Since the ark rested on Mount Ararat.
False man hath sworn, and woman hath believed—
The New World.
By the time that Margaret returned with Monna Paula, the Lady Hermione was rising from the table at which she had been engaged in writing something on a small slip of paper, which she gave to her attendant.
“Monna Paula,” she said, “carry this paper to Roberts the cash-keeper; let them give you the money mentioned in the note, and bring it hither presently.”
Monna Paula left the room, and her mistress proceeded.
“I do not know,” she said, “Margaret, if I have done, and am doing, well in this affair. My life has been one of strange seclusion2, and I am totally unacquainted with the practical ways of this world—an ignorance which I know cannot be remedied by mere3 reading.—I fear I am doing wrong to you, and perhaps to the laws of the country which affords me refuge, by thus indulging you; and yet there is something in my heart which cannot resist your entreaties4.”
“O, listen to it—listen to it, dear, generous lady!” said Margaret, throwing herself on her knees and grasping those of her benefactress and looking in that attitude like a beautiful mortal in the act of supplicating5 her tutelary6 angel; “the laws of men are but the injunctions of mortality, but what the heart prompts is the echo of the voice from heaven within us.”
“Rise, rise, maiden,” said Hermione; “you affect me more than I thought I could have been moved by aught that should approach me. Rise and tell me whence it comes, that, in so short a time, your thoughts, your looks, your speech, and even your slightest actions, are changed from those of a capricious and fanciful girl, to all this energy and impassioned eloquence7 of word and action?”
“I am sure I know not, dearest lady,” said Margaret, looking down; “but I suppose that, when I was a trifler, I was only thinking of trifles. What I now reflect is deep and serious, and I am thankful if my speech and manner bear reasonable proportion to my thoughts.”
“It must be so,” said the lady; “yet the change seems a rapid and strange one. It seems to be as if a childish girl had at once shot up into deep-thinking and impassioned woman, ready to make exertions8 alike, and sacrifices, with all that vain devotion to a favourite object of affection, which is often so basely rewarded.”
The Lady Hermione sighed bitterly, and Monna Paula entered ere the conversation proceeded farther. She spoke10 to her mistress in the foreign language in which they frequently conversed11, but which was unknown to Margaret.
“We must have patience for a time,” said the lady to her visitor; “the cash-keeper is abroad on some business, but he is expected home in the course of half an hour.”
“Minutes are precious,” continued the lady; “that I am well aware of; and we will at least suffer none of them to escape us. Monna Paula shall remain below and transact15 our business, the very instant that Roberts returns home.”
She spoke to her attendant accordingly, who again left the room.
“You are very kind, madam—very good,” said the poor little Margaret, while the anxious trembling of her lip and of her hand showed all that sickening agitation16 of the heart which arises from hope deferred17.
“Be patient, Margaret, and collect yourself,” said the lady; “you may, you must, have much to do to carry through this your bold purpose—reserve your spirits, which you may need so much—be patient—it is the only remedy against the evils of life.”
“Yes, madam,” said Margaret, wiping her eyes, and endeavouring in vain to suppress the natural impatience of her temper,—“I have heard so—very often indeed; and I dare say I have myself, heaven forgive me, said so to people in perplexity and affliction; but it was before I had suffered perplexity and vexation myself, and I am sure I will never preach patience to any human being again, now that I know how much the medicine goes against the stomach.”
“You will think better of it, maiden,” said the Lady Hermione; “I also, when I first felt distress18, thought they did me wrong who spoke to me of patience; but my sorrows have been repeated and continued till I have been taught to cling to it as the best, and—religious duties excepted, of which, indeed, patience forms a part—the only alleviation19 which life can afford them.”
Margaret, who neither wanted sense nor feeling, wiped her tears hastily, and asked her patroness's forgiveness for her petulance20.
“I might have thought”—she said, “I ought to have reflected, that even from the manner of your life, madam, it is plain you must have suffered sorrow; and yet, God knows, the patience which I have ever seen you display, well entitles you to recommend your own example to others.”
The lady was silent for a moment, and then replied—
“Margaret, I am about to repose21 a high confidence in you. You are no longer a child, but a thinking and a feeling woman. You have told me as much of your secret as you dared—I will let you know as much of mine as I may venture to tell. You will ask me, perhaps, why, at a moment when your own mind is agitated22, I should force upon you the consideration of my sorrows? and I answer, that I cannot withstand the impulse which now induces me to do so. Perhaps from having witnessed, for the first time these three years, the natural effects of human passion, my own sorrows have been awakened23, and are for the moment too big for my own bosom24—perhaps I may hope that you, who seem driving full sail on the very rock on which I was wrecked25 for ever, will take warning by the tale I have to tell. Enough, if you are willing to listen, I am willing to tell you who the melancholy26 inhabitant of the Foljambe apartments really is, and why she resides here. It will serve, at least, to while away the time until Monna Paula shall bring us the reply from Roberts.”
At any other moment of her life, Margaret Ramsay would have heard with undivided interest a communication so flattering in itself, and referring to a subject upon which the general curiosity had been so strongly excited. And even at this agitating27 moment, although she ceased not to listen with an anxious ear and throbbing28 heart for the sound of Monna Paula's returning footsteps, she nevertheless, as gratitude29 and policy, as well as a portion of curiosity dictated30, composed herself, in appearance at least, to the strictest attention to the Lady Hermione, and thanked her with humility31 for the high confidence she was pleased to repose in her. The Lady Hermione, with the same calmness which always attended her speech and actions, thus recounted her story to her young friend:
“My father,” she said, “was a merchant, but he was of a city whose merchants are princes. I am the daughter of a noble house in Genoa, whose name stood as high in honour and in antiquity32, as any inscribed33 in the Golden Register of that famous aristocracy.
“My mother was a noble Scottish woman. She was descended34—do not start—and not remotely descended, of the house of Glenvarloch—no wonder that I was easily led to take concern in the misfortunes of this young lord. He is my near relation, and my mother, who was more than sufficiently35 proud of her descent, early taught me to take an interest in the name. My maternal36 grandfather, a cadet of that house of Glenvarloch, had followed the fortunes of an unhappy fugitive37, Francis Earl of Bothwell, who, after showing his miseries38 in many a foreign court, at length settled in Spain upon a miserable39 pension, which he earned by conforming to the Catholic faith. Ralph Olifaunt, my grandfather, separated from him in disgust, and settled at Barcelona, where, by the friendship of the governor, his heresy40, as it was termed, was connived41 at. My father, in the course of his commerce, resided more at Barcelona than in his native country, though at times he visited Genoa.
“It was at Barcelona that he became acquainted with my mother, loved her, and married her; they differed in faith, but they agreed in affection. I was their only child. In public I conformed to the docterins and ceremonial of the Church of Rome; but my mother, by whom these were regarded with horror, privately42 trained me up in those of the reformed religion; and my father, either indifferent in the matter, or unwilling43 to distress the woman whom he loved, overlooked or connived at my secretly joining in her devotions.
“But when, unhappily, my father was attacked, while yet in the prime of life, by a slow wasting disease, which he felt to be incurable44, he foresaw the hazard to which his widow and orphan45 might be exposed, after he was no more, in a country so bigoted46 to Catholicism as Spain. He made it his business, during the two last years of his life, to realize and remit47 to England a large part of his fortune, which, by the faith and honour of his correspondent, the excellent man under whose roof I now reside, was employed to great advantage. Had my father lived to complete his purpose, by withdrawing his whole fortune from commerce, he himself would have accompanied us to England, and would have beheld48 us settled in peace and honour before his death. But heaven had ordained49 it otherwise. He died, leaving several sums engaged in the hands of his Spanish debtors50; and, in particular, he had made a large and extensive consignment51 to a certain wealthy society of merchants at Madrid, who showed no willingness after his death to account for the proceeds. Would to God we had left these covetous52 and wicked men in possession of their booty, for such they seemed to hold the property of their deceased correspondent and friend! We had enough for comfort, and even splendour, already secured in England; but friends exclaimed upon the folly53 of permitting these unprincipled men to plunder54 us of our rightful property. The sum itself was large, and the claim having been made, my mother thought that my father's memory was interested in its being enforced, especially as the defences set up for the mercantile society went, in some degree, to impeach55 the fairness of his transactions.
“We went therefore to Madrid. I was then, my Margaret, about your age, young and thoughtless, as you have hitherto been—We went, I say, to Madrid, to solicit56 the protection of the Court and of the king, without which we were told it would be in vain to expect justice against an opulent and powerful association.
“Our residence at the Spanish metropolis57 drew on from weeks to months. For my part, my natural sorrow for a kind, though not a fond father, having abated58, I cared not if the lawsuit59 had detained us at Madrid for ever. My mother permitted herself and me rather more liberty than we had been accustomed to. She found relations among the Scottish and Irish officers, many of whom held a high rank in the Spanish armies; their wives and daughters became our friends and companions, and I had perpetual occasion to exercise my mother's native language, which I had learned from my infancy60. By degrees, as my mother's spirits were low, and her health indifferent, she was induced, by her partial fondness for me, to suffer me to mingle61 occasionally in society which she herself did not frequent, under the guardianship62 of such ladies as she imagined she could trust, and particularly under the care of the lady of a general officer, whose weakness or falsehood was the original cause of my misfortunes. I was as gay, Margaret, and thoughtless—I again repeat it—as you were but lately, and my attention, like yours, became suddenly riveted63 to one object, and to one set of feelings.
“The person by whom they were excited was young, noble, handsome, accomplished64, a soldier, and a Briton. So far our cases are nearly parallel; but, may heaven forbid that the parallel should become complete! This man, so noble, so fairly formed, so gifted, and so brave—this villain65, for that, Margaret, was his fittest name, spoke of love to me, and I listened—-Could I suspect his sincerity66? If he was wealthy, noble, and long-descended, I also was a noble and an opulent heiress. It is true, that he neither knew the extent of my father's wealth, nor did I communicate to him (I do not even remember if I myself knew it at the time) the important circumstance, that the greater part of that wealth was beyond the grasp of arbitrary power, and not subject to the precarious67 award of arbitrary judges. My lover might think, perhaps, as my mother was desirous the world at large should believe, that almost our whole fortune depended on the precarious suit which we had come to Madrid to prosecute—a belief which she had countenanced68 out of policy, being well aware that a knowledge of my father's having remitted69 such a large part of his fortune to England, would in no shape aid the recovery of further sums in the Spanish courts. Yet, with no more extensive views of my fortune than were possessed70 by the public, I believe that he, of whom I am speaking, was at first sincere in his pretensions71. He had himself interest sufficient to have obtained a decision in our favour in the courts, and my fortune, reckoning only what was in Spain, would then have been no inconsiderable sum. To be brief, whatever might be his motives72 or temptation for so far committing himself, he applied73 to my mother for my hand, with my consent and approval. My mother's judgment74 had become weaker, but her passions had become more irritable75, during her increasing illness.
“You have heard of the bitterness of the ancient Scottish feuds76, of which it may be said, in the language of Scripture78, that the fathers eat sour grapes, and the teeth of the children are set on edge. Unhappily—I should say happily, considering what this man has now shown himself to be—some such strain of bitterness had divided his house from my mother's, and she had succeeded to the inheritance of hatred79. When he asked her for my hand, she was no longer able to command her passions—she raked up every injury which the rival families had inflicted81 upon each other during a bloody82 feud77 of two centuries—heaped him with epithets83 of scorn, and rejected his proposal of alliance, as if it had come from the basest of mankind.
“My lover retired84 in passion; and I remained to weep and murmur85 against fortune, and—I will confess my fault—against my affectionate parent. I had been educated with different feelings, and the traditions of the feuds and quarrels of my mother's family in Scotland, which we're to her monuments and chronicles, seemed to me as insignificant86 and unmeaning as the actions and fantasies of Don Quixote; and I blamed my mother bitterly for sacrificing my happiness to an empty dream of family dignity.
“While I was in this humour, my lover sought a renewal87 of our intercourse88. We met repeatedly in the house of the lady whom I have mentioned, and who, in levity89, or in the spirit of intrigue90, countenanced our secret correspondence. At length we were secretly married—so far did my blinded passion hurry me. My lover had secured the assistance of a clergyman of the English church. Monna Paula, who had been my attendant from infancy, was one witness of our union. Let me do the faithful creature justice—She conjured91 me to suspend my purpose till my mother's death should permit us to celebrate our marriage openly; but the entreaties of my lover, and my own wayward passion, prevailed over her remonstrances92. The lady I have spoken of was another witness, but whether she was in full possession of my bridegroom's secret, I had never the means to learn. But the shelter of her name and roof afforded us the means of frequently meeting, and the love of my husband seemed as sincere and as unbounded as my own.
“He was eager, he said, to gratify his pride, by introducing me to one or two of his noble English friends. This could not be done at Lady D—-'s; but by his command, which I was now entitled to consider as my law, I contrived93 twice to visit him at his own hotel, accompanied only by Monna Paula. There was a very small party, of two ladies and two gentlemen. There was music, mirth, and dancing. I had heard of the frankness of the English nation, but I could not help thinking it bordered on license94 during these entertainments, and in the course of the collation95 which followed; but I imputed96 my scruples97 to my inexperience, and would not doubt the propriety98 of what was approved by my husband.
“I was soon summoned to other scenes: My poor mother's disease drew to a conclusion—Happy I am that it took place before she discovered what would have cut her to the soul.
“In Spain you may have heard how the Catholic priests, and particularly the monks99, besiege100 the beds of the dying, to obtain bequests101 for the good of the church. I have said that my mother's temper was irritated by disease, and her judgment impaired102 in proportion. She gathered spirits and force from the resentment103 which the priests around her bed excited by their importunity104, and the boldness of the stern sect105 of reformers, to which she had secretly adhered, seemed to animate106 her dying tongue. She avowed107 the religion she had so long concealed108; renounced109 all hope and aid which did not come by and through its dictates110; rejected with contempt the ceremonial of the Romish church; loaded the astonished priests with reproaches for their greediness and hypocrisy111, and commanded them to leave her house. They went in bitterness and rage, but it was to return with the inquisitorial power, its warrants, and its officers; and they found only the cold corpse112 left of her, on whom they had hoped to work their vengeance113. As I was soon discovered to have shared my mother's heresy, I was dragged from her dead body, imprisoned114 in a solitary115 cloister116, and treated with severity, which the Abbess assured me was due to the looseness of my life, as well as my spiritual errors. I avowed my marriage, to justify117 the situation in which I found myself—I implored118 the assistance of the Superior to communicate my situation to my husband. She smiled coldly at the proposal, and told me the church had provided a better spouse119 for me; advised me to secure myself of divine grace hereafter, and deserve milder treatment here, by presently taking the veil. In order to convince me that I had no other resource, she showed me a royal decree, by which all my estate was hypothecated to the convent of Saint Magdalen, and became their complete property upon my death, or my taking the vows120. As I was, both from religious principle, and affectionate attachment121 to my husband, absolutely immovable in my rejection122 of the veil, I believe—may heaven forgive me if I wrong her—that the Abbess was desirous to make sure of my spoils, by hastening the former event.
“It was a small and a poor convent, and situated123 among the mountains of Guadarrama. Some of the sisters were the daughters of neighbouring Hidalgoes, as poor as they were proud and ignorant; others were women immured124 there on account of their vicious conduct. The Superior herself was of a high family, to which she owed her situation; but she was said to have disgraced her connexions by her conduct during youth, and now, in advanced age, covetousness125 and the love of power, a spirit too of severity and cruelty, had succeeded to the thirst after licentious126 pleasure. I suffered much under this woman—and still her dark, glassy eye, her tall, shrouded127 form, and her rigid128 features, haunt my slumbers129.
“I was not destined130 to be a mother. I was very ill, and my recovery was long doubtful. The most violent remedies were applied, if remedies they indeed were. My health was restored at length, against my own expectation and that of all around me. But, when I first again beheld the reflection of my own face, I thought it was the visage of a ghost. I was wont131 to be flattered by all, but particularly by my husband, for the fineness of my complexion132—it was now totally gone, and, what is more extraordinary, it has never returned. I have observed that the few who now see me, look upon me as a bloodless phantom—Such has been the abiding133 effect of the treatment to which I was subjected. May God forgive those who were the agents of it!—I thank Heaven I can say so with as sincere a wish, as that with which I pray for forgiveness of my own sins. They now relented somewhat towards me—moved perhaps to compassion134 by my singular appearance, which bore witness to my sufferings; or afraid that the matter might attract attention during a visitation of the bishop135, which was approaching. One day, as I was walking in the convent-garden, to which I had been lately admitted, a miserable old Moorish136 slave, who was kept to cultivate the little spot, muttered as I passed him, but still keeping his wrinkled face and decrepit137 form in the same angle with the earth—'There is Heart's Ease near the postern.'
“I knew something of the symbolical138 language of flowers, once carried to such perfection among the Moriscoes of Spain; but if I had been ignorant of it, the captive would soon have caught at any hint which seemed to promise liberty. With all the haste consistent with the utmost circumspection—for I might be observed by the Abbess or some of the sisters from the window—I hastened to the postern. It was closely barred as usual, but when I coughed slightly, I was answered from the other side—and, O heaven! it was my husband's voice which said, 'Lose not a minute here at present, but be on this spot when the vesper bell has tolled139.'
“I retired in an ecstasy141 of joy. I was not entitled or permitted to assist at vespers, but was accustomed to be confined to my cell while the nuns142 were in the choir143. Since my recovery, they had discontinued locking the door; though the utmost severity was denounced against me if I left these precincts. But, let the penalty be what it would, I hastened to dare it.—No sooner had the last toll140 of the vesper bell ceased to sound, than I stole from my chamber144, reached the garden unobserved, hurried to the postern, beheld it open with rapture145, and in the next moment was in my husband's arms. He had with him another cavalier of noble mien—both were masked and armed. Their horses, with one saddled for my use, stood in a thicket146 hard by, with two other masked horsemen, who seemed to be servants. In less than two minutes we were mounted, and rode off as fast as we could through rough and devious147 roads, in which one of the domestics appeared to act as guide.
“The hurried pace at which we rode, and the anxiety of the moment, kept me silent, and prevented my expressing my surprise or my joy save in a few broken words. It also served as an apology for my husband's silence. At length we stopped at a solitary hut—the cavaliers dismounted, and I was assisted from my saddle, not by M——M——my husband, I would say, who seemed busied about his horse, but by the stranger.
“'Go into the hut,' said my husband, 'change your dress with the speed of lightning—you will find one to assist you—we must forward instantly when you have shifted your apparel.'
“I entered the hut, and was received in the arms of the faithful Monna Paula, who had waited my arrival for many hours, half distracted with fear and anxiety. With her assistance I speedily tore off the detested148 garments of the convent, and exchanged them for a travelling suit, made after the English fashion. I observed that Monna Paula was in a similar dress. I had but just huddled149 on my change of attire150, when we were hastily summoned to mount. A horse, I found, was provided for Monna Paula, and we resumed our route. On the way, my convent-garb, which had been wrapped hastily together around a stone, was thrown into a lake, along the verge151 of which we were then passing. The two cavaliers rode together in front, my attendant and I followed, and the servants brought up the rear. Monna Paula, as we rode on, repeatedly entreated152 me to be silent upon the road, as our lives depended on it. I was easily reconciled to be passive, for, the first fever of spirits which attended the sense of liberation and of gratified affection having passed away, I felt as it were dizzy with the rapid motion; and my utmost exertion9 was necessary to keep my place on the saddle, until we suddenly (it was now very dark) saw a strong light before us.
“My husband reined153 up his horse, and gave a signal by a low whistle twice repeated, which was answered from a distance. The whole party then halted under the boughs154 of a large cork-tree, and my husband, drawing himself close to my side, said, in a voice which I then thought was only embarrassed by fear for my safety,—'We must now part. Those to whom I commit you are contrabandists, who only know you as English-women, but who, for a high bribe156, have undertaken to escort you through the passes of the Pyrenees as far as Saint Jean de Luz.'
“'And do you not go with us?' I exclaimed with emphasis, though in a whisper.
“'It is impossible,' he said, 'and would ruin all—See that you speak in English in these people's hearing, and give not the least sign of understanding what they say in Spanish—your life depends on it; for, though they live in opposition157 to, and evasion158 of, the laws of Spain, they would tremble at the idea of violating those of the church—I see them coming—farewell—farewell.'
“The last words were hastily uttered-I endeavoured to detain him yet a moment by my feeble grasp on his cloak.
“'You will meet me, then, I trust, at Saint Jean de Luz?'
“'Yes, yes,' he answered hastily, 'at Saint Jean de Luz you will meet your protector.'
“He then extricated159 his cloak from my grasp, and was lost in the darkness. His companion approached—kissed my hand, which in the agony of the moment I was scarce sensible of, and followed my husband, attended by one of the domestics.”
The tears of Hermione here flowed so fast as to threaten the interruption of her narrative160. When she resumed it, it was with a kind of apology to Margaret.
“Every circumstance,” she said, “occurring in those moments, when I still enjoyed a delusive161 idea of happiness, is deeply imprinted162 in my remembrance, which, respecting all that has since happened, is waste and unvaried as an Arabian desert. But I have no right to inflict80 on you, Margaret, agitated as you are with your own anxieties, the unavailing details of my useless recollections.”
Margaret's eyes were full of tears—it was impossible it could be otherwise, considering that the tale was told by her suffering benefactress, and resembled, in some respects, her own situation; and yet she must not be severely163 blamed, if, while eagerly pressing her patroness to continue her narrative, her eye involuntarily sought the door, as if to chide164 the delay of Monna Paula.
The Lady Hermione saw and forgave these conflicting emotions; and she, too, must be pardoned, if, in her turn, the minute detail of her narrative showed, that, in the discharge of feelings so long locked in her own bosom, she rather forgot those which were personal to her auditor165, and by which it must be supposed Margaret's mind was principally occupied, if not entirely166 engrossed167.
“I told you, I think, that one domestic followed the gentlemen,” thus the lady continued her story, “the other remained with us for the purpose, as it seemed, of introducing us to two persons whom M—, I say, whom my husband's signal had brought to the spot. A word or two of explanation passed between them and the servant, in a sort of patois168, which I did not understand; and one of the strangers taking hold of my bridle169, the other of Monna Paula's, they led us towards the light, which I have already said was the signal of our halting. I touched Monna Paula, and was sensible that she trembled very much, which surprised me, because I knew her character to be so strong and bold as to border upon the masculine.
“When we reached the fire, the gipsy figures of those who surrounded it, with their swarthy features, large Sombrero hats, girdles stuck full of pistols and poniards, and all the other apparatus170 of a roving and perilous171 life, would have terrified me at another moment. But then I only felt the agony of having parted from my husband almost in the very moment of my rescue. The females of the gang—for there were four or five women amongst these contraband155 traders—received us with a sort of rude courtesy. They were, in dress and manners, not extremely different from the men with whom they associated—were almost as hardy172 and adventurous173, carried arms like them, and were, as we learned from passing circumstances, scarce less experienced in the use of them.
“It was impossible not to fear these wild people; yet they gave us no reason to complain of them, but used us on all occasions with a kind of clumsy courtesy, accommodating themselves to our wants and our weakness during the journey, even while we heard them grumbling174 to each other against our effeminacy,—like some rude carrier, who, in charge of a package of valuable and fragile ware14, takes every precaution for its preservation175, while he curses the unwonted trouble which it occasions him. Once or twice, when they were disappointed in their contraband traffic, lost some goods in a rencontre with the Spanish officers of the revenue, and were finally pursued by a military force, their murmurs176 assumed a more alarming tone, in the terrified ears of my attendant and myself, when, without daring to seem to understand them, we heard them curse the insular177 heretics, on whose account God, Saint James, and Our Lady of the Pillar, had blighted178 their hopes of profit. These are dreadful recollections, Margaret.”
“Why, then, dearest lady,” answered Margaret, “will you thus dwell on them?”
“It is only,” said the Lady Hermione, “because I linger like a criminal on the scaffold, and would fain protract179 the time that must inevitably180 bring on the final catastrophe181. Yes, dearest Margaret, I rest and dwell on the events of that journey, marked as it was by fatigue182 and danger, though the road lay through the wildest and most desolate183 deserts and mountains, and though our companions, both men and women, were fierce and lawless themselves, and exposed to the most merciless retaliation184 from those with whom they were constantly engaged—yet would I rather dwell on these hazardous185 events than tell that which awaited me at Saint Jean de Luz.”
“But you arrived there in safety?” said Margaret.
“Yes, maiden,” replied the Lady Hermione; “and were guided by the chief of our outlawed186 band to the house which had been assigned for reception, with the same punctilious187 accuracy with which he would have delivered a bale of uncustomed goods to a correspondent. I was told a gentleman had expected me for two days—I rushed into the apartment, and, when I expected to embrace my husband—I found myself in the arms of his friend!”
“The villain!” exclaimed Margaret, whose anxiety had, in spite of herself, been a moment suspended by the narrative of the lady.
“Yes,” replied Hermione, calmly, though her voice somewhat faltered188, “it is the name that best—that well befits him. He, Margaret, for whom I had sacrificed all—whose love and whose memory were dearer to me than my freedom, when I was in the convent—than my life, when I was on my perilous journey—had taken his measures to shake me off, and transfer me, as a privileged wanton, to the protection of his libertine189 friend. At first the stranger laughed at my tears and my agony, as the hysterical190 passion of a deluded191 and overreached wanton, or the wily affection of a courtezan. My claim of marriage he laughed at, assuring me he knew it was a mere farce192 required by me, and submitted to by his friend, to save some reserve of delicacy193; and expressed his surprise that I should consider in any other light a ceremony which could be valid194 neither in Spain nor England, and insultingly offered to remove my scruples, by renewing such a union with me himself. My exclamations195 brought Monna Paula to my aid—she was not, indeed, far distant, for she had expected some such scene.”
“Good heaven!” said Margaret, “was she a confidant of your base husband?”
“No,” answered Hermione, “do her not that injustice196. It was her persevering197 inquiries198 that discovered the place of my confinement—it was she who gave the information to my husband, and who remarked even then that the news was so much more interesting to his friend than to him, that she suspected, from an early period, it was the purpose of the villain to shake me off. On the journey, her suspicions were confirmed. She had heard him remark to his companion, with a cold sarcastic199 sneer200, the total change which my prison and my illness had made on my complexion; and she had heard the other reply, that the defect might be cured by a touch of Spanish red. This, and other circumstances, having prepared her for such treachery, Monna Paula now entered, completely possessed of herself, and prepared to support me. Her calm representations went farther with the stranger than the expressions of my despair. If he did not entirely believe our tale, he at least acted the part of a man of honour, who would not intrude201 himself on defenceless females, whatever was their character; desisted from persecuting202 us with his presence; and not only directed Monna Paula how we should journey to Paris, but furnished her with money for the purpose of our journey. From the capital I wrote to Master Heriot, my father's most trusted correspondent; he came instantly to Paris on receiving the letter; and—But here comes Monna Paula, with more than the sum you desired. Take it, my dearest maiden—serve this youth if you will. But, O Margaret, look for no gratitude in return!”
The Lady Hermione took the bag of gold from her attendant, and gave it to her young friend, who threw herself into her arms, kissed her on both the pale cheeks, over which the sorrows so newly awakened by her narrative had drawn203 many tears, then sprung up, wiped her own overflowing204 eyes, and left the Foljambe apartments with a hasty and resolved step.
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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4
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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5
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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6
tutelary
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| adj.保护的；守护的 | |
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7
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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8
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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9
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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10
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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11
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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12
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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13
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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14
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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15
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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16
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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17
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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18
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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19
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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20
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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21
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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22
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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23
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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24
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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25
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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26
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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27
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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28
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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29
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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30
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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31
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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32
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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33
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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34
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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35
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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36
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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37
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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38
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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39
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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40
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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41
connived
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| v.密谋 ( connive的过去式和过去分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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42
privately
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|
| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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43
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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44
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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45
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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46
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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47
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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48
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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49
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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50
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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51
consignment
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| n.寄售；发货；委托；交运货物 | |
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52
covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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53
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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54
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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55
impeach
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| v.弹劾；检举 | |
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56
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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57
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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58
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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59
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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60
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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61
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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62
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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63
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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64
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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65
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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66
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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67
precarious
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|
| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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68
countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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69
remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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70
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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71
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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72
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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73
applied
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|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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74
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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75
irritable
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|
| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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76
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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77
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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78
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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79
hatred
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|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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80
inflict
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|
| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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81
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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83
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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84
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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85
murmur
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|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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86
insignificant
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|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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87
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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88
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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89
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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90
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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91
conjured
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|
| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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92
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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93
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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94
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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95
collation
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| n.便餐；整理 | |
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96
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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97
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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98
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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99
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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100
besiege
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| vt.包围，围攻，拥在...周围 | |
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101
bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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102
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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104
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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105
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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106
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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107
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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108
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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109
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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110
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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111
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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112
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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113
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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114
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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116
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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117
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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118
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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120
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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121
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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122
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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123
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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124
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
covetousness
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126
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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127
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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128
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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129
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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130
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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131
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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132
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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133
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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134
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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135
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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136
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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137
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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138
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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139
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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140
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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141
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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142
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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143
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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144
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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145
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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146
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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148
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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150
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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151
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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152
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
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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154
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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155
contraband
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| n.违禁品，走私品 | |
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156
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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157
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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158
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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159
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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161
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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162
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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163
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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165
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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166
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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167
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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168
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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169
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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171
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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172
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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174
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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175
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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176
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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177
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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178
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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179
protract
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| v.延长，拖长 | |
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180
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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181
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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182
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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183
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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184
retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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185
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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186
outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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187
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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188
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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189
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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190
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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191
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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193
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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194
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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195
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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196
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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197
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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198
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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199
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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200
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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201
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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202
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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203
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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204
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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