The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby1.
Mickle.
Four apartments; which, occupied the western side of the old quadrangle at Cumnor Place, had been fitted up with extraordinary splendour. This had been the work of several days prior to that on which our story opened. Workmen sent from London, and not permitted to leave the premises2 until the work was finished, had converted the apartments in that side of the building from the dilapidated appearance of a dissolved monastic house into the semblance3 of a royal palace. A mystery was observed in all these arrangements: the workmen came thither4 and returned by night, and all measures were taken to prevent the prying5 curiosity of the villagers from observing or speculating upon the changes which were taking place in the mansion6 of their once indigent7 but now wealthy neighbour, Anthony Foster. Accordingly, the secrecy8 desired was so far preserved, that nothing got abroad but vague and uncertain reports, which were received and repeated, but without much credit being attached to them.
On the evening of which we treat, the new and highly-decorated suite9 of rooms were, for the first time, illuminated10, and that with a brilliancy which might have been visible half-a-dozen miles off, had not oaken shutters11, carefully secured with bolt and padlock, and mantled12 with long curtains of silk and of velvet13, deeply fringed with gold, prevented the slightest gleam of radiance front being seen without.
The principal apartments, as we have seen, were four in number, each opening into the other. Access was given to them by a large scale staircase, as they were then called, of unusual length and height, which had its landing-place at the door of an antechamber, shaped somewhat like a gallery. This apartment the abbot had used as an occasional council-room, but it was now beautifully wainscoted with dark, foreign wood of a brown colour, and bearing a high polish, said to have been brought from the Western Indies, and to have been wrought15 in London with infinite difficulty and much damage to the tools of the workmen. The dark colour of this finishing was relieved by the number of lights in silver sconces which hung against the walls, and by six large and richly-framed pictures, by the first masters of the age. A massy oaken table, placed at the lower end of the apartment, served to accommodate such as chose to play at the then fashionable game of shovel-board; and there was at the other end an elevated gallery for the musicians or minstrels, who might be summoned to increase the festivity of the evening.
From this antechamber opened a banqueting-room of moderate size, but brilliant enough to dazzle the eyes of the spectator with the richness of its furniture. The walls, lately so bare and ghastly, were now clothed with hangings of sky-blue velvet and silver; the chairs were of ebony, richly carved, with cushions corresponding to the hangings; and the place of the silver sconces which enlightened the ante-chamber14 was supplied by a huge chandelier of the same precious metal. The floor was covered with a Spanish foot-cloth, or carpet, on which flowers and fruits were represented in such glowing and natural colours, that you hesitated to place the foot on such exquisite16 workmanship. The table, of old English oak, stood ready covered with the finest linen17; and a large portable court-cupboard was placed with the leaves of its embossed folding-doors displayed, showing the shelves within, decorated with a full display of plate and porcelain18. In the midst of the table stood a salt-cellar of Italian workmanship — a beautiful and splendid piece of plate about two feet high, moulded into a representation of the giant Briareus, whose hundred hands of silver presented to the guests various sorts of spices, or condiments19, to season their food withal.
The third apartment was called the withdrawing-room. It was hung with the finest tapestry20, representing the fall of Phaeton; for the looms21 of Flanders were now much occupied on classical subjects. The principal seat of this apartment was a chair of state, raised a step or two from the floor, and large enough to contain two persons. It was surmounted22 by a canopy23, which, as well as the cushions, side-curtains, and the very footcloth, was composed of crimson24 velvet, embroidered25 with seed-pearl. On the top of the canopy were two coronets, resembling those of an earl and countess. Stools covered with velvet, and some cushions disposed in the Moorish26 fashion, and ornamented28 with Arabesque29 needle-work, supplied the place of chairs in this apartment, which contained musical instruments, embroidery30 frames, and other articles for ladies’ pastime. Besides lesser31 lights, the withdrawing-room was illuminated by four tall torches of virgin32 wax, each of which was placed in the grasp of a statue, representing an armed Moor27, who held in his left arm a round buckler of silver, highly polished, interposed betwixt his breast and the light, which was thus brilliantly reflected as from a crystal mirror.
The sleeping chamber belonging to this splendid suite of apartments was decorated in a taste less showy, but not less rich, than had been displayed in the others. Two silver lamps, fed with perfumed oil, diffused33 at once a delicious odour and a trembling twilight-seeming shimmer34 through the quiet apartment. It was carpeted so thick that the heaviest step could not have been heard, and the bed, richly heaped with down, was spread with an ample coverlet of silk and gold; from under which peeped forth35 cambric sheets and blankets as white as the lambs which yielded the fleece that made them. The curtains were of blue velvet, lined with crimson silk, deeply festooned with gold, and embroidered with the loves of Cupid and Psyche36. On the toilet was a beautiful Venetian mirror, in a frame of silver filigree38, and beside it stood a gold posset-dish to contain the night-draught. A pair of pistols and a dagger39, mounted with gold, were displayed near the head of the bed, being the arms for the night, which were presented to honoured guests, rather, it may be supposed, in the way of ceremony than from any apprehension40 of danger. We must not omit to mention, what was more to the credit of the manners of the time, that in a small recess41, illuminated by a taper42, were disposed two hassocks of velvet and gold, corresponding with the bed furniture, before a desk of carved ebony. This recess had formerly43 been the private oratory44 of the abbot; but the crucifix was removed, and instead there were placed on the desk, two Books of Common Prayer, richly bound, and embossed with silver. With this enviable sleeping apartment, which was so far removed from every sound save that of the wind sighing among the oaks of the park, that Morpheus might have coveted45 it for his own proper repose46, corresponded two wardrobes, or dressing-rooms as they are now termed, suitably furnished, and in a style of the same magnificence which we have already described. It ought to be added, that a part of the building in the adjoining wing was occupied by the kitchen and its offices, and served to accommodate the personal attendants of the great and wealthy nobleman, for whose use these magnificent preparations had been made.
The divinity for whose sake this temple had been decorated was well worthy47 the cost and pains which had been bestowed48. She was seated in the withdrawing-room which we have described, surveying with the pleased eye of natural and innocent vanity the splendour which had been so suddenly created, as it were, in her honour. For, as her own residence at Cumnor Place formed the cause of the mystery observed in all the preparations for opening these apartments, it was sedulously50 arranged that, until she took possession of them, she should have no means of knowing what was going forward in that part of the ancient building, or of exposing herself to be seen by the workmen engaged in the decorations. She had been, therefore, introduced on that evening to a part of the mansion which she had never yet seen, so different from all the rest that it appeared, in comparison, like an enchanted51 palace. And when she first examined and occupied these splendid rooms, it was with the wild and unrestrained joy of a rustic52 beauty who finds herself suddenly invested with a splendour which her most extravagant53 wishes had never imagined, and at the same time with the keen feeling of an affectionate heart, which knows that all the enchantment54 that surrounds her is the work of the great magician Love.
The Countess Amy, therefore — for to that rank she was exalted55 by her private but solemn union with England’s proudest Earl — had for a time flitted hastily from room to room, admiring each new proof of her lover and her bridegroom’s taste, and feeling that admiration57 enhanced as she recollected58 that all she gazed upon was one continued proof of his ardent59 and devoted60 affection. “How beautiful are these hangings! How natural these paintings, which seem to contend with life! How richly wrought is that plate, which looks as if all the galleons61 of Spain had been intercepted62 on the broad seas to furnish it forth! And oh, Janet!” she exclaimed repeatedly to the daughter of Anthony Foster, the close attendant, who, with equal curiosity, but somewhat less ecstatic joy, followed on her mistress’s footsteps —“oh, Janet! how much more delightful63 to think that all these fair things have been assembled by his love, for the love of me! and that this evening — this very evening, which grows darker every instant, I shall thank him more for the love that has created such an unimaginable paradise, than for all the wonders it contains.”
“The Lord is to be thanked first,” said the pretty Puritan, “who gave thee, lady, the kind and courteous64 husband whose love has done so much for thee. I, too, have done my poor share. But if you thus run wildly from room to room, the toil37 of my crisping and my curling pins will vanish like the frost-work on the window when the sun is high.”
“Thou sayest true, Janet,” said the young and beautiful Countess, stopping suddenly from her tripping race of enraptured65 delight, and looking at herself from head to foot in a large mirror, such as she had never before seen, and which, indeed, had few to match it even in the Queen’s palace —“thou sayest true, Janet!” she answered, as she saw, with pardonable self-applause, the noble mirror reflect such charms as were seldom presented to its fair and polished surface; “I have more of the milk-maid than the countess, with these cheeks flushed with haste, and all these brown curls, which you laboured to bring to order, straying as wild as the tendrils of an unpruned vine. My falling ruff is chafed66 too, and shows the neck and bosom67 more than is modest and seemly. Come, Janet; we will practise state — we will go to the withdrawing-room, my good girl, and thou shalt put these rebel locks in order, and imprison68 within lace and cambric the bosom that beats too high.”
They went to the withdrawing apartment accordingly, where the Countess playfully stretched herself upon the pile of Moorish cushions, half sitting, half reclining, half wrapt in her own thoughts, half listening to the prattle69 of her attendant.
While she was in this attitude, and with a corresponding expression betwixt listlessness and expectation on her fine and intelligent features, you might have searched sea and land without finding anything half so expressive70 or half so lovely. The wreath of brilliants which mixed with her dark-brown hair did not match in lustre71 the hazel eye which a light-brown eyebrow72, pencilled with exquisite delicacy73, and long eyelashes of the same colour, relieved and shaded. The exercise she had just taken, her excited expectation and gratified vanity, spread a glow over her fine features, which had been sometimes censured74 (as beauty as well as art has her minute critics) for being rather too pale. The milk-white pearls of the necklace which she wore, the same which she had just received as a true-love token from her husband, were excelled in purity by her teeth, and by the colour of her skin, saving where the blush of pleasure and self-satisfaction had somewhat stained the neck with a shade of light crimson.—“Now, have done with these busy fingers, Janet,” she said to her handmaiden, who was still officiously employed in bringing her hair and her dress into order —“have done, I say. I must see your father ere my lord arrives, and also Master Richard Varney, whom my lord has highly in his esteem75 — but I could tell that of him would lose him favour.”
“Oh, do not do so, good my lady!” replied Janet; “leave him to God, who punishes the wicked in His own time; but do not you cross Varney’s path, for so thoroughly76 hath he my lord’s ear, that few have thriven who have thwarted78 his courses.”
“And from whom had you this, my most righteous Janet?” said the Countess; “or why should I keep terms with so mean a gentleman as Varney, being as I am, wife to his master and patron?”
“Nay79, madam,” replied Janet Foster, “your ladyship knows better than I; but I have heard my father say he would rather cross a hungry wolf than thwart77 Richard Varney in his projects. And he has often charged me to have a care of holding commerce with him.”
“Thy father said well, girl, for thee,” replied the lady, “and I dare swear meant well. It is a pity, though, his face and manner do little match his true purpose — for I think his purpose may be true.”
“Doubt it not, my lady,” answered Janet —“doubt not that my father purposes well, though he is a plain man, and his blunt looks may belie80 his heart.”
“I will not doubt it, girl, were it only for thy sake; and yet he has one of those faces which men tremble when they look on. I think even thy mother, Janet — nay, have done with that poking-iron — could hardly look upon him without quaking.”
“If it were so, madam,” answered Janet Foster, “my mother had those who could keep her in honourable81 countenance82. Why, even you, my lady, both trembled and blushed when Varney brought the letter from my lord.”
“You are bold, damsel,” said the Countess, rising from the cushions on which she sat half reclined in the arms of her attendant. “Know that there are causes of trembling which have nothing to do with fear.— But, Janet,” she added, immediately relapsing into the good-natured and familiar tone which was natural to her, “believe me, I will do what credit I can to your father, and the rather that you, sweetheart, are his child. Alas83! alas!” she added, a sudden sadness passing over her fine features, and her eyes filling with tears, “I ought the rather to hold sympathy with thy kind heart, that my own poor father is uncertain of my fate, and they say lies sick and sorrowful for my worthless sake! But I will soon cheer him — the news of my happiness and advancement84 will make him young again. And that I may cheer him the sooner”— she wiped her eyes as she spoke85 —“I must be cheerful myself. My lord must not find me insensible to his kindness, or sorrowful, when he snatches a visit to his recluse86, after so long an absence. Be merry, Janet; the night wears on, and my lord must soon arrive. Call thy father hither, and call Varney also. I cherish resentment87 against neither; and though I may have some room to be displeased88 with both, it shall be their own fault if ever a complaint against them reaches the Earl through my means. Call them hither, Janet.”
Janet Foster obeyed her mistress; and in a few minutes after, Varney entered the withdrawing-room with the graceful89 ease and unclouded front of an accomplished90 courtier, skilled, under the veil of external politeness, to disguise his own feelings and to penetrate91 those of others. Anthony Foster plodded92 into the apartment after him, his natural gloomy vulgarity of aspect seeming to become yet more remarkable93, from his clumsy attempt to conceal94 the mixture of anxiety and dislike with which he looked on her, over whom he had hitherto exercised so severe a control, now so splendidly attired95, and decked with so many pledges of the interest which she possessed96 in her husband’s affections. The blundering reverence97 which he made, rather at than to the Countess, had confession98 in it. It was like the reverence which the criminal makes to the judge, when he at once owns his guilt99 and implores101 mercy — which is at the same time an impudent102 and embarrassed attempt at defence or extenuation103, a confession of a fault, and an entreaty104 for lenity.
Varney, who, in right of his gentle blood, had pressed into the room before Anthony Foster, knew better what to say than he, and said it with more assurance and a better grace.
The Countess greeted him indeed with an appearance of cordiality, which seemed a complete amnesty for whatever she might have to complain of. She rose from her seat, and advanced two steps towards him, holding forth her hand as she said, “Master Richard Varney, you brought me this morning such welcome tidings, that I fear surprise and joy made me neglect my lord and husband’s charge to receive you with distinction. We offer you our hand, sir, in reconciliation105.”
“I am unworthy to touch it,” said Varney, dropping on one knee, “save as a subject honours that of a prince.”
He touched with his lips those fair and slender fingers, so richly loaded with rings and jewels; then rising, with graceful gallantry, was about to hand her to the chair of state, when she said, “No, good Master Richard Varney, I take not my place there until my lord himself conducts me. I am for the present but a disguised Countess, and will not take dignity on me until authorized106 by him whom I derive107 it from.”
“I trust, my lady,” said Foster, “that in doing the commands of my lord your husband, in your restraint and so forth, I have not incurred108 your displeasure, seeing that I did but my duty towards your lord and mine; for Heaven, as holy writ109 saith, hath given the husband supremacy110 and dominion111 over the wife — I think it runs so, or something like it.”
“I receive at this moment so pleasant a surprise, Master Foster,” answered the Countess, “that I cannot but excuse the rigid112 fidelity113 which secluded114 me from these apartments, until they had assumed an appearance so new and so splendid.”
“Ay lady,” said Foster, “it hath cost many a fair crown; and that more need not be wasted than is absolutely necessary, I leave you till my lord’s arrival with good Master Richard Varney, who, as I think, hath somewhat to say to you from your most noble lord and husband.— Janet, follow me, to see that all be in order.”
“No, Master Foster,” said the Countess, “we will your daughter remains115 here in our apartment — out of ear-shot, however, in case Varney bath ought to say to me from my lord.”
Foster made his clumsy reverence, and departed, with an aspect which seemed to grudge116 the profuse117 expense which had been wasted upon changing his house from a bare and ruinous grange to an Asiastic palace. When he was gone, his daughter took her embroidery frame, and went to establish herself at the bottom of the apartment; while Richard Varney, with a profoundly humble118 courtesy, took the lowest stool he could find, and placing it by the side of the pile of cushions on which the Countess had now again seated herself, sat with his eyes for a time fixed119 on the ground, and in pro-found silence
“I thought, Master Varney,” said the Countess, when she saw he was not likely to open the conversation, “that you had something to communicate from my lord and husband; so at least I understood Master Foster, and therefore I removed my waiting-maid. If I am mistaken, I will recall her to my side; for her needle is not so absolutely perfect in tent and cross-stitch, but that my superintendence is advisable.”
“Lady,” said Varney, “Foster was partly mistaken in my purpose. It was not from but of your noble husband, and my approved and most noble patron, that I am led, and indeed bound, to speak.”
“The theme is most welcome, sir,” said the Countess, “whether it be of or from my noble husband. But be brief, for I expect his hasty approach.”
“Briefly then, madam,” replied Varney, “and boldly, for my argument requires both haste and courage — you have this day seen Tressilian?”
“I have, sir and what of that?” answered the lady somewhat sharply.
“Nothing that concerns me, lady,” Varney replied with humility120. “But, think you, honoured madam, that your lord will hear it with equal equanimity121?”
“And wherefore should he not? To me alone was Tressilian’s visit embarrassing and painful, for he brought news of my good father’s illness.”
“Of your father’s illness, madam!” answered Varney. “It must have been sudden then — very sudden; for the messenger whom I dispatched, at my lord’s instance, found the good knight122 on the hunting field, cheering his beagles with his wonted jovial123 field-cry. I trust Tressilian has but forged this news. He hath his reasons, madam, as you well know, for disquieting124 your present happiness.”
“You do him injustice126, Master Varney,” replied the Countess, with animation127 —“you do him much injustice. He is the freest, the most open, the most gentle heart that breathes. My honourable lord ever excepted, I know not one to whom falsehood is more odious128 than to Tressilian.”
“I crave129 your pardon, madam,” said Varney, “I meant the gentleman no injustice — I knew not how nearly his cause affected130 you. A man may, in some circumstances, disguise the truth for fair and honest purpose; for were it to be always spoken, and upon all occasions, this were no world to live in.”
“You have a courtly conscience, Master Varney,” said the Countess, “and your veracity131 will not, I think, interrupt your preferment in the world, such as it is. But touching132 Tressilian — I must do him justice, for I have done him wrong, as none knows better than thou. Tressilian’s conscience is of other mould — the world thou speakest of has not that which could bribe133 him from the way of truth and honour; and for living in it with a soiled fame, the ermine would as soon seek to lodge134 in the den49 of the foul135 polecat. For this my father loved him; for this I would have loved him — if I could. And yet in this case he had what seemed to him, unknowing alike of my marriage and to whom I was united, such powerful reasons to withdraw me from this place, that I well trust he exaggerated much of my father’s indisposition, and that thy better news may be the truer.”
“Believe me they are, madam,” answered Varney. “I pretend not to be a champion of that same naked virtue136 called truth, to the very outrance. I can consent that her charms be hidden with a veil, were it but for decency’s sake. But you must think lower of my head and heart than is due to one whom my noble lord deigns137 to call his friend, if you suppose I could wilfully138 and unnecessarily palm upon your ladyship a falsehood, so soon to be detected, in a matter which concerns your happiness.”
“Master Varney,” said the Countess, “I know that my lord esteems139 you, and holds you a faithful and a good pilot in those seas in which he has spread so high and so venturous a sail. Do not suppose, therefore, I meant hardly by you, when I spoke the truth in Tressilian’s vindication140. I am as you well know, country-bred, and like plain rustic truth better than courtly compliment; but I must change my fashions with my sphere, I presume.”
“True, madam,” said Varney, smiling; “and though you speak now in jest, it will not be amiss that in earnest your present speech had some connection with your real purpose. A court-dame — take the most noble, the most virtuous141, the most unimpeachable142 that stands around our Queen’s throne — would, for example, have shunned143 to speak the truth, or what she thought such, in praise of a discarded suitor, before the dependant144 and confidant of her noble husband.”
“And wherefore,” said the Countess, colouring impatiently, “should I not do justice to Tressilian’s worth, before my husband’s friend — before my husband himself — before the whole world?”
“And with the same openness,” said Varney, “your ladyship will this night tell my noble lord your husband that Tressilian has discovered your place of residence, so anxiously concealed145 from the world, and that he has had an interview with you?”
“Unquestionably,” said the Countess. “It will be the first thing I tell him, together with every word that Tressilian said and that I answered. I shall speak my own shame in this, for Tressilian’s reproaches, less just than he esteemed146 them, were not altogether unmerited. I will speak, therefore, with pain, but I will speak, and speak all.”
“Your ladyship will do your pleasure,” answered Varney; “but methinks it were as well, since nothing calls for so frank a disclosure, to spare yourself this pain, and my noble lord the disquiet125, and Master Tressilian, since belike he must be thought of in the matter, the danger which is like to ensue.”
“I can see nought147 of all these terrible consequences,” said the lady composedly, “unless by imputing148 to my noble lord unworthy thoughts, which I am sure never harboured in his generous heart.”
“Far be it from me to do so,” said Varney. And then, after a moment’s silence, he added, with a real or affected plainness of manner, very different from his usual smooth courtesy, “Come, madam, I will show you that a courtier dare speak truth as well as another, when it concerns the weal of those whom he honours and regards, ay, and although it may infer his own danger.” He waited as if to receive commands, or at least permission, to go on; but as the lady remained silent, he proceeded, but obviously with caution. “Look around you,” he said, “noble lady, and observe the barriers with which this place is surrounded, the studious mystery with which the brightest jewel that England possesses is secluded from the admiring gaze. See with what rigour your walks are circumscribed149. and your movement restrained at the beck of yonder churlish Foster. Consider all this, and judge for yourself what can be the cause.
“My lord’s pleasure,” answered the Countess; “and I am bound to seek no other motive150.”
“His pleasure it is indeed,” said Varney; “and his pleasure arises out of a love worthy of the object which inspires it. But he who possesses a treasure, and who values it, is oft anxious, in proportion to the value he puts upon it, to secure it from the depredations151 of others.”
“What needs all this talk, Master Varney?” said the lady, in reply. “You would have me believe that my noble lord is jealous. Suppose it true, I know a cure for jealousy152.”
“Indeed, madam?” said Varney.
“It is,” replied the lady, “to speak the truth to my lord at all times — to hold up my mind and my thoughts before him as pure as that polished mirror — so that when he looks into my heart, he shall only see his own features reflected there.”
“I am mute, madam answered Varney; “and as I have no reason to grieve for Tressilian, who would have my heart’s blood were he able, I shall reconcile myself easily to what may befall the gentleman in consequence of your frank disclosure of his having presumed to intrude153 upon your solitude154. You, who know my lord so much better than I, will judge if he be likely to bear the insult unavenged.”
“Nay, if I could think myself the cause of Tressilian’s ruin,” said the Countess, “I who have already occasioned him so much distress155, I might be brought to be silent. And yet what will it avail, since he was seen by Foster, and I think by some one else? No, no, Varney, urge it no more. I will tell the whole matter to my lord; and with such pleading for Tressilian’s folly156, as shall dispose my lord’s generous heart rather to serve than to punish him.”
“Your judgment157, madam,” said Varney, “is far superior to mine, especially as you may, if you will, prove the ice before you step on it, by mentioning Tressilian’s name to my lord, and observing how he endures it. For Foster and his attendant, they know not Tressilian by sight, and I can easily give them some reasonable excuse for the appearance of an unknown stranger.”
The lady paused for an instant, and then replied, “If, Varney, it be indeed true that Foster knows not as yet that the man he saw was Tressilian, I own I were unwilling158 he should learn what nowise concerns him. He bears himself already with austerity enough, and I wish him not to be judge or privy-councillor in my affairs.”
“Tush,” said Varney, “what has the surly groom56 to do with your ladyship’s concerns?— no more, surely, than the ban-dog which watches his courtyard. If he is in aught distasteful to your ladyship, I have interest enough to have him exchanged for a seneschal that shall be more agreeable to you.”
“Master Varney,” said the Countess, “let us drop this theme. When I complain of the attendants whom my lord has placed around me, it must be to my lord himself.— Hark! I hear the trampling159 of horse. He comes! he comes!” she exclaimed, jumping up in ecstasy160.
“I cannot think it is he,” said Varney; “or that you can hear the tread of his horse through the closely-mantled casements161.”
“Stop me not, Varney — my ears are keener than thine. It is he!”
“But, madam!— but, madam!” exclaimed Varney anxiously, and still placing himself in her way, “I trust that what I have spoken in humble duty and service will not be turned to my ruin? I hope that my faithful advice will not be bewrayed to my prejudice? I implore100 that —”
“Content thee, man — content thee!” said the Countess, “and quit my skirt — you are too bold to detain me. Content thyself, I think not of thee.”
At this moment the folding-doors flew wide open, and a man of majestic162 mien163, muffled164 in the folds of a long dark riding-cloak, entered the apartment.
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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premises
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semblance
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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mansion
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indigent
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secrecy
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suite
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illuminated
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shutters
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mantled
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velvet
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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wrought
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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18
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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19
condiments
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| n.调味品 | |
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20
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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21
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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22
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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23
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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24
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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25
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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26
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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27
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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28
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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30
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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31
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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32
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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33
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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34
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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35
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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36
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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37
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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38
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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39
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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40
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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41
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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42
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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43
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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44
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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45
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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46
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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47
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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48
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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50
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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51
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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53
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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54
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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55
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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56
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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57
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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58
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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60
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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61
galleons
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| n.大型帆船( galleon的名词复数 ) | |
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62
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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63
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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64
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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65
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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67
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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68
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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69
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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70
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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71
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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72
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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73
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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74
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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75
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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76
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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77
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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78
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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79
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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80
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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81
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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82
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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83
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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84
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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85
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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86
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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87
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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88
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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89
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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90
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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91
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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92
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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93
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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94
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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95
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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97
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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98
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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99
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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100
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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101
implores
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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103
extenuation
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| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
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104
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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105
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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106
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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107
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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108
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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109
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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110
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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111
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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112
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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113
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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114
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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115
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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116
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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117
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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118
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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119
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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120
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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121
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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122
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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123
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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124
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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125
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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126
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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127
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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128
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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129
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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130
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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131
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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132
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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133
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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134
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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135
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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136
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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137
deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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139
esteems
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| n.尊敬，好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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140
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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141
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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142
unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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143
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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147
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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148
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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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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151
depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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152
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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153
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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154
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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156
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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157
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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158
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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159
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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161
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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162
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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163
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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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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