least, keep your counsel.
Merry Wives of Windsor.
It becomes necessary to return to the detail of those circumstances which accompanied, and indeed occasioned, the sudden disappearance1 of Tressilian from the sign of the Black Bear at Cumnor. It will be recollected2 that this gentleman, after his rencounter with Varney, had returned to Giles Gosling’s caravansary, where he shut himself up in his own chamber3, demanded pen, ink, and paper, and announced his purpose to remain private for the day. In the evening he appeared again in the public room, where Michael Lambourne, who had been on the watch for him, agreeably to his engagement to Varney, endeavoured to renew his acquaintance with him, and hoped he retained no unfriendly recollection of the part he had taken in the morning’s scuffle.
But Tressilian repelled5 his advances firmly, though with civility. “Master Lambourne,” said he, “I trust I have recompensed to your pleasure the time you have wasted on me. Under the show of wild bluntness which you exhibit, I know you have sense enough to understand me, when I say frankly6 that the object of our temporary acquaintance having been accomplished7, we must be strangers to each other in future.”
“Voto!” said Lambourne, twirling his whiskers with one hand, and grasping the hilt of his weapon with the other; “if I thought that this usage was meant to insult me —”
“You would bear it with discretion8, doubtless,” interrupted Tressilian, “as you must do at any rate. You know too well the distance that is betwixt us, to require me to explain myself further. Good evening.”
So saying, he turned his back upon his former companion, and entered into discourse9 with the landlord. Michael Lambourne felt strongly disposed to bully10; but his wrath11 died away in a few incoherent oaths and ejaculations, and he sank unresistingly under the ascendency which superior spirits possess over persons of his habits and description. He remained moody12 and silent in a corner of the apartment, paying the most marked attention to every motion of his late companion, against whom he began now to nourish a quarrel on his own account, which he trusted to avenge13 by the execution of his new master Varney’s directions. The hour of supper arrived, and was followed by that of repose14, when Tressilian, like others, retired15 to his sleeping apartment.
He had not been in bed long, when the train of sad reveries, which supplied the place of rest in his disturbed mind, was suddenly interrupted by the jar of a door on its hinges, and a light was seen to glimmer16 in the apartment. Tressilian, who was as brave as steel, sprang from his bed at this alarm, and had laid hand upon his sword, when he was prevented from drawing it by a voice which said, “Be not too rash with your rapier, Master Tressilian. It is I, your host, Giles Gosling.”
At the same time, unshrouding the dark lantern, which had hitherto only emitted an indistinct glimmer, the goodly aspect and figure of the landlord of the Black Bear was visibly presented to his astonished guest.
“What mummery is this, mine host?” said Tressilian. “Have you supped as jollily as last night, and so mistaken your chamber? or is midnight a time for masquerading it in your guest’s lodging17?”
“Master Tressilian,” replied mine host, “I know my place and my time as well as e’er a merry landlord in England. But here has been my hang-dog kinsman18 watching you as close as ever cat watched a mouse; and here have you, on the other hand, quarrelled and fought, either with him or with some other person, and I fear that danger will come of it.”
“Go to, thou art but a fool, man,” said Tressilian. “Thy kinsman is beneath my resentment19; and besides, why shouldst thou think I had quarrelled with any one whomsoever?”
“Oh, sir,” replied the innkeeper, “there was a red spot on thy very cheek-bone, which boded20 of a late brawl22, as sure as the conjunction of Mars and Saturn23 threatens misfortune; and when you returned, the buckles24 of your girdle were brought forward, and your step was quick and hasty, and all things showed your hand and your hilt had been lately acquainted.”
“Well, good mine host, if I have been obliged to draw my sword,” said Tressilian, “why should such a circumstance fetch thee out of thy warm bed at this time of night? Thou seest the mischief25 is all over.”
“Under favour, that is what I doubt. Anthony Foster is a dangerous man, defended by strong court patronage26, which hath borne him out in matters of very deep concernment. And, then, my kinsman — why, I have told you what he is; and if these two old cronies have made up their old acquaintance, I would not, my worshipful guest, that it should be at thy cost. I promise you, Mike Lambourne has been making very particular inquiries27 at my hostler when and which way you ride. Now, I would have you think whether you may not have done or said something for which you may be waylaid28, and taken at disadvantage.”
“Thou art an honest man, mine host,” said Tressilian, after a moment’s consideration, “and I will deal frankly with thee. If these men’s malice29 is directed against me — as I deny not but it may — it is because they are the agents of a more powerful villain30 than themselves.”
“You mean Master Richard Varney, do you not?” said the landlord; “he was at Cumnor Place yesterday, and came not thither31 so private but what he was espied32 by one who told me.”
“I mean the same, mine host.”
“Then, for God’s sake, worshipful Master Tressilian,” said honest Gosling, “look well to yourself. This Varney is the protector and patron of Anthony Foster, who holds under him, and by his favour, some lease of yonder mansion33 and the park. Varney got a large grant of the lands of the Abbacy of Abingdon, and Cumnor Place amongst others, from his master, the Earl of Leicester. Men say he can do everything with him, though I hold the Earl too good a nobleman to employ him as some men talk of. And then the Earl can do anything (that is, anything right or fitting) with the Queen, God bless her! So you see what an enemy you have made to yourself.”
“Well — it is done, and I cannot help it,” answered Tressilian.
“Uds precious, but it must be helped in some manner,” said the host. “Richard Varney — why, what between his influence with my lord, and his pretending to so many old and vexatious claims in right of the abbot here, men fear almost to mention his name, much more to set themselves against his practices. You may judge by our discourses34 the last night. Men said their pleasure of Tony Foster, but not a word of Richard Varney, though all men judge him to be at the bottom of yonder mystery about the pretty wench. But perhaps you know more of that matter than I do; for women, though they wear not swords, are occasion for many a blade’s exchanging a sheath of neat’s leather for one of flesh and blood.”
“I do indeed know more of that poor unfortunate lady than thou dost, my friendly host; and so bankrupt am I, at this moment, of friends and advice, that I will willingly make a counsellor of thee, and tell thee the whole history, the rather that I have a favour to ask when my tale is ended.”
“Good Master Tressilian,” said the landlord, “I am but a poor innkeeper, little able to adjust or counsel such a guest as yourself. But as sure as I have risen decently above the world, by giving good measure and reasonable charges, I am an honest man; and as such, if I may not be able to assist you, I am, at least, not capable to abuse your confidence. Say away therefore, as confidently as if you spoke35 to your father; and thus far at least be certain, that my curiosity — for I will not deny that which belongs to my calling — is joined to a reasonable degree of discretion.”
“I doubt it not, mine host,” answered Tressilian; and while his auditor36 remained in anxious expectation, he meditated37 for an instant how he should commence his narrative38. “My tale,” he at length said, “to be quite intelligible39, must begin at some distance back. You have heard of the battle of Stoke, my good host, and perhaps of old Sir Roger Robsart, who, in that battle, valiantly40 took part with Henry VII., the Queen’s grandfather, and routed the Earl of Lincoln, Lord Geraldin and his wild Irish, and the Flemings whom the Duchess of Burgundy had sent over, in the quarrel of Lambert Simnel?”
“I remember both one and the other,” said Giles Gosling; “it is sung of a dozen times a week on my ale-bench below. Sir Roger Robsart of Devon — oh, ay, ’tis him of whom minstrels sing to this hour,—
‘He was the flower of Stoke’s red field,
When Martin Swart on ground lay slain42;
In raging rout41 he never reel’d,
But like a rock did firm remain.’
7
Ay, and then there was Martin Swart I have heard my grandfather talk of, and of the jolly Almains whom he commanded, with their slashed43 doublets and quaint4 hose, all frounced with ribands above the nether-stocks. Here’s a song goes of Martin Swart, too, an I had but memory for it:—
‘Martin Swart and his men,
Saddle them, saddle them,
Martin Swart and his men;
Saddle them well.’”
8
“True, good mine host — the day was long talked of; but if you sing so loud, you will awake more listeners than I care to commit my confidence unto.”
“I crave44 pardon, my worshipful guest,” said mine host, “I was oblivious45. When an old song comes across us merry old knights46 of the spigot, it runs away with our discretion.”
“Well, mine host, my grandfather, like some other Cornishmen, kept a warm affection to the House of York, and espoused48 the quarrel of this Simnel, assuming the title of Earl of Warwick, as the county afterwards, in great numbers, countenanced50 the cause of Perkin Warbeck, calling himself the Duke of York. My grandsire joined Simnel’s standard, and was taken fighting desperately51 at Stoke, where most of the leaders of that unhappy army were slain in their harness. The good knight47 to whom he rendered himself, Sir Roger Robsart, protected him from the immediate52 vengeance53 of the king, and dismissed him without ransom54. But he was unable to guard him from other penalties of his rashness, being the heavy fines by which he was impoverished55, according to Henry’s mode of weakening his enemies. The good knight did what he might to mitigate56 the distresses57 of my ancestor; and their friendship became so strict, that my father was bred up as the sworn brother and intimate of the present Sir Hugh Robsart, the only son of Sir Roger, and the heir of his honest, and generous, and hospitable58 temper, though not equal to him in martial59 achievements.”
“I have heard of good Sir Hugh Robsart,” interrupted the host, “many a time and oft; his huntsman and sworn servant, Will Badger60, hath spoken of him an hundred times in this very house. A jovial61 knight he is, and hath loved hospitality and open housekeeping more than the present fashion, which lays as much gold lace on the seams of a doublet as would feed a dozen of tall fellows with beef and ale for a twelvemonth, and let them have their evening at the alehouse once a week, to do good to the publican.”
“If you have seen Will Badger, mine host,” said Tressilian, “you have heard enough of Sir Hugh Robsart; and therefore I will but say, that the hospitality you boast of hath proved somewhat detrimental62 to the estate of his family, which is perhaps of the less consequence, as he has but one daughter to whom to bequeath it. And here begins my share in the tale. Upon my father’s death, now several years since, the good Sir Hugh would willingly have made me his constant companion. There was a time, however, at which I felt the kind knight’s excessive love for field-sports detained me from studies, by which I might have profited more; but I ceased to regret the leisure which gratitude63 and hereditary64 friendship compelled me to bestow65 on these rural avocations66. The exquisite67 beauty of Mistress Amy Robsart, as she grew up from childhood to woman, could not escape one whom circumstances obliged to be so constantly in her company — I loved her, in short, mine host, and her father saw it.”
“And crossed your true loves, no doubt?” said mine host. “It is the way in all such cases; and I judge it must have been so in your instance, from the heavy sigh you uttered even now.”
“The case was different, mine host. My suit was highly approved by the generous Sir Hugh Robsart; it was his daughter who was cold to my passion.”
“She was the more dangerous enemy of the two,” said the innkeeper. “I fear me your suit proved a cold one.”
“She yielded me her esteem,” said Tressilian, “and seemed not unwilling68 that I should hope it might ripen69 into a warmer passion. There was a contract of future marriage executed betwixt us, upon her father’s intercession; but to comply with her anxious request, the execution was deferred70 for a twelvemonth. During this period, Richard Varney appeared in the country, and, availing himself of some distant family connection with Sir Hugh Robsart, spent much of his time in his company, until, at length, he almost lived in the family.”
“That could bode21 no good to the place he honoured with his residence,” said Gosling.
“No, by the rood!” replied Tressilian. “Misunderstanding and misery71 followed his presence, yet so strangely that I am at this moment at a loss to trace the gradations of their encroachment72 upon a family which had, till then, been so happy. For a time Amy Robsart received the attentions of this man Varney with the indifference73 attached to common courtesies; then followed a period in which she seemed to regard him with dislike, and even with disgust; and then an extraordinary species of connection appeared to grow up betwixt them. Varney dropped those airs of pretension74 and gallantry which had marked his former approaches; and Amy, on the other hand, seemed to renounce76 the ill-disguised disgust with which she had regarded them. They seemed to have more of privacy and confidence together than I fully77 liked, and I suspected that they met in private, where there was less restraint than in our presence. Many circumstances, which I noticed but little at the time — for I deemed her heart as open as her angelic countenance49 — have since arisen on my memory, to convince me of their private understanding. But I need not detail them — the fact speaks for itself. She vanished from her father’s house; Varney disappeared at the same time; and this very day I have seen her in the character of his paramour, living in the house of his sordid78 dependant79 Foster, and visited by him, muffled80, and by a secret entrance.”
“And this, then, is the cause of your quarrel? Methinks, you should have been sure that the fair lady either desired or deserved your interference.”
“Mine host,” answered Tressilian, “my father — such I must ever consider Sir Hugh Robsart — sits at home struggling with his grief, or, if so far recovered, vainly attempting to drown, in the practice of his field-sports, the recollection that he had once a daughter — a recollection which ever and anon breaks from him under circumstances the most pathetic. I could not brook81 the idea that he should live in misery, and Amy in guilt82; and I endeavoured to-seek her out, with the hope of inducing her to return to her family. I have found her, and when I have either succeeded in my attempt, or have found it altogether unavailing, it is my purpose to embark83 for the Virginia voyage.”
“Be not so rash, good sir,” replied Giles Gosling, “and cast not yourself away because a woman — to be brief — is a woman, and changes her lovers like her suit of ribands, with no better reason than mere84 fantasy. And ere we probe this matter further, let me ask you what circumstances of suspicion directed you so truly to this lady’s residence, or rather to her place of concealment85?”
“The last is the better chosen word, mine host,” answered Tressilian; “and touching86 your question, the knowledge that Varney held large grants of the demesnes formerly87 belonging to the monks88 of Abingdon directed me to this neighbourhood; and your nephew’s visit to his old comrade Foster gave me the means of conviction on the subject.”
“And what is now your purpose, worthy89 sir?— excuse my freedom in asking the question so broadly.”
“I purpose, mine host,” said Tressilian, “to renew my visit to the place of her residence tomorrow, and to seek a more detailed90 communication with her than I have had today. She must indeed be widely changed from what she once was, if my words make no impression upon her.”
“Under your favour, Master Tressilian,” said the landlord, “you can follow no such course. The lady, if I understand you, has already rejected your interference in the matter.”
“It is but too true,” said Tressilian; “I cannot deny it.”
“Then, marry, by what right or interest do you process a compulsory91 interference with her inclination92, disgraceful as it may be to herself and to her parents? Unless my judgment93 gulls94 me, those under whose protection she has thrown herself would have small hesitation95 to reject your interference, even if it were that of a father or brother; but as a discarded lover, you expose yourself to be repelled with the strong hand, as well as with scorn. You can apply to no magistrate96 for aid or countenance; and you are hunting, therefore, a shadow in water, and will only (excuse my plainness) come by ducking and danger in attempting to catch it.”
“I will appeal to the Earl of Leicester,” said Tressilian, “against the infamy97 of his favourite. He courts the severe and strict sect98 of Puritans. He dare not, for the sake of his own character, refuse my appeal, even although he were destitute99 of the principles of honour and nobleness with which fame invests him. Or I will appeal to the Queen herself.”
“Should Leicester,” said the landlord, “be disposed to protect his dependant (as indeed he is said to be very confidential100 with Varney), the appeal to the Queen may bring them both to reason. Her Majesty101 is strict in such matters, and (if it be not treason to speak it) will rather, it is said, pardon a dozen courtiers for falling in love with herself, than one for giving preference to another woman. Coragio then, my brave guest! for if thou layest a petition from Sir Hugh at the foot of the throne, bucklered by the story of thine own wrongs, the favourite Earl dared as soon leap into the Thames at the fullest and deepest, as offer to protect Varney in a cause of this nature. But to do this with any chance of success, you must go formally to work; and, without staying here to tilt102 with the master of horse to a privy103 councillor, and expose yourself to the dagger104 of his cameradoes, you should hie you to Devonshire, get a petition drawn105 up for Sir Hugh Robsart, and make as many friends as you can to forward your interest at court.”
“You have spoken well, mine host,” said Tressilian, “and I will profit by your advice, and leave you tomorrow early.”
“Nay, leave me to-night, sir, before tomorrow comes,” said he landlord. “I never prayed for a guest’s arrival more eagerly than I do to have you safely gone, My kinsman’s destiny is most like to be hanged for something, but I would not that the cause were the murder of an honoured guest of mine. ‘Better ride safe in the dark,’ says the proverb, ‘than in daylight with a cut-throat at your elbow.’ Come, sir, I move you for your own safety. Your horse and all is ready, and here is your score.”
“It is somewhat under a noble,” said Tressilian, giving one to the host; “give the balance to pretty Cicely, your daughter, and the servants of the house.”
“They shall taste of your bounty106, sir,” said Gosling, “and you should taste of my daughter’s lips in grateful acknowledgment, but at this hour she cannot grace the porch to greet your departure.”
“Do not trust your daughter too far with your guests, my good landlord,” said Tressilian.
“Oh, sir, we will keep measure; but I wonder not that you are jealous of them all.— May I crave to know with what aspect the fair lady at the Place yesterday received you?”
“I own,” said Tressilian, “it was angry as well as confused, and affords me little hope that she is yet awakened107 from her unhappy delusion108.”
“In that case, sir, I see not why you should play the champion of a wench that will none of you, and incur109 the resentment of a favourite’s favourite, as dangerous a monster as ever a knight adventurer encountered in the old story books.”
“You do me wrong in the supposition, mine host — gross wrong,” said Tressilian; “I do not desire that Amy should ever turn thought upon me more. Let me but see her restored to her father, and all I have to do in Europe — perhaps in the world — is over and ended.”
“A wiser resolution were to drink a cup of sack, and forget her,” said the landlord. “But five-and-twenty and fifty look on those matters with different eyes, especially when one cast of peepers is set in the skull110 of a young gallant75, and the other in that of an old publican. I pity you, Master Tressilian, but I see not how I can aid you in the matter.”
“Only thus far, mine host,” replied Tressilian —“keep a watch on the motions of those at the Place, which thou canst easily learn without suspicion, as all men’s news fly to the ale-bench; and be pleased to communicate the tidings in writing to such person, and to no other, who shall bring you this ring as a special token. Look at it; it is of value, and I will freely bestow it on you.”
“Nay, sir,” said the landlord, “I desire no recompense — but it seems an unadvised course in me, being in a public line, to connect myself in a matter of this dark and perilous111 nature. I have no interest in it.”
“You, and every father in the land, who would have his daughter released from the snares112 of shame, and sin, and misery, have an interest deeper than aught concerning earth only could create.”
“Well, sir,” said the host, “these are brave words; and I do pity from my soul the frank-hearted old gentleman, who has minished his estate in good housekeeping for the honour of his country, and now has his daughter, who should be the stay of his age, and so forth113, whisked up by such a kite as this Varney. And though your part in the matter is somewhat of the wildest, yet I will e’en be a madcap for company, and help you in your honest attempt to get back the good man’s child, so far as being your faithful intelligencer can serve. And as I shall be true to you, I pray you to be trusty to me, and keep my secret; for it were bad for the custom of the Black Bear should it be said the bear-warder interfered114 in such matters. Varney has interest enough with the justices to dismount my noble emblem115 from the post on which he swings so gallantly116, to call in my license117, and ruin me from garret to cellar.”
“Do not doubt my secrecy118, mine host,” said Tressilian; “I will retain, besides, the deepest sense of thy service, and of the risk thou dost run — remember the ring is my sure token. And now, farewell! for it was thy wise advice that I should tarry here as short a time as may be.”
“Follow me, then, Sir Guest,” said the landlord, “and tread as gently as if eggs were under your foot, instead of deal boards. No man must know when or how you departed.”
By the aid of his dark lantern he conducted Tressilian, as soon as he had made himself ready for his journey, through a long intricacy of passages, which opened to an outer court, and from thence to a remote stable, where he had already placed his guest’s horse. He then aided him to fasten on the saddle the small portmantle which contained his necessaries, opened a postern door, and with a hearty119 shake of the hand, and a reiteration120 of his promise to attend to what went on at Cumnor Place, he dismissed his guest to his solitary121 journey.
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1
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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2
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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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7
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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8
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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9
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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17
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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bode
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| v.预示 | |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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Saturn
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| n.农神，土星 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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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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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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38
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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39
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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40
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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41
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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42
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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43
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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44
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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45
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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46
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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47
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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48
espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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50
countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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51
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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52
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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53
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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54
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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55
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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56
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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57
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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58
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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59
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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60
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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61
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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62
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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63
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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64
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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65
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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66
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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67
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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68
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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69
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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70
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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71
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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72
encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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73
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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74
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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75
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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76
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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77
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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78
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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79
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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80
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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81
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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82
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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83
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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84
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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85
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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86
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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87
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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88
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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89
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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90
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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91
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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92
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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93
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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94
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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95
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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96
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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97
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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98
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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99
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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100
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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101
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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102
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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103
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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104
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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105
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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106
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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107
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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108
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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109
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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110
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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111
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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112
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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114
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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115
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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116
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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117
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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118
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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119
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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120
reiteration
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| n. 重覆, 反覆, 重说 | |
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121
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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