Gray.
Such is the exclamation3 of Gray. Bandello, long before him, has said something like it; and the same sentiment must, in some shape or other, have frequently occurred to those, who, remembering the fate of other captives in that memorable4 state-prison, may have had but too much reason to anticipate their own. The dark and low arch, which seemed, like the entrance to Dante's Hell, to forbid hope of regress—the muttered sounds of the warders, and petty formalities observed in opening and shutting the grated wicket—the cold and constrained5 salutation of the Lieutenant6 of the fortress7, who showed his prisoner that distant and measured respect which authority pays as a tax to decorum, all struck upon Nigel's heart, impressing on him the cruel consciousness of captivity8.
“I am a prisoner,” he said, the words escaping from him almost unawares; “I am a prisoner, and in the Tower!”
The Lieutenant bowed—“And it is my duty,” he said, “to show your lordship your chamber9, where, I am compelled to say, my orders are to place you under some restraint. I will make it as easy as my duty permits.”
Nigel only bowed in return to this compliment, and followed the Lieutenant to the ancient buildings on the western side of the parade, and adjoining to the chapel10, used in those days as a state-prison, but in ours as the mess-room of the officers of the guard upon duty at the fortress. The double doors were unlocked, the prisoner ascended11 a few steps, followed by the Lieutenant, and a warder of the higher class. They entered a large, but irregular, low-roofed, and dark apartment, exhibiting a very scanty12 proportion of furniture. The warder had orders to light a fire, and attend to Lord Glenvarloch's commands in all things consistent with his duty; and the Lieutenant, having made his reverence13 with the customary compliment, that he trusted his lordship would not long remain under his guardianship14, took his leave.
Nigel would have asked some questions of the warder, who remained to put the apartment into order, but the man had caught the spirit of his office. He seemed not to hear some of the prisoner's questions, though of the most ordinary kind, did not reply to others, and when he did speak, it was in a short and sullen15 tone, which, though not positively16 disrespectful, was such as at least to encourage no farther communication.
Nigel left him, therefore, to do his work in silence, and proceeded to amuse himself with the melancholy17 task of deciphering the names, mottoes, verses, and hieroglyphics18, with which his predecessors19 in captivity had covered the walls of their prison-house. There he saw the names of many a forgotten sufferer mingled20 with others which will continue in remembrance until English history shall perish. There were the pious21 effusions of the devout22 Catholic, poured forth23 on the eve of his sealing his profession at Tyburn, mingled with those of the firm Protestant, about to feed the fires of Smithfield. There the slender hand of the unfortunate Jane Grey, whose fate was to draw tears from future generations, might be contrasted with the bolder touch which impressed deep on the walls the Bear and Ragged24 Staff, the proud emblem25 of the proud Dudleys. It was like the roll of the prophet, a record of lamentation26 and mourning, and yet not unmixed with brief interjections of resignation, and sentences expressive28 of the firmest resolution.[Footnote: These memorials of illustrious criminals, or of innocent persons who had the fate of such, are still preserved, though at one time, in the course of repairing the rooms, they were in some danger of being whitewashed29. They are preserved at present with becoming respect, and have most of them been engraved30.—See BAYLEY'S History and Antiquities31 of the Tower of London.]
In the sad task of examining the miseries32 of his predecessors in captivity, Lord Glenvarloch was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door of his prison-room. It was the warder, who came to inform him, that, by order of the Lieutenant of the Tower, his lordship was to have the society and attendance of a fellow-prisoner in his place of confinement33. Nigel replied hastily, that he wished no attendance, and would rather be left alone; but the warder gave him to understand, with a kind of grumbling34 civility, that the Lieutenant was the best judge how his prisoners should be accommodated, and that he would have no trouble with the boy, who was such a slip of a thing as was scarce worth turning a key upon.—“There, Giles,” he said, “bring the child in.”
Another warder put the “lad before him” into the room, and, both withdrawing, bolt crashed and chain clanged, as they replaced these ponderous35 obstacles to freedom. The boy was clad in a grey suit of the finest cloth, laid down with silver lace, with a buff-coloured cloak of the same pattern. His cap, which was a Montero of black velvet36, was pulled over his brows, and, with the profusion37 of his long ringlets, almost concealed38 his face. He stood on the very spot where the warder had quitted his collar, about two steps from the door of the apartment, his eyes fixed39 on the ground, and every joint40 trembling with confusion and terror. Nigel could well have dispensed41 with his society, but it was not in his nature to behold42 distress43, whether of body or mind, without endeavouring to relieve it.
“Cheer up,” he said, “my pretty lad. We are to be companions, it seems, for a little time—at least I trust your confinement will be short, since you are too young to have done aught to deserve long restraint. Come, come—do not be discouraged. Your hand is cold and trembles? the air is warm too—but it may be the damp of this darksome room. Place you by the fire.—What! weeping-ripe, my little man? I pray you, do not be a child. You have no beard yet, to be dishonoured44 by your tears, but yet you should not cry like a girl. Think you are only shut up for playing truant45, and you can pass a day without weeping, surely.”
The boy suffered himself to be led and seated by the fire, but, after retaining for a long time the very posture46 which he assumed in sitting down, he suddenly changed it in order to wring47 his hands with an air of the bitterest distress, and then, spreading them before his face, wept so plentifully48, that the tears found their way in floods through his slender fingers.
Nigel was in some degree rendered insensible to his own situation, by his feelings for the intense agony by which so young and beautiful a creature seemed to be utterly49 overwhelmed; and, sitting down close beside the boy, he applied50 the most soothing51 terms which occurred, to endeavour to alleviate52 his distress; and, with an action which the difference of their age rendered natural, drew his hand kindly53 along the long hair of the disconsolate54 child. The lad appeared so shy as even to shrink from this slight approach to familiarity—yet, when Lord Glenvarloch, perceiving and allowing for his timidity, sat down on the farther side of the fire, he appeared to be more at his ease, and to hearken with some apparent interest to the arguments which from time to time Nigel used, to induce him to moderate, at least, the violence of his grief. As the boy listened, his tears, though they continued to flow freely, seemed to escape from their source more easily, his sobs55 were less convulsive, and became gradually changed into low sighs, which succeeded each other, indicating as much sorrow, perhaps, but less alarm, than his first transports had shown.
“Tell me who and what you are, my pretty boy,” said Nigel.—“Consider me, child, as a companion, who wishes to be kind to you, would you but teach him how he can be so.”
“Sir—my lord, I mean,” answered the boy, very timidly, and in a voice which could scarce be heard even across the brief distance which divided them, “you are very good—and I—am very unhappy—”
A second fit of tears interrupted what else he had intended to say, and it required a renewal56 of Lord Glenvarloch's good-natured expostulations and encouragements, to bring him once more to such composure as rendered the lad capable of expressing himself intelligibly57. At length, however, he was able to say—“I am sensible of your goodness, my lord—and grateful for it—but I am a poor unhappy creature, and, what is worse, have myself only to thank for my misfortunes.”
“We are seldom absolutely miserable58, my young acquaintance,” said Nigel, “without being ourselves more or less responsible for it—I may well say so, otherwise I had not been here to-day—but you are very young, and can have but little to answer for.”
“O sir! I wish I could say so—I have been self-willed and obstinate—and rash and ungovernable—and now—now, how dearly do I pay the price of it!”
“Pshaw, my boy,” replied Nigel; “this must be some childish frolic—some breaking out of bounds—some truant trick—And yet how should any of these have brought you to the Tower?—There is something mysterious about you, young man, which I must inquire into.”
“Indeed, indeed, my lord, there is no harm about me,” said the boy, more moved it would seem to confession59 by the last words, by which he seemed considerably60 alarmed, than by all the kind expostulations and arguments which Nigel had previously61 used. “I am innocent—that is, I have done wrong, but nothing to deserve being in this frightful62 place.”
“Tell me the truth, then,” said Nigel, in a tone in which command mingled with encouragement; “you have nothing to fear from me, and as little to hope, perhaps—yet, placed as I am, I would know with whom I speak.”
“With an unhappy—boy, sir—and idle and truantly disposed, as your lordship said,” answered the lad, looking up, and showing a countenance63 in which paleness and blushes succeeded each other, as fear and shamefacedness alternately had influence. “I left my father's house without leave, to see the king hunt in the Park at Greenwich; there came a cry of treason, and all the gates were shut—I was frightened, and hid myself in a thicket64, and I was found by some of the rangers65 and examined—and they said I gave no good account of myself—and so I was sent hither.”
“I am an unhappy, a most unhappy being,” said Lord Glenvarloch, rising and walking through the apartment; “nothing approaches me but shares my own bad fate! Death and imprisonment66 dog my steps, and involve all who are found near me. Yet this boy's story sounds strangely.—You say you were examined, my young friend—Let me pray you to say whether you told your name, and your means of gaining admission into the Park—if so, they surely would not have detained you?”
“O, my lord,” said the boy, “I took care not to tell them the name of the friend that let me in; and as to my father—I would not he knew where I now am for all the wealth in London!”
“But do you not expect,” said Nigel, “that they will dismiss you till you let them know who and what you are?”
“What good will it do them to keep so useless a creature as myself?” said the boy; “they must let me go, were it but out of shame.”
“Do not trust to that—tell me your name and station—I will communicate them to the Lieutenant—he is a man of quality and honour, and will not only be willing to procure67 your liberation, but also, I have no doubt, will intercede68 with your father. I am partly answerable for such poor aid as I can afford, to get you out of this embarrassment69, since I occasioned the alarm owing to which you were arrested; so tell me your name, and your father's name.”
“My name to you? O never, never!” answered the boy, in a tone of deep emotion, the cause of which Nigel could not comprehend.
“Are you so much afraid of me, young man,” he replied, “because I am here accused and a prisoner? Consider, a man may be both, and deserve neither suspicion nor restraint. Why should you distrust me? You seem friendless, and I am myself so much in the same circumstances, that I cannot but pity your situation when I reflect on my own. Be wise; I have spoken kindly to you—I mean as kindly as I speak.”
“O, I doubt it not, I doubt it not, my lord,” said the boy, “and I could tell you all—that is, almost all.”
“Tell me nothing, my young friend, excepting what may assist me in being useful to you,” said Nigel.
“You are generous, my lord,” said the boy; “and I am sure—O sure, I might safely trust to your honour—But yet—but yet—I am so sore beset—I have been so rash, so unguarded—I can never tell you of my folly70. Besides, I have already told too much to one whose heart I thought I had moved—yet I find myself here.”
“To whom did you make this disclosure?” said Nigel.
“I dare not tell,” replied the youth.
“There is something singular about you, my young friend,” said Lord Glenvarloch, withdrawing with a gentle degree of compulsion the hand with which the boy had again covered his eyes; “do not pain yourself with thinking on your situation just at present—your pulse is high, and your hand feverish—lay yourself on yonder pallet, and try to compose yourself to sleep. It is the readiest and best remedy for the fancies with which you are worrying yourself.”
“I thank you for your considerate kindness, my lord,” said the boy; “with your leave I will remain for a little space quiet in this chair—I am better thus than on the couch. I can think undisturbedly on what I have done, and have still to do; and if God sends slumber71 to a creature so exhausted72, it shall be most welcome.”
So saying, the boy drew his hand from Lord Nigel's, and, drawing around him and partly over his face the folds of his ample cloak, he resigned himself to sleep or meditation73, while his companion, notwithstanding the exhausting scenes of this and the preceding day, continued his pensive74 walk up and down the apartment.
Every reader has experienced, that times occur, when far from being lord of external circumstances, man is unable to rule even the wayward realm of his own thoughts. It was Nigel's natural wish to consider his own situation coolly, and fix on the course which it became him as a man of sense and courage to adopt; and yet, in spite of himself, and notwithstanding the deep interest of the critical state in which he was placed, it did so happen that his fellow-prisoner's situation occupied more of his thoughts than did his own. There was no accounting75 for this wandering of the imagination, but also there was no striving with it. The pleading tones of one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard, still rung in his ear, though it seemed that sleep had now fettered76 the tongue of the speaker. He drew near on tiptoe to satisfy himself whether it were so. The folds of the cloak hid the lower part of his face entirely77; but the bonnet78, which had fallen a little aside, permitted him to see the forehead streaked79 with blue veins80, the closed eyes, and the long silken eyelashes.
“Poor child,” said Nigel to himself, as he looked on him, nestled up as it were in the folds of his mantle81, “the dew is yet on thy eyelashes, and thou hast fairly wept thyself asleep. Sorrow is a rough nurse to one so young and delicate as thou art. Peace be to thy slumbers82, I will not disturb them. My own misfortunes require my attention, and it is to their contemplation that I must resign myself.”
He attempted to do so, but was crossed at every turn by conjectures83 which intruded84 themselves as before, and which all regarded the sleeper85 rather than himself. He was angry and vexed86, and expostulated with himself concerning the overweening interest which he took in the concerns of one of whom he knew nothing, saving that the boy was forced into his company, perhaps as a spy, by those to whose custody87 he was committed—but the spell could not be broken, and the thoughts which he struggled to dismiss, continued to haunt him.
Thus passed half an hour, or more; at the conclusion of which, the harsh sound of the revolving88 bolts was again heard, and the voice of the warder announced that a man desired to speak with Lord Glenvarloch. “A man to speak with me, under my present circumstances!—Who can it be?” And John Christie, his landlord of Paul's Wharf89, resolved his doubts, by entering the apartment. “Welcome—most welcome, mine honest landlord!” said Lord Glenvarloch. “How could I have dreamt of seeing you in my present close lodgings90?” And at the same time, with the frankness of old kindness, he walked up to Christie and offered his hand; but John started back as from the look of a basilisk.
“Keep your courtesies to yourself, my lord,” said he, gruffly; “I have had as many of them already as may serve me for my life.”
“Why, Master Christie,” said Nigel, “what means this? I trust I have not offended you?”
“Ask me no questions, my lord,” said Christie, bluntly. “I am a man of peace—I came not hither to wrangle91 with you at this place and season. Just suppose that I am well informed of all the obligements from your honour's nobleness, and then acquaint me, in as few words as may be, where is the unhappy woman—What have you done with her?”
“What have I done with her!” said Lord Glenvarloch—“Done with whom? I know not what you are speaking of.”
“Oh, yes, my lord,” said Christie; “play surprise as well as you will, you must have some guess that I am speaking of the poor fool that was my wife, till she became your lordship's light-o'-love.”
“Your wife! Has your wife left you? and, if she has, do you come to ask her of me?”
“Yes, my lord, singular as it may seem,” returned Christie, in a tone of bitter irony92, and with a sort of grin widely discording93 from the discomposure of his features, the gleam of his eye, and the froth which stood on his lip, “I do come to make that demand of your lordship. Doubtless, you are surprised I should take the trouble; but, I cannot tell, great men and little men think differently. She has lain in my bosom94, and drunk of my cup; and, such as she is, I cannot forget that—though I will never see her again—she must not starve, my lord, or do worse, to gain bread, though I reckon your lordship may think I am robbing the public in trying to change her courses.”
“By my faith as a Christian95, by my honour as a gentleman,” said Lord Glenvarloch, “if aught amiss has chanced with your wife, I know nothing of it. I trust in Heaven you are as much mistaken in imputing96 guilt97 to her, as in supposing me her partner in it.”
“Fie! fie! my lord,” said Christie, “why will you make it so tough? She is but the wife of a clod-pated old chandler, who was idiot enough to marry a wench twenty years younger than himself. Your lordship cannot have more glory by it than you have had already; and, as for advantage and solace98, I take it Dame99 Nelly is now unnecessary to your gratification. I should be sorry to interrupt the course of your pleasure; an old wittol should have more consideration of his condition. But, your precious lordship being mewed up here among other choice jewels of the kingdom, Dame Nelly cannot, I take it, be admitted to share the hours of dalliance which”—Here the incensed100 husband stammered101, broke off his tone of irony, and proceeded, striking his staff against the ground—“O that these false limbs of yours, which I wish had been hamstrung when they first crossed my honest threshold, were free from the fetters102 they have well deserved! I would give you the odds103 of your youth, and your weapon, and would bequeath my soul to the foul fiend if I, with this piece of oak, did not make you such an example to all ungrateful, pick-thank courtiers, that it should be a proverb to the end of time, how John Christie swaddled his wife's fine leman!”
“I understand not your insolence,” said Nigel, “but I forgive it, because you labour under some strange delusion104. In so far as I can comprehend your vehement105 charge, it is entirely undeserved on my part. You seem to impute106 to me the seduction of your wife—I trust she is innocent. For me, at least, she is as innocent as an angel in bliss107. I never thought of her—never touched her hand or cheek, save in honourable108 courtesy.”
“O, ay—courtesy!—that is the very word. She always praised your lordship's honourable courtesy. Ye have cozened me between ye, with your courtesy. My lord—my lord, you came to us no very wealthy man—you know it. It was for no lucre109 of gain I took you and your swash-buckler, your Don Diego yonder, under my poor roof. I never cared if the little room were let or no; I could live without it. If you could not have paid for it, you should never have been asked. All the wharf knows John Christie has the means and spirit to do a kindness. When you first darkened my honest doorway110, I was as happy as a man need to be, who is no youngster, and has the rheumatism111. Nelly was the kindest and best-humoured wench—we might have a word now and then about a gown or a ribbon, but a kinder soul on the whole, and a more careful, considering her years, till you come—and what is she now!—But I will not be a fool to cry, if I can help it. What she is, is not the question, but where she is; and that I must learn, sir, of you.”
“How can you, when I tell you,” replied Nigel, “that I am as ignorant as yourself, or rather much more so? Till this moment, I never heard of any disagreement betwixt your dame and you.”
“That is a lie,” said John Christie, bluntly.
“How, you base villain113!” said Lord Glenvarloch—“do you presume on my situation? If it were not that I hold you mad, and perhaps made so by some wrong sustained, you should find my being weaponless were no protection, I would beat your brains out against the wall.”
“Ay, ay,” answered Christie, “bully as ye list. Ye have been at the ordinaries, and in Alsatia, and learned the ruffian's rant112, I doubt not. But I repeat, you have spoken an untruth, when you said you knew not of my wife's falsehood; for, when you were twitted with it among your gay mates, it was a common jest among you, and your lordship took all the credit they would give you for your gallantry and gratitude114.”
There was a mixture of truth in this part of the charge which disconcerted Lord Glenvarloch exceedingly; for he could not, as a man of honour, deny that Lord Dalgarno, and others, had occasionally jested with him on the subject of Dame Nelly, and that, though he had not played exactly le fanfaron des vices115 qu'il n'avoit pas, he had not at least been sufficiently116 anxious to clear himself of the suspicion of such a crime to men who considered it as a merit. It was therefore with some hesitation117, and in a sort of qualifying tone, that he admitted that some idle jests had passed upon such a supposition, although without the least foundation in truth. John Christie would not listen to his vindication118 any longer. “By your own account,” he said, “you permitted lies to be told of you injest. How do I know you are speaking truth, now you are serious? You thought it, I suppose, a fine thing to wear the reputation of having dishonoured an honest family,—who will not think that you had real grounds for your base bravado119 to rest upon? I will not believe otherwise for one, and therefore, my lord, mark what I have to say. You are now yourself in trouble—As you hope to come through it safely, and without loss of life and property, tell me where this unhappy woman is. Tell me, if you hope for heaven—tell me, if you fear hell—tell me, as you would not have the curse of an utterly ruined woman, and a broken-hearted man, attend you through life, and bear witness against you at the Great Day, which shall come after death. You are moved, my lord, I see it. I cannot forget the wrong you have done me. I cannot even promise to forgive it—but—tell me, and you shall never see me again, or hear more of my reproaches.”
“Unfortunate man,” said Lord Glenvarloch, “you have said more, far more than enough, to move me deeply. Were I at liberty, I would lend you my best aid to search out him who has wronged you, the rather that I do suspect my having been your lodger120 has been in some degree the remote cause of bringing the spoiler into the sheepfold.”
“I am glad your lordship grants me so much,” said John Christie, resuming the tone of embittered121 irony with which he had opened the singular conversation; “I will spare you farther reproach and remonstrance—your mind is made up, and so is mine.—So, ho, warder!” The warder entered, and John went on,—“I want to get out, brother. Look well to your charge—it were better that half the wild beasts in their dens122 yonder were turned loose upon Tower Hill, than that this same smooth-faced, civil-spoken gentleman, were again returned to honest men's company!”
So saying, he hastily left the apartment; and Nigel had full leisure to lament27 the waywardness of his fate, which seemed never to tire of persecuting123 him for crimes of which he was innocent, and investing him with the appearances of guilt which his mind abhorred124. He could not, however, help acknowledging to himself, that all the pain which he might sustain from the present accusation125 of John Christie, was so far deserved, from his having suffered himself, out of vanity, or rather an unwillingness126 to encounter ridicule127, to be supposed capable of a base inhospitable crime, merely because fools called it an affair of gallantry; and it was no balsam to the wound, when he recollected128 what Richie had told him of his having been ridiculed129 behind his back by the gallants of the ordinary, for affecting the reputation of an intrigue130 which he had not in reality spirit enough to have carried on. His simulation had, in a word, placed him in the unlucky predicament of being rallied as a braggart131 amongst the dissipated youths, with whom the reality of the amour would have given him credit; whilst, on the other hand, he was branded as an inhospitable seducer132 by the injured husband, who was obstinately133 persuaded of his guilt.
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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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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hieroglyphics
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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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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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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forth
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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emblem
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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31
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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32
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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33
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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34
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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35
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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36
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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37
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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38
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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39
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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40
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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41
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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42
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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43
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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44
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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45
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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46
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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47
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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48
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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49
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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50
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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51
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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52
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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53
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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54
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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55
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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56
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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57
intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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58
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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59
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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60
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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61
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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62
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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63
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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64
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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65
rangers
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| 护林者( ranger的名词复数 )； 突击队员 | |
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66
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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67
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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68
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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69
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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70
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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71
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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72
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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73
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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74
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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75
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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76
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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78
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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79
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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80
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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81
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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82
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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83
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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84
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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85
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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86
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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87
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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88
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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89
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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90
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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91
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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92
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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93
discording
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| 不一致（discord的现在分词形式） | |
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94
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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95
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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96
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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97
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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98
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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99
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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100
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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101
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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104
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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105
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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106
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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107
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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108
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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109
lucre
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| n.金钱，财富 | |
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110
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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111
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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112
rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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113
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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114
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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115
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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116
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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117
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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118
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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119
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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120
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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121
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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123
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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124
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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125
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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126
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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127
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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128
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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129
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
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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131
braggart
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| n.吹牛者；adj.吹牛的，自夸的 | |
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132
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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133
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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