RICHARD II.
The combatants, whom we left engaged at the end of the last chapter, made mutual1 passes at each other with apparently2 equal skill and courage. Charles had been too often in action, and too long a party as well as a victim to civil war, to find any thing new or surprising in being obliged to defend himself with his own hands; and Everard had been distinguished3, as well for his personal bravery, as for the other properties of a commander. But the arrival of a third party prevented the tragic4 conclusion of a combat, in which the success of either party must have given him much cause for regretting his victory.
It was the old knight5 himself, who arrived, mounted upon a forest pony6, for the war and sequestration had left him no steed of a more dignified7 description. He thrust himself between the combatants, and commanded them on their lives to hold. So soon as a glance from one to the other had ascertained8 to him whom he had to deal with, he demanded, “Whether the devils of Woodstock, whom folk talked about, had got possession of them both, that they were tilting9 at each other within the verge10 of the royal liberties? Let me tell both of you,” he said, “that while old Henry Lee is at Woodstock, the immunities11 of the Park shall be maintained as much as if the King were still on the throne. None shall fight duellos here, excepting the stags in their season. Put up, both of you, or I shall lug12 out as thirdsman, and prove perhaps the worst devil of the three! — As Will says —
‘I’ll so maul you and your toasting-irons,
That you shall think the devil has come from hell.’”
The combatants desisted from their encounter, but stood looking at each other sullenly13, as men do in such a situation, each unwilling14 to seem to desire peace more than the other, and averse15 therefore to be the first to sheathe16 his sword.
“Return your weapons, gentlemen, upon the spot,” said the knight yet more peremptorily17, “one and both of you, or you will have something to do with me, I promise you. You may be thankful times are changed. I have known them such, that your insolence18 might have cost each of you your right hand, if not redeemed19 with a round sum of money. Nephew, if you do not mean to alienate20 me for ever, I command you to put up. — Master Kerneguy, you are my guest. I request of you not to do me the insult of remaining with your sword drawn21, where it is my duty to see peace observed.”
“I obey you, Sir Henry,” said the King, sheathing22 his rapier —“I hardly indeed know wherefore I was assaulted by this gentleman. I assure you, none respects the King’s person or privileges more than myself — though the devotion is somewhat out of fashion.”
“We may find a place to meet, sir,” replied Everard, “where neither the royal person nor privileges can be offended.”
“Faith, very hardly, sir,” said Charles, unable to suppress the rising jest —“I mean, the King has so few followers23, that the loss of the least of them might be some small damage to him; but, risking all that, I will meet you wherever there is fair field for a poor cavalier to get off in safety, if he has the luck in fight.”
Sir Henry Lee’s first idea had been fixed24 upon the insult offered to the royal demesne25; he now began to turn them towards the safety of his kinsman26, and of the young royalist, as he deemed him. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I must insist on this business being put to a final end. Nephew Markham, is this your return for my condescension27 in coming back to Woodstock on your warrant, that you should take an opportunity to cut the throat of my guest?”
“If you knew his purpose as well as I do,”— said Markham, and then paused, conscious that he might only incense28 his uncle without convincing him, as any thing he might say of Kerneguy’s addresses to Alice was likely to be imputed29 to his own jealous suspicions — he looked on the ground, therefore, and was silent.
“And you, Master Kerneguy,” said Sir Henry, “can you give me any reason why you seek to take the life of this young man, in whom, though unhappily forgetful of his loyalty30 and duty, I must yet take some interest, as my nephew by affinity31?”
“I was not aware the gentleman enjoyed that honour, which certainly would have protected him from my sword,” answered Kerneguy. “But the quarrel is his; nor can I tell any reason why he fixed it upon me, unless it were the difference of our political opinions.”
“You know the contrary,” said Everard; “you know that I told you you were safe from me as a fugitive32 royalist — and your last words showed you were at no loss to guess my connexion with Sir Henry. That, indeed, is of little consequence. I should debase myself did I use the relationship as a means of protection from you, or any one.”
As they thus disputed, neither choosing to approach the real cause of quarrel, Sir Henry looked from one to the other, with a peace-making conscience, exclaiming —
“‘Why, what an intricate impeach33 is this?
I think you both have drunk of Circe’s cup.’
“Come, my young masters, allow an old man to mediate34 between you. I am not shortsighted in such matters — The mother of mischief35 is no bigger than a gnat’s wing; and I have known fifty instances in my own day, when, as Will says —
‘Gallants have been confronted hardily36,
In single opposition37, hand to hand.’
in which, after the field was fought, no one could remember the cause of quarrel. — Tush! a small thing will do it — the taking of the wall — or the gentle rub of the shoulder in passing each other, or a hasty word, or a misconceived gesture — Come, forget your cause of quarrel, be what it will — you have had your breathing, and though you put up your rapiers unbloodied, that was no default of yours, but by command of your elder, and one who had right to use authority. In Malta, where the duello is punctiliously38 well understood, the persons engaged in a single combat are bound to halt on the command of a knight, or priest, or lady, and the quarrel so interrupted is held as honourably39 terminated, and may not be revived. — Nephew, it is, I think, impossible that you can nourish spleen against this young gentleman for having fought for his king. Hear my honest proposal, Markham — You know I bear no malice40, though I have some reason to be offended with you — Give the young man your hand in friendship, and we will back to the Lodge41, all three together, and drink a cup of sack in token of reconciliation42.”
Markham Everard found himself unable to resist this approach towards kindness on his uncle’s part. He suspected, indeed, what was partly the truth, that it was not entirely43 from reviving good-will, but also, that his uncle thought, by such attention, to secure his neutrality at least, if not his assistance, for the safety of the fugitive royalist. He was sensible that he was placed in an awkward predicament; and that he might incur44 the suspicions of his own party, for holding intercourse45 even with a near relation, who harboured such guests. But, on the other hand, he thought his services to the Commonwealth47 had been of sufficient importance to outweigh48 whatever envy might urge on that topic. Indeed, although the Civil War had divided families much, and in many various ways, yet when it seemed ended by the triumph of the republicans, the rage of political hatred49 began to relent, and the ancient ties of kindred and friendship regained50 at least a part of their former influence. Many reunions were formed; and those who, like Everard, adhered to the conquering party, often exerted themselves for the protection of their deserted51 relatives.
As these things rushed through his mind, accompanied with the prospect52 of a renewed intercourse with Alice Lee, by means of which he might be at hand to protect her against every chance, either of injury or insult, he held out his hand to the supposed Scottish page, saying at the same time, “That, for his part, he was very ready to forget the cause of quarrel, or rather, to consider it as arising out of a misapprehension, and to offer Master Kerneguy such friendship as might exist between honourable53 men, who had embraced different sides in politics.”
Unable to overcome the feeling of personal dignity, which prudence54 recommended him to forget, Louis Kerneguy in return bowed low, but without accepting Everard’s proffered55 hand.
“He had no occasion,” he said, “to make any exertions56 to forget the cause of quarrel, for he had never been able to comprehend it; but as he had not shunned57 the gentleman’s resentment58, so he was now willing to embrace and return any degree of his favour, with which he might be pleased to honour him.”
Everard withdrew his hand with a smile, and bowed in return to the salutation of the page, whose stiff reception of his advances he imputed to the proud pettish59 disposition60 of a Scotch61 boy, trained up in extravagant62 ideas of family consequence and personal importance, which his acquaintance with the world had not yet been sufficient to dispel63.
Sir Henry Lee, delighted with the termination of the quarrel, which he supposed to be in deep deference64 to his own authority, and not displeased65 with the opportunity of renewing some acquaintance with his nephew, who had, notwithstanding his political demerits, a warmer interest in his affections than he was, perhaps, himself aware of, said, in a tone of consolation66, “Never be mortified67, young gentlemen. I protest it went to my heart to part you, when I saw you stretching yourselves so handsomely, and in fair love of honour, without any malicious68 or blood-thirsty thoughts. I promise you, had it not been for my duty as Ranger69 here, and sworn to the office, I would rather have been your umpire than your hinderance. — But a finished quarrel is a forgotten quarrel; and your tilting should have no further consequence excepting the appetite it may have given you.”
So saying, he urged forward his pony, and moved in triumph towards the Lodge by the nearest alley70. His feet almost touching71 the ground, the ball of his toe just resting in the stirrup — the forepart of the thigh72 brought round to the saddle — the heels turned outwards73, and sunk as much as possible — his body precisely74 erect75 — the reins76 properly and systematically77 divided in his left hand, his right holding a riding-rod diagonally pointed79 towards the horse’s left ear — he seemed a champion of the manege, fit to have reined80 Bucephalus himself. His youthful companions, who attended on either hand like equerries, could scarcely suppress a smile at the completely adjusted and systematic78 posture81 of the rider, contrasted with the wild and diminutive82 appearance of the pony, with its shaggy coat, and long tail and mane, and its keen eyes sparkling like red coals from amongst the mass of hair which fell over its small countenance83. If the reader has the Duke of Newcastle’s book on horsemanship, (splendida moles84!) he may have some idea of the figure of the good knight, if he can conceive such a figure as one of the cavaliers there represented, seated, in all the graces of his art, on a Welsh or Exmoor pony, in its native savage85 state, without grooming86 or discipline of any kind; the ridicule87 being greatly enhanced by the disproportion of size betwixt the animal and its rider.
Perhaps the knight saw their wonder, for the first words he said after they left the ground were, “Pixie, though small, is mettlesome88, gentlemen,” (here he contrived90 that Pixie should himself corroborate91 the assertion, by executing a gambade,)—“he is diminutive, but full of spirit; — indeed, save that I am somewhat too large for an elfin horseman,” (the knight was upwards92 of six feet high,) “I should remind myself, when I mount him, of the Fairy King, as described by Mike Drayton:—
Himself he on an ear-wig set,
Yet scarce upon his back could get,
So oft and high he did curvet,
Ere he himself did settle.
He made him stop, and turn, and bound,
To gallop93, and to trot94 the round.
He scarce could stand on any ground,
He was so full of mettle89.’”
“My old friend, Pixie,” said Everard, stroking the pony’s neck, “I am glad that he has survived all these bustling95 days — Pixie must be above twenty years old, Sir Henry?”
“Above twenty years, certainly. Yes, nephew Markham, war is a whirlwind in a plantation96, which only spares what is least worth leaving. Old Pixie and his old master have survived many a tall fellow, and many a great horse — neither of them good for much themselves. Yet, as Will says, an old man can do somewhat. So Pixie and I still survive.”
So saying, he again contrived that Pixie should show some remnants of activity.
“Still survive?” said the young Scot, completing the sentence which the good knight had left unfinished —“ay, still survive,
‘To witch the world with noble horsemanship.’”
Everard coloured, for he felt the irony97; but not so his uncle, whose simple vanity never permitted him to doubt the sincerity98 of the compliment.
“Are you advised of that?” he said. “In King James’s time, indeed, I have appeared in the tilt-yard, and there you might have said —
‘You saw young Harry99 with his beaver100 up.’
“As to seeing old Harry, why”— Here the knight paused, and looked as a bashful man in labour of a pun —“As to old Harry — why, you might as well see the devil. You take me, Master Kerneguy — the devil, you know, is my namesake — ha — ha — ha! — Cousin Everard, I hope your precision is not startled by an innocent jest?”
He was so delighted with the applause of both his companions, that he recited the whole of the celebrated101 passage referred to, and concluded with defying the present age, bundle all its wits, Donne, Cowley, Waller, and the rest of them together, to produce a poet of a tenth part of the genius of old Will.
“Why, we are said to have one of his descendants among us — Sir William D’Avenant,” said Louis Kerneguy; “and many think him as clever a fellow.”
“What!” exclaimed Sir Henry —“Will D’Avenant, whom I knew in the North, an officer under Newcastle, when the Marquis lay before Hull102? — why, he was an honest cavalier, and wrote good doggrel enough; but how came he a-kin to Will Shakspeare, I trow?”
“Why,” replied the young Scot, “by the surer side of the house, and after the old fashion, if D’Avenant speaks truth. It seems that his mother was a good-looking, laughing, buxom103 mistress of an inn between Stratford and London, at which Will Shakspeare often quartered as he went down to his native town; and that out of friendship and gossipred, as we say in Scotland, Will Shakspeare became godfather to Will D’Avenant; and not contented104 with this spiritual affinity, the younger Will is for establishing some claim to a natural one, alleging105 that his mother was a great admirer of wit, and there were no bounds to her complaisance106 for men of genius.”
“Out upon the hound!” said Colonel Everard; “would he purchase the reputation of descending107 from poet, or from prince, at the expense of his mother’s good fame? — his nose ought to be slit108.”
“That would be difficult,” answered the disguised Prince, recollecting109 the peculiarity111 of the bard112’s countenance. 4
“Will D’Avenant the son of Will Shakspeare?” said the knight, who had not yet recovered his surprise at the enormity of the pretension113; “why, it reminds me of a verse in the Puppet-show of Phaeton, where the hero complains to his mother —
‘Besides, by all the village boys I am sham’d,
You the Sun’s son, you rascal114, you be d — d!’
“I never heard such unblushing assurance in my life! — Will D’Avenant the son of the brightest and best poet that ever was, is, or will be? — But I crave115 your pardon, nephew — You, I believe, love no stage plays.”
“Nay116, I am not altogether so precise as you would make me, uncle. I have loved them perhaps too well in my time, and now I condemn117 them not altogether, or in gross, though I approve not their excesses and extravagances. — I cannot, even in Shakspeare, but see many things both scandalous to decency118 and prejudicial to good manners — many things which tend to ridicule virtue119, or to recommend vice46 — at least to mitigate120 the hideousness121 of its features. I cannot think these fine poems are an useful study, and especially for the youth of either sex, in which bloodshed is pointed out as the chief occupation of the men, and intrigue122 as the sole employment of the women.”
In making these observations, Everard was simple enough to think that he was only giving his uncle an opportunity of defending a favourite opinion, without offending him by a contradiction, which was so limited and mitigated123. But here, as on other occasions, he forgot how obstinate124 his uncle was in his views, whether of religion, policy, or taste, and that it would be as easy to convert him to the Presbyterian form of government, or engage him to take the abjuration125 oath, as to shake his belief in Shakspeare. There was another peculiarity in the good knight’s mode of arguing, which Everard, being himself of a plain and downright character, and one whose religious tenets were in some degree unfavourable to the suppressions and simulations often used in society, could never perfectly126 understand. Sir Henry, sensible of his natural heat of temper, was wont127 scrupulously128 to guard against it, and would for some time, when in fact much offended, conduct a debate with all the external appearance of composure, till the violence of his feelings would rise so high as to overcome and bear away the artificial barriers opposed to it, and rush down upon the adversary129 with accumulating wrath130. It thus frequently happened, that, like a wily old general, he retreated in the face of his disputant in good order and by degrees, with so moderate a degree of resistance, as to draw on his antagonist’s pursuit to the spot, where, at length, making a sudden and unexpected attack, with horse, foot, and artillery131 at once, he seldom failed to confound the enemy, though he might not overthrow132 him.
It was on this principle, therefore, that, hearing Everard’s last observation, he disguised his angry feelings, and answered, with a tone where politeness was called in to keep guard upon passion, “That undoubtedly133 the Presbyterian gentry134 had given, through the whole of these unhappy times, such proofs of an humble135, unaspiring, and unambitious desire of the public good, as entitled them to general credit for the sincerity of those very strong scruples136 which they entertained against works, in which the noblest, sentiments of religion and virtue — sentiments which might convert hardened sinners, and be placed with propriety137 in the mouths of dying saints and martyrs138 — happened, from the rudeness and coarse taste of the times, to be mixed with some broad jests, and similar matter, which lay not much in the way, excepting of those who painfully sought such stuff out, that they might use it in vilifying139 what was in itself deserving of the highest applause. But what he wished especially to know from his nephew was, whether any of those gifted men, who had expelled the learned scholars and deep divines of the Church of England from the pulpit, and now flourished in their stead, received any inspiration from the muses140, (if he might use so profane141 a term without offence to Colonel Everard,) or whether they were not as sottishly and brutally142 averse from elegant letters, as they were from humanity and common sense?”
Colonel Everard might have guessed, by the ironical143 tone in which this speech was delivered, what storm was mustering144 within his uncle’s bosom145 — nay, he might have conjectured146 the state of the old knight’s feelings from his emphasis on the word Colonel, by which epithet147, as that which most connected his nephew with the party he hated, he never distinguished Everard, unless when his wrath was rising; while, on the contrary, when disposed to be on good terms with him, he usually called him Kinsman, or Nephew Markham. Indeed, it was under a partial sense that this was the case, and in the hope to see his cousin Alice, that the Colonel forbore making any answer to the harangue148 of his uncle, which had concluded just as the old knight had alighted at the door of the Lodge, and was entering the hall, followed by his two attendants.
Phoebe at the same time made her appearance in the hall, and received orders to bring some “beverage149” for the gentlemen. The Hebe of Woodstock failed not to recognise and welcome Everard by an almost imperceptible curtsy; but she did not serve her interest, as she designed, when she asked the knight, as a question of course, whether he commanded the attendance of Mistress Alice. A stern No, was the decided150 reply; and the ill-timed interference seemed to increase his previous irritation151 against Everard for his depreciation152 of Shakspeare. “I would insist,” said Sir Henry, resuming the obnoxious153 subject, “were it fit for a poor disbanded cavalier to use such a phrase towards a commander of the conquering army — upon, knowing whether the convulsion which has sent us saints and prophets without end, has not also afforded us a poet with enough both of gifts and grace to outshine poor old Will, the oracle154 and idol155 of us blinded and carnal cavaliers.”
“Surely, sir,” replied Colonel Everard; “I know verses written by a friend of the Commonwealth, and those, too, of a dramatic character, which, weighed in an impartial156 scale, might equal even the poetry of Shakspeare, and which are free from the fustian157 and indelicacy with which that great bard was sometimes content to feed the coarse appetites of his barbarous audience.”
“Indeed!” said the knight, keeping down his wrath with difficulty. “I should like to be acquainted with this master-piece of poetry! — May we ask the name of this distinguished person?”
“It must be Vicars, or Withers158, at least,” said the feigned159 page.
“No, sir,” replied Everard, “nor Drummond of Hawthornden, nor Lord Stirling neither. And yet the verses will vindicate160 what I say, if you will make allowance for indifferent recitation, for I am better accustomed to speak to a battalion161 than to those who love the muses. The speaker is a lady benighted162, who, having lost her way in a pathless forest, at first expresses herself agitated163 by the supernatural fears to which her situation gave rise.”
“A play, too, and written by a roundhead author!” said Sir Henry in surprise.
“A dramatic production at least,” replied his nephew; and began to recite simply, but with feeling, the lines now so well known, but which had then obtained no celebrity164, the fame of the author resting upon the basis rather of his polemical and political publications, than on the poetry doomed165 in after days to support the eternal structure of his immortality166.
‘These thoughts may startle, but will not, astound167
The virtuous168 mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong-siding champion, Conscience.’”
“My own opinion, nephew Markham, my own opinion,” said Sir Henry, with a burst of admiration169; “better expressed, but just what I said when the scoundrelly roundheads pretended to see ghosts at Woodstock — Go on, I prithee.”
Everard proceeded:—
“‘O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering170 angel, girt with golden wings,
And thou unblemish’d form of Chastity!
I see ye visibly, and now believe
That he the Supreme171 Good, to whom all things ill
Are but as slavish officers of vengeance172,
Would send a glistering guardian173, if need were,
To keep my life and honour unassail’d. —
Was I deceived, or did a sable174 cloud.
Turn forth175 her silver lining176 on the night?’”
“The rest has escaped me,” said the reciter; “and I marvel177 I have been able to remember so much.”
Sir Henry Lee, who had expected some effusion very different from those classical and beautiful lines, soon changed the scornful expression of his countenance, relaxed his contorted upper lip, and, stroking down his beard with his left hand, rested the forefinger178 of the right upon his eyebrow179, in sign of profound attention. After Everard had ceased speaking, the old man signed as at the end of a strain of sweet music. He then spoke180 in a gentler manner than formerly181.
“Cousin Markham,” he said, “these verses flow sweetly, and sound in my ears like the well-touched warbling of a lute182. But thou knowest I am somewhat slow of apprehending183 the full meaning of that which I hear for the first time. Repeat me these verses again, slowly and deliberately184; for I always love to hear poetry twice, the first time for sound, and the latter time for sense.”
Thus encouraged, Everard recited again the lines with more hardihood and better effect; the knight distinctly understanding, and from his looks and motions, highly applauding them.
“Yes!” he broke out, when Everard was again silent —“Yes, I do call that poetry — though it were even written by a Presbyterian, or an Anabaptist either. Ay, there were good and righteous people to be found even amongst the offending towns which were destroyed by fire. And certainly I have heard, though with little credence185 (begging your pardon, cousin. Everard,) that there are men among you who have seen the error of their ways in rebelling against the best and kindest of masters, and bringing it to that pass that he was murdered by a gang yet fiercer than themselves. Ay, doubtless, the gentleness of spirit, and the purity of mind, which dictated186 those beautiful lines, has long ago taught a man so amiable187 to say, I have sinned, I have sinned. Yes, I doubt not so sweet a harp188 has been broken, even in remorse189, for the crimes he was witness to; and now he sits drooping190 for the shame and sorrow of England — all his noble rhymes, as Will says,
‘Like sweet bells jangled out of tune191 and harsh.’
Dost thou not think so, Master Kerneguy?”
“Not I, Sir Henry,” answered the page, somewhat maliciously192.
“What, dost not believe the author of these lines must needs be of the better file, and leaning to our persuasion193?”
“I think, Sir Henry, that the poetry qualifies the author to write a play on the subject of Dame194 Potiphar and her recusant lover; and as for his calling — that last metaphor195 of the cloud in a black coat or cloak, with silver lining, would have dubbed196 him a tailor with me, only that I happen to know that he is a schoolmaster by profession, and by political opinions qualified198 to be Poet Laureate to Cromwell; for what Colonel Everard has repeated with such unction, is the production of no less celebrated a person than John Milton.”
“John Milton!” exclaimed Sir Henry in astonishment199 —“What! John Milton, the blasphemous200 and bloody-minded author of the Defensio Populi Anglicani! — the advocate of the infernal High Court of Fiends; the creature and parasite201 of that grand impostor, that loathsome202 hypocrite, that detestable monster, that prodigy203 of the universe, that disgrace of mankind, that landscape of iniquity204, that sink of sin, and that compendium205 of baseness, Oliver Cromwell!”
“Even the same John Milton,” answered Charles; “schoolmaster to little boys, and tailor to the clouds, which he furnishes with suits of black, lined with silver, at no other expense than that of common sense.”
“Markham Everard,” said the old knight, “I will never forgive thee — never, never. Thou hast made me speak words of praise respecting one whose offal should fatten206 the region-kites. Speak not to me, sir, but begone! Am I, your kinsman and benefactor207, a fit person to be juggled208 out of my commendation and eulogy209, and brought to bedaub such a whitened sepulchre as the sophist Milton?”
“I profess197,” said Everard, “this is hard measure, Sir Henry. You pressed me — you defied me, to produce poetry as good as Shakspeare’s. I only thought of the verses, not of the politics of Milton.”
“Oh yes, sir,” replied Sir Henry; “we well know your power of making distinctions; you could make war against the King’s prerogative210, without having the least design against his person. Oh Heaven forbid! But Heaven will hear and judge you. Set down the beverage, Phoebe”—(this was added by way of parenthesis211 to Phoebe, who entered with refreshment)—“Colonel Everard is not thirsty — You have wiped your mouths, and said you have done no evil. But though you have deceived man, yet God you cannot deceive. And you shall wipe no lips in Woodstock, either after meat or drink, I promise you.”
Charged thus at once with the faults imputed to his whole religious sect212 and political party, Everard felt too late of what imprudence he had been guilty in giving the opening, by disputing his uncle’s taste in dramatic poetry. He endeavoured to explain — to apologise.
“I mistook your purpose, honoured sir, and thought you really desired to know something of our literature; and in repeating what you deemed not unworthy your hearing, I profess I thought I was doing you pleasure, instead of stirring your indignation.”
“O ay!” returned the knight, with unmitigated rigour of resentment — “profess — profess — Ay, that is the new phrase of asseveration, instead of the profane adjuration214 of courtiers and cavaliers — Oh, sir, profess less and practise more — and so good day to you. Master Kerneguy, you will find beverage in my apartment.”
While Phoebe stood gaping215 in admiration at the sudden quarrel which had arisen, Colonel Everard’s vexation and resentment was not a little increased by the nonchalance216 of the young Scotsman, who, with his hands thrust into his pockets, (with a courtly affectation of the time,) had thrown himself into one of the antique chairs, and, though habitually217 too polite to laugh aloud, and possessing that art of internal laughter by which men of the world learn to indulge their mirth without incurring218 quarrels, or giving direct offence, was at no particular pains to conceal219 that he was exceedingly amused by the result of the Colonel’s visit to Woodstock. Colonel Everard’s patience, however, had reached bounds which it was very likely to surpass; for, though differing widely in politics, there was a resemblance betwixt the temper of the uncle and nephew.
“Damnation” exclaimed the Colonel, in a tone which became a puritan as little as did the exclamation220 itself.
“Amen!” said Louis Kerneguy, but in a tone so soft and gentle, that the ejaculation seemed rather to escape him than to be designedly uttered. “Sir!” said Everard, striding towards him in that sort of humour, when a man, full of resentment, would not unwillingly221 find an object on which to discharge it.
“Plait-il?” said the page, in the most equable tone, looking up in his face with the most unconscious innocence222.
“I wish to know, sir,” retorted Everard, “the meaning of that which you said just now?”
“Only a pouring out of the spirit, worthy213 sir,” returned Kerneguy —“a small skiff dispatched to Heaven on my own account, to keep company with your holy petition just now expressed.”
“Sir, I have known a merry gentleman’s bones broke for such a smile as you wear just now,” replied Everard.
“There, look you now” answered the malicious page, who could not weigh even the thoughts of his safety against the enjoyment223 of his jest —“If you had stuck to your professions, worthy sir, you must have choked by this time; but your round execration224 bolted like a cork225 from a bottle of cider, and now allows your wrath to come foaming226 out after it, in the honest unbaptized language of common ruffians.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Master Girnegy,” said Phoebe, “forbear giving the Colonel these bitter words! And do you, good Colonel Markham, scorn to take offence at his hands — he is but a boy.”
“If the Colonel or you choose, Mistress Phoebe, you shall find me a man — I think the gentleman can say something to the purpose already. — Probably he may recommend to you the part of the Lady in Comus; and I only hope his own admiration of John Milton will not induce him to undertake the part of Samson Agonistes, and blow up this old house with execration, or pull it down in wrath about our ears.”
“Young man,” said the Colonel, still in towering passion, “if you respect my principles for nothing else, be grateful to the protection which, but for them, you would not easily attain227.”
“Nay, then,” said the attendant, “I must fetch those who have more influence with you than I have,” and away tripped Phoebe; while Kerneguy answered Everard in the same provoking tone of calm indifference228 — “Before you menace me with a thing so formidable as your resentment, you ought to be certain whether I may not be compelled by circumstances to deny you the opportunity you seem to point at.”
At this moment Alice, summoned no doubt by her attendant, entered the hall hastily.
“Master Kerneguy,” she said, “my father requests to see you in Victor Lee’s apartment.”
Kerneguy arose and bowed, but seemed determined229 to remain till Everard’s departure, so as to prevent any explanation betwixt the cousins. “Markham,” said Alice, hurriedly —“Cousin Everard — I have but a moment to remain here — for God’s sake, do you instantly begone! — be cautious and patient — but do not tarry here — my father is fearfully incensed230.”
“I have had my uncle’s word for that, madam,” replied Everard, “as well as his injunction to depart, which I will obey without delay. I was not aware that you would have seconded so harsh an order quite so willingly; but I go, madam, sensible I leave those behind whose company is more agreeable.”
“Unjust — ungenerous — ungrateful!” said Alice; but fearful her words might reach ears for which they were not designed, she spoke them in a voice so feeble, that her cousin, for whom they were intended, lost the consolation they were calculated to convey.
He bowed coldly to Alice, as taking leave, and said, with an air of that constrained231 courtesy which sometimes covers, among men of condition, the most deadly hatred, “I believe, Master Kerneguy, that I must make it convenient at present to suppress my own peculiar110 opinions on the matter which we have hinted at in our conversation, in which case I will send a gentleman, who, I hope, may be able to conquer yours.”
The supposed Scotsman made him a stately, and at the same time a condescending232 bow, said he should expect the honour of his commands, offered his hand to Mistress Alice, to conduct her back to her father’s apartment, and took a triumphant233 leave of his rival.
Everard, on the other hand, stung beyond his patience, and, from the grace and composed assurance of the youth’s carriage, still conceiving him to be either Wilmot, or some of his compeers in rank and profligacy234, returned to the town of Woodstock, determined not to be outbearded, even though he should seek redress235 by means which his principles forbade him to consider as justifiable236.
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1
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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3
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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6
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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7
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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8
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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10
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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12
lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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13
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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14
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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15
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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16
sheathe
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| v.（将刀剑）插入鞘；包，覆盖 | |
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17
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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18
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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19
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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20
alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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21
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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22
sheathing
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| n.覆盖物，罩子v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的现在分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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23
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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24
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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25
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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26
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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27
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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28
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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29
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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31
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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32
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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33
impeach
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| v.弹劾；检举 | |
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34
mediate
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| vi.调解，斡旋；vt.经调解解决；经斡旋促成 | |
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35
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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36
hardily
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| 耐劳地，大胆地，蛮勇地 | |
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37
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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38
punctiliously
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39
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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40
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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41
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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42
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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43
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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44
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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45
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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46
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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47
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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48
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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49
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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50
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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51
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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52
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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53
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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54
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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55
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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57
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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58
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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59
pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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60
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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61
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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62
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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63
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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64
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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65
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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66
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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67
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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68
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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69
ranger
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| n.国家公园管理员，护林员；骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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70
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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71
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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72
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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73
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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74
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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75
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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76
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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77
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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78
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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80
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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81
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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82
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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83
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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84
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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85
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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86
grooming
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| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
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87
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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88
mettlesome
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| adj.（通常指马等）精力充沛的，勇猛的 | |
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89
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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90
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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91
corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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92
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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93
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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94
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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95
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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96
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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97
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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98
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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99
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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100
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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101
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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102
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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103
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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104
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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105
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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106
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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107
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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108
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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109
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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110
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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111
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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112
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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113
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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114
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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115
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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116
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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117
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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118
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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119
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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120
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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121
hideousness
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122
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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123
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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125
abjuration
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| n.发誓弃绝 | |
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126
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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127
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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128
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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129
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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130
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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131
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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132
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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133
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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134
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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135
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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136
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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137
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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138
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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139
vilifying
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| v.中伤，诽谤( vilify的现在分词 ) | |
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140
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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141
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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142
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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143
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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144
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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145
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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146
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
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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148
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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149
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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150
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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151
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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152
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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153
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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154
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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155
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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156
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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157
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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158
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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159
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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160
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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161
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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162
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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163
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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164
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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165
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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166
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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167
astound
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| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
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168
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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169
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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170
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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171
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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172
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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173
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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174
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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175
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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176
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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177
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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178
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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179
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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180
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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181
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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182
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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183
apprehending
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的现在分词 )； 理解 | |
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184
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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185
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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186
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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187
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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188
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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189
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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190
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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191
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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192
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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193
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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194
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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195
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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196
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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197
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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198
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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199
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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200
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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201
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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202
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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203
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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204
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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205
compendium
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| n.简要，概略 | |
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206
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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207
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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208
juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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209
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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210
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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211
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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212
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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213
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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214
adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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215
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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216
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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217
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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218
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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219
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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220
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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221
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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222
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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223
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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224
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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225
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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226
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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227
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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228
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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229
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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230
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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231
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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232
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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233
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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234
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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235
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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236
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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