Fantastic passions’ maddening brawl1!
And shame and terror over all!
Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
Which, all confused, I could not know
Whether I suffer’d or I did,
For all seem’d guilt3, remorse4, or woe5;
My own, or others, still the same
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.
Coleridge.
During the interval6 while she was thus left alone, Jeanie anxiously revolved7 in her mind what course was best for her to pursue. She was impatient to continue her journey, yet she feared she could not safely adventure to do so while the old hag and her assistants were in the neighbourhood, without risking a repetition of their violence. She thought she could collect from the conversation which she had partly overheard, and also from the wild confessions8 of Madge Wildfire, that her mother had a deep and revengeful motive9 for obstructing10 her journey if possible. And from whom could she hope for assistance if not from Mr. Staunton? His whole appearance and demeanour seemed to encourage her hopes. His features were handsome, though marked with a deep cast of melancholy11; his tone and language were gentle and encouraging; and, as he had served in the army for several years during his youth, his air retained that easy frankness which is peculiar12 to the profession of arms. He was, besides, a minister of the gospel; and, although a worshipper, according to Jeanie’s notions, in the court of the Gentiles, and so benighted13 as to wear a surplice; although he read the Common Prayer, and wrote down every word of his sermon before delivering it; and although he was, moreover, in strength of lungs, as well as pith and marrow14 of doctrine15, vastly inferior to Boanerges Stormheaven, Jeanie still thought he must be a very different person from Curate Kilstoup, and other prelatical divines of her father’s earlier days, who used to get drunk in their canonical16 dress, and hound out the dragoons against the wandering Cameronians. The house seemed to be in some disturbance17, but as she could not suppose she was altogether forgotten, she thought it better to remain quiet in the apartment where she had been left, till some one should take notice of her.
The first who entered was, to her no small delight, one of her own sex, a motherly-looking aged18 person of a housekeeper19. To her Jeanie explained her situation in a few words, and begged her assistance.
The dignity of a housekeeper did not encourage too much familiarity with a person who was at the Rectory on justice-business, and whose character might seem in her eyes somewhat precarious20; but she was civil, although distant.
“Her young master,” she said, “had had a bad accident by a fall from his horse, which made him liable to fainting fits; he had been taken very ill just now, and it was impossible his Reverence21 could see Jeanie for some time; but that she need not fear his doing all that was just and proper in her behalf the instant he could get her business attended to.”— She concluded by offering to show Jeanie a room, where she might remain till his Reverence was at leisure.
Our heroine took the opportunity to request the means of adjusting and changing her dress.
The housekeeper, in whose estimation order and cleanliness ranked high among personal virtues22, gladly complied with a request so reasonable; and the change of dress which Jeanie’s bundle furnished made so important an improvement in her appearance, that the old lady hardly knew the soiled and disordered traveller, whose attire23 showed the violence she had sustained, in the neat, clean, quiet-looking little Scotch-woman, who now stood before her. Encouraged by such a favourable24 alteration25 in her appearance, Mrs. Dalton ventured to invite Jeanie to partake of her dinner, and was equally pleased with the decent propriety26 of her conduct during the meal.
“Thou canst read this book, canst thou, young woman?” said the old lady, when their meal was concluded, laying her hand upon a large Bible.
“I hope sae, madam,” said Jeanie, surprised at the question “my father wad hae wanted mony a thing ere I had wanted that schuling.”
“The better sign of him, young woman. There are men here, well to pass in the world, would not want their share of a Leicester plover27, and that’s a bag-pudding, if fasting for three hours would make all their poor children read the Bible from end to end. Take thou the book, then, for my eyes are something dazed, and read where thou listest — it’s the only book thou canst not happen wrong in.”
Jeanie was at first tempted28 to turn up the parable29 of the good Samaritan, but her conscience checked her, as if it were a use of Scripture30, not for her own edification, but to work upon the mind of others for the relief of her worldly afflictions; and under this scrupulous31 sense of duty, she selected, in preference, a CHAPTER of the prophet Isaiah, and read it, notwithstanding her northern’ accent and tone, with a devout32 propriety, which greatly edified33 Mrs. Dalton.
“Ah,” she said, “an all Scotchwomen were sic as thou but it was our luck to get born devils of thy country, I think — every one worse than t’other. If thou knowest of any tidy lass like thysell that wanted a place, and could bring a good character, and would not go laiking about to wakes and fairs, and wore shoes and stockings all the day round — why, I’ll not say but we might find room for her at the Rectory. Hast no cousin or sister, lass, that such an offer would suit?”
This was touching34 upon a sore point, but Jeanie was spared the pain of replying by the entrance of the same man-servant she had seen before.
“Measter wishes to see the young woman from Scotland,” was Tummas’s address.
“Go to his Reverence, my dear, as fast as you can, and tell him all your story — his Reverence is a kind man,” said Mrs. Dalton. “I will fold down the leaf, and wake you a cup of tea, with some nice muffin, against you come down, and that’s what you seldom see in Scotland, girl.”
“Measter’s waiting for the young woman,” said Tummas impatiently.
“Well, Mr. Jack-Sauce, and what is your business to put in your oar35? — And how often must I tell you to call Mr. Staunton his Reverence, seeing as he is a dignified36 clergyman, and not be meastering, meastering him, as if he were a little petty squire37?”
As Jeanie was now at the door, and ready to accompany Tummas, the footman said nothing till he got into the passage, when he muttered, “There are moe masters than one in this house, and I think we shall have a mistress too, an Dame38 Dalton carries it thus.”
Tummas led the way through a more intricate range of passages than Jeanie had yet threaded, and ushered39 her into an apartment which was darkened by the closing of most of the window-shutters40, and in which was a bed with the curtains partly drawn41.
“Here is the young woman, sir,” said Tummas.
“Very well,” said a voice from the bed, but not that of his Reverence; “be ready to answer the bell, and leave the room.”
“There is some mistake,” said Jeanie, confounded at finding herself in the apartment of an invalid42; “the servant told me that the minister —”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the invalid, “there is no mistake. I know more of your affairs than my father, and I can manage them better. — Leave the room, Tom.” The servant obeyed. —“We must not,” said the invalid, “lose time, when we have little to lose. Open the shutters of that window.”
She did so, and as he drew aside the curtain of his bed, the light fell on his pale countenance43, as, turban’d with bandages, and dressed in a night-gown, he lay, seemingly exhausted44, upon the bed.
“Look at me,” he said, “Jeanie Deans; can you not recollect45 me?”
“No, sir,” said she, full of surprise. “I was never in this country before.”
“But I may have been in yours. Think — recollect. I should faint did I name the name you are most dearly bound to loathe46 and to detest47. Think — remember!”
A terrible recollection flashed on Jeanie, which every tone of the speaker confirmed, and which his next words rendered certainty.
“Be composed — remember Muschat’s Cairn, and the moonlight night!”
Jeanie sunk down on a chair with clasped hands, and gasped48 in agony.
“Yes, here I lie,” he said, “like a crushed snake, writhing49 with impatience50 at my incapacity of motion — here I lie, when I ought to have been in Edinburgh, trying every means to save a life that is dearer to me than my own. — How is your sister? — how fares it with her? — condemned51 to death, I know it, by this time! O, the horse that carried me safely on a thousand errands of folly52 and wickedness, that he should have broke down with me on the only good mission I have undertaken for years! But I must rein53 in my passion — my frame cannot endure it, and I have much to say. Give me some of the cordial which stands on that table. — Why do you tremble? But you have too good cause. — Let it stand — I need it not.”
Jeanie, however reluctant, approached him with the cup into which she had poured the draught54, and could not forbear saying, “There is a cordial for the mind, sir, if the wicked will turn from their transgressions55, and seek to the Physician of souls.”
“Silence!” he said sternly —“and yet I thank you. But tell me, and lose no time in doing so, what you are doing in this country? Remember, though I have been your sister’s worst enemy, yet I will serve her with the best of my blood, and I will serve you for her sake; and no one can serve you to such purpose, for no one can know the circumstances so well — so speak without fear.”
“I am not afraid, sir,” said Jeanie, collecting her spirits. “I trust in God; and if it pleases Him to redeem56 my sister’s captivity57, it is all I seek, whosoever be the instrument. But, sir, to be plain with you, I dare not use your counsel, unless I were enabled to see that it accords with the law which I must rely upon.”
“The devil take the Puritan!” cried George Staunton, for so we must now call him —“I beg your pardon; but I am naturally impatient, and you drive me mad! What harm can it possibly do to tell me in what situation your sister stands, and your own expectations of being able to assist her? It is time enough to refuse my advice when I offer any which you may think improper58. I speak calmly to you, though ’tis against my nature; but don’t urge me to impatience — it will only render me incapable59 of serving Effie.”
There was in the looks and words of this unhappy young man a sort of restrained eagerness and impetuosity which seemed to prey60 upon itself, as the impatience of a fiery61 steed fatigues62 itself with churning upon the bit. After a moment’s consideration, it occurred to Jeanie that she was not entitled to withhold63 from him, whether on her sister’s account or her own, the fatal account of the consequences of the crime which he had committed, nor to reject such advice, being in itself lawful64 and innocent, as he might be able to suggest in the way of remedy. Accordingly, in as few words as she could express it, she told the history of her sister’s trial and condemnation65, and of her own journey as far as Newark. He appeared to listen in the utmost agony of mind, yet repressed every violent symptom of emotion, whether by gesture or sound, which might have interrupted the speaker, and, stretched on his couch like the Mexican monarch66 on his bed of live coals, only the contortions67 of his cheek, and the quivering of his limbs, gave indication of his sufferings. To much of what she said he listened with stifled68 groans69, as if he were only hearing those miseries70 confirmed, whose fatal reality he had known before; but when she pursued her tale through the circumstances which had interrupted her journey, extreme surprise and earnest attention appeared to succeed to the symptoms of remorse which he had before exhibited. He questioned Jeanie closely concerning the appearance of the two men, and the conversation which she had overheard between the taller of them and the woman.
When Jeanie mentioned the old woman having alluded71 to her foster-son —“It is too true,” he said; “and the source from which I derived72 food, when an infant, must have communicated to me the wretched — the fated — propensity74 to vices75 that were strangers in my own family. — But go on.”
Jeanie passed slightly over her journey in company with Madge, having no inclination76 to repeat what might be the effect of mere77 raving78 on the part of her companion, and therefore her tale was now closed.
Young Staunton lay for a moment in profound meditation79 and at length spoke80 with more composure than he had yet displayed during their interview. —“You are a sensible, as well as a good young woman, Jeanie Deans, and I will tell you more of my story than I have told to any one. — Story did I call it? — it is a tissue of folly, guilt, and misery81. — But take notice — I do it because I desire your confidence in return — that is, that you will act in this dismal83 matter by my advice and direction. Therefore do I speak.”
“I will do what is fitting for a sister, and a daughter, and a Christian84 woman to do,” said Jeanie; “but do not tell me any of your secrets. — It is not good that I should come into your counsel, or listen to the doctrine which causeth to err2.”
“Simple fool!” said the young man. “Look at me. My head is not horned, my foot is not cloven, my hands are not garnished85 with talons86; and, since I am not the very devil himself, what interest can any one else have in destroying the hopes with which you comfort or fool yourself? Listen to me patiently, and you will find that, when you have heard my counsel, you may go to the seventh heaven with it in your pocket, if you have a mind, and not feel yourself an ounce heavier in the ascent87.”
At the risk of being somewhat heavy, as explanations usually prove, we must here endeavour to combine into a distinct narrative88, information which the invalid communicated in a manner at once too circumstantial, and too much broken by passion, to admit of our giving his precise words. Part of it indeed he read from a manuscript, which he had perhaps drawn up for the information of his relations after his decease.
“To make my tale short — this wretched hag — this Margaret Murdockson, was the wife of a favourite servant of my father — she had been my nurse — her husband was dead — she resided in a cottage near this place — she had a daughter who grew up, and was then a beautiful but very giddy girl; her mother endeavoured to promote her marriage with an old and wealthy churl89 in the neighbourhood — the girl saw me frequently — She was familiar with me, as our connection seemed to permit — and I— in a word, I wronged her cruelly — It was not so bad as your sister’s business, but it was sufficiently90 villanous — her folly should have been her protection. Soon after this I was sent abroad — To do my father justice, if I have turned out a fiend it is not his fault — he used the best means. When I returned, I found the wretched mother and daughter had fallen into disgrace, and were chased from this country. — My deep share in their shame and misery was discovered — my father used very harsh language — we quarrelled. I left his house, and led a life of strange adventure, resolving never again to see my father or my father’s home.
“And now comes the story! — Jeanie, I put my life into your hands, and not only my own life, which, God knows, is not worth saving, but the happiness of a respectable old man, and the honour of a family of consideration. My love of low society, as such propensities91 as I was cursed with are usually termed, was, I think of an uncommon92 kind, and indicated a nature, which, if not depraved by early debauchery, would have been fit for better things. I did not so much delight in the wild revel93, the low humour, the unconfined liberty of those with whom I associated as in the spirit of adventure, presence of mind in peril94, and sharpness of intellect which they displayed in prosecuting95 their maraudings upon the revenue, or similar adventures. — Have you looked round this rectory? — is it not a sweet and pleasant retreat?”
Jeanie, alarmed at this sudden change of subject, replied in the affirmative.
“Well! I wish it had been ten thousand fathoms96 under ground, with its church-lands, and tithes97, and all that belongs to it. Had it not been for this cursed rectory, I should have been permitted to follow the bent98 of my own inclinations99 and the profession of arms, and half the courage and address that I have displayed among smugglers and deer-stealers would have secured me an honourable100 rank among my contemporaries. Why did I not go abroad when I left this house! — Why did I leave it at all! — why — But it came to that point with me that it is madness to look back, and misery to look forward!”
He paused, and then proceeded with more composure.
“The chances of a wandering life brought me unhappily to Scotland, to embroil101 myself in worse and more criminal actions than I had yet been concerned in. It was now I became acquainted with Wilson, a remarkable102 man in his station of life; quiet, composed, and resolute103, firm in mind, and uncommonly104 strong in person, gifted with a sort of rough eloquence105 which raised him above his companions. Hitherto I had been
As dissolute as desperate, yet through both
Were seen some sparkles of a better hope.
“But it was this man’s misfortune, as well as mine, that, notwithstanding the difference of our rank and education, he acquired an extraordinary and fascinating influence over me, which I can only account for by the calm determination of his character being superior to the less sustained impetuosity of mine. Where he led I felt myself bound to follow; and strange was the courage and address which he displayed in his pursuits. While I was engaged in desperate adventures, under so strange and dangerous a preceptor, I became acquainted with your unfortunate sister at some sports of the young people in the suburbs, which she frequented by stealth — and her ruin proved an interlude to the tragic106 scenes in which I was now deeply engaged. Yet this let me say — the villany was not premeditated, and I was firmly resolved to do her all the justice which marriage could do, so soon as I should be able to extricate107 myself from my unhappy course of life, and embrace some one more suited to my birth. I had wild visions — visions of conducting her as if to some poor retreat, and introducing her at once to rank and fortune she never dreamt of. A friend, at my request, attempted a negotiation108 with my father, which was protracted109 for some time, and renewed at different intervals110. At length, and just when I expected my father’s pardon, he learned by some means or other my infamy111, painted in even exaggerated colours, which was, God knows, unnecessary. He wrote me a letter — how it found me out I know not — enclosing me a sum of money, and disowning me for ever. I became desperate — I became frantic112 — I readily joined Wilson in a perilous113 smuggling114 adventure in which we miscarried, and was willingly blinded by his logic115 to consider the robbery of the officer of the customs in Fife as a fair and honourable reprisal116. Hitherto I had observed a certain line in my criminality, and stood free of assaults upon personal property, but now I felt a wild pleasure in disgracing myself as much as possible.
“The plunder117 was no object to me. I abandoned that to my comrades, and only asked the post of danger. I remember well that when I stood with my drawn sword guarding the door while they committed the felony, I had not a thought of my own safety. I was only meditating118 on my sense of supposed wrong from my family, my impotent thirst of vengeance119, and how it would sound in the haughty120 cars of the family of Willingham, that one of their descendants, and the heir apparent of their honours, should perish by the hands of the hangman for robbing a Scottish gauger121 of a sum not equal to one-fifth part of the money I had in my pocket-book. We were taken — I expected no less. We were condemned — that also I looked for. But death, as he approached nearer, looked grimly; and the recollection of your sister’s destitute122 condition determined123 me on an effort to save my life. — I forgot to tell you, that in Edinburgh I again met the woman Murdockson and her daughter. She had followed the camp when young, and had now, under pretence124 of a trifling125 traffic, resumed predatory habits, with which she had already been too familiar. Our first meeting was stormy; but I was liberal of what money I had, and she forgot, or seemed to forget, the injury her daughter had received. The unfortunate girl herself seemed hardly even to know her seducer126, far less to retain any sense of the injury she had received. Her mind is totally alienated127, which, according to her mother’s account, is sometimes the consequence of an unfavourable confinement128. But it was my doing. Here was another stone knitted round my neck to sink me into the pit of perdition. Every look — every word of this poor creature — her false spirits — her imperfect recollections — her allusions129 to things which she had forgotten, but which were recorded in my conscience, were stabs of a poniard — stabs did I say? — they were tearing with hot pincers, and scalding the raw wound with burning sulphur — they were to be endured however, and they were endured. — I return to my prison thoughts.
“It was not the least miserable130 of them that your sister’s time approached. I knew her dread131 of you and of her father. She often said she would die a thousand deaths ere you should know her shame — yet her confinement must be provided for. I knew this woman Murdockson was an infernal hag, but I thought she loved me, and that money would make her true. She had procured132 a file for Wilson, and a spring-saw for me; and she undertook readily to take charge of Effie during her illness, in which she had skill enough to give the necessary assistance. I gave her the money which my father had sent me. It was settled that she should receive Effie into her house in the meantime, and wait for farther directions from me, when I should effect my escape. I communicated this purpose, and recommended the old hag to poor Effie by a letter, in which I recollect that I endeavoured to support the character of Macheath under condemnation-a fine, gay, bold-faced ruffian, who is game to the last. Such, and so wretchedly poor, was my ambition! Yet I had resolved to forsake133 the courses I had been engaged in, should I be so fortunate as to escape the gibbet. My design was to marry your sister, and go over to the West Indies. I had still a considerable sum of money left, and I trusted to be able, in one way or other, to provide for myself and my wife.
“We made the attempt to escape, and by the obstinacy134 of Wilson, who insisted upon going first, it totally miscarried. The undaunted and self-denied manner in which he sacrificed himself to redeem his error, and accomplish my escape from the Tolbooth Church, you must have heard of — all Scotland rang with it. It was a gallant135 and extraordinary deed — All men spoke of it — all men, even those who most condemned the habits and crimes of this self-devoted man, praised the heroism136 of his friendship. I have many vices, but cowardice137 or want of gratitude138, are none of the number. I resolved to requite139 his generosity140, and even your sister’s safety became a secondary consideration with me for the time. To effect Wilson’s liberation was my principal object, and I doubted not to find the means.
“Yet I did not forget Effie neither. The bloodhounds of the law were so close after me, that I dared not trust myself near any of my old haunts, but old Murdockson met me by appointment, and informed me that your sister had happily been delivered of a boy. I charged the hag to keep her patient’s mind easy, and let her want for nothing that money could purchase, and I retreated to Fife, where, among my old associates of Wilson’s gang, I hid myself in those places of concealment141 where the men engaged in that desperate trade are used to find security for themselves and their uncustomed goods. Men who are disobedient both to human and divine laws are not always insensible to the claims of courage and generosity. We were assured that the mob of Edinburgh, strongly moved with the hardship of Wilson’s situation, and the gallantry of his conduct, would back any bold attempt that might be made to rescue him even from the foot of the gibbet. Desperate as the attempt seemed, upon my declaring myself ready to lead the onset142 on the guard, I found no want of followers143 who engaged to stand by me, and returned to Lothian, soon followed by some steady associates, prepared to act whenever the occasion might require.
“I have no doubt I should have rescued him from the very noose144 that dangled145 over his head,” he continued with animation146, which seemed a flash of the interest which he had taken in such exploits; “but amongst other precautions, the magistrates147 had taken one, suggested, as we afterwards learned, by the unhappy wretch73 Porteous, which effectually disconcerted my measures. They anticipated, by half-an-hour, the ordinary period for execution; and, as it had been resolved amongst us, that, for fear of observation from the officers of justice, we should not show ourselves upon the street until the time of action approached, it followed, that all was over before our attempt at a rescue commenced. It did commence, however, and I gained the scaffold and cut the rope with my own hand. It was too late! The bold, stouthearted148, generous criminal was no more — and vengeance was all that remained to us — a vengeance, as I then thought, doubly due from my hand, to whom Wilson had given life and liberty when he could as easily have secured his own.”
“O sir,” said Jeanie, “did the Scripture never come into your mind, ‘Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it?’”
“Scripture! Why, I had not opened a Bible for five years,” answered Staunton.
“Wae’s me, sirs,” said Jeanie —“and a minister’s son too!”
“It is natural for you to say so; yet do not interrupt me, but let me finish my most accursed history. The beast, Porteous, who kept firing on the people long after it had ceased to be necessary, became the object of their hatred149 for having overdone150 his duty, and of mine for having done it too well. We that is, I and the other determined friends of Wilson, resolved to be avenged151 — but caution was necessary. I thought I had been marked by one of the officers, and therefore continued to lurk152 about the vicinity of Edinburgh, but without daring to venture within the walls. At length I visited, at the hazard of my life, the place where I hoped to find my future wife and my son — they were both gone. Dame Murdockson informed me, that so soon as Effie heard of the miscarriage153 of the attempt to rescue Wilson, and the hot pursuit after me, she fell into a brain fever; and that being one day obliged to go out on some necessary business and leave her alone, she had taken that opportunity to escape, and she had not seen her since. I loaded her with reproaches, to which she listened with the most provoking and callous154 composure; for it is one of her attributes, that, violent and fierce as she is upon most occasions, there are some in which she shows the most imperturbable155 calmness. I threatened her with justice; she said I had more reason to fear justice than she had. I felt she was right, and was silenced. I threatened her with vengeance; she replied in nearly the same words, that, to judge by injuries received, I had more reason to fear her vengeance, than she to dread mine. She was again right, and I was left without an answer. I flung myself from her in indignation, and employed a comrade to make inquiry156 in the neighbourhood of Saint Leonard’s concerning your sister; but ere I received his answer, the opening quest of a well-scented terrier of the law drove me from the vicinity of Edinburgh, to a more distant and secluded157 place of concealment. A secret and trusty emissary at length brought me the account of Porteous’s condemnation, and of your sister’s imprisonment158 on a criminal charge; thus astounding159 one of mine ears, while he gratified the other.
“I again ventured to the Pleasance — again charged Murdockson with treachery to the unfortunate Effie and her child, though I could conceive no reason, save that of appropriating the whole of the money I had lodged160 with her. Your narrative throws light on this, and shows another motive, not less powerful because less evident — the desire of wreaking161 vengeance on the seducer of her daughter — the destroyer at once of her reason and reputation. Great God! how I wish that, instead of the revenge she made choice of, she had delivered me up to the cord!”
“But what account did the wretched woman give of Effie and the bairn?” said Jeanie, who, during this long and agitating162 narrative, had firmness and discernment enough to keep her eye on such points as might throw light on her sister’s misfortunes.
“She would give none,” said Staunton; “she said the mother made a moonlight flitting from her house, with the infant in her arms — that she had never seen either of them since — that the lass might have thrown the child into the North Loch or the Quarry163 Holes for what she knew, and it was like enough she had done so.”
“And how came you to believe that she did not speak the fatal truth?” said Jeanie, trembling.
“Because, on this second occasion, I saw her daughter, and I understood from her, that, in fact, the child had been removed or destroyed during the illness of the mother. But all knowledge to be got from her is so uncertain and indirect, that I could not collect any farther circumstances. Only the diabolical164 character of old Murdockson makes me augur165 the worst.”
“The last account agrees with that given by my poor sister,” said Jeanie; “but gang on wi’ your ain tale, sir.”
“Of this I am certain,” said Staunton, “that Effie, in her senses, and with her knowledge, never injured living creature. — But what could I do in her exculpation166? — Nothing — and, therefore, my whole thoughts were turned toward her safety. I was under the cursed necessity of suppressing my feelings towards Murdockson; my life was in the hag’s hand — that I cared not for; but on my life hung that of your sister. I spoke the wretch fair; I appeared to confide82 in her; and to me, so far as I was personally concerned, she gave proofs of extraordinary fidelity167. I was at first uncertain what measures I ought to adopt for your sister’s liberation, when the general rage excited among the citizens of Edinburgh on account of the reprieve168, of Porteous, suggested to me the daring idea of forcing the jail, and at once carrying off your sister from the clutches of the law, and bringing to condign169 punishment a miscreant170, who had tormented171 the unfortunate Wilson, even in the hour of death as if he had been a wild Indian taken captive by a hostile tribe. I flung myself among the multitude in the moment of fermentation — so did others among Wilson’s mates, who had, like me, been disappointed in the hope of glutting172 their eyes with Porteous’s execution. All was organised, and I was chosen for the captain. I felt not — I do not now feel, compunction for what was to be done, and has since been executed.”
“O, God forgive ye, sir, and bring ye to a better sense of your ways!” exclaimed Jeanie, in horror at the avowal173 of such violent sentiments.
“Amen,” replied Staunton, “if my sentiments are wrong. But I repeat, that, although willing to aid the deed, I could have wished them to have chosen another leader; because I foresaw that the great and general duty of the night would interfere174 with the assistance which I proposed to render Effie. I gave a commission however, to a trusty friend to protect her to a place of safety, so soon as the fatal procession had left the jail. But for no persuasions175 which I could use in the hurry of the moment, or which my comrade employed at more length, after the mob had taken a different direction, could the unfortunate girl be prevailed upon to leave the prison. His arguments were all wasted upon the infatuated victim, and he was obliged to leave her in order to attend to his own safety. Such was his account; but, perhaps, he persevered176 less steadily177 in his attempts to persuade her than I would have done.”
“Effie was right to remain,” said Jeanie; “and I love her the better for it.”
“Why will you say so?” said Staunton.
“You cannot understand my reasons, sir, if I should render them,” answered Jeanie composedly; “they that thirst for the blood of their enemies have no taste for the well-spring of life.”
“My hopes,” said Staunton, “were thus a second time disappointed. My next efforts were to bring her through her trial by means of yourself. How I urged it, and where, you cannot have forgotten. I do not blame you for your refusal; it was founded, I am convinced, on principle, and not on indifference178 to your sister’s fate. For me, judge of me as a man frantic; I knew not what hand to turn to, and all my efforts were unavailing. In this condition, and close beset179 on all sides, I thought of what might be done by means of my family, and their influence. I fled from Scotland — I reached this place — my miserably180 wasted and unhappy appearance procured me from my father that pardon, which a parent finds it so hard to refuse, even to the most undeserving son. And here I have awaited in anguish181 of mind, which the condemned criminal might envy, the event of your sister’s trial.”
“Without taking any steps for her relief?” said Jeanie.
“To the last I hoped her ease might terminate more favourably182; and it is only two days since that the fatal tidings reached me. My resolution was instantly taken. I mounted my best horse with the purpose of making the utmost haste to London and there compounding with Sir Robert Walpole for your sister’s safety, by surrendering to him, in the person of the heir of the family of Willingham, the notorious George Robertson, the accomplice183 of Wilson, the breaker of the Tolbooth prison, and the well-known leader of the Porteous mob.”
“But would that save my sister?” said Jeanie, in astonishment184.
“It would, as I should drive my bargain,” said Staunton. “Queens love revenge as well as their subjects — Little as you seem to esteem185 it, it is a poison which pleases all palates, from the prince to the peasant. Prime ministers love no less the power of gratifying sovereigns by gratifying their passions. — The life of an obscure village girl! Why, I might ask the best of the crown-jewels for laying the head of such an insolent186 conspiracy187 at the foot of her majesty188, with a certainty of being gratified. All my other plans have failed, but this could not — Heaven is just, however, and would not honour me with making this voluntary atonement for the injury I have done your sister. I had not rode ten miles, when my horse, the best and most sure-footed animal in this country, fell with me on a level piece of road, as if he had been struck by a cannon-shot. I was greatly hurt, and was brought back here in the condition in which you now see me.”
As young Staunton had come to the conclusion, the servant opened the door, and, with a voice which seemed intended rather for a signal, than merely the announcing of a visit, said, “His Reverence, sir, is coming up stairs to wait upon you.”
“For God’s sake, hide yourself, Jeanie,” exclaimed Staunton, “in that dressing189 closet!”
“No, sir,” said Jeanie; “as I am here for nae ill, I canna take the shame of hiding mysell frae the master of the house.”
“But, good Heavens!” exclaimed George Staunton, “do but consider —”
Ere he could complete the sentence, his father entered the apartment.
收听单词发音 |
1
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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obstructing
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| 阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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13
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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14
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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canonical
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| n.权威的；典型的 | |
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17
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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18
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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19
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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20
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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21
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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22
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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23
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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24
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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25
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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26
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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27
plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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28
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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29
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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30
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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31
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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32
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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33
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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35
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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36
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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37
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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38
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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39
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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41
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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43
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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44
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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45
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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46
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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47
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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48
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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49
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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50
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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51
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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53
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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54
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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55
transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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56
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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57
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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58
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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59
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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60
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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61
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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62
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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63
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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64
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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65
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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66
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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67
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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68
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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69
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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70
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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71
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
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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73
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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74
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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75
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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76
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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77
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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78
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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79
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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80
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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81
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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82
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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83
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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84
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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85
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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86
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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87
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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88
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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89
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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90
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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91
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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92
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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93
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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94
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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95
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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96
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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97
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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98
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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99
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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100
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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101
embroil
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| vt.拖累；牵连；使复杂 | |
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102
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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103
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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104
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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105
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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106
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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107
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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108
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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109
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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111
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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112
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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113
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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114
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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115
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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116
reprisal
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| n.报复，报仇，报复性劫掠 | |
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117
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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118
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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119
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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120
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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121
gauger
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| n.收税官 | |
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122
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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123
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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124
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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125
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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126
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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127
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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128
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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129
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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130
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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131
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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132
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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133
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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134
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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135
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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136
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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137
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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138
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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139
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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140
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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141
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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142
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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143
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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144
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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145
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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146
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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147
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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148
stouthearted
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| adj.刚毅的，大胆的 | |
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149
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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150
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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151
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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152
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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153
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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154
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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155
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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156
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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157
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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158
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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159
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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160
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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161
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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162
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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163
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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164
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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165
augur
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| n.占卦师；v.占卦 | |
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166
exculpation
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| n.使无罪，辩解 | |
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167
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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168
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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169
condign
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| adj.应得的，相当的 | |
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170
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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171
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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172
glutting
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| v.吃得过多( glut的现在分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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173
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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174
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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175
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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176
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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178
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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179
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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180
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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181
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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182
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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183
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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184
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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185
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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186
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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187
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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188
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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189
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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