“We pass: the path that each man trod
Is dim, or shall be dim, with weeds.
What fame is left for human deeds
In endless age? It rests with God.”
Tennyson.
No ill befel Lord Grey de Wilton. There was but little laid to his charge,—only a journey to the North, preceding the Duke of Somerset, to discover who were his friends. Perhaps the Council was ashamed to shed the blood of the man who had but lately put down the rising in Cornwall, and joined in raising the siege of Exeter. Whatever the cause were, he was quietly acquitted2 on the 19th of December, and suffered to go home.
In came Dr Thorpe, shortly before Christmas, carrying in his hand a new shilling.
“See thee!” said he, “Isoult, look well hereon. Seest it?”
“Well, what of it, Doctor?” said she. “I have seen many afore.”
“Dost mark it?” inquired he.
“Ay,” she answered, marvelling4 what he meant.
“Well,” pursued he, “thou art not to speak evil of it.”
“I am not like,” said she, innocently, “for these new shillings be lesser5 and neater than the broad shilling, and they like me the rather.”
“But what mean you. Dr Thorpe?” asked the puzzled Isoult.
“Nay7, nay, now!” answered the old man. “This dolt8, my Lord of Northumberland—they must have missed rocking of him in his cradle!—this patch, look thou, hath taken offence at the canting name men have given to these new shillings.”
“Why,” said she, “what name gave they them?”
“Forsooth,” replied he, “‘ragged staffs;’ and thou wist what that meaneth.”
“What, a quip on my Lord of Northumberland’s arms?” answered Isoult.
“Yea, justly,” said he; “and this sweet companion loveth not to have his arms spoke9 about. So here is a proclamation—come out of the Court of Fools, as I live!—that no man henceforward shall speak evil of the new coin upon penalty. Didst ever hear such a piece of folly10?”
“Ay,” interposed John, who sat reading in the chimney-corner, “and heard you how Master Latimer hath offended? Some time agone, preaching before the King, he chanced to repeat the device of the new shilling (that coming pat, I take it, to his matter) to wit, ‘Timor Domini fons vitae.’ And here quoth he, ‘We have now a pretty little shilling, in deed a very pretty one. I have but one, I think, in my purse; and the last day I had put it away almost for an old groat.’ And so plucked it out of his purse, and read the device to the people, with the signification thereof. Now (would you crede it?) there was murmuring against Mr Latimer of my Lord of Northumberland’s following, that he had reviled11 the new shilling, and contemned12 it for no better than an old groat.”
“I do protest!” cried Dr Thorpe, “the world is gone mad!”
“Saving you and me,” said John, gravely.
“I scantly14 know, Jack15,” answered he, shaking his white head. “Methinks I shall not save you nor me long.”
One of the strangest things in this strange world is the contrasts perpetually to be found in it. While Somerset lay thus under sentence of death, the Lord of Misrule passed through London. He was George Ferris, an old friend of the Hot Gospeller, and a warm Protestant himself; yet it would be a tolerably safe guess to assert that Ferris was a Lutheran. Scarcely would a Gospeller have filled that position on that day.
Perhaps the relics17 of Dr Thorpe’s Lutheranism were to blame for his persistent18 determination to have Twelfth Day kept with all the honours. He insisted on cake and snap-dragon, and was rewarded for his urgency by drawing the king, while Kate was found to be his queen. Their mimic19 majesties20 were seated in two large chairs at one end of the parlour, the white-haired king laughing like a child, while the little queen was as grave as a judge. The snap-dragon followed, for which a summary abdication22 took place; and greatly amused was the old man to find Walter in abject23 fear of burning his fingers, while Kate plunged24 her hand into the blue flaming dish with sufficient courage for any knight25 in Christendom. The evening closed with hot cockles, after which Esther took possession of the children, declaring, with more earnestness than was her wont26, that they must and should not stay up another minute.
“Verily,” said the old Doctor, when they were gone, “if the childre must be had away, then should I follow; for I do feel in myself as though I were a little child to-night.”
“So you have been, methinks,” responded Isoult, smiling on him, “for assuredly they had enjoyed far less mirth without you.”
And now the dark cloud closed over England, which was to be the one blot27 on the reign28 of our Josiah. Poor young King! he was but fourteen; how could he tell the depth of iniquity29 that was hidden in those cold blue eyes of the man who was hunting the hapless Duke of Somerset to death? Probably there was only one man who fully30 fathomed31 it, and that was the victim himself. And his voice was sterling32 in England no more.
Words fail in the attempt to describe what the Duke’s execution was to the Gospellers. There was not one of them, from the Tyne to the Land’s End, who for the country’s sake would not joyfully33 have given his life for the life of Somerset. He was only a man, and a sinful man too; yet such as he was, speaking after the manner of men, he was the hope of the Gospel cause. To every Gospeller it was as the last plague of Egypt; and to judge by the lamentations to be heard in all their houses, it might have been supposed that “there was not an house where there was not one dead.” It is not often that a whole land mourns like this. Among her sons England has not many darlings, but those that she has, she holds very dear.
The morning of the 22nd of January came.
“Know you, Mrs Avery,” asked Esther, “if the Duke of Somerset is like to be had afore the Council again, and when it shall be? I would like much to see that noble gentleman, if I might get a glimpse of him.”
Isoult referred the question to John, but he said he had heard nothing; he was going to Fleet Street, and would see if he could find out. But before he set out there came a rapping on the door, and when Ursula opened it, there stood Mr Rose.
“Welcome!” said John to him. “Come in and give us your news.”
“There shall be better welcome for me than them,” he said, in his sad grave manner. “Know you that even this day doth my Lord of Somerset suffer?”
“Is there no help for it?” said Dr Thorpe, sternly.
Mr Rose answered sadly,—“There is alway help from God; but His help is not alway to be seen of men. From men, in this matter, there is none help whatever, remembering that he who should give it is my Lord of Northumberland. You may ask the lion to have mercy on his new-caught prey34, but not John Dudley upon Edward Seymour. There is but this one barrier betwixt him and—”
Mr Rose did not finish in words, but a slight motion of his hands over his head (Note 1) showed well enough what he meant.
“But you count not that he would aim—” began Dr Thorpe.
“He that hath the thing in deed, doth sometimes all the better without the name thereof,” he said quietly.
“Where dieth he?” saith John, in a low voice.
“Upon Tower Hill,” Mr Rose replied.
“I would like,” he answered, “to see him once more, and hear what he will say.”
“You cannot,” said Mr Rose. “There hath been commandment issued that all householders (except specially36 summoned) shall keep their houses, upon sore pain, betwixt six and eight of the clock this morrow, until all be over. List! there goeth six of the clock now. I thought to have gone somewhat further on my way, but now I must needs abide37 with you these two hours.”
So they sat down and talked, mournfully enough, until the clock struck seven; and then Mr Rose, rising from his chair, said, “Brethren, let us pray.” John drew the bolts, and the curtains over the windows, and all knelt down.
This morning England’s heart was throbbing38 with pain; to-morrow she would be mourning for her dead son. The only man whom England trusted was dying on Tower Hill! And this group—atoms of England, and parts of England’s heart—without such guards as these, they dared not pray for him.
Thus Mr Rose prayed:—
“O Lord, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders! whose way is in the sea, and whose path in the great waters, and whose footsteps are not known! We kneel before Thee this dread39 morrow, to beseech40 Thee on behalf of Edward Seymour, by Thy grace and providence41 Duke of Somerset. For causes unknown to us, but known to Thine unfathomable wisdom, Thou hast given leave to his enemies to triumph over him; and in Thy wise, and good, and just allowing and ordering of men’s ways, he is as this day cast for death. We know, O Lord, that Thy judgments42 are right, and that Thou in faithfulness dost afflict44 and chasten man, whether for sin, or for correction and instruction in righteousness. Therefore we would not beseech Thee to remove Thine hand from him—as, even at the last moment, Thou wert able to do—but rather so to order this Thy very awful providence, that he may be strengthened for death, and enabled to put his whole trust in Thy mercy, and in the alone merits of the bitter cross and passion of Thy Son our Lord. Suffer him not to depart from Thy fear, nor to lose his full and entire confidence in Thy mercy. Let not the malice45 of the Devil, neither the traitorousness and perfidiousness46 of his own evil heart, cause him to fall short of Thy heavenly calling. O Lord God most holy, O Lord God most mighty47, O holy and merciful Saviour48, suffer him not, in his last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from Thee!”
He paused a moment, and all responded—“Amen.” Yet he rose not. But while they knelt, from within the wall of the Tower enclosure came a sudden tumult49, rushings to and fro, and shouts and cries of “Jesu, save us!” After a few minutes all was quiet.
And when all was quiet, Mr Rose went on.
“Lord, bow down Thine ear, and hear! Open, Lord, Thine eyes, and see! Reveal unto this dying man the glory of Thy kingdom, the beauty of Thyself, that so he may count all things but loss that he may win Christ. Open unto him the gates of pearl, which the righteous shall enter into—make him to shine forth50 as the sun in the kingdom of Thee, O Father. Grant him to endure this his cross for Thy love, and in Thy strength, and after to reign with Thee in glory evermore.”
He made another pause—a longer one; and again all responded, “Amen.” During his silence came another roar from Tower Hill; but all was again silent (Note 2). The minutes passed slowly to the kneeling group. It seemed a long time ere he spoke again.
“O Lord, shed Thy peace over the last moments of this our brother in the Gospel of Christ—in Thy kingdom and patience. Let Thy servant depart in peace. Suffer not Satan to harass51 and annoy him, nor the thought of his own sins to grieve and shake him. Fix his mind firmly upon Thee and on Thy Christ. O holy and merciful Saviour, suffer him not, at his last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from Thee!”
As Mr Rose uttered the last word, the Tower guns rang out, clear and sharp, on the frosty morning air. Few sounds ever thrilled so straight to the Gospellers’ hearts as that. None uttered another word while they knelt. Even the Amen was silent now. They might pray no more for Edward Duke of Somerset.
Slowly, one after another, all rose. All still, in silent mourning, they waited till the great clock of Saint Botolph’s rang out eight times. The next minute every door in the street was opened, and men were pouring out in a mass toward Aldgate. Then Mr Rose, with a heavy sigh, rose and held out his hand. That action unloosed the tongues of the party.
“Ah! God be his rest!” said Dr Thorpe, meditatively52. “He did not alway the right, but—”
“As said poor King Harry54, ‘Kingdoms are but cares,’” said John (Note 3). “He hath found a better now.”
“He hath found a better, I am assured,” answered Mr Rose, “and is now singing the new song before the Throne. Methinks he doth not wish himself back now.”
“I marvel3,” suggested Dr Thorpe, half sorrowfully, yet a little scornfully, “how he and the Queen Katherine shall get along the one with the other in Heaven?”
“I count, old friend,” answered John, “that the Lutheran Queen and the Gospelling Duke will each be taken up too much with the mercy that hath forgiven his sins, to have any leisure for counting up those of the other.”
“Well, they will lack something of the sort,” replied the old man.
“How can there be disagreement where each seeth clear?” said Mr Rose, “or how any disliking in the presence of the Mediator55?”
Dr Thorpe made no answer, but he shook Mr Rose’s offered hand warmly; and when he was gone, he said, “That is a good man. I would I were a better.”
“Amen!” responded Avery, “for us all.”
About the middle of March came Annis Holland to pay her farewell visit to Isoult. She was a quiet, gentle-looking woman, rather short, and inclining to embonpoint, her hair black, and her eyes dark grey. She was to start for Spain on the 22nd of the same month, under the escort of Don Jeronymo, a Spanish gentleman in the household of the Duchess of Suffolk. The city to which she was bound was Tordesillas, and there (where the Queen resided) she was to await the orders of the Marquis of Denia, who was her Majesty’s Comptroller. Annis promised to write to her friend twice every year, while she remained abroad.
A few days after Annis’s departure, there was a dinner-party at the Lamb. The guests were Mr and Mrs Underhill, Mr and Mrs Rose, Thekla, and Mr Holland.
Mr Underhill brought bad news. The King had fallen ill of small-pox, and Parliament was likely to be prorogued56, since he could no longer be present at the debates. The idea that the royal presence might overawe the members, and the consequent absence of the Sovereign from the House excepting for state ceremonies, are no older than the Restoration. The Plantagenet and Tudor Kings sat in their Parliaments as a matter of course.
After dinner, Mr Holland, who was fond of children, set Kate on his knee, and won her heart by permitting her to chatter57 as freely as she pleased. Robin58 and Thekla crept into a quiet corner by themselves; Mrs Underhill made Esther her especial companion; and the rest sat round the fire.
“What think you,” said Dr Thorpe to Mr Underhill, “should now hap1, if (which God of His mercy defend!) this sickness of the King were to prove mortal?”
“How mean you?” Mr Underhill answered, “that the King should or should not provide his successor?”
“Why,” replied Dr Thorpe, “will he shut out his sisters?”
“There are that would right gladly have him to do so.”
“Whom aim you at there?”
“My Lord of Northumberland and other,” said he.
Dr Thorpe exploded, as was usual with him, at Northumberland’s name.
“What, the Duke of Blunderhead?” cried he. “Ay, I reckon he would like well to be John the Second. Metrusteth the day that setteth the fair crown of England on that worthless head of his, shall see me safe in Heaven, or it should go hard with me but I would pluck it thence!”
“I never can make out,” answered Mr Underhill, laughing, “how you can be a Lutheran, and yet such an enemy to my Lord of Northumberland, that is commonly counted head of the Lutheran party, at the least in the sense of public matters.”
“Nay, my word on’t!” exclaimed he, “but if I thought the Devil, by that his proxy59, to be head of the Lutheran party, in any sense or signification whatsoever60, I would turn Gospeller to-morrow!”
Mr Underhill roared with laughter. John said, aside to Mr Rose,—“He is not far from it now.”
“Come, you are over hard on Jack Dudley,” said Mr Underhill. “He is an old friend of mine.”
“Then I wish you joy of your friends,” replied Dr Thorpe, in a disgusted tone: adding after a minute, “I yet look for your answer to my question.”
“I am no prophet,” answered he, “neither a prophet’s son; but it needeth not much power of prophecy to see that a civil war, or something very like it, should follow.”
“In either case?” suggested Avery.
“In the case of the King making no appointment,” he said, “very likely: in the case of his so doing, almost certain.”
“Eh, my masters!” continued Dr Thorpe very sadly, “when I was born, seventy-one years gone, the Wars of the Roses were scantly over. I have heard my father tell what they were. Trust me, rather than go through such a time again, I would be on my knees to God to spare it unto us,—ay, night and day.”
“But in case no devise of the succession were made,” said John, “the Lady Mary’s Grace should follow without gainsaying62, I take it.”
“Not without gainsaying,” answered Mr Rose. “My Lord of Northumberland knoweth full well that he could not reign under her as he hath done under King Edward. Remember, she is no child, but a woman; ay, and a woman taught by suffering also.”
“And every Lutheran in the kingdom would gather round him,” added Mr Underhill.
“Round John Dudley?” cried Dr Thorpe. “Hang me if I would!”
“Saving your mastership,” said Mr Underhill, laughing, and making him a low bow.
“And every Papist would go with the Lady Mary,” said John. “It were an hard choice for us. How think you? Which way should the Gospellers go?”
“Which way?” cried Mr Underhill, flaring64 up. “Why, the right way! With the right heir of England, and none other!”
“I asked not you, Ned Underhill,” answered John, smiling. “I know your horse, and how hard you ride him. I wished to question Rose and Holland.”
Mr Rose did not answer immediately. Mr Holland said, “It were an hard case; yet methinks Mr Underhill hath the right. Nothing can make right wrong, I take it, neither wrong to be right.”
“Truth: yet that is scarce the question,” responded Avery. “Rather is it, if the King made another devise of the crown, who should then be the right heir?”
“Ah! now you are out of my depth,” answered Mr Holland. “This little maid and I understand each other better. Do we not so, Kate?”
“Well, Rose?” inquired John.
“Prithee, get Mr Underhill out of the house first,” interposed Dr Thorpe, laughing.
“Or we shall have a pitched battle. I would like nothing better!” said Mr Underhill, rubbing his hands, and laughing in his turn.
“Brother,” said Mr Rose, turning to him, “the wisdom that cometh from above is peaceable.”
“But first, pure!” answered Mr Underhill, quickly.
“There were little of the one, if it should lack the other,” responded he.
“Come, give us your thought!” cried Mr Underhill. “I will endeavour myself to keep mine hands off you, and allgates, if I grow very warlike, Avery and Holland can let me from blood-shedding.”
“When I find myself in the difficulty, I will,” replied Mr Rose, with his quiet smile.
And no more could Mr Underhill obtain from him: but he said that he would demand an answer if the occasion arose.
The King had no sooner recovered from the small-pox than he took the measles65; and the Parliament, seeing no hope of his speedy amendment66, broke up on the 15th of April.
Mr Rose stepped into the Lamb that evening.
“There is a point of our last week’s matter, that I would like your thought upon,” said Avery to him. “Granted that the Gospellers should make a self party, and not join them with Lutherans ne with Papists, touching67 public matters, where, think you, look we for a leader?”
Mr Rose shook his head. “We have none,” said he.
“Not my Lord Archbishop?”
“Assuredly not; he is by far too gentle and timid. We lack a man that could stand firm,—not that should give up all short of God’s Throne for the sake of peace.”
“Nor my Lord of London?”
“Dr Ridley is a bolder man than his superior; a fine, brave follow in every way: yet methinks he hath in him scantly all the gear we lack; and had we a command for him, I misdoubt greatly if he should take it. He is a man of most keen feeling and delicate judgment43.”
“My Lord of Sussex?”
“Gramercy, no! Nature never cut him out for a general.”
“Mr Latimer, quondam of Worcester?”
“As fiery69 as Ned Underhill,” answered Mr Rose, smiling; “indeed, somewhat too lacking in caution; but an old man, with too little strength or endurance of body—enough of soul.”
“Nay, then, I see but one more,” continued Avery, “and if you say nay to him also, I have done. What think you of my Lord’s Grace of Suffolk?”
“‘Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,’” he answered. “A man weak as any child, and as easily led astray. If he be your head, Avery, I would say it were scarce worth to turn out for the cause. You would have an halter round your neck in a week.”
“Well,” responded John, “I cannot see any other.”
“I cannot see any,” was Mr Rose’s answer.
“Then we have no leader!” said Dr Thorpe, despondently70.
Dr Thorpe was beginning to say “we” when he meant the Gospellers.
“We have no leader,” said Mr Rose. “We had one—an Heaven-born one—the only man to whose standard (saving a faction) all England should have mustered71, the only man whose trumpet72 should have reached every heart. And but three months gone, his blood reddened the surfeited73 earth upon Tower Hill. Friends, men may come to look upon that loss as upon a loss never to be amended74. Trust me, we have not seen the worst yet. If it should be as you guess—and that may well be—there shall yet be a bitterer wail75 of mourning, yet a cry of agony ringing to the Heaven, for the lack of Edward Seymour.”
“Ay, I am afeard the black clouds be not done opening themselves yet,” sadly replied John.
“I think they have scantly done gathering76,” answered he. “The breaking, the tempest, cometh on apace. But it is not yet come.”
“When shall it come, think you?” said Dr Thorpe.
“Shortly,” he answered. “A word in your ear: the King is more grievous sick than men wot of. He may tide over this his malady77; very like he will. But he hath no power within him to do battle with such disorders78. His strength is worn out. He is scarce like to outlive an other.”
“Nay, my master! Worn out at fourteen!” cried Dr Thorpe.
“Men reckon time by days; God by endurance,” said Mr Rose, mournfully. “And this boy hath borne, these three years, more than you or I wot of. The sword is too sharp for the scabbard. It may be we have hardly known how to rate his true worth; or it may be that his work is over. Either way, it shall not be long now ere he enter into God’s rest and his. Ay, I know it is a woeful saying, yet again I say it: King Edward is worn out at fourteen. We may not seek to keep him; but this I am assured—the angel’s call to him shall be the signal for a fearful contest in the realm he leaveth. God defend the right! and God strengthen and comfort us, for I warn you we shall need it.”
“Alack! when shall all this end?” sighed Isoult.
“When Christ cometh again,” answered Mr Rose.
“No sooner?” she cried.
“No sooner,” said he. “There may be gleams of light before then; but there can be no full day ere the Sun arise. There may be long times of ease and exemption79 from persecution80; but there can be no stable settlement, no lasting81 peace, till He appear who is our peace. He that is born after the flesh must persecute82 him that is born after the Spirit. ‘If ye were of the world, the world would love his own.’ It is because we are not of the world that the world hateth us. Sister, let us comfort ourselves and one another with these words. Christ will not fail us; see we that we fail not Him. We may yet be called to go with Him, both into prison and to death. It may be that ‘the Lord hath need of us’ after this manner. If it be so, let us march bravely in His martyr83 train. We must never allow His banner to fall unto the dust, nor tremble to give our worthless lives for Him that bought us with His own. If we can keep our eyes steady on the glory that shall follow, the black river will be easier to cross, the chariot of fire less hard to mount. And remember, He can carry us over in His arms, that the cold waters touch not so much as our feet.”
When Mr Rose was gone, John said, his voice a little broken,—“Will he be a martyr?”
But the King’s work was not yet quite finished. He recovered from his double illness.
The Londoners were terrified in the beginning of June by what they regarded as a fearful sign from Heaven—a shower of what is commonly known as “red rain.” In their eyes it was blood, and a presage86 of dreadful slaughter87. The slaughter followed, whatever the shower might mean. The last year of rest was at hand.
“What say you to my Lord of Northampton?” suddenly inquired John Avery of Mr Rose, one morning when they met in the Strand88.
It was an odd and abrupt89 beginning of conversation: but Mr Rose understood its meaning only too well. The thoughts of the Gospellers were running chiefly now on the dark future, and their own disorganised condition.
“What had Nehemiah said in the like accident to Sanballat?” was his suggestive answer.
The Papists, who were not disorganised, and had no reason to fear the future, were busy catching90 dolphins,—another portent—which made their appearance at London Bridge in August.
The new service-book, as its contemporaries called it—the second Prayer Book of Edward the Sixth, as we call it—was used for the first time in Saint Paul’s Cathedral, on All Saints’ Day, November 1, 1552. Bishop68 Ridley’s voice was the first that read it, and he took the whole duty himself; and preached in the choir91, habited only in his rochet. In the afternoon he preached at the Cross,—what was then called a long sermon—about three hours. My Lord Mayor, who ought to have been present, was conspicuous92 by his absence. When remonstrated93 with, that dignitary observed that “Bishop Ridley’s sermons were alway so long, that he would be at no more, for he was aweary of so long standing94.” Wherein my Lord Mayor anticipated the nineteenth century, though it sits out the sermon on cushions, and rarely is called upon to lend its ears for one-third of the time which he was expected to do. Dr Thorpe was not far wrong in the conclusion at which he arrived:—that “my Lord Mayor’s heart passed his legs for stiffness.”
The early winter of 1552 brought the first letter from Annis Holland.
“To the hands of my right worthy95 Mistress and most singular dear friend, Mistress Avery, dwelling96 at the sign of the Lamb in the Minories, without Aldgate, by London, give these.
“My right dearly beloved Isoult,—After my most loving commendations remembered, this shall be to advertise thee of my safe landing in the city of Santander, in Spain, and my coming unto the Queen’s Highness’ Court at Tordesillas. So much as to set down the names of all the towns I have passed, betwixt the two, will I not essay. It hath been a wearyful journey and a long, yet should have been a pleasant one, but for the lack of victual. The strangest land ever I did see, or think to see, is this. The poor men hereaway dwell in good houses, and lack meat: the rich dwell in yet fairer, and eat very trumpery97. I saw not in all my life in England so much olive oil as in one week sithence I came into Spain. What I am for to live upon here I do marvel. Cheese they have, and onions by the cartload; but they eat not but little meat, and that all strings98 (a tender piece thereof have I not yet seen); and for ale they drink red wine. Such messes as they do make in their cooking like me very ill, but I trow I shall be seasoned thereto in due time.
“The first night we came to this city, which is sixteen days gone. Master Jeronymo (that hath showed me much courtesy, and had a very great care of me) brought me into the house of a gentleman his kinsman99, whose name is Don Diego de Mendoza (fictitious100 person), (which is to say, Master James Mendoza). This Don Diego is a rare courtier, all bows, smiles, and courtesies; and Madam Isabel his wife (fictitious person) cometh not far behind. And (which I cannot away with), she is not called Doña Isabel de Mendoza, after the name of her husband but cleaveth to her own, as though she were yet a maid, and is called of all men Doña Isabel de Alameda. Methought this marvellous strange; but this (Master Jeronymo telleth me) is the custom of his country, and our fashion of names is to the full as strange to them. So when we came into the house (which is builded with pillars around the court, and a fountain in the midst, right fair to see) Master Jeronymo leadeth me forward, and courtesieth well-nigh down to the ground. Quoth he to Don Diego,—‘Señor and my cousin, I beseech the high favour of kissing your hand.’ And to Doña Isabel,—‘Señora and my cousin, I entreat101 you to bestow102 upon me the soles of your feet.’ (Note 5.) Verily, I marvelled103 at such words; but Doña Isabel in return louteth down to the earth, with—‘Señor, I am your entirely104 undeserving scullion. I beg of you the unspeakable honour to present me to the serenity105 of the most highly-born lady beside you.’ Marry (thought I) how shall I ever dwell in a land where they talk thus! But I was not yet at the end of mine amaze. Master Jeronymo answers,—‘Señora, this English damsel, which hath the great happiness to kiss your feet, is the most excellent Señora Doña Ines (Note 6) de Olanda (marry, I never thought to see my name cut up after such a fashion!) that shall have the weight of honour to be writer of the English tongue unto our most serene106 Lady the Queen Doña Juana.’ Then Madam Isabel louteth down again to the floor, saying,—‘Señora, I have the delightsomeness to be your most humble107 and lowly serving-maid. This your house is wholly at your disposal’—‘Master Jeronymo (quoth I in English), I pray you tell me what I must say?’—‘Say (answereth he) that you are the Señora’s highly favoured slave, and are not worthy to stand at the threshold of her door.’
“Eh, Isoult, dear heart, what a land is this!
“Master Jeronymo said unto me afterward108 that this his cousin would be very good unto me in her meaning; for the Spaniards say not that of their house being yours, without they mean much grace and kindness unto you.
“Well, after this, Madam Isabel took me away with her into an other chamber109, where she gave me a cup of red wine and some cakes, that were not ill to take. And in this chamber were great cushions spread all about the floor, like unto the mattress110 of a bed; the cushions of velvet111 and verder (a species of tapestry), and the floor of marble. Upon these she desired me to repose112 me for a season; and (saith she) ‘At seven of the clock, mine excellent cousin Don Jeronymo and my lord Don Diego, and I your servant, shall take you up to the Castle, into the most ineffable113 presence of the most glorious Lord Marquis of Denia.’ O rare! (thought I.) If the Queen’s Comptroller be so glorious and of so ineffable a presence, what shall his mistress be? So when even came (my Señora Madam Isabel having meantime reposed114 and slumbered115 on the cushions), I shifted me into my best and richest apparel for to enter this ineffable presence, and went up unto the Castle, Don Diego leading me by the hand, and Madam Isabel coming after with Master Jeronymo. This was but across the court; for no sooner had I reached the door, than what should I see but two mules116, richly-caparisoned, there standing. I was somewhat surprised, for the Castle is but a stone’s throw from the house; but Master Jeronymo, seeing my look, whispereth unto me that in Spain, ladies of any sort (ladies of rank) do ride when they go of a journey, be it but ten yards. Methought it scarce worth the trouble to mount the mule117 for to ’light off him again so soon: howbeit, I did as I was bid. Madam Isabel suffered her lord to lift her upon the other; and away hied we for the Castle, our cavaliers a-walking behind. When we ’light, and the portcullis was drawn118 up, Master Jeronymo prayeth the porter to send word unto the ineffable Lord Comptroller that the English damsel sent hither by the most noble Lady, Doña Catalina (so they call my Lady of Suffolk’s Grace) doth entreat for leave to kiss the dust under his feet. This is their country mode; but I do ensure thee I had been little gladded for leave to kiss the dust; and it doth yet tickle119 mine ears whensoever I hear it. So up the stairs went we, through a fair court bordered with orange-trees, into a brave chamber hung about with silk, and all over the floor a carpet of verder spread. Here we awaited a season; at the end whereof come in three or four gentlemen in brave array, before the foremost whereof all we bowed down to the ground. This was mine ineffable Lord Marquis. A tall, personable gentleman he is, something stiff and stately.
“‘Señora,’ saith he, inclining him unto us, ‘you are welcome as the light!’
“And raising him up, he called in a loud voice for the Señora Gomez. Come forth from the chamber beyond, a middle-aged120 dame121, apparelled in black.
“‘Take this lady to her chamber,’ saith he. ‘Doña Ines is her name. And remember what I told you!’
“So I took my leave of Master Jeronymo, and of Don Diego and Doña Isabel, with many protestations and loutings; and again making low reverence122 unto my Lord Marquis, away hied I with Madam Gomez. She led me on by so many lobbies, one after the other, that methought we should never make an end and come to a chamber; but once, when I would have spoken, she checked me with a finger on the lip. At last she turned into a fair large chamber, well hung and garnished123. She shut to the door, and then her lips unclosed.
“‘Here, Señora, is your chamber,’ saith she. ‘Two small alcoves124 for sleeping be on the right, for yourself and your bower-woman; you have been looked for of long time, and she awaiteth you. I will send her to you when I depart.’
“‘I thank you,’ quoth I. ‘May I pray you of her name?’
“‘Her name,’ she answered, ‘is Maria Porcina’ (the which should in English be Mary Little-pig. Methought it an unfair name). ‘It will please you,’ she went on, ‘to speak but lowly, seeing your chamber is nigh unto those of our Lady.’
“I thought that should please me but little. ‘Señora,’ quoth I, ‘shall I have the honour to see the Queen’s Grace at supper, think you?’
“The Señora Gomez looked at me; then she went to the door and drew the bolt, and let back the curtain that was over the door. This done, she came back and sat in the window.
“‘Señora,’ she saith, in a voice little above a whisper, ‘to the world outside we do not tell secrets. But unto a damsel so wise and discreet125 as your serenity, I will not fear to speak freely.’ (Much, methought, she knew of my discretion126!) ‘You desire to know if you shall see our Lady this even. No; you will never see her.’
“‘But,’ said I, ‘I am come hither to read and write English for her Highness.’
“‘You are come to read and write for the Lord Marquis,’ she answered; ‘not for her.’
“‘Certes,’ said I, ‘that was not told me.’
“‘It is never told to any,’ she replied.
“‘But what is the secret, I pray your excellency?’ I asked. ‘Is the Queen’s Highness sick, that she is never seen?’
“‘She is mad,’ answered she.
“‘God have mercy on her!’ cried I.
“‘Y la Santisima!’ (And the most holy Virgin127!) saith she. ‘That is what is said to the world. Be you ware128, Doña Ines, that you gainsay63 it not.’
“‘Mean you that it is not true?’ cried I.
“‘I mean,’ quoth she, ‘that my Lord Marquis of Denia is master here, and is an ill one to offend. Say as he saith—that is our rule.’
“‘Then,’ said I, ‘there is somewhat behind, which men may not know.’
“‘Behind!’ she saith, with a low crafty129 laugh that it liked me not to hear. ‘Ay, there is Don Carlos the Emperor, son of our Lady, behind the Lord Marquis. Have a care what you do and say. Con13 el Rey y la Inquisicion, chiton! (which is a Spanish saw (proverb), meaning, Be silent touching the King and the Inquisition.) And if you speak unadvisedly of the one, you may find you within the walls of the other. I speak in kindness, Señora, and of what I know. This palace is not all bowers130 and gardens. There be dungeons131 beneath those bowers, deep and dark. Santa Maria defend us! You tread on mines—hold your peace!’
“‘I thank you, Señora, for your warning,’ answered I. ‘Go with God!’
“‘And rest with Him!’ she answered. (‘Vaya (or quede) usted con Dios.’) (In this fashion do the Spaniards take their leave.) Then she left me.
“Isoult, dear heart, I am well assured herefrom that this is an evil place, and my Lord of Denia an ill man. But there is yet more to tell thee.
“When I went down to supper, I there found my Lord and Lady of Denia; Fray132 Juan de Avila, confessor to her Highness; and her Grace’s bower-women, whose names be Doña Ximena de Lara (fictitious), a young damsel (I hear), of very high degree, that is stately and silent; Doña Catalina de la Moraleja (fictitious), a middle-aged dame, grave and sedate133; Doña Leonor Gomez, of whom I have spoken; and Doña Rosada de Las Peñas (fictitious), a young maid of gentle and kindly134 look. And if thou wouldst have their names in English—Ximena, I cannot interpret therein, for it is a name particular unto these parts; but the others should be Katherine (Note 7) and Eleanor, and Rose. Doña Leonor Gomez, I do find, will be saddest of any when my Lord’s or the confessor’s eyes be upon her, but will talk away like very water let out when she hath one alone.
“It was some days ere I was called to any work. The Tuesday thereafter, my Lord Marquis sent for me, to read a letter come to him from England. ’Twas but filled with compliments and fair words—scarce worth the sending, methought. Very grave is this Lord Marquis, yet extreme courteous135 withal. As I stood a-reading come in Fray Juan.
“‘How fareth her Highness?’ asks my Lord.
“‘She requires you,’ answered the Friar.
“‘I go,’ his Lordship made answer. ‘Is it the premia?’
“The Friar shrugged136 up his shoulders, but said nought137; and my Lord, so soon as I had made an end of reading, sent me away quickly (Note 8). Now I marvelled much what they meant, seeing that premia signifieth a reward or kindness done unto one; and wherefore that should be I knew not. When I was in my chamber, I asked Maria what premia meant. (This is a good, kindly, simple lass I have.) ‘Señora,’ said she, ‘it signifieth a reward.’ And she plainly knew of no other signification.
“But in the night, I was waked from my sleep by the dreadfullest sound ever I heard. Surely I was deceived, but it did seem to me like shrieks138 of some poor wretch139 in mortal pain. Maria awaked also, and sitting up in her bed, she cries under her breath, ‘All the saints preserve us!’
“‘What can it be?’ said I.
“‘Señora,’ quoth she, ‘may it please your serenity, I know not. I have heard it once afore, some time gone, but none would tell me the cause thereof. Methinks the Castle is haunted by goblins.’
“And she fell to crossing her and saying Ave Marys by the score.
“The screaming ceased not for some time, and then by degrees; but I slept not again.
“The morrow after came Doña Leonor into my chamber; and after some talk on things indifferent, she saith, ‘Did aught disturb you this night?’
“‘Doña Leonor, what was it?’ said I.
“‘What heard you, Doña Ines?’ quoth she.
“‘We hear them sometimes,’ she answered.
“‘But what is it?’ I repeated.
“‘Doña Ines,’ said she, ‘there are things not to be spoken about. But do not you fancy that the Castle is haunted by goblins.’
“And not an other word might I have from her. But I am assured there is some terrible matter afoot in this Palace; and I would I were safe thereout.
“I must close my letter somewhat shortly, for Doña Isabel de Alameda, that promised me to send it with one of hers that goeth to Cales (Cadiz), hath sent her brother’s son, Don Juan de Alameda (fictitious), to request the same, and I must not keep him awaiting. Be not thou disturbed, dear heart; God is as near to Tordesillas as to London, and He is stronger than all evil men and devils. Unto His keeping I commend thee. From Tordesillas, this Monday.
“Thine own to her little power, Annis Holland.
“I pray thee, make my commendations unto Mr Avery and all thine.”
When Christmas Day came, the Averys did what half London was doing: they walked down to Westminster, to the great pulpit set up in the King’s garden. Into the pulpit came a rather tall, spare old man, with a wrinkled face, a large Roman nose, shaggy eyebrows141, and radiant, shining eyes. And before the sermon was over, the eyes had kindled142 with a live coal from the altar of the Lord, and the firm voice was ringing clearly to every corner of that vast gathering. The preacher was Hugh Latimer.
He was about to leave London the next morning for Grimsthorpe, where he had undertaken, at the request of the Duchess of Suffolk, to deliver to her and her household a series of lectures on the Lord’s Prayer. After the sermon, those quick bright eyes speedily found out Edward Underhill, and the old man came down from the pulpit and shook hands with him. Then he turned to Isoult Avery, who stood near. He remembered meeting her at Ampthill and Guildford, some ten years before; and he blessed her, and asked what family she had; and when she told him, “Three,” he said, “God bless them, and make them His childre.” Then he laid his hand upon little Kate’s head and blessed her; and then away, walking with a quick firm step, like a man whose work was but half done; with Augustine Bernher behind him, carrying the old man’s Bible.
This year Saint Nicholas “went not about.” The ceremony had previously143 taken place on his eve, December 5, when the priests carried his image round from house to house, and gave small presents to the children as from the saint. The modern American custom of “Santa Claus” is a relic16 of the old procession of Saint Nicholas; though the Dutch form of the name shows it to have been derived144 not from the English, but the Dutch, settlers. Kate’s Protestantism was not yet sufficiently145 intelligent to prevent her from regretting Saint Nicholas; but Dr Thorpe coaxed146 Esther to make a handful of sugar-plums, whereon he regaled his disappointed pet.
The close of the year brought treats for both parents and children. At Saint Paul’s, Bishop Ridley preached for five evenings together; and at Cheapside, with the new year, came the Lord of Misrule—again George Ferris—making his proclamations, and dining in state with the Lord Mayor. And at Shene, my Lord of Northumberland founded the first hot-house, and presented a nosegay of living flowers to the King on New Year’s Day.
So, in flowers and laughter, came in the awful year 1553—most awful year of all the century.
One morning in January, as Isoult stood waiting for John, to go with him to Latimer’s sermon, who should walk in but Philippa Basset, whose stay in Cheshire had been much longer than she anticipated. She brought many a scrap147 of Northern news, and Lady Bridget’s loving commendations to Isoult. And “Whither away?” asked she.
“Truly,” said Isoult, “to the King’s Garden, to hear Mr Latimer preach.”
“Marry,” said she, “I did never yet hear that mighty Gospeller. Have (I will go) with you, an’ you will take me.”
“With a very good will,” said Isoult.
So she went with them, and listened to Latimer’s sermon, wherein there were some things which Isoult felt would vex148 her; for the subject was praying to saints, and he said, “Invocation declareth an omnipotency.” But not a word could Isoult get from her when they came home (for she stayed and dined with them), which showed how she liked it. Only she would say, “The man speaketh well; he hath good choice of words,” and similar phrases; but on all points concerning his doctrine149 she kept silence.
As Isoult sat at her sewing the next morning, with Walter at his hornbook, and Kate at her arithmetic beside her, a rap on the door brought Ursula to open it. Isoult fancied she knew the voice which asked “if Mistress Avery there dwelt,” but she could not think all at once whose it was; yet the minute she came into the chamber, she well knew her old friend and colleague, Beatrice Vivian.
Beatrice was fair and rosy150, and looked well and happy, as she said she was. So when the ladies had sat and talked a little, and Beatrice had kissed the children, and told Isoult that she had two, whose names were Muriel and Alice, and that Mr Vivian was well, and other details: she said—
“Isoult, I have news for thee, which by thy leave I will have thee to guess.”
“Is it good or bad?” said Isoult.
“Why, good, I hope,” said Beatrice. “’Tis a wedding, and both bride and bridegroom we know.”
“Dear heart,” sighed Isoult, “I am an ill guesser, as thou wist of old. Is it Mr Dynham?” (Fictitious person.)
“Is it over, or to come?”
“Over, this New Year, or should be,” answered Beatrice. “Dost thou lack help? what thinkest of my Lady of Suffolk her own self?” (The date is fictitious. It was probably about Christmas, 1552.)
“Beatrice, dear heart!” cried Isoult. “Thou meanest not that?”
“I would guess,” said Isoult, “some gentleman of great riches and very high degree.”
“Well, as to riches,” she answered, “I fancy he hath hitherto earned every penny he hath spent; and in respect of degree, hath been used to the holding of his mistress’ stirrup. Canst thou guess now?”
“Surely so,” answered Beatrice, again laughing. “Her Grace of Suffolk and Mr Bertie be now man and wife. And for my poor opinion, methinks she hath chosen well for her own comfort.”
“I am rarely glad to hear it,” Isoult answered; “so think I likewise.”
But for all that, she was exceedingly surprised.
There was some murmuring in May. The Duke of Northumberland, in the King’s name, had ordered all the churches to furnish an account of their goods; and on the first day of that month, the treasuries153 were robbed of all the plate, money, jewels, and vestments, which were confiscated154 to the King’s use; and the very bells of the churches shared their fate. Dr Thorpe had been growling155 over the matter in April, when it was but a project; averring156 that “when he had caught a man’s hand in his own pocket, it little amazed him afterward to see it in his neighbour’s:” but now, when the project reached open burglary, his anger found vent61 in hotter words.
“Lo’ you now! this cut-purse hath got his hand into an other man’s pocket, even as I said. Will no man put this companion into the Tower? Can none clap him therein under any manner of warrant?”
Note 1. A gesture well understood at that time, when plain speech was often perilous—the half-clasped hands resting upon the head in the form of a crown. By this gesture, fifty years later, when past speech, Queen Elizabeth answered the question of Robert Cecil concerning her successor. She meant, and he understood her to mean—“Let it be a King.”
Note 2. The cause of the first tumult was a sudden panic, occasioned by the running of some of the guards who arrived late; the second was due to the appearance of Sir Anthony Browne, whom the people fancied had been sent with a reprieve157.
Note 3.
“Kingdoms are but cares,
And hasten to decay.”
King Henry the Sixth.
Note 4. Don and Doña are prefixes160 restricted to the Christian161 name. An Englishman using Don with the surname (an error to which our countrymen are strangely prone) commits the very same blunder for which he laughs at the Frenchman who says “Sir Peel.”
Note 5. A common Spanish greeting, the absurdity162 of which makes us sympathise with Lope de Vega’s Diana, in her matter-of-fact reply,—“Están á los piés asidas” (They are fixed163 to my feet).
Note 6. Inez, the form more familiar to English readers, is the Portuguese164 spelling.
Note 7. Katherine is not really a translation of Catalina, but they were considered interchangeable at this time.
Note 8. Denia was at one time anxious to get rid of De Avila, because he was too gentle and lenient165!
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1
hap
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| n.运气；v.偶然发生 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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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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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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perfidiousness
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| n. 不忠 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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54
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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55
mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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56
prorogued
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| v.使（议会）休会( prorogue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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58
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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59
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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60
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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61
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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62
gainsaying
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的现在分词 ) | |
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63
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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64
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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65
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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66
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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67
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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68
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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69
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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70
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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71
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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72
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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73
surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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74
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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75
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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76
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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77
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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78
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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79
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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80
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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81
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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82
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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83
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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84
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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85
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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86
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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87
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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88
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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89
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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90
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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91
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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92
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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93
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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94
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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95
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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96
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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97
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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98
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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99
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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100
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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101
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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102
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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103
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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105
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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106
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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107
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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108
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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109
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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110
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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111
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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112
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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113
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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114
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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117
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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118
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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119
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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120
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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121
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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122
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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123
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
alcoves
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| n.凹室( alcove的名词复数 )；（花园）凉亭；僻静处；壁龛 | |
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125
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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126
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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127
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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128
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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129
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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130
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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131
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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132
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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133
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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134
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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135
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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136
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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137
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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138
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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140
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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141
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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142
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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143
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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144
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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145
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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146
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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147
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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148
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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149
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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150
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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151
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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153
treasuries
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| n.（政府的）财政部( treasury的名词复数 )；国库，金库 | |
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154
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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156
averring
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| v.断言( aver的现在分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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157
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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158
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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159
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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160
prefixes
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| n.前缀( prefix的名词复数 )；人名前的称谓；前置代号（置于前面的单词或字母、数字） | |
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161
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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162
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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163
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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164
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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165
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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