charles had been entirely9 reconciled to the society at Woodstock since he had become better acquainted with it. He had seen, that, to interest the beautiful Alice, and procure10 a great deal of her company, nothing more was necessary than to submit to the humours, and cultivate the intimacy11, of the old cavalier her father. A few bouts12 at fencing, in which Charles took care not to put out his more perfect skill, and full youthful strength and activity — the endurance of a few scenes from Shakspeare, which the knight13 read with more zeal14 than taste — a little skill in music, in which the old man had been a proficient15 — the deference16 paid to a few old-fashioned opinions, at which Charles laughed in his sleeve — were all-sufficient to gain for the disguised Prince an interest in Sir Henry Lee, and to conciliate in an equal degree the good-will of his lovely daughter.
Never were there two young persons who could be said to commence this species of intimacy with such unequal advantages. Charles was a libertine17, who, if he did not in cold blood resolve upon prosecuting18 his passion for Alice to a dishonourable conclusion, was at every moment liable to be provoked to attempt the strength of a virtue20, in which he was no believer. Then Alice, on her part, hardly knew even what was implied by the word libertine or seducer21. Her mother had died early in the commencement of the Civil War, and she had been bred up chiefly with her brother and cousin; so that she had an unfearing and unsuspicious frankness of manner, upon which Charles was not unwilling22 or unlikely to put a construction favourable23 to his own views. Even Alice’s love for her cousin — the first sensation which awakens24 the most innocent and simple mind to feelings of shyness and restraint towards the male sex in general — had failed to excite such an alarm in her bosom25. They were nearly related; and Everard, though young, was several years her elder, and had, from her infancy26, been an object of her respect as well as of her affection. When this early and childish intimacy ripened27 into youthful love, confessed and returned, still it differed in some shades from the passion existing between lovers originally strangers to each other, until their affections have been united in the ordinary course of courtship. Their love was fonder, more familiar, more perfectly28 confidential29; purer too, perhaps, and more free from starts of passionate30 violence, or apprehensive31 jealousy32.
The possibility that any one could have attempted to rival Everard in her affection, was a circumstance which never occurred to Alice; and that this singular Scottish lad, whom she laughed with on account of his humour, and laughed at for his peculiarities35, should be an object of danger or of caution, never once entered her imagination. The sort of intimacy to which she admitted Kerneguy was the same to which she would have received a companion of her own sex, whose manners she did not always approve, but whose society she found always amusing.
It was natural that the freedom of Alice Lee’s conduct, which arose from the most perfect indifference36, should pass for something approaching to encouragement in the royal gallant38’s apprehension39, and that any resolutions he had formed against being tempted33 to violate the hospitality of Woodstock, should begin to totter40, as opportunities for doing so became more frequent.
These opportunities were favoured by Albert’s departure from Woodstock the very day after his arrival. It had been agreed, in full council with Charles and Rochecliffe, that he should go to visit his uncle Everard in the county of Kent, and, by showing himself there, obviate41 any cause of suspicion which might arise from his residence at Woodstock, and remove any pretext42 for disturbing his father’s family on account of their harbouring one who had been so lately in arms. He had also undertaken, at his own great personal risk, to visit different points on the sea-coast, and ascertain43 the security of different places for providing shipping44 for the King’s leaving England.
These circumstances were alike calculated to procure the King’s safety, and facilitate his escape. But Alice was thereby45 deprived of the presence of her brother, who would have been her most watchful46 guardian47, but who had set down the King’s light talk upon a former occasion to the gaiety of his humour, and would have thought he had done his sovereign great injustice48, had he seriously suspected him of such a breach49 of hospitality as a dishonourable pursuit of Alice would have implied.
There were, however, two of the household at Woodstock, who appeared not so entirely reconciled with Louis Kerneguy or his purposes. The one was Bevis, who seemed, from their first unfriendly rencontre, to have kept up a pique50 against their new guest, which no advances on the part of Charles were able to soften51. If the page was by chance left alone with his young mistress, Bevis chose always to be of the party; came close by Alice’s chair, and growled52 audibly when the gallant drew near her. “It is a pity,” said the disguised Prince, “that your Bevis is not a bull-dog, that we might dub53 him a roundhead at once — He is too handsome, too noble, too aristocratic, to nourish those inhospitable prejudices against a poor houseless cavalier. I am convinced the spirit of Pym or Hampden has transmigrated into the rogue55 and continues to demonstrate his hatred56 against royalty57 and all its adherents58.”
Alice would then reply, that Bevis was loyal in word and deed, and only partook her father’s prejudices against the Scots, which, she could not but acknowledge, were tolerably strong.
“Nay, then,” said the supposed Louis, “I must find some other reason, for I cannot allow Sir Bevis’s resentment59 to rest upon national antipathy60. So we will suppose that some gallant cavalier, who wended to the wars and never returned, has adopted this shape to look back upon the haunts he left so unwillingly61, and is jealous at seeing even poor Louis Kerneguy drawing near to the lady of his lost affections.”— He approached her chair as he spoke62, and Bevis gave one of his deep growls63.
“In that case, you had best keep your distance,” said Alice, laughing, “for the bite of a dog, possessed64 by the ghost of a jealous lover, cannot be very safe.” And the King carried on the dialogue in the same strain — which, while it led Alice to apprehend65 nothing more serious than the apish gallantry of a fantastic boy, certainly induced the supposed Louis Kerneguy to think that he had made one of those conquests which often and easily fall to the share of sovereigns. Notwithstanding the acuteness of his apprehension, he was not sufficiently66 aware that the Royal Road to female favour is only open to monarchs68 when they travel in grand costume, and that when they woo incognito69, their path of courtship is liable to the same windings70 and obstacles which obstruct71 the course of private individuals.
There was, besides Bevis, another member of the family, who kept a look-out upon Louis Kerneguy, and with no friendly eye. Phoebe Mayflower, though her experience extended not beyond the sphere of the village, yet knew the world much better than her mistress, and besides she was five years older. More knowing, she was more suspicious. She thought that odd-looking Scotch72 boy made more up to her young mistress than was proper for his condition of life; and, moreover, that Alice gave him a little more encouragement than Parthenia would have afforded to any such Jack-a-dandy, in the absence of Argalus — for the volume treating of the loves of these celebrated73 Arcadians was then the favourite study of swains and damsels throughout merry England. Entertaining such suspicions, Phoebe was at a loss how to conduct herself on the occasion, and yet resolved she would not see the slightest chance of the course of Colonel Everard’s true love being obstructed75, without attempting a remedy. She had a peculiar34 favour for Markham herself; and, moreover, he was, according to her phrase, as handsome and personable a young man as was in Oxfordshire; and this Scottish scarecrow was no more to be compared to him than chalk was to cheese. And yet she allowed that Master Girnigy had a wonderfully well-oiled tongue, and that such gallants were not to be despised. What was to be done? — she had no facts to offer, only vague suspicion; and was afraid to speak to her mistress, whose kindness, great as it was, did not, nevertheless, encourage familiarity.
She sounded Joceline; but he was, she knew not why, so deeply interested about this unlucky lad, and held his importance so high, that she could make no impression on him. To speak to the old knight would have been to raise a general tempest. The worthy77 chaplain, who was, at Woodstock, grand referee78 on all disputed matters, would have been the damsel’s most natural resource, for he was peaceful as well as moral by profession, and politic79 by practice. But it happened he had given Phoebe unintentional offence by speaking of her under the classical epithet80 of Rustica Fidele, the which epithet, as she understood it not, she held herself bound to resent as contumelious, and declaring she was not fonder of a fiddle81 than other folk, had ever since shunned82 all intercourse83 with Dr. Rochecliffe which she could easily avoid.
Master Tomkins was always coming and going about the house under various pretexts84; but he was a roundhead, and she was too true to the cavaliers to introduce any of the enemy as parties to their internal discords85; besides, he had talked to Phoebe herself in a manner which induced her to decline everything in the shape of familiarity with him. Lastly, Cavaliero Wildrake might have been consulted; but Phoebe had her own reasons for saying, as she did with some emphasis, that Cavaliero Wildrake was an impudent86 London rake. At length she resolved to communicate her suspicions to the party having most interest in verifying or confuting them.
“I’ll let Master Markham Everard know, that there is a wasp87 buzzing about his honey-comb,” said Phoebe; “and, moreover, that I know that this young Scotch Scapegrace shifted himself out of a woman’s into a man’s dress at Goody Green’s, and gave Goody Green’s Dolly a gold-piece to say nothing about it; and no more she did to any one but me, and she knows best herself whether she gave change for the gold or not — but Master Louis is a saucy88 jackanapes, and like enough to ask it.”
Three or four days elapsed while matters continued in this condition — the disguised Prince sometimes thinking on the intrigue90 which Fortune seemed to have thrown in his way for his amusement, and taking advantage of such opportunities as occurred to increase his intimacy with Alice Lee; but much oftener harassing91 Dr. Rochecliffe with questions about the possibility of escape, which the good man finding himself unable to answer, secured his leisure against royal importunity92, by retreating into the various unexplored recesses93 of the Lodge94, known perhaps only to himself, who had been for nearly a score of years employed in writing the Wonders of Woodstock.
It chanced on the fourth day, that some trifling95 circumstance had called the knight abroad; and he had left the young Scotsman, now familiar in the family, along with Alice, in the parlour of Victor Lee. Thus situated96, he thought the time not unpropitious for entering upon a strain of gallantry, of a kind which might be called experimental, such as is practised by the Croats in skirmishing, when they keep bridle97 in hand, ready to attack the enemy, or canter off without coming to close quarters, as circumstances may recommend. After using for nearly ten minutes a sort of metaphysical jargon98, which might, according to Alice’s pleasure, have been interpreted either into gallantry, or the language of serious pretension99, and when he supposed her engaged in fathoming101 his meaning, he had the mortification102 to find, by a single and brief question, that he had been totally unattended to, and that Alice was thinking on anything at the moment rather than the sense of what he had been saying. She asked him if he could tell what it was o’clock, and this with an air of real curiosity concerning the lapse89 of time, which put coquetry wholly out of the question.
“I will go look at the sundial, Mistress Alice,” said the gallant, rising and colouring, through a sense of the contempt with which he thought himself treated.
“You will do me a pleasure, Master Kerneguy,” said Alice, without the least consciousness of the indignation she had excited.
Master Louis Kerneguy left the room accordingly, not, however, to procure the information required, but to vent103 his anger and mortification, and to swear, with more serious purpose than he had dared to do before, that Alice should rue74 her insolence104. Good-natured as he was, he was still a prince, unaccustomed to contradiction, far less to contempt, and his self pride felt, for the moment, wounded to the quick. With a hasty step he plunged105 into the Chase, only remembering his own safety so far as to choose the deeper and sequestered106 avenues, where, walking on with the speedy and active step, which his recovery from fatigue107 now permitted him to exercise according to his wont108, he solaced109 his angry purposes, by devising schemes of revenge on the insolent110 country coquette, from which no consideration of hospitality was in future to have weight enough to save her.
The irritated gallant passed
“The dial-stone, aged100 and green,”
without deigning111 to ask it a single question; nor could it have satisfied his curiosity if he had, for no sun happened to shine at the moment. He then hastened forward, muffling112 himself in his cloak, and assuming a stooping and slouching gait, which diminished his apparent height. He was soon involved in the deep and dim alleys113 of the wood, into which he had insensibly plunged himself, and was traversing it at a great rate, without having any distinct idea in what direction he was going, when suddenly his course was arrested, first by a loud hello, and then by a summons to stand, accompanied by what seemed still more startling and extraordinary, the touch of a cane114 upon his shoulder, imposed in a good-humoured but somewhat imperious manner.
There were few symptoms of recognition which would have been welcome at this moment; but the appearance of the person who had thus arrested his course, was least of all that he could have anticipated as timely or agreeable. When he turned, on receiving the signal, he beheld115 himself close to a young man, nearly six feet in height, well made in joint116 and limb, but the gravity of whose apparel, although handsome and gentlemanlike, and a sort of precision in his habit, from the cleanness and stiffness of his band to the unsullied purity of his Spanish-leather shoes, bespoke117 a love of order which was foreign to the impoverished118 and vanquished119 cavaliers, and proper to the habits of those of the victorious120 party, who could afford to dress themselves handsomely; and whose rule — that is, such as regarded the higher and more respectable classes — enjoined121 decency122 and sobriety of garb123 and deportment. There was yet another weight against the Prince in the scale, and one still more characteristic of the inequality in the comparison, under which he seemed to labour. There was strength in the muscular form of the stranger who had brought him to this involuntary parley124, authority and determination in his brow, a long rapier on the left, and a poniard or dagger125 on the right side of his belt, and a pair of pistols stuck into it, which would have been sufficient to give the unknown the advantage, (Louis Kerneguy having no weapon but his sword,) even had his personal strength approached nearer than it did to that of the person by whom he was thus suddenly stopped.
Bitterly regretting the thoughtless fit of passion that brought him into his present situation, but especially the want of the pistols he had left behind, and which do so much to place bodily strength and weakness upon an equal footing, Charles yet availed himself of the courage and presence of mind, in which few of his unfortunate family had for centuries been deficient126. He stood firm and without motion, his cloak still wrapped round the lower part of his face, to give time for explanation, in case he was mistaken for some other person.
This coolness produced its effect; for the other party said — with doubt and surprise on his part, “Joceline Joliffe, is it not? — if I know not Joceline Joliffe, I should at least know my own cloak.”
“I am not Joceline Joliffe, as you may see, sir,” said Kerneguy, calmly, drawing himself erect127 to show the difference of size, and dropping the cloak from his face and person.
“Indeed!” replied the stranger, in surprise; “then, Sir Unknown, I have to express my regret at having used my cane in intimating that I wished you to stop. From that dress, which I certainly recognise for my own, I concluded you must be Joceline, in whose custody128 I had left my habit at the Lodge.”
“If it had been Joceline, sir,” replied the supposed Kerneguy, with perfect composure, “methinks you should not have struck so hard.” The other party was obviously confused by the steady calmness with which he was encountered. The sense of politeness dictated129, in the first place, an apology for a mistake, when he thought he had been tolerably certain of the person. Master Kerneguy was not in a situation to be punctilious130; he bowed gravely, as indicating his acceptance of the excuse offered, then turned, and walked, as he conceived, towards the Lodge; though he had traversed the woods which were cut with various alleys in different directions, too hastily to be certain of the real course which he wished to pursue.
He was much embarrassed to find that this did not get him rid of the companion whom he had thus involuntarily acquired. Walked he slow, walked he fast, his friend in the genteel but puritanic habit, strong in person, and well armed, as we have described him, seemed determined131 to keep him company, and, without attempting to join, or enter into conversation, never suffered him to outstrip132 his surveillance for more than two or three yards. The Wanderer mended his pace; but, although he was then, in his youth, as afterwards in his riper age, one of the best walkers in Britain, the stranger, without advancing his pace to a run, kept fully76 equal to him, and his persecution133 became so close and constant, and inevitable134, that the pride and fear of Charles were both alarmed, and he began to think that, whatever the danger might be of a single-handed rencontre, he would nevertheless have a better bargain of this tall satellite if they settled the debate betwixt them in the forest, than if they drew near any place of habitation, where the man in authority was likely to find friends and concurrents.
Betwixt anxiety, therefore, vexation, and anger, Charles faced suddenly round on his pursuer, as they reached a small narrow glade135, which led to the little meadow over which presided the King’s Oak, the ragged136 and scathed137 branches and gigantic trunk of which formed a vista138 to the little wild avenue.
“Sir,” said he to his pursuer, “you have already been guilty of one piece of impertinence towards me. You have apologised; and knowing no reason why you should distinguish me as an object of incivility, I have accepted your excuse without scruple139. Is there any thing remains140 to be settled betwixt us, which causes you to follow me in this manner? If so, I shall be glad to make it a subject of explanation or satisfaction, as the case may admit of. I think you can owe me no malice141; for I never saw you before to my knowledge. If you can give any good reason for asking it, I am willing to render you personal satisfaction. If your purpose is merely impertinent curiosity, I let you know that I will not suffer myself to be dogged in my private walks by any one.”
“When I recognise my own cloak on another man’s shoulders,” replied the stranger, dryly, “methinks I have a natural right to follow and see what becomes of it; for know, sir, though I have been mistaken as to the wearer, yet I am confident I had as good a right to stretch my cane across the cloak you are muffled142 in, as ever had any one to brush his own garments. If, therefore, we are to be friends, I must ask, for instance, how you came by that cloak, and where you are going with it? I shall otherwise make bold to stop you, as one who has sufficient commission to do so.”
“Oh, unhappy cloak,” thought the Wanderer, “ay, and thrice unhappy the idle fancy that sent me here with it wrapped around my nose, to pick quarrels and attract observation, when quiet and secrecy143 were peculiarly essential to my safety!”
“If you will allow me to guess, sir,” continued the stranger, who was no other than Markham Everard, “I will convince you that you are better known than you think for.”
“Now, Heaven forbid!” prayed the party addressed, in silence, but with as much devotion as ever he applied144 to a prayer in his life. Yet even in this moment of extreme urgency, his courage and composure did not fail; and he recollected145 it was of the utmost importance not to seem startled, and to answer so as, if possible, to lead the dangerous companion with whom he had met, to confess the extent of his actual knowledge or suspicions concerning him.
“If you know me, sir,” he said, “and are a gentleman, as your appearance promises, you cannot be at a loss to discover to what accident you must attribute my wearing these clothes, which you say are yours.” “Oh, sir,” replied Colonel Everard, his wrath146 in no sort turned away by the mildness of the stranger’s answer —“we have learned our Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and we know for what purposes young men of quality travel in disguise — we know that even female attire147 is resorted to on certain occasions — We have heard of Vertumnus and Pomona.”
The Monarch67, as he weighed these words, again uttered a devout148 prayer, that this ill-looking affair might have no deeper root than the jealousy of some admirer of Alice Lee, promising149 to himself, that, devotee as he was to the fair sex, he would make no scruple of renouncing150 the fairest of Eve’s daughters in order to get out of the present dilemma151.
“Sir,” he said, “you seem to be a gentleman. I have no objection to tell you, as such, that I also am of that class.”
“Or somewhat higher, perhaps?” said Everard.
“A gentleman,” replied Charles, “is a term which comprehends all ranks entitled to armorial bearings — A duke, a lord, a prince, is no more than a gentleman; and if in misfortune as I am, he may be glad if that general term of courtesy is allowed him.”
“Sir,” replied Everard, “I have no purpose to entrap152 you to any acknowledgment fatal to your own safety — nor do I hold it my business to be active in the arrest of private individuals, whose perverted153 sense of national duty may have led them into errors, rather to be pitied than punished by candid154 men. But if those who have brought civil war and disturbance155 into their native country, proceed to carry dishonour19 and disgrace into the bosom of families — if they attempt to carry on their private debaucheries to the injury of the hospitable54 roofs which afford them refuge from the consequences of their public crimes, do you think, my lord, that we shall bear it with patience?”
“If it is your purpose to quarrel with me,” said the Prince, “speak it out at once like a gentleman. You have the advantage, no doubt, of arms; but it is not that odds156 which will induce me to fly from a single man. If, on the other hand, you are disposed to hear reason, I tell you in calm words, that I neither suspect the offence to which you allude157, nor comprehend why you give me the title of my Lord.”
“You deny, then, being the Lord Wilmot?” said Everard.
“I may do so most safely,” said the Prince.
“Perhaps you rather style yourself Earl of Rochester? We heard that the issuing of some such patent by the King of Scots was a step which your ambition proposed.”
“Neither lord nor earl am I, as sure as I have a Christian158 soul to be saved. My name is”—
“Do not degrade yourself by unnecessary falsehood, my lord; and that to a single man, who, I promise you, will not invoke159 public justice to assist his own good sword should he see cause to use it. Can you look at that ring, and deny that you are Lord Wilmot?”
He handed to the disguised Prince a ring which he took from his purse, and his opponent instantly knew it for the same he had dropped into Alice’s pitcher160 at the fountain, obeying only, through imprudently, the gallantry of the moment, in giving a pretty gem37 to a handsome girl, whom he had accidentally frightened.
“I know the ring,” he said; “it has been in my possession. How it should prove me to be Lord Wilmot, I cannot conceive; and beg to say, it bears false witness against me.”
“You shall see the evidence,” answered Everard; and, resuming the ring, he pressed a spring ingeniously contrived161 in the collet of the setting, on which the stone flew back, and showed within it the cipher162 of Lord Wilmot beautifully engraved163 in miniature, with a coronet. —“What say you now, sir?”
“That probabilities are no proofs,” said the Prince; “there is nothing here save what may be easily accounted for. I am the son of a Scottish nobleman, who was mortally wounded and made prisoner at Worcester fight. When he took leave, and bid me fly, he gave me the few valuables he possessed, and that among others. I have heard him talk of having changed rings with Lord Wilmot, on some occasion in Scotland, but I never knew the trick of the gem which you have shown me.”
In this it may be necessary to say, Charles spoke very truly; nor would he have parted with it in the way he did, had he suspected it would be easily recognised. He proceeded after a minute’s pause:—“Once more, sir — I have told you much that concerns my safety — if you are generous, you will let me pass, and I may do you on some future day as good service. If you mean to arrest me, you must do so here, and at your own peril164, for I will neither walk farther your way, nor permit you to dog me on mine. If you let me pass, I will thank you: if not, take to your weapon.”
“Young gentleman,” said Colonel Everard, “whether you be actually the gay young nobleman for whom I took you, you have made me uncertain; but, intimate as you say your family has been with him, I have little doubt that you are proficient in the school of debauchery, of which Wilmot and Villiers are professors, and their hopeful Master a graduated student. Your conduct at Woodstock, where you have rewarded the hospitality of the family by meditating165 the most deadly wound to their honour, has proved you too apt a scholar in such an academy. I intended only to warn you on this subject — it will be your own fault if I add chastisement166 to admonition.”
“Warn me, sir!” said the Prince indignantly, “and chastisement! This is presuming more on my patience than is consistent with your own safety — Draw, sir.”— So saying, he laid his hand on his sword.
“My religion,” said Everard, “forbids me to be rash in shedding blood — Go home, sir — be wise — consult the dictates167 of honour as well as prudence168. Respect the honour of the House of Lee, and know there is one nearly allied169 to it, by whom your motions will be called to severe account.”
“Aha!” said the Prince, with a bitter laugh, “I see the whole matter now — we have our roundheaded Colonel, our puritan cousin before us — the man of texts and morals, whom Alice Lee laughs at so heartily170. If your religion, sir, prevents you from giving satisfaction, it should prevent you from offering insult to a person of honour.”
The passions of both were now fully up — they drew mutually, and began to fight, the Colonel relinquishing171 the advantage he could have obtained by the use of his fire-arms. A thrust of the arm, or a slip of the foot, might, at the moment, have changed the destinies of Britain, when the arrival of a third party broke off the combat.
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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8
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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10
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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22
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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23
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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24
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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25
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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26
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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27
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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29
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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30
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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31
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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32
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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33
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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34
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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35
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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36
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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37
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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38
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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39
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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40
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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41
obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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42
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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43
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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44
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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45
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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46
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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47
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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48
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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49
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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50
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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51
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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52
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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53
dub
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| vt.（以某种称号）授予，给...起绰号，复制 | |
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54
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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55
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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56
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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57
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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58
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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59
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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60
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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61
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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62
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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63
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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64
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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65
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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66
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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67
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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68
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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69
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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70
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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71
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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72
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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73
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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74
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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75
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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76
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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77
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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78
referee
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| n.裁判员．仲裁人，代表人，鉴定人 | |
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79
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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80
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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81
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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82
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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84
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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85
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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86
impudent
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|
| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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87
wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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88
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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89
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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90
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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91
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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92
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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93
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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94
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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95
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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96
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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97
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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98
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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99
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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100
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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101
fathoming
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| 测量 | |
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102
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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103
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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104
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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105
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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106
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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107
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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108
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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109
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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110
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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111
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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112
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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113
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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114
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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115
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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116
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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117
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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118
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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119
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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120
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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121
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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123
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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124
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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125
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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126
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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127
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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128
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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129
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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130
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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131
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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132
outstrip
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| v.超过，跑过 | |
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133
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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134
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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135
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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136
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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137
scathed
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| v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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139
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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140
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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141
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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142
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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143
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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144
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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145
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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148
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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149
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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150
renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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151
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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152
entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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153
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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154
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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155
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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156
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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157
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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158
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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160
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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161
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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162
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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163
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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164
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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165
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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166
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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167
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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168
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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169
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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170
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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171
relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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