Would fain serve God, yet give the devil his due;
Says grace before he doth a deed of villainy,
And returns his thanks devoutly2 when ’tis acted,
Old Play.
The room into which the Master of Cumnor Place conducted his worthy3 visitant was of greater extent than that in which they had at first conversed4, and had yet more the appearance of dilapidation5. Large oaken presses, filled with shelves of the same wood, surrounded the room, and had, at one time, served for the arrangement of a numerous collection of books, many of which yet remained, but torn and defaced, covered with dust, deprived of their costly6 clasps and bindings, and tossed together in heaps upon the shelves, as things altogether disregarded, and abandoned to the pleasure of every spoiler. The very presses themselves seemed to have incurred8 the hostility9 of those enemies of learning who had destroyed the volumes with which they had been heretofore filled. They were, in several places, dismantled10 of their shelves, and otherwise broken and damaged, and were, moreover, mantled12 with cobwebs and covered with dust.
“The men who wrote these books,” said Lambourne, looking round him, “little thought whose keeping they were to fall into.”
“Nor what yeoman’s service they were to do me,” quoth Anthony Foster; “the cook hath used them for scouring14 his pewter, and the groom15 hath had nought16 else to clean my boots with, this many a month past.”
“And yet,” said Lambourne, “I have been in cities where such learned commodities would have been deemed too good for such offices.”
“Pshaw, pshaw,” answered Foster, “‘they are Popish trash, every one of them — private studies of the mumping old Abbot of Abingdon. The nineteenthly of a pure gospel sermon were worth a cartload of such rakings of the kennel17 of Rome.”
“Gad-a-mercy, Master Tony Fire-the-Fagot!” said Lambourne, by way of reply.
Foster scowled18 darkly at him, as he replied, “Hark ye, friend Mike; forget that name, and the passage which it relates to, if you would not have our newly-revived comradeship die a sudden and a violent death.”
“Why,” said Michael Lambourne, “you were wont19 to glory in the share you had in the death of the two old heretical bishops20.”
“That,” said his comrade, “was while I was in the gall21 of bitterness and bond of iniquity22, and applies not to my walk or my ways now that I am called forth23 into the lists. Mr. Melchisedek Maultext compared my misfortune in that matter to that of the Apostle Paul, who kept the clothes of the witnesses who stoned Saint Stephen. He held forth on the matter three Sabbaths past, and illustrated24 the same by the conduct of an honourable25 person present, meaning me.”
“I prithee peace, Foster,” said Lambourne, “for I know not how it is, I have a sort of creeping comes over my skin when I hear the devil quote Scripture26; and besides, man, how couldst thou have the heart to quit that convenient old religion, which you could slip off or on as easily as your glove? Do I not remember how you were wont to carry your conscience to confession27, as duly as the month came round? and when thou hadst it scoured28, and burnished29, and whitewashed30 by the priest, thou wert ever ready for the worst villainy which could be devised, like a child who is always readiest to rush into the mire31 when he has got his Sunday’s clean jerkin on.”
“Trouble not thyself about my conscience,” said Foster; “it is a thing thou canst not understand, having never had one of thine own. But let us rather to the point, and say to me, in one word, what is thy business with me, and what hopes have drawn32 thee hither?”
“The hope of bettering myself, to be sure,” answered Lambourne, “as the old woman said when she leapt over the bridge at Kingston. Look you, this purse has all that is left of as round a sum as a man would wish to carry in his slop-pouch. You are here well established, it would seem, and, as I think, well befriended, for men talk of thy being under some special protection — nay33, stare not like a pig that is stuck, mon; thou canst not dance in a net and they not see thee. Now I know such protection is not purchased for nought; you must have services to render for it, and in these I propose to help thee.”
“But how if I lack no assistance from thee, Mike? I think thy modesty34 might suppose that were a case possible.”
“That is to say,” retorted Lambourne, “that you would engross35 the whole work, rather than divide the reward. But be not over-greedy, Anthony — covetousness36 bursts the sack and spills the grain. Look you, when the huntsman goes to kill a stag, he takes with him more dogs than one. He has the stanch37 lyme-hound to track the wounded buck38 over hill and dale, but he hath also the fleet gaze-hound to kill him at view. Thou art the lyme-hound, I am the gaze-hound; and thy patron will need the aid of both, and can well afford to requite39 it. Thou hast deep sagacity — an unrelenting purpose — a steady, long-breathed malignity40 of nature, that surpasses mine. But then, I am the bolder, the quicker, the more ready, both at action and expedient41. Separate, our properties are not so perfect; but unite them, and we drive the world before us. How sayest thou — shall we hunt in couples?”
“It is a currish proposal — thus to thrust thyself upon my private matters,” replied Foster; “but thou wert ever an ill-nurtured whelp.”
“You shall have no cause to say so, unless you spurn42 my courtesy,” said Michael Lambourne; “but if so, keep thee well from me, Sir Knight43, as the romance has it. I will either share your counsels or traverse them; for I have come here to be busy, either with thee or against thee.”
“Well,” said Anthony Foster, “since thou dost leave me so fair a choice, I will rather be thy friend than thine enemy. Thou art right; I can prefer thee to the service of a patron who has enough of means to make us both, and an hundred more. And, to say truth, thou art well qualified44 for his service. Boldness and dexterity45 he demands — the justice-books bear witness in thy favour; no starting at scruples46 in his service why, who ever suspected thee of a conscience? an assurance he must have who would follow a courtier — and thy brow is as impenetrable as a Milan visor. There is but one thing I would fain see amended47 in thee.”
“And what is that, my most precious friend Anthony?” replied Lambourne; “for I swear by the pillow of the Seven Sleepers48 I will not be slothful in amending49 it.”
“Why, you gave a sample of it even now,” said Foster. “Your speech twangs too much of the old stamp, and you garnish50 it ever and anon with singular oaths, that savour of Papistrie. Besides, your exterior51 man is altogether too deboshed and irregular to become one of his lordship’s followers53, since he has a reputation to keep up in the eye of the world. You must somewhat reform your dress, upon a more grave and composed fashion; wear your cloak on both shoulders, and your falling band unrumpled and well starched54. You must enlarge the brim of your beaver55, and diminish the superfluity of your trunk-hose; go to church, or, which will be better, to meeting, at least once a month; protest only upon your faith and conscience; lay aside your swashing look, and never touch the hilt of your sword but when you would draw the carnal weapon in good earnest.”
“By this light, Anthony, thou art mad,” answered Lambourne, “and hast described rather the gentleman-usher to a puritan’s wife, than the follower52 of an ambitious courtier! Yes, such a thing as thou wouldst make of me should wear a book at his girdle instead of a poniard, and might just be suspected of manhood enough to squire56 a proud dame-citizen to the lecture at Saint Antonlin’s, and quarrel in her cause with any flat-capped threadmaker that would take the wall of her. He must ruffle57 it in another sort that would walk to court in a nobleman’s train.”
“Oh, content you, sir,” replied Foster, “there is a change since you knew the English world; and there are those who can hold their way through the boldest courses, and the most secret, and yet never a swaggering word, or an oath, or a profane58 word in their conversation.”
“That is to say,” replied Lambourne, “they are in a trading copartnery, to do the devil’s business without mentioning his name in the firm? Well, I will do my best to counterfeit59, rather than lose ground in this new world, since thou sayest it is grown so precise. But, Anthony, what is the name of this nobleman, in whose service I am to turn hypocrite?”
“Aha! Master Michael, are you there with your bears?” said Foster, with a grim smile; “and is this the knowledge you pretend of my concernments? How know you now there is such a person in rerum natura, and that I have not been putting a jape upon you all this time?”
“Thou put a jape on me, thou sodden-brained gull60?” answered Lambourne, nothing daunted61. “Why, dark and muddy as thou think’st thyself, I would engage in a day’s space to sec as clear through thee and thy concernments, as thou callest them, as through the filthy62 horn of an old stable lantern.”
At this moment their conversation was interrupted by a scream from the next apartment.
“By the holy Cross of Abingdon,” exclaimed Anthony Foster, forgetting his Protestantism in his alarm, “I am a ruined man!”
So saying, he rushed into the apartment whence the scream issued, followed by Michael Lambourne. But to account for the sounds which interrupted their conversation, it is necessary to recede63 a little way in our narrative64.
It has been already observed, that when Lambourne accompanied Foster into the library, they left Tressilian alone in the ancient parlour. His dark eye followed them forth of the apartment with a glance of contempt, a part of which his mind instantly transferred to himself, for having stooped to be even for a moment their familiar companion. “These are the associates, Amy”— it was thus he communed with himself —“to which thy cruel levity65 — thine unthinking and most unmerited falsehood, has condemned66 him of whom his friends once hoped far other things, and who now scorns himself, as he will be scorned by others, for the baseness he stoops to for the love of thee! But I will not leave the pursuit of thee, once the object of my purest and most devoted67 affection, though to me thou canst henceforth be nothing but a thing to weep over. I will save thee from thy betrayer, and from thyself; I will restore thee to thy parent — to thy God. I cannot bid the bright star again sparkle in the sphere it has shot from, but —”
A slight noise in the apartment interrupted his reverie. He looked round, and in the beautiful and richly-attired female who entered at that instant by a side-door he recognized the object of his search. The first impulse arising from this discovery urged him to conceal68 his face with the collar of his cloak, until he should find a favourable69 moment of making himself known. But his purpose was disconcerted by the young lady (she was not above eighteen years old), who ran joyfully70 towards him, and, pulling him by the cloak, said playfully, “Nay, my sweet friend, after I have waited for you so long, you come not to my bower71 to play the masquer. You are arraigned72 of treason to true love and fond affection, and you must stand up at the bar and answer it with face uncovered — how say you, guilty or not?”
“Alas, Amy!” said Tressilian, in a low and melancholy73 tone, as he suffered her to draw the mantle11 from his face. The sound of his voice, and still more the unexpected sight of his face, changed in an instant the lady’s playful mood. She staggered back, turned as pale as death, and put her hands before her face. Tressilian was himself for a moment much overcome, but seeming suddenly to remember the necessity of using an opportunity which might not again occur, he said in a low tone, “Amy, fear me not.”
“Why should I fear you?” said the lady, withdrawing her hands from her beautiful face, which was now covered with crimson,—“Why should I fear you, Master Tressilian?— or wherefore have you intruded74 yourself into my dwelling75, uninvited, sir, and unwished for?”
“Your dwelling, Amy!” said Tressilian. “Alas! is a prison your dwelling?— a prison guarded by one of the most sordid76 of men, but not a greater wretch77 than his employer!”
“This house is mine,” said Amy —“mine while I choose to inhabit it. If it is my pleasure to live in seclusion78, who shall gainsay79 me?”
“Your father, maiden80,” answered Tressilian, “your broken-hearted father, who dispatched me in quest of you with that authority which he cannot exert in person. Here is his letter, written while he blessed his pain of body which somewhat stunned81 the agony of his mind.”
“The pain! Is my father then ill?” said the lady.
“So ill,” answered Tressilian, “that even your utmost haste may not restore him to health; but all shall be instantly prepared for your departure, the instant you yourself will give consent.”
“Tressilian,” answered the lady, “I cannot, I must not, I dare not leave this place. Go back to my father — tell him I will obtain leave to see him within twelve hours from hence. Go back, Tressilian — tell him I am well, I am happy — happy could I think he was so; tell him not to fear that I will come, and in such a manner that all the grief Amy has given him shall be forgotten — the poor Amy is now greater than she dare name. Go, good Tressilian — I have injured thee too, but believe me I have power to heal the wounds I have caused. I robbed you of a childish heart, which was not worthy of you, and I can repay the loss with honours and advancement82.”
“Do you say this to me, Amy?— do you offer me pageants83 of idle ambition, for the quiet peace you have robbed me of!— But be it so I came not to upbraid84, but to serve and to free you. You cannot disguise it from me — you are a prisoner. Otherwise your kind heart — for it was once a kind heart — would have been already at your father’s bedside.— Come, poor, deceived, unhappy maiden! — all shall be forgot — all shall be forgiven. Fear not my importunity85 for what regarded our contract — it was a dream, and I have awaked. But come — your father yet lives — come, and one word of affection, one tear of penitence86, will efface87 the memory of all that has passed.”
“Have I not already said, Tressilian,” replied she, “that I will surely come to my father, and that without further delay than is necessary to discharge other and equally binding7 duties?— Go, carry him the news; I come as sure as there is light in heaven — that is, when I obtain permission.”
“Permission!— permission to visit your father on his sick-bed, perhaps on his death-bed!” repeated Tressilian, impatiently; “and permission from whom? From the villain1, who, under disguise of friendship, abused every duty of hospitality, and stole thee from thy father’s roof!”
“Do him no slander88, Tressilian! He whom thou speakest of wears a sword as sharp as thine — sharper, vain man; for the best deeds thou hast ever done in peace or war were as unworthy to be named with his, as thy obscure rank to match itself with the sphere he moves in.— Leave me! Go, do mine errand to my father; and when he next sends to me, let him choose a more welcome messenger.”
“Amy,” replied Tressilian calmly, “thou canst not move me by thy reproaches. Tell me one thing, that I may bear at least one ray of comfort to my aged13 friend:— this rank of his which thou dost boast — dost thou share it with him, Amy?— does he claim a husband’s right to control thy motions?”
“Stop thy base, unmannered tongue!” said the lady; “to no question that derogates from my honour do I deign89 an answer.”
“You have said enough in refusing to reply,” answered Tressilian; “and mark me, unhappy as thou art, I am armed with thy father’s full authority to command thy obedience90, and I will save thee from the slavery of sin and of sorrow, even despite of thyself, Amy.”
“Menace no violence here!” exclaimed the lady, drawing back from him, and alarmed at the determination expressed in his look and manner; “threaten me not, Tressilian, for I have means to repel91 force.”
“But not, I trust, the wish to use them in so evil a cause?” said Tressilian. “With thy will — thine uninfluenced, free, and natural will, Amy, thou canst not choose this state of slavery and dishonour92. Thou hast been bound by some spell — entrapped93 by some deceit — art now detained by some compelled vow94. But thus I break the charm — Amy, in the name of thine excellent, thy broken-hearted father, I command thee to follow me!”
As he spoke95 he advanced and extended his arm, as with the purpose of laying hold upon her. But she shrunk back from his grasp, and uttered the scream which, as we before noticed, brought into the apartment Lambourne and Foster.
The latter exclaimed, as soon as he entered, “Fire and fagot! what have we here?” Then addressing the lady, in a tone betwixt entreaty96 and command, he added, “Uds precious! madam, what make you here out of bounds? Retire — retire — there is life and death in this matter.— And you, friend, whoever you may be, leave this house — out with you, before my dagger’s hilt and your costard become acquainted.— Draw, Mike, and rid us of the knave97!”
“Not I, on my soul,” replied Lambourne; “he came hither in my company, and he is safe from me by cutter’s law, at least till we meet again.— But hark ye, my Cornish comrade, you have brought a Cornish flaw of wind with you hither, a hurricanoe as they call it in the Indies. Make yourself scarce — depart — vanish — or we’ll have you summoned before the Mayor of Halgaver, and that before Dudman and Ramhead meet.”3
“Away, base groom!” said Tressilian.—“And you, madam, fare you well — what life lingers in your father’s bosom98 will leave him at the news I have to tell.”
He departed, the lady saying faintly as he left the room, “Tressilian, be not rash — say no scandal of me.”
“Here is proper gear,” said Foster. “I pray you go to your chamber99, my lady, and let us consider how this is to be answered — nay, tarry not.”
“I move not at your command, sir,” answered the lady.
“Nay, but you must, fair lady,” replied Foster; “excuse my freedom, but, by blood and nails, this is no time to strain courtesies — you must go to your chamber.— Mike, follow that meddling100 coxcomb101, and, as you desire to thrive, see him safely clear of the premises102, while I bring this headstrong lady to reason. Draw thy tool, man, and after him.”
“I’ll follow him,” said Michael Lambourne, “and see him fairly out of Flanders; but for hurting a man I have drunk my morning’s draught103 withal, ’tis clean against my conscience.” So saying, he left the apartment.
Tressilian, meanwhile, with hasty steps, pursued the first path which promised to conduct him through the wild and overgrown park in which the mansion104 of Foster was situated105. Haste and distress106 of mind led his steps astray, and instead of taking the avenue which led towards the village, he chose another, which, after he had pursued it for some time with a hasty and reckless step, conducted him to the other side of the demesne107, where a postern door opened through the wall, and led into the open country.
Tressilian paused an instant. It was indifferent to him by what road he left a spot now so odious108 to his recollections; but it was probable that the postern door was locked, and his retreat by that pass rendered impossible.
“I must make the attempt, however,” he said to himself; “the only means of reclaiming109 this lost — this miserable110 — this still most lovely and most unhappy girl, must rest in her father’s appeal to the broken laws of his country. I must haste to apprise111 him of this heartrending intelligence.”
As Tressilian, thus conversing112 with himself, approached to try some means of opening the door, or climbing over it, he perceived there was a key put into the lock from the outside. It turned round, the bolt revolved113, and a cavalier, who entered, muffled114 in his riding-cloak, and wearing a slouched hat with a drooping115 feather, stood at once within four yards of him who was desirous of going out. They exclaimed at once, in tones of resentment116 and surprise, the one “Varney!” the other “Tressilian!”
“What make you here?” was the stern question put by the stranger to Tressilian, when the moment of surprise was past —“what make you here, where your presence is neither expected nor desired?”
“Nay, Varney,” replied Tressilian, “what make you here? Are you come to triumph over the innocence117 you have destroyed, as the vulture or carrion-crow comes to batten on the lamb whose eyes it has first plucked out? Or are you come to encounter the merited vengeance118 of an honest man? Draw, dog, and defend thyself!”
Tressilian drew his sword as he spoke, but Varney only laid his hand on the hilt of his own, as he replied, “Thou art mad, Tressilian. I own appearances are against me; but by every oath a priest can make or a man can swear, Mistress Amy Robsart hath had no injury from me. And in truth I were somewhat loath119 to hurt you in this cause — thou knowest I can fight.”
“I have heard thee say so, Varney,” replied Tressilian; “but now, methinks, I would fain have some better evidence than thine own word.”
“That shall not be lacking, if blade and hilt be but true to me,” answered Varney; and drawing his sword with the right hand, he threw his cloak around his left, and attacked Tressilian with a vigour120 which, for a moment, seemed to give him the advantage of the combat. But this advantage lasted not long. Tressilian added to a spirit determined121 on revenge a hand and eye admirably well adapted to the use of the rapier; so that Varney, finding himself hard pressed in his turn, endeavoured to avail himself of his superior strength by closing with his adversary122. For this purpose, he hazarded the receiving one of Tressilian’s passes in his cloak, wrapped as it was around his arm, and ere his adversary could, extricate123 his rapier thus entangled124, he closed with him, shortening his own sword at the same time, with the purpose of dispatching him. But Tressilian was on his guard, and unsheathing his poniard, parried with the blade of that weapon the home-thrust which would otherwise have finished the combat, and, in the struggle which followed, displayed so much address, as might have confirmed, the opinion that he drew his origin from Cornwall whose natives are such masters in the art of wrestling, as, were the games of antiquity126 revived, might enable them to challenge all Europe to the ring. Varney, in his ill-advised attempt, received a fall so sudden and violent that his sword flew several paces from his hand and ere he could recover his feet, that of his antagonist127 was; pointed128 to his throat.
“Give me the instant means of relieving the victim of thy treachery,” said Tressilian, “or take the last look of your Creator’s blessed sun!”
And while Varney, too confused or too sullen129 to reply, made a sudden effort to arise, his adversary drew back his arm, and would have executed his threat, but that the blow was arrested by the grasp of Michael Lambourne, who, directed by the clashing of swords had come up just in time to save the life of Varney,
“Come, come, comrade;” said Lambourne, “here is enough done and more than enough; put up your fox and let us be jogging. The Black Bear growls130 for us.”
“Off, abject131!” said Tressilian, striking himself free of Lambourne’s grasp; “darest thou come betwixt me and mine enemy?”
“Abject! abject!” repeated Lambourne; “that shall be answered with cold steel whenever a bowl of sack has washed out memory of the morning’s draught that we had together. In the meanwhile, do you see, shog — tramp — begone — we are two to one.”
He spoke truth, for Varney had taken the opportunity to regain132 his weapon, and Tressilian perceived it was madness to press the quarrel further against such odds133. He took his purse from his side, and taking out two gold nobles, flung them to Lambourne. “There, caitiff, is thy morning wage; thou shalt not say thou hast been my guide unhired.— Varney, farewell! we shall meet where there are none to come betwixt us.” So saying, he turned round and departed through the postern door.
Varney seemed to want the inclination134, or perhaps the power (for his fall had been a severe one), to follow his retreating enemy. But he glared darkly as he disappeared, and then addressed Lambourne. “Art thou a comrade of Foster’s, good fellow?”
“Sworn friends, as the haft is to the knife,” replied Michael Lambourne.
“Here is a broad piece for thee. Follow yonder fellow, and see where he takes earth, and bring me word up to the mansion-house here. Cautious and silent, thou knave, as thou valuest thy throat.”
“Enough said,” replied Lambourne; “I can draw on a scent135 as well as a sleuth-hound.”
“Begone, then,” said Varney, sheathing125 his rapier; and, turning his back on Michael Lambourne, he walked slowly towards the house. Lambourne stopped but an instant to gather the nobles which his late companion had flung towards him so unceremoniously, and muttered to himself, while he put them upon his purse along with the gratuity136 of Varney, “I spoke to yonder gulls137 of Eldorado. By Saint Anthony, there is no Eldorado for men of our stamp equal to bonny Old England! It rains nobles, by Heaven — they lie on the grass as thick as dewdrops — you may have them for gathering138. And if I have not my share of such glittering dewdrops, may my sword melt like an icicle!”
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1
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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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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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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30
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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32
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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33
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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34
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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35
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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36
covetousness
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37
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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38
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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39
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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40
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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41
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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42
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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43
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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44
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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45
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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46
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
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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48
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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49
amending
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| 改良，修改，修订( amend的现在分词 )； 改良，修改，修订( amend的第三人称单数 )( amends的现在分词 ) | |
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50
garnish
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| n.装饰，添饰，配菜 | |
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51
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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52
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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53
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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54
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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56
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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57
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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58
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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59
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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60
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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61
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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63
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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64
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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65
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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66
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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67
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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68
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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69
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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70
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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71
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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72
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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73
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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74
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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75
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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76
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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77
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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78
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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79
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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80
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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81
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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82
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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83
pageants
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| n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 )；穿古代服装的游行；再现历史场景的娱乐活动；盛会 | |
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84
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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85
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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86
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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87
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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88
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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89
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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90
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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91
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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92
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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93
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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95
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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96
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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97
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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98
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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99
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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100
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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101
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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102
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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103
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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104
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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105
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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106
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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107
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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108
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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109
reclaiming
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| v.开拓( reclaim的现在分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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110
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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111
apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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112
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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113
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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114
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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115
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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116
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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117
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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118
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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119
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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120
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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121
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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122
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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123
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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124
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
sheathing
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| n.覆盖物，罩子v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的现在分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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126
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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127
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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128
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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129
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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130
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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131
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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132
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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133
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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134
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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135
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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136
gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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137
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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