The wind hath blown away to other towers.
Joanna Baillie’s Family Legend.
The ancient seat of Lidcote Hall was situated2 near the village of the same name, and adjoined the wild and extensive forest of Exmoor, plentifully3 stocked with game, in which some ancient rights belonging to the Robsart family entitled Sir Hugh to pursue his favourite amusement of the chase. The old mansion4 was a low, venerable building, occupying a considerable space of ground, which was surrounded by a deep moat. The approach and drawbridge were defended by an octagonal tower, of ancient brickwork, but so clothed with ivy5 and other creepers that it was difficult to discover of what materials it was constructed. The angles of this tower were each decorated with a turret6, whimsically various in form and in size, and, therefore, very unlike the monotonous7 stone pepperboxes which, in modern Gothic architecture, are employed for the same purpose. One of these turrets8 was square, and occupied as a clock-house. But the clock was now standing9 still; a circumstance peculiarly striking to Tressilian, because the good old knight10, among other harmless peculiarities11, had a fidgety anxiety about the exact measurement of time, very common to those who have a great deal of that commodity to dispose of, and find it lie heavy upon their hands — just as we see shopkeepers amuse themselves with taking an exact account of their stock at the time there is least demand for it.
The entrance to the courtyard of the old mansion lay through an archway, surmounted12 by the foresaid tower; but the drawbridge was down, and one leaf of the iron-studded folding-doors stood carelessly open. Tressilian hastily rode over the drawbridge, entered the court, and began to call loudly on the domestics by their names. For some time he was only answered by the echoes and the howling of the hounds, whose kennel13 lay at no great distance from the mansion, and was surrounded by the same moat. At length Will Badger14, the old and favourite attendant of the knight, who acted alike as squire15 of his body and superintendent16 of his sports, made his appearance. The stout17, weather-beaten forester showed great signs of joy when he recognized Tressilian.
“Lord love you,” he said, “Master Edmund, be it thou in flesh and fell? Then thou mayest do some good on Sir Hugh, for it passes the wit of man — that is, of mine own, and the curate’s, and Master Mumblazen’s — to do aught wi’un.”
“Is Sir Hugh then worse since I went away, Will?” demanded Tressilian.
“For worse in body — no; he is much better,” replied the domestic; “but he is clean mazed18 as it were — eats and drinks as he was wont19 — but sleeps not, or rather wakes not, for he is ever in a sort of twilight20, that is neither sleeping nor waking. Dame21 Swineford thought it was like the dead palsy. But no, no, dame, said I, it is the heart, it is the heart.”
“Can ye not stir his mind to any pastimes?” said Tressilian.
“He is clean and quite off his sports,” said Will Badger; “hath neither touched backgammon or shovel-board, nor looked on the big book of harrowtry wi’ Master Mumblazen. I let the clock run down, thinking the missing the bell might somewhat move him — for you know, Master Edmund, he was particular in counting time — but he never said a word on’t, so I may e’en set the old chime a-towling again. I made bold to tread on Bungay’s tail too, and you know what a round rating that would ha’ cost me once a-day; but he minded the poor tyke’s whine22 no more than a madge howlet whooping23 down the chimney — so the case is beyond me.”
“Thou shalt tell me the rest within doors, Will. Meanwhile, let this person be ta’en to the buttery, and used with respect. He is a man of art.”
“White art or black art, I would,” said Will Badger, “that he had any art which could help us.— Here, Tom Butler, look to the man of art;— and see that he steals none of thy spoons, lad,” he added in a whisper to the butler, who showed himself at a low window, “I have known as honest a faced fellow have art enough to do that.”
He then ushered24 Tressilian into a low parlour, and went, at his desire, to see in what state his master was, lest the sudden return of his darling pupil and proposed son-inlaw should affect him too strongly. He returned immediately, and said that Sir Hugh was dozing25 in his elbow-chair, but that Master Mumblazen would acquaint Master Tressilian the instant he awaked.
“But it is chance if he knows you,” said the huntsman, “for he has forgotten the name of every hound in the pack. I thought, about a week since, he had gotten a favourable26 turn. ‘Saddle me old Sorrel,’ said he suddenly, after he had taken his usual night-draught27 out of the great silver grace-cup, ‘and take the hounds to Mount Hazelhurst tomorrow.’ Glad men were we all, and out we had him in the morning, and he rode to cover as usual, with never a word spoken but that the wind was south, and the scent29 would lie. But ere we had uncoupled’the hounds, he began to stare round him, like a man that wakes suddenly out of a dream — turns bridle30, and walks back to Hall again, and leaves us to hunt at leisure by ourselves, if we listed.”
“You tell a heavy tale, Will,” replied Tressilian; “but God must help us — there is no aid in man.”
“Then you bring us no news of young Mistress Amy? But what need I ask — your brow tells the story. Ever I hoped that if any man could or would track her, it must be you. All’s over and lost now. But if ever I have that Varney within reach of a flight-shot, I will bestow31 a forked shaft32 on him; and that I swear by salt and bread.”
As he spoke28, the door opened, and Master Mumblazen appeared — a withered33, thin, elderly gentleman, with a cheek like a winter apple, and his grey hair partly concealed34 by a small, high hat, shaped like a cone35, or rather like such a strawberry-basket as London fruiterers exhibit at their windows. He was too sententious a person to waste words on mere36 salutation; so, having welcomed Tressilian with a nod and a shake of the hand, he beckoned37 him to follow to Sir Hugh’s great chamber38, which the good knight usually inhabited. Will Badger followed, unasked, anxious to see whether his master would be relieved from his state of apathy39 by the arrival of Tressilian.
In a long, low parlour, amply furnished with implements40 of the chase, and with silvan trophies41, by a massive stone chimney, over which hung a sword and suit of armour42 somewhat obscured by neglect, sat Sir Hugh Robsart of Lidcote, a man of large size, which had been only kept within moderate compass by the constant use of violent exercise, It seemed to Tressilian that the lethargy, under which his old friend appeared to labour, had, even during his few weeks’ absence, added bulk to his person — at least it had obviously diminished the vivacity43 of his eye, which, as they entered, first followed Master Mumblazen slowly to a large oaken desk, on which a ponderous44 volume lay open, and then rested, as if in uncertainty45, on the stranger who had entered along with him. The curate, a grey-headed clergyman, who had been a confessor in the days of Queen Mary, sat with a book in his hand in another recess47 in the apartment. He, too, signed a mournful greeting to Tressilian, and laid his book aside, to watch the effect his appearance should produce on the afflicted48 old man.
As Tressilian, his own eyes filling fast with tears, approached more and more nearly to the father of his betrothed49 bride, Sir Hugh’s intelligence seemed to revive. He sighed heavily, as one who awakens50 from a state of stupor51; a slight convulsion passed over his features; he opened his arms without speaking a word, and, as Tressilian threw himself into them, he folded him to his bosom52.
“There is something left to live for yet,” were the first words he uttered; and while he spoke, he gave vent53 to his feelings in a paroxysm of weeping, the tears chasing each other down his sunburnt cheeks and long white beard.
“I ne’er thought to have thanked God to see my master weep,” said Will Badger; “but now I do, though I am like to weep for company.”
“I will ask thee no questions,” said the old knight; “no questions — none, Edmund. Thou hast not found her — or so found her, that she were better lost.”
Tressilian was unable to reply otherwise than by putting his hands before his face.
“It is enough — it is enough. But do not thou weep for her, Edmund. I have cause to weep, for she was my daughter; thou hast cause to rejoice, that she did not become thy wife.— Great God! thou knowest best what is good for us. It was my nightly prayer that I should see Amy and Edmund wedded,— had it been granted, it had now been gall54 added to bitterness.”
“Be comforted, my friend,” said the curate, addressing Sir Hugh, “it cannot be that the daughter of all our hopes and affections is the vile55 creature you would bespeak56 her.”
“Oh, no,” replied Sir Hugh impatiently, “I were wrong to name broadly the base thing she is become — there is some new court name for it, I warrant me. It is honour enough for the daughter of an old Devonshire clown to be the leman of a gay courtier — of Varney too — of Varney, whose grandsire was relieved by my father, when his fortune was broken, at the battle of — the battle of — where Richard was slain57 — out on my memory!— and I warrant none of you will help me —”
“The battle of Bosworth,” said Master Mumblazen —“stricken between Richard Crookback and Henry Tudor, grandsire of the Queen that now is, Primo Henrici Septimi; and in the year one thousand four hundred and eighty-five, Post Christum Natum.”
“Ay, even so,” said the old knight; “every child knows it. But my poor head forgets all it should remember, and remembers only what it would most willingly forget. My brain has been at fault, Tressilian, almost ever since thou hast been away, and even yet it hunts counter.”
“Your worship,” said the good clergyman, “had better retire to your apartment, and try to sleep for a little space. The physician left a composing draught; and our Great Physician has commanded us to use earthly means, that we may be strengthened to sustain the trials He sends us.”
“True, true, old friend,” said Sir Hugh; “and we will bear our trials manfully — we have lost but a woman.— See, Tressilian,”— he drew from his bosom a long ringlet of glossy58 hair,—“see this lock! I tell thee, Edmund, the very night she disappeared, when she bid me good even, as she was wont, she hung about my neck, and fondled me more than usual; and I, like an old fool, held her by this lock, until she took her scissors, severed59 it, and left it in my hand — as all I was ever to see more of her!”
Tressilian was unable to reply, well judging what a complication of feelings must have crossed the bosom of the unhappy fugitive60 at that cruel moment. The clergyman was about to speak, but Sir Hugh interrupted him.
“I know what you would say, Master Curate,— After all, it is but a lock of woman’s tresses; and by woman, shame, and sin, and death came into an innocent world.— And learned Master Mumblazen, too, can say scholarly things of their inferiority.”
“C’est L’Homme,” said Master Mumblazen, “qui se bast, et qui conseille.”
“True,” said Sir Hugh, “and we will bear us, therefore, like men who have both mettle61 and wisdom in us.— Tressilian, thou art as welcome as if thou hadst brought better news. But we have spoken too long dry-lipped.— Amy, fill a cup of wine to Edmund, and another to me.” Then instantly recollecting62 that he called upon her who could not hear, he shook his head, and said to the clergyman, “This grief is to my bewildered mind what the church of Lidcote is to our park: we may lose ourselves among the briers and thickets63 for a little space, but from the end of each avenue we see the old grey steeple and the grave of my forefathers64. I would I were to travel that road tomorrow!”
Tressilian and the curate joined in urging the exhausted65 old man to lay himself to rest, and at length prevailed. Tressilian remained by his pillow till he saw that slumber66 at length sunk down on him, and then returned to consult with the curate what steps should be adopted in these unhappy circumstances.
They could not exclude from these deliberations Master Michael Mumblazen; and they admitted him the more readily, that besides what hopes they entertained from his sagacity, they knew him to be so great a friend to taciturnity, that there was no doubt of his keeping counsel. He was an old bachelor, of good family, but small fortune, and distantly related to the House of Robsart; in virtue67 of which connection, Lidcote Hall had been honoured with his residence for the last twenty years. His company was agreeable to Sir Hugh, chiefly on account of his profound learning, which, though it only related to heraldry and genealogy69, with such scraps70 of history as connected themselves with these subjects, was precisely71 of a kind to captivate the good old knight; besides the convenience which he found in having a friend to appeal to when his own memory, as frequently happened, proved infirm and played him false concerning names and dates, which, and all similar deficiencies, Master Michael Mumblazen supplied with due brevity and discretion72. And, indeed, in matters concerning the modern world, he often gave, in his enigmatical and heraldic phrase, advice which was well worth attending to, or, in Will Badger’s language, started the game while others beat the bush.
“We have had an unhappy time of it with the good knight, Master Edmund,” said the curate. “I have not suffered so much since I was torn away from my beloved flock, and compelled to abandon them to the Romish wolves.”
“That was in tertio mariae,” said Master Mumblazen.
“In the name of Heaven,” continued the curate, “tell us, has your time been better spent than ours, or have you any news of that unhappy maiden73, who, being for so many years the principal joy of this broken-down house, is now proved our greatest unhappiness? Have you not at least discovered her place of residence?”
“I have,” replied Tressilian. “Know you Cumnor Place, near Oxford74?”
“Surely,” said the clergyman; “it was a house of removal for the monks75 of Abingdon.”
“Whose arms,” said Master Michael, “I have seen over a stone chimney in the hall,— a cross patonce betwixt four martlets.”
“There,” said Tressilian, “this unhappy maiden resides, in company with the villain76 Varney. But for a strange mishap77, my sword had revenged all our injuries, as well as hers, on his worthless head.”
“Thank God, that kept thine hand from blood-guiltiness, rash young man!” answered the curate. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay it. It were better study to free her from the villain’s nets of infamy78.”
“They are called, in heraldry, Laquei Amoris, or Lacs d’Amour,” said Mumblazen.
“It is in that I require your aid, my friends,” said Tressilian. “I am resolved to accuse this villain, at the very foot of the throne, of falsehood, seduction, and breach79 of hospitable80 laws. The Queen shall hear me, though the Earl of Leicester, the villain’s patron, stood at her right hand.”
“Her Grace,” said the curate, “hath set a comely81 example of continence to her subjects, and will doubtless do justice on this inhospitable robber. But wert thou not better apply to the Earl of Leicester, in the first place, for justice on his servant? If he grants it, thou dost save the risk of making thyself a powerful adversary82, which will certainly chance if, in the first instance, you accuse his master of the horse and prime favourite before the Queen.”
“My mind revolts from your counsel,” said Tressilian. “I cannot brook83 to plead my noble patron’s cause the unhappy Amy’s cause — before any one save my lawful84 Sovereign. Leicester, thou wilt85 say, is noble. Be it so; he is but a subject like ourselves, and I will not carry my plaint to him, if I can do better. Still, I will think on what thou hast said; but I must have your assistance to persuade the good Sir Hugh to make me his commissioner86 and fiduciary87 in this matter, for it is in his name I must speak, and not in my own. Since she is so far changed as to dote upon this empty profligate88 courtier, he shall at least do her the justice which is yet in his power.”
“Better she died caelebs and sine prole,” said Mumblazen, with more animation89 than he usually expressed, “than part, per pale, the noble coat of Robsart with that of such a miscreant90!”
“If it be your object, as I cannot question,” said the clergyman, “to save, as much as is yet possible, the credit of this unhappy young woman, I repeat, you should apply, in the first instance, to the Earl of Leicester. He is as absolute in his household as the Queen in her kingdom, and if he expresses to Varney that such is his pleasure, her honour will not stand so publicly committed.”
“You are right, you are right!” said Tressilian eagerly, “and I thank you for pointing out what I overlooked in my haste. I little thought ever to have besought91 grace of Leicester; but I could kneel to the proud Dudley, if doing so could remove one shade of shame from this unhappy damsel. You will assist me then to procure92 the necessary powers from Sir Hugh Robsart?”
The curate assured him of his assistance, and the herald68 nodded assent93.
“You must hold yourselves also in readiness to testify, in case you are called upon, the openhearted hospitality which our good patron exercised towards this deceitful traitor94, and the solicitude95 with which he laboured to seduce96 his unhappy daughter.”
“At first,” said the clergyman, “she did not, as it seemed to me, much affect his company; but latterly I saw them often together.”
“Seiant in the parlour,” said Michael Mumblazen, “and passant in the garden.”
“I once came on them by chance,” said the priest, “in the South wood, in a spring evening. Varney was muffled97 in a russet cloak, so that I saw not his face. They separated hastily, as they heard me rustle98 amongst the leaves; and I observed she turned her head and looked long after him.”
“With neck reguardant,” said the herald. “And on the day of her flight, and that was on Saint Austen’s Eve, I saw Varney’s groom99, attired100 in his liveries, hold his master’s horse and Mistress Amy’s palfrey, bridled101 and saddled proper, behind the wall of the churchyard,”
“And now is she found mewed up in his secret place of retirement,” said Tressilian. “The villain is taken in the manner, and I well wish he may deny his crime, that I may thrust conviction down his false throat! But I must prepare for my journey. Do you, gentlemen, dispose my patron to grant me such powers as are needful to act in his name.”
So saying, Tressilian left the room.
“He is too hot,” said the curate; “and I pray to God that He may grant him the patience to deal with Varney as is fitting.”
“Patience and Varney,” said Mumblazen, “is worse heraldry than metal upon metal. He is more false than a siren, more rapacious102 than a griffin, more poisonous than a wyvern, and more cruel than a lion rampant103.”
“Yet I doubt much,” said the curate, “whether we can with propriety104 ask from Sir Hugh Robsart, being in his present condition, any deed deputing his paternal105 right in Mistress Amy to whomsoever —”
“Your reverence106 need not doubt that,” said Will Badger, who entered as he spoke, “for I will lay my life he is another man when he wakes than he has been these thirty days past.”
“Ay, Will,” said the curate, “hast thou then so much confidence in Doctor Diddleum’s draught?”
“Not a whit,” said Will, “because master ne’er tasted a drop on’t, seeing it was emptied out by the housemaid. But here’s a gentleman, who came attending on Master Tressilian, has given Sir Hugh a draught that is worth twenty of yon un. I have spoken cunningly with him, and a better farrier or one who hath a more just notion of horse and dog ailment107 I have never seen; and such a one would never be unjust to a Christian108 man.”
“A farrier! you saucy109 groom — and by whose authority, pray?” said the curate, rising in surprise and indignation; “or who will be warrant for this new physician?”
“For authority, an it like your reverence, he had mine; and for warrant, I trust I have not been five-and-twenty years in this house without having right to warrant the giving of a draught to beast or body — I who can gie a drench110, and a ball, and bleed, or blister111, if need, to my very self.”
The counsellors of the house of Robsart thought it meet to carry this information instantly to Tressilian, who as speedily summoned before him Wayland Smith, and demanded of him (in private, however) by what authority he had ventured to administer any medicine to Sir Hugh Robsart?
“Why,” replied the artist, “your worship cannot but remember that I told you I had made more progress into my master’s — I mean the learned Doctor Doboobie’s — mystery than he was willing to own; and indeed half of his quarrel and malice112 against me was that, besides that I got something too deep into his secrets, several discerning persons, and particularly a buxom113 young widow of Abingdon, preferred my prescriptions114 to his.”
“None of thy buffoonery, sir,” said Tressilian sternly. “If thou hast trifled with us — much more, if thou hast done aught that may prejudice Sir Hugh Robsart’s health, thou shalt find thy grave at the bottom of a tin-mine.”
“I know too little of the great Arcanum to convert the ore to gold,” said Wayland firmly. “But truce115 to your apprehensions116, Master Tressilian. I understood the good knight’s case from what Master William Badger told me; and I hope I am able enough to administer a poor dose of mandragora, which, with the sleep that must needs follow, is all that Sir Hugh Robsart requires to settle his distraught brains.”
“I trust thou dealest fairly with me, Wayland?” said Tressilian.
“Most fairly and honestly, as the event shall show,” replied the artist. “What would it avail me to harm the poor old man for whom you are interested?— you, to whom I owe it that Gaffer Pinniewinks is not even now rending117 my flesh and sinews with his accursed pincers, and probing every mole118 in my body with his sharpened awl119 (a murrain on the hands which forged it!) in order to find out the witch’s mark?— I trust to yoke120 myself as a humble121 follower122 to your worship’s train, and I only wish to have my faith judged of by the result of the good knight’s slumbers123.”
Wayland Smith was right in his prognostication. The sedative124 draught which his skill had prepared, and Will Badger’s confidence had administered, was attended with the most beneficial effects. The patient’s sleep was long and healthful, and the poor old knight awoke, humbled125 indeed in thought and weak in frame, yet a much better judge of whatever was subjected to his intellect than he had been for some time past. He resisted for a while the proposal made by his friends that Tressilian should undertake a journey to court, to attempt the recovery of his daughter, and the redress126 of her wrongs, in so far as they might yet be repaired. “Let her go,” he said; “she is but a hawk127 that goes down the wind; I would not bestow even a whistle to reclaim128 her.” But though he for some time maintained this argument, he was at length convinced it was his duty to take the part to which natural affection inclined him, and consent that such efforts as could yet be made should be used by Tressilian in behalf of his daughter. He subscribed129, therefore, a warrant of attorney, such as the curate’s skill enabled him to draw up; for in those simple days the clergy46 were often the advisers130 of their flock in law as well as in gospel.
All matters were prepared for Tressilian’s second departure, within twenty-four hours after he had returned to Lidcote Hall; but one material circumstance had been forgotten, which was first called to the remembrance of Tressilian by Master Mumblazen. “You are going to court, Master Tressilian,” said he; “you will please remember that your blazonry must be Argent and Or — no other tinctures will pass current.” The remark was equally just and embarrassing. To prosecute131 a suit at court, ready money was as indispensable even in the golden days of Elizabeth as at any succeeding period; and it was a commodity little at the command of the inhabitants of Lidcote Hall. Tressilian was himself poor; the revenues of good Sir Hugh Robsart were consumed, and even anticipated, in his hospitable mode of living; and it was finally necessary that the herald who started the doubt should himself solve it. Master Michael Mumblazen did so by producing a bag of money, containing nearly three hundred pounds in gold and silver of various coinage, the savings132 of twenty years, which he now, without speaking a syllable133 upon the subject, dedicated134 to the service of the patron whose shelter and protection had given him the means of making this little hoard135. Tressilian accepted it without affecting a moment’s hesitation136, and a mutual137 grasp of the hand was all that passed betwixt them, to express the pleasure which the one felt in dedicating his all to such a purpose, and that which the other received from finding so material an obstacle to the success of his journey so suddenly removed, and in a manner so unexpected.
While Tressilian was making preparations for his departure early the ensuing morning, Wayland Smith desired to speak with him, and, expressing his hope that he had been pleased with the operation of his medicine in behalf of Sir Hugh Robsart, added his desire to accompany him to court. This was indeed what Tressilian himself had several times thought of; for the shrewdness, alertness of understanding, and variety of resource which this fellow had exhibited during the time they had travelled together, had made him sensible that his assistance might be of importance. But then Wayland was in danger from the grasp of law; and of this Tressilian reminded him, mentioning something, at the same time, of the pincers of Pinniewinks and the warrant of Master Justice Blindas. Wayland Smith laughed both to scorn.
“See you, sir!” said he, “I have changed my garb138 from that of a farrier to a serving-man; but were it still as it was, look at my moustaches. They now hang down; I will but turn them up, and dye them with a tincture that I know of, and the devil would scarce know me again.”
He accompanied these words with the appropriate action, and in less than a minute, by setting up, his moustaches and his hair, he seemed a different person from him that had but now entered the room. Still, however, Tressilian hesitated to accept his services, and the artist became proportionably urgent.
“I owe you life and limb,” he said, “and I would fain pay a part of the debt, especially as I know from Will Badger on what dangerous service your worship is bound. I do not, indeed, pretend to be what is called a man of mettle, one of those ruffling139 tear-cats who maintain their master’s quarrel with sword and buckler. Nay140, I am even one of those who hold the end of a feast better than the beginning of a fray141. But I know that I can serve your worship better, in such quest as yours, than any of these sword-and-dagger men, and that my head will be worth an hundred of their hands.”
Tressilian still hesitated. He knew not much of this strange fellow, and was doubtful how far he could repose142 in him the confidence necessary to render him a useful attendant upon the present emergency. Ere he had come to a determination, the trampling143 of a horse was heard in the courtyard, and Master Mumblazen and Will Badger both entered hastily into Tressilian’s chamber, speaking almost at the same moment.
“Here is a serving-man on the bonniest grey tit I ever see’d in my life,” said Will Badger, who got the start —“having on his arm a silver cognizance, being a fire-drake holding in his mouth a brickbat, under a coronet of an Earl’s degree,” said Master Mumblazen, “and bearing a letter sealed of the same.”
Tressilian took the letter, which was addressed “To the worshipful Master Edmund Tressilian, our loving kinsman144 — These — ride, ride, ride — for thy life, for thy life, for thy life. “He then opened it, and found the following contents:—
“Master Tressilian, Our Good Friend and Cousin,
“We are at present so ill at ease, and otherwise so unhappily circumstanced, that we are desirous to have around us those of our friends on whose loving-kindness we can most especially repose confidence; amongst whom we hold our good Master Tressilian one of the foremost and nearest, both in good will and good ability. We therefore pray you, with your most convenient speed, to repair to our poor lodging145, at Sayes Court, near Deptford, where we will treat further with you of matters which we deem it not fit to commit unto writing. And so we bid you heartily146 farewell, being your loving kinsman to command,
“Ratcliffe, Earl of Sussex.”
“Send up the messenger instantly, Will Badger,” said Tressilian; and as the man entered the room, he exclaimed, “Ah, Stevens, is it you? how does my good lord?”
“Ill, Master Tressilian,” was the messenger’s reply, “and having therefore the more need of good friends around him.”
“But what is my lord’s malady147?” said Tressilian anxiously; I heard nothing of his being ill.”
“I know not, sir,” replied the man; “he is very ill at ease. The leeches148 are at a stand, and many of his household suspect foul149 practice-witchcraft, or worse.”
“What are the symptoms?” said Wayland Smith, stepping forward hastily.
“Anan?” said the messenger, not comprehending his meaning.
“What does he ail1?” said Wayland; “where lies his disease?”
The man looked at Tressilian, as if to know whether he should answer these inquiries150 from a stranger, and receiving a sign in the affirmative, he hastily enumerated151 gradual loss of strength, nocturnal perspiration152, and loss of appetite, faintness, etc.
“Joined,” said Wayland, “to a gnawing153 pain in the stomach, and a low fever?”
“Even so,” said the messenger, somewhat surprised.
“I know how the disease is caused,” said the artist, “and I know the cause. Your master has eaten of the manna of Saint Nicholas. I know the cure too — my master shall not say I studied in his laboratory for nothing.”
“How mean you?” said Tressilian, frowning; “we speak of one of the first nobles of England. Bethink you, this is no subject for buffoonery.”
“God forbid!” said Wayland Smith. “I say that I know this disease, and can cure him. Remember what I did for Sir Hugh Robsart,”
“We will set forth154 instantly,” said Tressilian. “God calls us.”
Accordingly, hastily mentioning this new motive155 for his instant departure, though without alluding156 to either the suspicions of Stevens, or the assurances of Wayland Smith, he took the kindest leave of Sir Hugh and the family at Lidcote Hall, who accompanied him with prayers and blessings157, and, attended by Wayland and the Earl of Sussex’s domestic, travelled with the utmost speed towards London.
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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situated
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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mansion
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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8
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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9
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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10
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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11
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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12
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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13
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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14
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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15
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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16
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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18
mazed
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| 迷惘的，困惑的 | |
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19
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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20
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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21
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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22
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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23
whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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24
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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26
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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27
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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28
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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29
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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30
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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31
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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32
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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33
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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34
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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35
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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36
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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37
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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39
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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40
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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41
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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42
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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43
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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44
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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45
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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46
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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47
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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48
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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51
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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52
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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53
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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54
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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55
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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56
bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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57
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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58
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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59
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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60
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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61
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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62
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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63
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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64
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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65
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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66
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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67
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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68
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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69
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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70
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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71
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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72
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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73
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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74
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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75
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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76
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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77
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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78
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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79
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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80
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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81
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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82
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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83
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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84
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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85
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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86
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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87
fiduciary
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| adj.受托的，信托的 | |
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88
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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89
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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90
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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91
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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92
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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93
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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94
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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95
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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96
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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97
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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98
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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99
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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100
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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101
bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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102
rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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103
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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104
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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105
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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106
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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107
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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108
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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109
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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110
drench
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| v.使淋透，使湿透 | |
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111
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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112
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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113
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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114
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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115
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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116
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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117
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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118
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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119
awl
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| n.尖钻 | |
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120
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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121
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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122
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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123
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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124
sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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125
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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126
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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127
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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128
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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129
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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130
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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131
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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132
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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133
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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134
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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135
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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136
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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137
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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138
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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139
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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140
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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141
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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142
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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143
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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144
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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145
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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146
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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147
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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148
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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149
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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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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151
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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153
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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154
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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155
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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156
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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157
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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