The fellow in the orange-tawny livery with blue lace and facings was in waiting when Esmond came out of prison, and, taking the young gentleman’s slender baggage, led the way out of that odious1 Newgate, and by Fleet Conduit, down to the Thames, where a pair of oars2 was called, and they went up the river to Chelsey. Esmond thought the sun had never shone so bright; nor the air felt so fresh and exhilarating. Temple Garden, as they rowed by, looked like the garden of Eden to him, and the aspect of the quays3, wharves4, and buildings by the river, Somerset House, and Westminster (where the splendid new bridge was just beginning), Lambeth tower and palace, and that busy shining scene of the Thames swarming5 with boats and barges6, filled his heart with pleasure and cheerfulness — as well such a beautiful scene might to one who had been a prisoner so long, and with so many dark thoughts deepening the gloom of his captivity7. They rowed up at length to the pretty village of Chelsey, where the nobility have many handsome country-houses; and so came to my Lady Viscountess’s house, a cheerful new house in the row facing the river, with a handsome garden behind it, and a pleasant look-out both towards Surrey and Kensington, where stands the noble ancient palace of the Lord Warwick, Harry’s reconciled adversary8.
Here in her ladyship’s saloon, the young man saw again some of those pictures which had been at Castlewood, and which she had removed thence on the death of her lord, Harry’s father. Specially9, and in the place of honor, was Sir Peter Lely’s picture of the honorable Mistress Isabella Esmond as Diana, in yellow satin, with a bow in her hand and a crescent in her forehead; and dogs frisking about her. ’Twas painted about the time when royal Endymions were said to find favor with this virgin10 huntress; and, as goddesses have youth perpetual, this one believed to the day of her death that she never grew older: and always persisted in supposing the picture was still like her.
After he had been shown to her room by the groom11 of the chamber12, who filled many offices besides in her ladyship’s modest household, and after a proper interval13, his elderly goddess Diana vouchsafed14 to appear to the young man. A blackamoor in a Turkish habit, with red boots and a silver collar, on which the Viscountess’s arms were engraven, preceded her and bore her cushion; then came her gentlewoman; a little pack of spaniels barking and frisking about preceded the austere15 huntress — then, behold16, the Viscountess herself “dropping odors.” Esmond recollected17 from his childhood that rich aroma18 of musk19 which his mother-inlaw (for she may be called so) exhaled20. As the sky grows redder and redder towards sunset, so, in the decline of her years, the cheeks of my Lady Dowager blushed more deeply. Her face was illuminated21 with vermilion, which appeared the brighter from the white paint employed to set it off. She wore the ringlets which had been in fashion in King Charles’s time; whereas the ladies of King William’s had head-dresses like the towers of Cybele. Her eyes gleamed out from the midst of this queer structure of paint, dyes, and pomatums. Such was my Lady Viscountess, Mr. Esmond’s father’s widow.
He made her such a profound bow as her dignity and relationship merited, and advanced with the greatest gravity, and once more kissed that hand, upon the trembling knuckles22 of which glittered a score of rings — remembering old times when that trembling hand made him tremble. “Marchioness,” says he, bowing, and on one knee, “is it only the hand I may have the honor of saluting23?” For, accompanying that inward laughter, which the sight of such an astonishing old figure might well produce in the young man, there was good will too, and the kindness of consanguinity24. She had been his father’s wife, and was his grandfather’s daughter. She had suffered him in old days, and was kind to him now after her fashion. And now that bar-sinister was removed from Esmond’s thought, and that secret opprobrium25 no longer cast upon his mind, he was pleased to feel family ties and own them — perhaps secretly vain of the sacrifice he had made, and to think that he, Esmond, was really the chief of his house, and only prevented by his own magnanimity from advancing his claim.
At least, ever since he had learned that secret from his poor patron on his dying bed, actually as he was standing26 beside it, he had felt an independency which he had never known before, and which since did not desert him. So he called his old aunt Marchioness, but with an air as if he was the Marquis of Esmond who so addressed her.
Did she read in the young gentleman’s eyes, which had now no fear of hers or their superannuated27 authority, that he knew or suspected the truth about his birth? She gave a start of surprise at his altered manner: indeed, it was quite a different bearing to that of the Cambridge student who had paid her a visit two years since, and whom she had dismissed with five pieces sent by the groom of the chamber. She eyed him, then trembled a little more than was her wont28, perhaps, and said, “Welcome, cousin,” in a frightened voice.
His resolution, as has been said before, had been quite different, namely, so to bear himself through life as if the secret of his birth was not known to him; but he suddenly and rightly determined29 on a different course. He asked that her ladyship’s attendants should be dismissed, and when they were private —“Welcome, nephew, at least, madam, it should be,” he said. “A great wrong has been done to me and to you, and to my poor mother, who is no more.”
“I declare before heaven that I was guiltless of it,” she cried out, giving up her cause at once. “It was your wicked father who —”
“Who brought this dishonor on our family,” says Mr. Esmond. “I know it full well. I want to disturb no one. Those who are in present possession have been my dearest benefactors30, and are quite innocent of intentional31 wrong to me. The late lord, my dear patron, knew not the truth until a few months before his death, when Father Holt brought the news to him.”
“The wretch32! he had it in confession33! he had it in confession!” cried out the Dowager Lady.
“Not so. He learned it elsewhere as well as in confession,” Mr. Esmond answered. “My father, when wounded at the Boyne, told the truth to a French priest, who was in hiding after the battle, as well as to the priest there, at whose house he died. This gentleman did not think fit to divulge34 the story till he met with Mr. Holt at Saint Omer’s. And the latter kept it back for his own purpose, and until he had learned whether my mother was alive or no. She is dead years since, my poor patron told me with his dying breath, and I doubt him not. I do not know even whether I could prove a marriage. I would not if I could. I do not care to bring shame on our name, or grief upon those whom I love, however hardly they may use me. My father’s son, madam, won’t aggravate35 the wrong my father did you. Continue to be his widow, and give me your kindness. ’Tis all I ask from you; and I shall never speak of this matter again.”
“Mais vous etes un noble jeune homme!” breaks out my lady, speaking, as usual with her when she was agitated36, in the French language.
“Noblesse oblige,” says Mr. Esmond, making her a low bow. “There are those alive to whom, in return for their love to me, I often fondly said I would give my life away. Shall I be their enemy now, and quarrel about a title? What matters who has it? ’Tis with the family still.”
“What can there be in that little prude of a woman that makes men so raffoler about her?” cries out my Lady Dowager. “She was here for a month petitioning the King. She is pretty, and well conserved37; but she has not the bel air. In his late Majesty38’s Court all the men pretended to admire her, and she was no better than a little wax doll. She is better now, and looks the sister of her daughter; but what mean you all by bepraising her? Mr. Steele, who was in waiting on Prince George, seeing her with her two children going to Kensington, writ39 a poem about her, and says he shall wear her colors, and dress in black for the future. Mr. Congreve says he will write a ‘Mourning Widow,’ that shall be better than his ‘Mourning Bride.’ Though their husbands quarrelled and fought when that wretch Churchill deserted40 the King (for which he deserved to be hung), Lady Marlborough has again gone wild about the little widow; insulted me in my own drawing-room, by saying ’twas not the OLD widow, but the young Viscountess, she had come to see. Little Castlewood and little Lord Churchill are to be sworn friends, and have boxed each other twice or thrice like brothers already. ’Twas that wicked young Mohun who, coming back from the provinces last year, where he had disinterred her, raved41 about her all the winter; said she was a pearl set before swine; and killed poor stupid Frank. The quarrel was all about his wife. I know ’twas all about her. Was there anything between her and Mohun, nephew? Tell me now — was there anything? About yourself, I do not ask you to answer questions.”
Mr. Esmond blushed up. “My lady’s virtue42 is like that of a saint in heaven, madam,” he cried out.
“Eh!— mon neveu. Many saints get to heaven after having a deal to repent43 of. I believe you are like all the rest of the fools, and madly in love with her.”
“Indeed, I loved and honored her before all the world,” Esmond answered. “I take no shame in that.”
“And she has shut her door on you — given the living to that horrid44 young cub45, son of that horrid old bear, Tusher, and says she will never see you more. Monsieur mon neveu — we are all like that. When I was a young woman, I’m positive that a thousand duels46 were fought about me. And when poor Monsieur de Souchy drowned himself in the canal at Bruges because I danced with Count Springbock, I couldn’t squeeze out a single tear, but danced till five o’clock the next morning. ’Twas the Count — no, ’twas my Lord Ormond that played the fiddles47, and his Majesty did me the honor of dancing all night with me.— How you are grown! You have got the bel air. You are a black man. Our Esmonds are all black. The little prude’s son is fair; so was his father — fair and stupid. You were an ugly little wretch when you came to Castlewood — you were all eyes, like a young crow. We intended you should be a priest. That awful Father Holt — how he used to frighten me when I was ill! I have a comfortable director now — the Abbe Douillette — a dear man. We make meagre on Fridays always. My cook is a devout48 pious49 man. You, of course, are of the right way of thinking. They say the Prince of Orange is very ill indeed.”
In this way the old Dowager rattled50 on remorselessly to Mr. Esmond, who was quite astounded51 with her present volubility, contrasting it with her former haughty52 behavior to him. But she had taken him into favor for the moment, and chose not only to like him, as far as her nature permitted, but to be afraid of him; and he found himself to be as familiar with her now as a young man, as, when a boy, he had been timorous53 and silent. She was as good as her word respecting him. She introduced him to her company, of which she entertained a good deal — of the adherents54 of King James of course — and a great deal of loud intriguing55 took place over her card-tables. She presented Mr. Esmond as her kinsman56 to many persons of honor; she supplied him not illiberally57 with money, which he had no scruple58 in accepting from her, considering the relationship which he bore to her, and the sacrifices which he himself was making in behalf of the family. But he had made up his mind to continue at no woman’s apron-strings longer; and perhaps had cast about how he should distinguish himself, and make himself a name, which his singular fortune had denied him. A discontent with his former bookish life and quietude,— a bitter feeling of revolt at that slavery in which he had chosen to confine himself for the sake of those whose hardness towards him make his heart bleed,— a restless wish to see men and the world,— led him to think of the military profession: at any rate, to desire to see a few campaigns, and accordingly he pressed his new patroness to get him a pair of colors; and one day had the honor of finding himself appointed an ensign in Colonel Quin’s regiment59 of Fusileers on the Irish establishment.
Mr. Esmond’s commission was scarce three weeks old when that accident befell King William which ended the life of the greatest, the wisest, the bravest, and most clement60 sovereign whom England ever knew. ’Twas the fashion of the hostile party to assail62 this great prince’s reputation during his life; but the joy which they and all his enemies in Europe showed at his death, is a proof of the terror in which they held him. Young as Esmond was, he was wise enough (and generous enough too, let it be said) to scorn that indecency of gratulation which broke out amongst the followers63 of King James in London, upon the death of this illustrious prince, this invincible64 warrior65, this wise and moderate statesman. Loyalty66 to the exiled king’s family was traditional, as has been said, in that house to which Mr. Esmond belonged. His father’s widow had all her hopes, sympathies, recollections, prejudices, engaged on King James’s side; and was certainly as noisy a conspirator67 as ever asserted the King’s rights, or abused his opponent’s, over a quadrille table or a dish of bohea. Her ladyship’s house swarmed68 with ecclesiastics69, in disguise and out; with tale-bearers from St. Germains; and quidnuncs that knew the last news from Versailles; nay70, the exact force and number of the next expedition which the French king was to send from Dunkirk, and which was to swallow up the Prince of Orange, his army and his court. She had received the Duke of Berwick when he landed here in ‘96. She kept the glass he drank from, vowing71 she never would use it till she drank King James the Third’s health in it on his Majesty’s return; she had tokens from the Queen, and relics72 of the saint who, if the story was true, had not always been a saint as far as she and many others were concerned. She believed in the miracles wrought73 at his tomb, and had a hundred authentic74 stories of wondrous75 cures effected by the blessed king’s rosaries, the medals which he wore, the locks of his hair, or what not. Esmond remembered a score of marvellous tales which the credulous76 old woman told him. There was the Bishop77 of Autun, that was healed of a malady78 he had for forty years, and which left him after he said mass for the repose79 of the king’s soul. There was M. Marais, a surgeon in Auvergne, who had a palsy in both his legs, which was cured through the king’s intercession. There was Philip Pitet, of the Benedictines, who had a suffocating80 cough, which wellnigh killed him, but he besought81 relief of heaven through the merits and intercession of the blessed king, and he straightway felt a profuse82 sweat breaking out all over him, and was recovered perfectly83. And there was the wife of Mons. Lepervier, dancing-master to the Duke of Saxe-Gotha, who was entirely84 eased of a rheumatism85 by the king’s intercession, of which miracle there could be no doubt, for her surgeon and his apprentice86 had given their testimony87, under oath, that they did not in any way contribute to the cure. Of these tales, and a thousand like them, Mr. Esmond believed as much as he chose. His kinswoman’s greater faith had swallow for them all.
The English High Church party did not adopt these legends. But truth and honor, as they thought, bound them to the exiled king’s side; nor had the banished88 family any warmer supporter than that kind lady of Castlewood, in whose house Esmond was brought up. She influenced her husband, very much more perhaps than my lord knew, who admired his wife prodigiously89 though he might be inconstant to her, and who, adverse90 to the trouble of thinking himself, gladly enough adopted the opinions which she chose for him. To one of her simple and faithful heart, allegiance to any sovereign but the one was impossible. To serve King William for interest’s sake would have been a monstrous91 hypocrisy92 and treason. Her pure conscience could no more have consented to it than to a theft, a forgery93, or any other base action. Lord Castlewood might have been won over, no doubt, but his wife never could: and he submitted his conscience to hers in this case as he did in most others, when he was not tempted94 too sorely. And it was from his affection and gratitude95 most likely, and from that eager devotion for his mistress, which characterized all Esmond’s youth, that the young man subscribed96 to this, and other articles of faith, which his fond benefactress set him. Had she been a Whig, he had been one; had she followed Mr. Fox, and turned Quaker, no doubt he would have abjured97 ruffles98 and a periwig, and have forsworn swords, lace-coats, and clocked stockings. In the scholars’ boyish disputes at the University, where parties ran very high, Esmond was noted99 as a Jacobite, and very likely from vanity as much as affection took the side of his family.
Almost the whole of the clergy100 of the country and more than a half of the nation were on this side. Ours is the most loyal people in the world surely; we admire our kings, and are faithful to them long after they have ceased to be true to us. ’Tis a wonder to any one who looks back at the history of the Stuart family to think how they kicked their crowns away from them; how they flung away chances after chances; what treasures of loyalty they dissipated, and how fatally they were bent101 on consummating102 their own ruin. If ever men had fidelity103, ’twas they; if ever men squandered104 opportunity, ’twas they; and, of all the enemies they had, they themselves were the most fatal.
When the Princess Anne succeeded, the wearied nation was glad enough to cry a truce105 from all these wars, controversies106, and conspiracies107, and to accept in the person of a Princess of the blood royal a compromise between the parties into which the country was divided. The Tories could serve under her with easy consciences; though a Tory herself, she represented the triumph of the Whig opinion. The people of England, always liking108 that their Princes should be attached to their own families, were pleased to think the Princess was faithful to hers; and up to the very last day and hour of her reign61, and but for that fatality109 which he inherited from his fathers along with their claims to the English crown, King James the Third might have worn it. But he neither knew how to wait an opportunity, nor to use it when he had it; he was venturesome when he ought to have been cautious, and cautious when he ought to have dared everything. ’Tis with a sort of rage at his inaptitude that one thinks of his melancholy110 story. Do the Fates deal more specially with kings than with common men? One is apt to imagine so, in considering the history of that royal race, in whose behalf so much fidelity, so much valor111, so much blood were desperately112 and bootlessly expended113.
The King dead then, the Princess Anne (ugly Anne Hyde’s daughter, our Dowager at Chelsey called her) was proclaimed by trumpeting114 heralds115 all over the town from Westminster to Ludgate Hill, amidst immense jubilations of the people.
Next week my Lord Marlborough was promoted to the Garter, and to be Captain-General of her Majesty’s forces at home and abroad. This appointment only inflamed116 the Dowager’s rage, or, as she thought it, her fidelity to her rightful sovereign. “The Princess is but a puppet in the hands of that fury of a woman, who comes into my drawing-room and insults me to my face. What can come to a country that is given over to such a woman?” says the Dowager: “As for that double-faced traitor117, my Lord Marlborough, he has betrayed every man and every woman with whom he has had to deal, except his horrid wife, who makes him tremble. ’Tis all over with the country when it has got into the clutches of such wretches118 as these.”
Esmond’s old kinswoman saluted119 the new powers in this way; but some good fortune at last occurred to a family which stood in great need of it, by the advancement120 of these famous personages who benefited humbler people that had the luck of being in their favor. Before Mr. Esmond left England in the month of August, and being then at Portsmouth, where he had joined his regiment, and was busy at drill, learning the practice and mysteries of the musket121 and pike, he heard that a pension on the Stamp Office had been got for his late beloved mistress, and that the young Mistress Beatrix was also to be taken into court. So much good, at least, had come of the poor widow’s visit to London, not revenge upon her husband’s enemies, but reconcilement to old friends, who pitied, and seemed inclined to serve her. As for the comrades in prison and the late misfortune, Colonel Westbury was with the Captain-General gone to Holland; Captain Macartney was now at Portsmouth, with his regiment of Fusileers and the force under command of his Grace the Duke of Ormond, bound for Spain it was said; my Lord Warwick was returned home; and Lord Mohun, so far from being punished for the homicide which had brought so much grief and change into the Esmond family, was gone in company of my Lord Macclesfield’s splendid embassy to the Elector of Hanover, carrying the Garter to his Highness, and a complimentary122 letter from the Queen.
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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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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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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illuminated
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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consanguinity
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| n.血缘；亲族 | |
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opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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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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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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wont
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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conserved
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| v.保护，保藏，保存( conserve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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46
duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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47
fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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48
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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49
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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50
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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51
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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52
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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53
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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54
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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55
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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56
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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57
illiberally
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| adv.吝啬地，小气地 | |
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58
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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59
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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60
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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61
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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62
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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63
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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64
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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65
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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66
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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67
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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68
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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69
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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70
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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71
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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72
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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73
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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75
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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76
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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77
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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78
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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81
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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82
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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84
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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85
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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87
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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88
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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90
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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91
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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92
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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93
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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94
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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96
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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abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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98
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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99
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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100
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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101
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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102
consummating
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| v.使结束( consummate的现在分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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103
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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104
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
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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106
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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107
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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108
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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109
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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110
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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111
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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112
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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113
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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114
trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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115
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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116
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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118
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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119
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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120
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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121
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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122
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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