The fourth day from his committal, happened to be a Court day of the manor2, and it was selected for the trial, for the purpose of showing the tenantry what they might expect from the commission of an offence of such rare occurrence. The hall was thronged3 to suffocation4; for many more were attracted by the expected trial, than by the familiar business of a manorial5 court, and the people beguiled6 the time till the entrance of De Boteler in commenting on the transaction.
"Silence!" was at length vociferated by a dozen court keepers, and Calverley was asked if he was ready to begin. The steward7 answered in the affirmative, and slowly read the indictment8, during which, a profound silence was maintained throughout the hall.
"Are you guilty or not guilty?" asked Calverley in a tone, the emotion of which even his almost perfect control of voice could not disguise.
"Thomas Calverley," replied Holgrave, firmly, "if you mean me to say whether I burned my cottage or not, I will tell these honest men (looking at the jury) that I did so. All here present, know the rest."
A buzz of disapprobation at this confession9 was heard, and the epithet10 "fool, fool," was faintly whispered, and then another loud cry of silence was shouted from the court keepers, as De Boteler appeared about to speak.
"You have heard his confession," said the baron11. "See, steward, that he is sent to Gloucester, to receive sentence from the King's Judge when he goes the next assize. Record the verdict, and let the record be transmitted to the superior court."
Wat Turner, whose attention was anxiously fixed12 on the proceedings13, now stept forward, and forcing his way till he stood opposite the Baron, demanded in a voice of mingled14 anger and supplication15, "May I be heard, Baron De Boteler?"
"Be brief, Sir Blacksmith," replied the Baron, surprised at the abrupt16 question, "be brief with whatever you have to say."
"I was going to say, my Lord, that poor Stephen here has called nobody to speak to his good character, but may be it isn't wanting, for every man here, except one would go a hundred miles to say a good word for him—But my Lord, I was thinking how much money that house of Holgrave's cost in building—Let me see—about twenty florences, and then at a shilling a head from all of us here," looking round upon the yeomen, "would just build it up again—I for one would not care about doing the smith's work at half price, and there's Denby the mason, and Cosgrave the carpenter, say they would do their work at the same rate—By St. Nicholas! (using his favorite oath) twelve florences would be more than enough—Well then my Lord, the business might be settled,"—and he paused as if debating whether he should go farther.
"And what then, impudent17 knave18," asked the Baron,—"what is the drift of this long-winded discourse19?"
"Why then, my Lord," replied Turner, "this matter settled, I and these vassals20 of yours here, would ask you to give this foolish man free warren again. We (mind your Lordship) going bail21 for his good bearing from this day forth22, and—"
The Baron reflecting that his dignity would be in some measure compromised by thus countenancing23 the Smith's rough eloquence24, commanded him in a harsh tone to be silent, although it was evident from his altered looks, that his heart had felt the rude appeal. He beckoned25 Calverly to approach, and they remained for some moments in earnest discourse.
"Neighbours," said Turner in a whisper, "my Lord is softened26. Let us cry out for pardon." And the hint was not long lost upon the people; in an instant a deafening27 cry of "Pardon, pardon for Stephen Holgrave!" resounded28 through the hall. The unexpected supplication startled the astonished De Boteler, and a loud threat marked his displeasure at the interruption. Silence was again shouted by the hall keepers.
"Prisoner," resumed De Boteler, assuming a tone of severity, "you are forgiven; but upon this condition, that you renounce29 your freedom, and become my bondman."
"Become a bondman!" cried the smith, disappointed and mortified30 at the alternative: "Stephen, I would sooner die."
"Silence, knave!" said the baron; "let the man answer for himself."
"It was on this spot too," persisted the smith, "where, but two years ago, he did homage31 for the land you gave him: and by St. Nicholas, baron, boastful and proud was he of the gift; and if you heard him as I did, that same day, praying for blessings32 upon you, you could not now rive his bold heart so cruelly for all the cottages in England."
Pale as death, and with downcast eyes, Holgrave, in the meantime, stood trembling at the bar. His resolution to brave the worst, had, with a heart-wringing struggle, yielded to the yearnings of the father and the love of the husband. The bondmen pressed forward, and marked the change; but that scrutinizing33 gaze which he would so recently have repelled34 with a haughty35 rebuke36, was now unheeded, and his eyes remained fixed on the ground to avoid contact with that degraded class with whom he was soon to be linked in brotherhood38.
Just as the baron was about to put the dreaded40 interrogatory, to the surprise of all, father John entered the hall, and walked with a firm step towards the justice-seat. The monk41 had not visited the castle since his expulsion, and he had now no desire to stand again where his profession as a priest, and his pride as a man, had been subjected to contumely; but the desire of aiding Holgrave in his defence, had overcome his resolution.
"What dost thou here, monk?" asked De Boteler, sternly, "after my orders that you should never more enter this hall."
"Baron de Boteler, I have not willingly obtruded42 myself. The duty of affording counsel to this unfortunate man impelled43 me to enter thus once again. Stephen Holgrave must choose the bondage44, because he would live for his wife and his yet unborn child; but, ere he resigns his freedom, he would stipulate45 for his offspring being exempt46 from the bond of slavery."
He ceased, and fixed his eyes anxiously on De Boteler, who seemed collecting a storm of anger to overwhelm the unwelcome suitor.
"Audacious monk!" said he at length, "this is thy own counsel—away, quit the hall, or—"
"Hold, Lord de Boteler," interrupted Father John, calmly; "the threat need not pass thy lips: I go; but before I depart I shall say, in spite of mortal tongue or mortal hand, that honor and true knighthood no longer preside in this hall, where four generations upheld them unsullied."
"Strike down the knave!" cried De Boteler, rising fiercely from his seat. "Drive him forth like a dog," continued he, as the monk, without quickening his pace, walked proudly away; but no hand responded to the baron's mandate47. A cry arose of "Touch not the Lord's anointed," and the monk was permitted to depart as he came, unharmed.
"Now, sirrah," said the baron, whose anger was aroused to the highest pitch; "say the word—is it death or bondage?"
Holgrave trembled; he cast a longing48 eager glance towards the door. Margaret was in the pains of labour, brought on by the shock she received on his arrest; and this it was that caused him to hesitate. His face brightened as he beheld49 the animated50 ruddy face of a serving boy, who breathlessly approached. He bent51 forward his head to catch the whispered intelligence that told him he was a father, and then, with a joy which he strove not to conceal52, announced his selection in a single word—"bondage!"
"Then the child is born?" asked De Boteler.
"Yes, my lord, HE is free!"
Calverley's countenance53 displayed the mortification54 with which he received the intelligence, but presented the gospels to Holgrave in silence.
Notwithstanding the recent flush of pleasure which warmed the heart of the yeoman, his resolution appeared again to forsake55 him—he endeavoured to speak, but in vain—he appeared to be overwhelmed by a variety of contending emotions; but the stern voice of De Boteler aroused him, and in a choked voice, he pronounced after Calverley the fealty56 of a bondman, holding his right hand over the book:—
"Hear you, my Lord de Boteler, that I, Stephen Holgrave, from this day forth, unto you shall be true and faithful, and shall owe you fealty for the land which I may hold of you in villeinage, and shall be justified57 by you both in body and goods, so——"
A loud blast of a horn accompanied with the voices of men and the tramp of horses, interrupted the ceremony; and De Boteler, recollecting58 that his cousin Ralph de Beaumont, with other guests, were expected, turned to Calverley and ordered him to receive and conduct them to the hall.
"Stephen Holgrave, my lord, has not yet finished his fealty."
"What! do you dream of such things when my noble cousin and guests are waiting for our courtesy? Away! I shall attend to the matter myself."
Calverley reluctantly departed on his mission, cursing the interruption that prevented his enjoying the degradation59 of his rival, and the baron now inquired whether Holgrave had confessed himself his villein.
One of the retainers, who stood by, boldly answered, "He has, my lord; Master Calverley gave him the words;" and the baron perceiving Holgrave's hand still resting on the book, took it for granted; and then ordering the yeoman to be set at liberty, arose and advanced to meet his guests.
Holgrave too, retired; and though secretly rejoicing that, legally speaking, he was as free as when he entered the court, he yet felt bitterly that in the eye of the baron and the barony, he was as much a villein as if he had pronounced every letter, and sealed the declaration with the customary oath.
He returned home gloomy and discontented; and, as he stood by the bed of the pallid60 Margaret, and inquired of her health, there was nothing of the tender solicitude61 with which he used to address her, in his manner or in his voice.
"Thank God!" said Margaret faintly, as she took his hand and pressed it to her lips; "thank God, that you have returned to me without hurt or harm."
"Without hurt or harm!" repeated Holgrave: "she would not have said so—oh! no, no, she would not have rejoiced to see me return thus;—but your soul is not like hers—if life is spared, it matters little to you that the spirit be crushed and broken: but Margaret, do not weep," he said, bending down to kiss the pale cheek, over which the tears his harsh language had called forth, were streaming fast. "Do not weep, I cannot bear your anguish62 now: I did not mean to speak unkindly—I love the gentleness of your spirit—you are dearer to my heart, Margaret, than even the freedom that was of higher price to me than the breath I drew!"
"Will you not look at the little babe?" said Margaret, anxious to turn the current of her husband's thoughts.
"Another time, Margaret—not now; but—the child was born before its father declared himself a wretch63! and I will look upon it—poor little creature!" he continued, gazing at the babe as Margaret raised it up, "what a strange colour it is!"
"Yes," said Margaret, "and it is so cold! they think it will not live!"
"So much the better."
"Oh! don't say so, Stephen," replied Margaret, pressing the infant to her bosom64; "I have prayed it might live, and I suppose it was only the fright that makes it so cold and discoloured."
"May be so," answered Holgrave; "but if your prayers be not heard, and the child dies——"
It seemed scarcely a human voice which had uttered the last words, so deep and hoarse65 was the sound, and there seemed more of threat, in the sudden pause, than if he had thundered out the wildest words. Margaret gave an involuntary shudder66; and Holgrave, who was not so wrapped up in his own feelings, as to be wholly regardless of those of his wife, moved away from the bed, and sat apart, brooding over the dark thoughts that filled his breast.
On the second day after Holgrave had become a bondman, he was summoned by an order from Calverley to go to labour for his lord. His heart swelled67 as he sullenly69 obeyed the mandate, and Margaret trembled as she saw him depart. She looked anxiously for the close of the day; and, when she saw her husband enter with some vegetables and grain that had been apportioned70 to him for his day's toil71, her heart was glad. It was true that the gloom on his brow seemed increased, and that he threw down his load, and sat for several minutes without speaking,—but she cared not for his silence as she saw him return in safety.
The next day he went to his task, and pursued his labour with sullen68 industry, but no approaches to familiarity would he permit in the companions of his toils72. He still regarded himself as a free man; he knew not how distant the day of his release might be; but he resolved, if an opportunity ever did occur, that he should not let it pass.
He disdained73 the villeins, and he felt that the free men would disdain74 him. He would not associate with those now, whom, in his day of prosperity, he had sought to befriend, and whose degraded state he had wished to ameliorate; nor would he associate with those who had so lately been his compeers, lest they should seek to befriend him or ameliorate his lot.
One evening, about the eighth day after the birth of his infant, fatigued75 in body, and troubled in spirit (for Calverley had that day exercised to the full the commanding power with which he was invested), he entered the cottage, and found Margaret weeping over the little babe.
"Oh, Stephen," she said, "how I wished you would return—for our child is dying!"
"Great God!" cried Holgrave, rushing forward to look at the infant,—the feelings of the father overcoming every selfish consideration.
"Oh, see!" said Margaret, her voice almost choked with her sobs76. "See how pale he looks! Look at his white lips! His breathing becomes faint! Oh, my child, my child!"
Margaret ceased to speak, and her tears dropped fast on the little innocent she was so anxiously watching; presently it gave a faint sigh, and the mother's agonizing77 shriek78, told her husband that the breath was its last. Holgrave had beheld in silence the death-pang of his child; and now, when the cry of the mother announced that it had ceased to be, he turned from the bed and rushed to the door without uttering a word.
"Oh, Stephen, do not leave me!" exclaimed Margaret. "Oh! for mercy's sake, leave me not alone with my dead child!"
But Stephen heard her not;—indeed, he was a few paces from the door ere she had finished the exclamation79.
All without the cottage, as well as within, was darkness and gloom. Perhaps, if the beauty of moonlight had met his view, he might have turned sickening away to the sadness of his own abode80; but as it was, the dreariness81 of the scene accorded with the feelings, which seemed bursting his heart, and he rushed on in the darkness heedless of the path he took. As if led by some instinct, he found himself upon the black ruins of his once happy home. No hand had touched the scattered82, half-consumed materials, which had composed the dwelling83; the black but substantial beams still lay as they had fallen. Perhaps, his was the first foot that pressed the spot since the night it blazed forth, a brilliant beacon84, to warn the base-hearted what an injured man might dare. The fire had scathed85 the tree that had sheltered the cottage, but the seat he had raised beneath it yet remained entire. He sat down on the bench, and raised his eyes to the heavens; the wind came in sudden gusts86, drifting the thick clouds across the sky; for a moment a solitary88 star would beam in the dark concave, and then another cloud would pass on, and the twinkling radiance would be lost. He gazed a few minutes on the clouded sky, and thought on all he had suffered and all he had lost: his last fond hope was now snatched away; and he cursed De Boteler, as at once the degrader of the father and destroyer of the child. But a strange feeling arose in his mind as a long hollow-sounding gust87 swept past him; it came from the ruin beside him—from the spot he had made desolate89; and, as he looked wistfully round, he felt a sudden throbbing91 of his heart, and a quickened respiration92. In a few minutes his indefinite terror became sufficiently93 powerful to neutralize94 every other sensation. He arose—he could not remain another instant; he could scarcely have passed the night there under the influence of his present feelings, had it even been the price of his freedom. He hurried down the path that led from the place where he had stood, and at every step his heart felt relieved; and, as the distance increased, his superstitious95 fears died away, and gradually gloom and sorrow possessed96 him as before.
As he walked on, choosing the most unfrequented paths, a sudden gleam of light startled him, till he recollected97 that Sudley castle stood before him; and, without bestowing98 a thought on the unusual number of tapers99 that were seen burning in various parts of the building, he pursued his way. But the sound of steps approached, and he stooped to conceal himself in the shade of a thicket100, for he was not in a mood to talk, and, besides, he might now be subject to interrogatories as to his wandering about in the dark: he had before been accused as a deer-stealer, and why should he not be suspected now? The steps came from opposite directions; they met just before the bush where Holgrave had crouched101; and a voice, that he recognised as a neighbour's, said,
"Holla! who is that? man or maid?—for, by the saints, there is no telling by this light."
"It is I, Phil Wingfield," replied one of the castle servitors: "my lady was took suddenly ill, and is delivered; and I am going to Winchcombe for a priest to baptize the child."
"My lady was in the right not to make much stir about it: I suppose there's not one in the parish knows any thing of the matter. But what is it, Dick?"
"A bouncing boy, the wenches say. But I wish, Phil, you would come with me—I don't much like to be trudging102 this dark road by myself."
The man he addressed consented, and their steps were soon lost in the distance.
Holgrave raised himself erect103 as the men departed. Wild thoughts, such as he had never known before, rushed through his heart. It is dangerous to snatch from any man, even the lowest of the species, that which he values above every other thing. Be the thing what it may—be it grand or mean, base or beautiful, still the soul has clung to it, has treasured it up, has worshipped before it; and none but the bereaved104 can comprehend the desolation which the bereavement105 causes. Holgrave's idol106 was his freedom; it was the thing he had prized above all things else; it was the thing he had been taught to revere107, even as the religion he professed108. It must, therefore, have had a strong hold upon his feelings; it must have grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength: and this it is necessary to understand before a perfect idea can be formed of the hatred109 which he now felt towards the man who had wrested110 from him his treasure. It is true he might have rejected his terms, at the sacrifice of a thing of less value—his life; but there was then love and hope to contend against him—the hope of a man and a father. But he had now no longer hope; it had fled with the spirit of his little babe; its last faint breath had dissipated all the illusions of far-off happiness; and he now looked forward to a life of degradation, and a death of dishonour111.
"Can it be?" said Holgrave, as he looked before him at the castle, which the tapers revealed—"Can it be, that the lord of this castle and I are the sons of the same heavenly Father? Can the same God have created us?—and is his child to live and grow to manhood, that he may trample112 on his fellow men, as his father has trampled113 on me? Is this to go on from generation to generation, and the sons to become even worse than the fathers?—No!" said he, pausing; "I have no child—Margaret must forgive me—I have only a worthless life to forfeit114." He paused again. "I will attempt it!" he said, vehemently—"he can but hang me; and if I succeed, the noble blood they think so much of may yet——" Holgrave suffered the sentence to remain unfinished, and he rushed towards the castle.
There was a wicket in the northern gate, the common outlet115 for the domestics, which, as Holgrave had anticipated, the servitor had not closed after him. He entered, and stood within the court-yard; he heard the sound of voices, and the tread of feet, but no human being was near: he paused an instant to consider, and then, with the swiftness of a deer, he sprung towards the stables, and entered the one appropriated to the select stud of the baron. A lamp was burning, but the men who attended on the horses were now away, quaffing116 ale to the long life of the heir. The baroness117's favourite palfrey was lying in a stall; he stept across the animal, and, after pressing his hands on various parts of the wall, a concealed118 door flew open, and a dark aperture119 was before him. He stooped and passed through, and ascended120 a long, winding122 flight of steps, till a door impeded123 his progress; he opened it, and stood in a closet hung round with dresses and mantles124, and displaying all the graceful126 trifles of a lady's wardrobe. There was a door opposite the one at which he had entered, which led into the baroness's chamber127, where there were lighted candles, and a blazing fire on the hearth128. The floor was thickly strewn with rushes, and he could just perceive the high back of a chair, with the arms of the family wrought129 in the centre; he paused and listened; he heard the faint cry of a babe, and discovered, by the language of the nurse, that she was feeding it; then there was the hush130-a-by, and the rocking motion of the attendant. In a few minutes, the sound of a foot on the rushes, and "the lovely babe would sleep," now announced to Holgrave that the child was deposited with its mother: then he heard the curtains of the bed drawn131, and the nurse whisper some one to retire, as her ladyship was inclined to sleep; there was another step across the rushes, and a door was softly closed, and then for a few minutes an unbroken silence, which the nurse at length interrupted by muttering something about "whether the good father had come yet." Again there was a tread across the rushes, and the door again was gently closed; and Holgrave, after a moment of intense listening, stepped from the closet, and entered the chamber. In an elevated alcove132 stood the bed of the baroness; the rich crimson133 hangings festooned with gold cord, the drapery tastefully fringed with gold, even to the summit, which was surmounted134 by a splendid coronet. Holgrave, unaccustomed to magnificence, was for a moment awed135 by the splendid furniture of the apartment—but it was only for a moment—and then the native strength of his soul spurned136 the gaudy137 trappings; he stepped lightly across the spacious138 chamber; he unloosed the rich curtains—the heir of De Boteler was reposing139 in a deep slumber140 on a downy pillow; beyond him lay the exhausted141 mother, her eyes closed, and the noble contour of her face presenting the repose142 of death. For an instant, Holgrave paused: remorse143 for the deed that he was about to do sent a sudden glow across his care-worn face—but had not the baron destroyed his offspring? whispered the tempting144 spirit. He raised the babe from the pillows without disturbing its slumber—he drew the curtains, and—he reached the stable in safety, closed the secret door, and arrived at the postern, which was still unfastened, passed through, and gained his own door without impediment.
"Margaret," said Holgrave, as he entered, "put away that babe, whom your tears cannot restore to life. Here is one that will be wept for as much as yours.—Do you hear me, Margaret? lay your babe under the cover-lid, and take this one and strip it quickly, and clothe it in the dress of your own infant."
"Stephen, what child is this?" her astonishment145 for a moment overcoming her grief. "The saints preserve us! look at its dress—that mantle125 is as rich as the high priest's vestment on a festival. Oh! Stephen."
"Silence!" interrupted Holgrave, sternly; "take the babe and strip it and attend to it as a mother should attend to her own infant; and, mark me, it is your own! your child did not die! As you value my life, remember this."
There was a sternness in his tone that entirely146 awed Margaret. She continued to weep, but she took the strange infant and did as her husband desired her. The changing of its apparel made the little infant cry, but the change was soon effected, and then Margaret put it to her breast and hushed its cries. While this was doing, Holgrave had taken a spade and commenced digging up the earthen floor. The sight agonized147 the wretched Margaret, and when the task was finished and he approached the bed to consign148 the little corpse149 to its kindred earth, it was long ere even his stern remonstrance150 could prevail on the mother to relinquish151 her child. She kissed its white cheek and strained it to her convulsed bosom, and Holgrave had to struggle violently with his own feelings, that he too might not betray a similar emotion. But fortitude152 overcame the yearnings of a father; he forcibly took the babe from its mother's arms and laid it in the cavity he had prepared; and then, as the glittering mantle of the stolen child caught his eyes, he took a small iron box, in which Margaret kept the silks and the needles she had formerly153 used in her embroidery154, and scattering155 the contents upon the ground, he forced in, in their stead, the different articles the little stranger had worn, and fastening down the lid, laid it beside his child; and then, as swiftly as apprehension156 could urge, filled up the grave, and trod down the earth to give it the appearance it had worn previous to the interment. A chest was then placed over it, and it seemed to defy the scrutiny157 of man to detect the deed.
Holgrave's heart might have been wrung158 at thus interring159 his own child, but his face betrayed no such feeling; it wore only the same stern expression it had worn since the day of his bondage, and it was only in Margaret's swollen160 eyes and heaving breast that a stranger could have surmised161 that aught of such agonizing interest had occurred. The bondman then threw another faggot upon the hearth, and, in the same stern voice of a master, bidding his wife tend upon the babe as if it were her own, without a kind look or word, he ascended the ladder, and threw himself upon a few dried rushes in the loft162 above; where he lay brooding in sullen wretchedness over the wild and daring deed he had committed.
His meditations163 were soon disturbed by a confused distant noise—then men's voices and the tread of feet, and instantly the latch164 of the door was raised, the slight fastening gave way, and the intruders rushed into the room beneath.
"Are ye drawlatches or murderers?" asked Holgrave in a fierce voice, as he started up and sprung to the ladder, "that you break open a man's house at this hour?"
"If you attempt to come down that ladder, this fellow's glaive will answer you," said Calverley, in a voice and with a look which the torchlight revealed, that told that his threat had meaning. He then cast a hasty glance around the apartment—for an instant, his eyes rested on the bed where lay the terror-stricken Margaret, who, at the first sound of his voice had concealed her face in the pillow. His eyes scarcely rested upon the bed ere he turned quickly to the men who attended him, and, in something of a hurried voice, desired them to examine the chest. What dark suspicion crossed his mind can scarcely be conceived, but Holgrave looked with a bitter smile upon the search as the men tore open the chest and scattered the contents in every direction. There was nothing else that required more than a cursory165 glance except the bed; Calverley did not look again towards it, and the men who were with him did only as they were ordered. At his command three men ascended the ladder, but ere they had advanced midway, Holgrave had grasped the end that rested on the entrance, and, in a voice that caused tremor166 in the craven heart of the steward, threatened to hurl167 them to the ground if they advanced another step.
"Do you think, meddling168 steward, that I have been in the chase again? Do you expect to find another buck169?"
"Proceed—heed37 not this bondman's raving170!"
Holgrave, conceiving that further resistance might awaken171 suspicion, folding his arms across his breast, suffered the men to ascend121, and looked on in silence while they carefully examined the loft. But here, after a minute search, was found nothing to repay their trouble. They descended172, and Calverley said, "There is nothing here to confirm suspicion; but the son of Edith Holgrave is likely to be suspected when evil is done. We depart," he said to his followers173, "but there shall be a watch kept on this fellow."
Holgrave looked contempt, and spoke174 defiance175; but Calverley retired without seeming to heed either his looks or his words.
In the morning he went to his task at the usual hour, not however without again cautioning Margaret respecting the child. Soon after his departure Lucy Hartwell entered, to talk over the strange news she had just heard, and to offer her services to Margaret.
"How are you, Margaret? How is the babe?"
"The child is better," replied Margaret, "but I am very ill."
"I am sorry to hear that—I hardly thought that the child would live. Here, Margaret, take a little of this broth39, it will do you good.—Oh, there are such strange doings at the castle! Yesterday evening my lady was suddenly put to bed of a boy, and the child has been stolen away, nobody can tell how. Roberts, one of the castle guard men, told my father just now, that my lady had accused Sir Robert Beaumont, my lord's cousin, of stealing the child, and that Sir Robert is making ready to depart, vowing176 never to enter the castle again. But Martha, my lady's maid, said, in his hearing, that nothing but an evil spirit could have stolen it away. She declared that she saw old Sukey, the nurse, put the child safely beside my lady, and then, as her ladyship seemed inclined to sleep, she went from the bed-chamber into the ante-room, and there she sat till the priest, who had come from Winchcombe, was ready for the baptism, and then she entered the chamber to tell the nurse; and when old Sukey went to the bed to take up the child, behold177 it was gone! Whereupon old Sukey gave such a dreadful scream, that the baroness started up, and discovering the loss of the child, could scarcely be kept in bed, and called the old nurse and every one who approached her, murderers; and then the whole castle was in an uproar178, and my lady presently hearing the sound of Sir Robert's voice in the ante-room, shrieked179 that it was he who had stolen her child; and then she fell into such a fit of crying, that her heart sickened and she swooned away. But what ails180 you, Margaret, are you worse?" Margaret answered, faintly, that she wished to sleep; and Lucy's humanity, overcoming her strong desire to speak of the strange event that had happened, she left her, after doing the little services the invalid181 required, to her repose.
Towards the close of the day, father John came to see his sister. "You are ill, my child," said the monk, as he drew a chair to the side of the bed, and gazed anxiously at her pallid cheek and swollen eyes. Margaret answered incoherently.
"Your child," continued he, "is it—is it still alive?"
"My child is well now!" said Margaret in a stifled182 voice.
"Well! Margaret, can it be possible!—Let me look at the babe, for I fear you must be deceiving yourself."
"It is sleeping," said Margaret; but the next moment the babe, who had slept with short intermission during the day, awoke, and no soothing183, no attentions of its nurse, could hush its cries. Margaret saw that the eyes of her brother were rivetted on the child, and she strove anxiously to conceal its face.
"It is strange!" said the monk, "yesterday, the low moaning sound it made, seemed to threaten immediate184 dissolution; and to-day, its lusty cries seem those of a healthy child—it is quiet now—give me the babe in my arms and let me look at it?"
Margaret did not immediately accede185 to his wish, and the monk looked at her with a strange inquisitiveness—something crossed his mind, but what could he suspect? He again asked Margaret, but she still hesitated. He started from his seat, and paced up and down the floor. He then stopped suddenly before the bed. Margaret had laid down the infant, and had covered it with the bed-clothes.
"Margaret," said the monk, fixing his eagle glance upon his sister, "that is not your child!"
"Hush! Hush! Oh! for the life of my husband, say not so!" The sternness of the monk's countenance gradually softened as he gazed upon his agonized sister, and, after the space of a minute he said, in a calm voice:—
"Fear not me, Margaret—fear not that I would add to the grief which has weighed on your heart, and paled your cheek, and dimmed your eye. Fear not that I would add one sorrow to the only being who attaches me to my kind, and who tells me I am not entirely alone! But, I ask you, Margaret, not as a servant of the High God, but as an only brother—as one who has loved you as a father, and has watched over you from infancy186 even until now; I ask you to tell me what you know of that child?"
Margaret bent her head forward and covered her face with her hands, but made no reply. In vain the monk reiterated187 his request. In vain he exhorted188 her—in vain he assured her that no evil should befal her husband from whatever disclosure she might make. Margaret still hid her face and remained silent. Her silence discomposed the monk. He continued to gaze upon her with a troubled countenance. Anger for the cruelty that could premeditatedly deprive a mother of her offspring, and alarm for the consequences that might result to Holgrave, could have been read in his contracted brow and anxious glance. His sister's unwillingness189 to speak confirmed his suspicions, and he felt as fully90 convinced that the child that lay before him was the baron's son as if he himself had witnessed the theft.
"Margaret," said John, "your silence does but confirm my suspicions. It is a cruel revenge—but it is done—and Stephen's life shall never be put in jeopardy190 by a breath of mine. He has suffered, but till now he had not sinned! But his sin be between his conscience and his God:" he paused for a minute, and then looking tenderly upon his sister, he said as gently as he could, "Farewell!" and being anxious to avoid an interview with Holgrave, abruptly191 departed.
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1
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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6
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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10
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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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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12
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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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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14
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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15
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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16
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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18
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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19
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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20
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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21
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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22
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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23
countenancing
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的现在分词 ) | |
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24
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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25
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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27
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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28
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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29
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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30
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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31
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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32
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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33
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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34
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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35
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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36
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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37
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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38
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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39
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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40
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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41
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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42
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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45
stipulate
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| vt.规定，（作为条件）讲定，保证 | |
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46
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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47
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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48
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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49
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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50
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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51
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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52
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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53
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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54
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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55
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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56
fealty
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| n.忠贞，忠节 | |
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57
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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58
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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59
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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60
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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61
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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62
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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63
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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64
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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65
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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66
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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67
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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68
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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70
apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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71
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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72
toils
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| 网 | |
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73
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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74
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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76
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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77
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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78
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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79
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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80
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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81
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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82
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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83
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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84
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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85
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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86
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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87
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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88
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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89
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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90
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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91
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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92
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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93
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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94
neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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95
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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97
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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98
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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99
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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100
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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101
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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103
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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104
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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105
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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106
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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107
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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108
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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109
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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110
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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111
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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112
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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113
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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114
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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115
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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116
quaffing
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| v.痛饮( quaff的现在分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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117
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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118
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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119
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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120
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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122
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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123
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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125
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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126
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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127
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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128
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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129
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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130
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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131
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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132
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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133
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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134
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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135
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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138
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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139
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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140
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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141
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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142
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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143
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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144
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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145
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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146
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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147
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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148
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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149
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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150
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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151
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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152
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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153
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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154
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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155
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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156
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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158
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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159
interring
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| v.埋，葬( inter的现在分词 ) | |
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160
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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161
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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162
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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163
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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164
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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165
cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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166
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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167
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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168
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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169
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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170
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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171
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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172
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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173
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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174
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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175
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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176
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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177
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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178
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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179
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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181
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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182
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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183
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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184
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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185
accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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186
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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187
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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190
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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191
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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