The bedroom was over the kitchen and faced south. The moon was hidden by clouds, but clear stretches of sky showed thick-studded clusters of stars brightly winking5. To the far right across the fields the silhouette6 of Hillport Church could just be discerned on the ridge7. In front, several miles away, the blast-furnaces of Cauldon Bar Ironworks shot up vast wreaths of yellow flame with canopies8 of tinted9 smoke. Still more distant were a thousand other lights crowning chimney and kiln10, and nearer, on the waste lands west of Bleakridge, long fields of burning ironstone glowed with all the strange colours of decadence11. The entire landscape was illuminated12 and transformed by these unique pyrotechnics of labour atoning13 for its grime, and dull, weird14 sounds, as of the breathings and sighings of gigantic nocturnal creatures, filled the enchanted15 air. It was a romantic scene, a romantic summer night, balmy, delicate, and wrapped in meditation16. But Anna saw nothing there save the repulsive17 evidences of manufacture, had never seen anything else.
She was still horribly, acutely miserable18, exhausted20 by the fruitless search for some solution of the enigma21 of sin—her sin in particular—and of redemption. She had cogitated22 in a vain circle until she was no longer capable of reasoned ideas. She gazed at the stars and into the illimitable spaces beyond them, and thought of life and its inconceivable littleness, as millions had done before in the presence of that same firmament23. Then, after a time, her brain resumed its nightmare-like task. She began to probe herself anew. Would it have availed if she had walked publicly to the penitential form at the Communion rail, and, ranging herself with the working men and women, proved by that overt24 deed the sincerity25 of her contrition26? She wished ardently27 that she had done so, yet knew well that such an act would always be impossible for her, even though the evasion28 of it meant eternal torture. Undoubtedly29, as Mrs. Sutton had implied, she was proud, stiff-necked, obstinate30 in iniquity31.
Agnes stirred slightly in her sleep, and Anna, aroused, dropped the blind, turned towards the room and began to undress, slowly, with reflective pauses. Her melancholy32 became grim, sardonic33; if she was doomed34 to destruction, so let it be. Suddenly, half-glad, she knelt down and prayed, prayed that pride might be cast out, burying her face in the coverlet and caging the passionate35 effusion in a whisper lest Agnes should be disturbed. Having prayed, she still knelt quiescent36; her eyes were dry and burning. The last car thundered up the road, shaking the house, and she rose, finished undressing, blew out the candle, and slipped into bed by Agnes's side.
She could not sleep, did not attempt to sleep, but abandoned herself meekly38 to despair. Her thoughts covered again the interminable round, and again, and yet again. In the twilight39 of the brief summer night her accustomed eyes could distinguish every object in the room, all the bits of furniture which had been bought from Hanbridge and with which she had been familiar since her memory began: everything appeared mean, despicable, cheerless; there was nothing to inspire. She dreamed impossibly of a high spirituality which should metamorphose all, change her life, lend glamour40 to the most pitiful surroundings, ennoble the most ignominious41 burdens—a spirituality never to be hers.
At any rate she would tell her father in the morning that she was convicted of sin, and, however hopelessly, seeking salvation42; she would tell both her father and Agnes at breakfast. The task would be difficult, but she swore to do it. She resolved, she endeavoured to sleep, and did sleep uneasily for a short period. When she woke the great business of the dawn had begun. She left the bed, and drawing up the blind looked forth43. The furnace fires were paling; a few milky44 clouds sailed in the vast pallid45 blue. It was cool just then, and she shivered. She went to the glass, and examined her face carefully, but it gave no signs whatever of the inward warfare47. She saw her plain and mended night-gown. Suppose she were married to Mynors! Suppose he lay asleep in the bed where Agnes lay asleep! Involuntarily she glanced at Agnes to certify48 that the child and none else was indeed there, and got into bed hurriedly and hid herself because she was ashamed to have had such a fancy. But she continued to think of Mynors. She envied him for his cheerfulness, his joy, his goodness, his dignity, his tact49, his sex. She envied every man. Even in the sphere of religion, men were not fettered50 like women. No man, she thought, would acquiesce51 in the futility52 to which she was already half resigned; a man would either wring53 salvation from the heavenly powers or race gloriously to hell. Mynors—Mynors was a god!
She recollected54 her resolution to speak to her father and Agnes at breakfast, and shudderingly55 confirmed it, but less stoutly56 than before. Then an announcement made by Mr. Banks in chapel57 on the previous evening presented itself, as though she was listening to it for the first time. It was the announcement of a prayer-meeting for workers in the Revival58, to be held that (Saturday) morning at seven o'clock. She instantly decided59 to go to the meeting, and the decision seemed to give her new hope. Perhaps there she might find peace. On that faint expectancy60 she fell asleep again and did not wake till half-past six, after her usual hour. She heard noises in the yard; it was her father going towards the garden with a wheelbarrow. She dressed quickly, and when she had pinned on her hat she woke Agnes.
'Yes, dear. I am going to the seven o'clock prayer-meeting. And you must get breakfast. You can—can't you?'
'But what are you going to the prayer-meeting for?'
Anna hesitated. Why not confess? No. 'I must go,' she said quietly at length. 'I shall be back before eight.'
'No, dear.'
Anna shut the door quickly, went softly downstairs and along the passage, and crept into the street like a thief.
Men and women and boys and girls were on their way to work, with hurried clattering65 steps, some munching66 thick pieces of bread as they went, all self-centred, apparently67 morose68 and not quite awake. The dust lay thick in the arid69 gutters70, and in drifts across the pavement; as the night-wind had blown it. Vehicular traffic had not begun, and blinds were still drawn; and though the footpaths71 were busy the street had a deserted72 and forlorn aspect. Anna walked hastily down the road, avoiding the glances of such as looked at her, but peering furtively73 at the faces of those who ignored her. All seemed callous—hoggishly careless of the everlasting74 verities75. At first it appeared strange to her that the potent76 revival in the Wesleyan chapel had produced no effect on these preoccupied77 people. Bursley, then, continued its dull and even course. She wondered whether any of them guessed that she was going to the prayer-meeting and secretly sneered78 at her therefore.
When she had climbed Duck Bank she found to her surprise that the doors of the chapel were fast closed, though it was ten minutes past seven. Was there to be no prayer-meeting? A momentary79 sensation of relief flashed through her, and then she saw that the gate of the school-yard was open. She should have known that early morning prayers were never offered up in the chapel, but in the lecture-hall. She crossed the quadrangle with beating heart, feeling now that she had embarked80 on a frightful81 enterprise. The door of the lecture-hall was ajar; she pushed it and went in. At the other end of the hall a meagre handful of worshippers were collected, and on the raised platform stood Mr. Banks, vapid82, perfunctory and fatigued83. He gave out a verse, and pitched the tune—too high, but the singers with a heroic effect accomplished84 the verse without breaking down. The singing was thin and feeble, and the eagerness of one or two voices seemed strained, as though with a determination to make the best of things. Mynors was not present, and Anna did not know whether to be sorry or glad at this. She recognised that save herself all present were old believers, tried warriors85 of the Lord. There was only one other woman, Miss Sarah Vodrey, an aged86 spinster who kept house for Titus Price and his son, and found her sole diversion in the variety of her religious experiences. Before the hymn87 was finished a young man joined the assembly; it was the youth who had sat near Anna on the previous night, an ecstatic and naïve bliss88 shone from his face. In his prayer the minister drew the attention of the Deity89 to the fact that although a score or more of souls had been ingathered at the first service, the Methodists of Bursley were by no means satisfied. They wanted more; they wanted the whole of Bursley; and they would be content with no less. He begged that their earnest work might not be shamed before the world by a partial success. In conclusion he sought the blessing90 of God on the revivalist and asked that this tireless enthusiast91 might be led to husband his strength: at which there was a fervent92 Amen.
Several men prayed, and a pause ensued, all still kneeling.
Then the minister said in a tone of oily politeness:
'Will a sister pray?'
Another pause followed.
'Sister Tellwright?'
Anna would have welcomed death and damnation. She clasped her hands tightly, and longed for the endless moment to pass. At last Sarah Vodrey gave a preliminary cough. Miss Vodrey was always happy to pray aloud, and her invocations usually began with the same phrase: 'Lord, we thank Thee that this day finds us with our bodies out of the grave and our souls out of hell.'
Afterwards the minister gave out another hymn, and as soon as the singing commenced Anna slipped away. Once in the yard, she breathed a sigh of relief. Peace at the prayer-meeting? It was like coming out of prison. Peace was farther off than ever. Nay93, she had actually forgotten her soul in the sensations of shame and discomfort94. She had contrived95 only to make herself ridiculous, and perhaps the pious96 at their breakfast-tables would discuss her and her father, and their money, and the queer life they led.
If Mynors had but been present!
She walked out into the street. It was twenty minutes to eight by the town-hall clock. The last workmen's car of the morning was just leaving Bursley: it was packed inside and outside, and the conductor hung insecurely on the step. At the gates of the manufactory opposite the chapel, a man in a white smock stood placidly97 smoking a pipe. A prayer-meeting was a little thing, a trifle in the immense and regular activity of the town: this thought necessarily occurred to Anna. She hurried homewards, wondering what her father would say about that morning's unusual excursion. A couple of hundred yards distant from home she saw, to her astonishment98, Agnes emerging from the front-door of the house. The child ran rapidly down the street, not observing Anna till they were close upon each other.
'Oh, Anna! You forgot to buy the bacon yesterday. There isn't a scrap99, and father's fearfully angry. He gave me sixpence, and I'm going down to Leal's to get some as quick as ever I can.'
It was a thunderbolt to Anna, this seemingly petty misadventure. As she entered the house she felt a tear on her cheek. She was ashamed to weep, but she wept. This, after the fiasco of the prayer-meeting, was a climax100 of woe101; it overtopped and extinguished all the rest; her soul was nothing to her now. She quickly took off her hat and ran to the kitchen. Agnes had put the breakfast-things on the tray ready for setting; the bread was cut, the coffee portioned into the jug102; the fire burned bright, and the kettle sang. Anna took the cloth from the drawer in the oak dresser, and went to the parlour to lay the table. Mr. Tellwright was at the end of the garden, pointing the wall, his back to the house. The table set, Anna observed that the room was only partly dusted: there was a duster on the mantelpiece; she seized it to finish, and at that moment the kitchen clock struck eight. Simultaneously103 Mr. Tellwright dropped his trowel, and came towards the house. She doggedly104 dusted one chair, and then, turning coward, flew away upstairs; the kitchen was barred to her since her father would enter by the kitchen door.
She had forgotten to buy bacon, and breakfast would be late: it was a calamity105 unique in her experience! She stood at the door of her bedroom, and waited, vehemently106, for Agnes's return. At last the child raced breathlessly in; Anna flew to meet her. With incredible speed the bacon was whipped out of its wrapper, and Anna picked up the knife. At the first stroke she cut herself, and Agnes was obliged to bind107 the finger with rag. The clock struck the half-hour like a knell108. It was twenty minutes to nine, forty minutes behind time, when the two girls hurried into the parlour, Anna bearing the bacon and hot plates, Agnes the bread and coffee. Mr. Tellwright sat upright and ferocious109 in his chair, the image of offence and wrath110. Instead of reading his letters he had fed full of this ineffable111 grievance112. The meal began in a desolating113 silence. The male creature's terrible displeasure permeated114 the whole room like an ether, invisible but carrying vibrations115 to the heart. Then, when he had eaten one piece of bacon, and cut his envelopes, the miser19 began to empty himself of some of his anger in stormy tones that might have uprooted116 trees. Anna ought to feel thoroughly117 ashamed. He could not imagine what she had been thinking of. Why didn't she tell him she was going to the prayer-meeting? Why did she go to the prayer-meeting, disarranging the whole household? How came she to forget the bacon? It was gross carelessness. A pretty example to her little sister! The fact was that since her birthday she had gotten above hersen. She was careless and extravagant118. Look how thick the bacon was cut. He should not stand it much longer. And her finger all red, and the blood dropping on the cloth: a nice sight at a meal! Go and tie it up again.
Without a word she left the room to obey. Of course she had no defence. Agnes, her tears falling, pecked her food timidly like a bird, not daring to stir from her chair, even to assist at the finger.
'What did Mr. Mynors say?' Tellwright inquired fiercely when Anna had come back into the room.
'Did ye see him?'
'Yes, father.'
'Did ye give him my message?'
'I forgot it.' God in heaven! She had forgotten the message!
With a devastating121 grunt122 Mr. Tellwright walked speechless out of the room. The girls cleared the table, exchanging sympathy with a single mute glance. Anna's one satisfaction was that, even if she had remembered the message, she could not possibly have delivered it.
Ephraim Tellwright stayed in the front parlour till half-past ten o'clock, unseen but felt, like an angry god behind a cloud. The consciousness that he was there, unappeased and dangerous, remained uppermost in the minds of the two girls during the morning. At half-past ten he opened the door.
'Agnes!' he commanded, and Agnes ran to him from the kitchen with the speed of propitiation.
'Yes, father.'
'Take this note down to Price's, and don't wait for an answer.'
'Yes, father.'
'If Mr. Mynors calls while I'm out, you mun tell him to wait,' Mr. Tellwright said to Agnes, pointedly125 ignoring Anna's presence. Then, having brushed his greenish hat on his sleeve he went off towards town to buy meat and vegetables. He always did Saturday's marketing126 himself. At the butcher's and in the St. Luke's covered market he was a familiar and redoubtable127 figure. Among the salespeople128 who stood the market was a wrinkled, hardy129 old potato-woman from the other side of Moorthorne: every Saturday the miser bested her in their higgling-match, and nearly every Saturday she scornfully threw at him the same joke: 'Get thee along to th' post-office, Master Terrick:[1] happen they'll give thee sixpenn'orth o' stamps for fivepence ha'penny.' He seldom failed to laugh heartily130 at this.
At dinner the girls could perceive that the shadow of his displeasure had slightly lifted, though he kept a frowning silence. Expert in all the symptoms of his moods, they knew that in a few hours he would begin to talk again, at first in monosyllables, and then in short detached sentences. An intimation of relief diffused131 itself through the house like a hint of spring in February.
These domestic upheavals132 followed always the same course, and Anna had learnt to suffer the later stages of them with calmness and even with impassivity. Henry Mynors had not called. She supposed that her father had expected him to call for the answer which she had forgotten to give him, and she had a hope that he would come in the afternoon: once again she had the idea that something definite and satisfactory might result if she could only see him—that she might, as it were, gather inspiration from the mere133 sight of his face. After dinner, while the girls were washing the dinner things in the scullery, Agnes's quick ear caught the sound of voices in the parlour. They listened. Mynors had come. Mr. Tellwright must have seen him from the front window and opened the door to him before he could ring.
'It's him,' said Agnes, excited.
'Who?' Anna asked, self-consciously.
'Mr. Mynors, of course,' said the child sharply, making it quite plain that this affectation could not impose on her for a single instant.
'Anna!' It was Mr. Tellwright's summons, through the parlour window. She dried her hands, doffed134 her apron135, and went to the parlour, animated136 by a thousand fears and expectations. Why was she to be included in the colloquy137?
Mynors rose at her entrance and greeted her with conspicuous138 deference139, a deference which made her feel ashamed.
'Hum!' the old man growled140, but he was obviously content. 'I gave Anna a message for ye yesterday, Mr. Mynors, but her forgot to deliver it, wench-like. Ye might ha' been saved th' trouble o' calling. Now as ye're here, I've summat for tell ye. It 'll be Anna's money as 'll go into that concern o' yours. I've none by me; in fact, I'm a'most fast for brass141, but her 'll have as near two thousand as makes no matter in a month's time, and her says her 'll go in wi' you on th' strength o' my recommendation.'
This speech was evidently a perfect surprise for Henry Mynors. For a moment he seemed to be at a loss; then his face gave candid142 expression to a feeling of intense pleasure.
'You know all about this business then, Miss Tellwright?'
She blushed. 'Father has told me something about it.'
'And are you willing to be my partner?'
'Nay, I did na' say that,' Tellwright interrupted. 'It 'll be Anna's money, but i' my name.'
'I see,' said Mynors gravely. 'But if it is Miss Anna's money, why should not she be the partner?' He offered one of his courtly diplomatic smiles.
'Oh—but——' Anna began in deprecation.
Tellwright laughed. 'Ay!' he said, 'why not? It 'll be experience for th' lass.'
'Just so,' said Mynors.
Anna stood silent, like a child who is being talked about. There was a pause.
'Would you care for that arrangement, Miss Tellwright?'
'Oh, yes,' she said.
'I shall try to justify143 your confidence. I needn't say that I think you and your father will have no reason to be disappointed. Two thousand pounds is of course only a trifle to you, but it is a great deal to me, and—and——' He hesitated. Anna did not surmise144 that he was too much moved by the sight of her, and the situation, to continue, but this was the fact.
'There's nobbut one point, Mr. Mynors,' Tellwright said bluntly, 'and that's the interest on th' capital, as must be deducted145 before reckoning profits. Us must have six per cent.'
'But I thought we had settled it at five,' said Mynors with sudden firmness.
'We 'n settled as you shall have five on your fifteen hundred,' the miser replied with imperturbable146 audacity147, 'but us mun have our six.'
'I certainly thought we had thrashed that out fully46, and agreed that the interest should be the same on each side.' Mynors was alert and defensive148.
'Nay, young man. Us mun have our six. We're takkin' a risk.'
Mynors pressed his lips together. He was taken at a disadvantage. Mr. Tellwright, with unscrupulous cleverness, had utilized149 the effect on Mynors of his daughter's presence to regain150 a position from which the younger man had definitely ousted151 him a few days before. Mynors was annoyed, but he gave no sign of his annoyance152.
'Very well,' he said at length, with a private smile at Anna to indicate that it was out of regard for her that he yielded.
Mr. Tellwright made no pretence153 of concealing154 his satisfaction. He, too, smiled at Anna, sardonically155: the last vestige156 of the morning's irritation157 vanished in a glow of triumph.
'I'm afraid I must go,' said Mynors, looking at his watch. 'There is a service at chapel at three. Our Revivalist came down with Mrs. Sutton to look over the works this morning, and I told him I should be at the service. So I must. You coming, Mr. Tellwright?'
'Nay, my lad. I'm owd enough to leave it to young uns.'
'Will you wait one minute?' she said to Mynors. 'I am going to the service. If I'm late back, father, Agnes will see to the tea. Don't wait for me.' She looked him straight in the face. It was one of the bravest acts of her life. After the episode of breakfast, to suggest a procedure which might entail159 any risk upon another meal was absolutely heroic. Tellwright glanced away from his daughter, and at Mynors. Anna hurried upstairs.
'Who's thy lawyer, Mr. Mynors?' Tellwright asked.
'Dane,' said Mynors.
'That 'll be convenient. Dane does my bit o' business, too. I'll see him, and make a bargain wi' him for th' partnership160 deed. He always works by contract for me. I've no patience wi' six-and-eight-pences.'
Mynors assented.
'You must come down some afternoon and look over the works,' he said to Anna as they were walking down Trafalgar Road towards chapel.
'I should like to,' Anna replied. 'I've never been over a works in my life.'
'No? You are going to be a partner in the best works of its size in Bursley,' Mynors said enthusiastically.
'I'm glad of that,' she smiled, 'for I do believe I own the worst.'
'What—Price's do you mean?'
She nodded.
'Ah!' he exclaimed, and seemed to be thinking. 'I wasn't sure whether that belonged to you or your father. I'm afraid it isn't quite the best of properties. But perhaps I'd better say nothing about that. We had a grand meeting last night. Our little cornet-player quite lived up to his reputation, don't you think?'
'Quite,' she said faintly.
'You enjoyed the meeting?'
There was a silence.
'But you were at the early prayer-meeting this morning, I hear.'
She said nothing while they took a dozen paces, and then murmured, 'Yes.'
Their eyes met for a second, hers full of trouble.
'Perhaps,' he said at length, 'perhaps—excuse me saying this—but you may be expecting too much——'
'Well?' she encouraged him, prepared now to finish what had been begun.
'I mean,' he said, earnestly, 'that I—we—cannot promise you any sudden change of feeling, any sudden relief and certainty, such as some people experience. At least, I never had it. What is called conversion163 can happen in various ways. It is a question of living, of constant endeavour, with the example of Christ always before us. It need not always be a sudden wrench164, you know, from the world. Perhaps you have been expecting too much,' he repeated, as though offering balm with that phrase.
She thanked him sincerely, but not with her lips, only with the heart. He had revealed to her an avenue of release from a situation which had seemed on all sides fatally closed. She sprang eagerly towards it. She realised afresh how frightful was the dilemma165 from which there was now a hope of escape, and she was grateful accordingly. Before, she had not dared steadily166 to face its terrors. She wondered that even her father's displeasure or the project of the partnership had been able to divert her from the plight167 of her soul. Putting these mundane168 things firmly behind her, she concentrated the activities of her brain on that idea of Christ-like living, day by day, hour by hour, of a gradual aspiration169 towards Christ and thereby170 an ultimate arrival at the state of being saved. This she thought she might accomplish; this gave opportunity of immediate171 effort, dispensing172 with the necessity of an impossible violent spiritual metamorphosis. They did not speak again until they had reached the gates of the chapel, when Mynors, who had to enter the choir173 from the back, bade her a quiet adieu. Anna enjoyed the service, which passed smoothly174 and uneventfully. At a Revival, night is the time of ecstasy175 and fervour and salvation; in the afternoon one must be content with preparatory praise and prayer.
That evening, while father and daughters sat in the parlour after supper, there was a ring at the door. Agnes ran to open, and found Willie Price. It had begun to rain, and the visitor, his jacket-collar turned up, was wet and draggled. Agnes left him on the mat and ran back to the parlour.
'Young Mr. Price wants to see you, father.'
Tellwright motioned to her to shut the door.
'You'd best see him, Anna,' he said. 'It's none my business.'
'But what has he come about, father?'
'That note as I sent down this morning. I told owd Titus as he mun pay us twenty pun' on Monday morning certain, or us should distrain176. Them as can pay ten pun, especially in bank notes, can pay twenty pun, and thirty.'
'And suppose he says he can't?'
'Tell him he must. I've figured it out and changed my mind about that works. Owd Titus isna' done for yet, though he's getting on that road. Us can screw another fifty out o' him, that 'll only leave six months rent owing; then us can turn him out. He'll go bankrupt; us can claim for our rent afore th' other creditors177, and us 'll have a hundred or a hundred and twenty in hand towards doing the owd place up a bit for a new tenant178.'
'Make him bankrupt, father?' Anna exclaimed. It was the only part of the ingenious scheme which she had understood.
'Ay!' he said laconically179.
'But——' (Would Christ have driven Titus Price into the bankruptcy180 court?)
'If he pays, well and good.'
'Hadn't you better see Mr. William, father?'
'Whose property is it, mine or thine?' Tellwright growled. His good humour was still precarious181, insecurely re-established, and Anna obediently left the room. After all, she said to herself, a debt is a debt, and honest people pay what they owe.
It was in an uncomplaisant tone that Anna invited Willie Price to the front parlour: nervousness always made her seem harsh and moreover she had not the trick of hiding firmness under suavity182.
'Will you come this way, Mr. Price?'
'Yes,' he said with ingratiating, eager compliance183. Dusk was falling, and the room in shadow. She forgot to ask him to take a chair, so they both stood up during the interview.
'A grand meeting we had last night,' he began, twisting his hat. 'I saw you there, Miss Tellwright.'
'Yes.'
'Yes. There was a splendid muster184 of teachers. I wanted to be at the prayer-meeting this morning, but couldn't get away. Did you happen to go, Miss Tellwright?'
She saw that he knew that she had been present, and gave him another curt185 monosyllable. She would have liked to be kind to him, to reassure186 him, to make him happy and comfortable, so ludicrous and touching187 were his efforts after a social urbanity which should appease123; but, just as much as he, she was unskilled in the subtle arts of converse188.
'Yes,' he continued, 'and I was anxious to be at to-night's meeting, but the dad asked me to come up here. He said I'd better.' That term, 'the dad,' uttered in William's slow, drawling voice, seemed to show Titus Price in a new light to Anna, as a human creature loved, not as a mere gross physical organism: the effect was quite surprising. William went on: 'Can I see your father, Miss Tellwright?'
'Is it about the rent?'
'Yes,' he said.
'Well, if you will tell me——'
'Oh! I beg pardon,' he said quickly. 'Of course I know it's your property, but I thought Mr. Tellwright always saw after it for you. It was he that wrote that letter this morning, wasn't it?'
'Yes,' Anna replied. She did not explain the situation.
'You insist on another twenty pounds on Monday?'
'Yes,' she said.
'We paid ten last Monday.'
'But there is still over a hundred owing.'
'I know, but—oh, Miss Tellwright, you mustn't be hard on us. Trade's bad.'
'It says in the "Signal" that trade is improving,' she interrupted sharply.
'Does it?' he said. 'But look at prices; they're cut till there's no profit left. I assure you, Miss Tellwright, my father and me are having a hard struggle. Everything's against us, and the works in particular, as you know.'
His tone was so earnest, so pathetic, that tears of compassion189 almost rose to her eyes as she looked at those simple naïve blue eyes of his. His lanky190 figure and clumsily-fitting clothes, his feeble placatory191 smile, the twitching192 movements of his long red hands, all contributed to the effect of his defencelessness. She thought of the test: 'Blessed are the meek37,' and saw in a flash the deep truth of it. Here were she and her father, rich, powerful, autocratic; and there were Willie Price and his father, commercial hares hunted by hounds of creditors, hares that turned in plaintive193 appeal to those greedy jaws194 for mercy. And yet, she, a hound, envied at that moment the hares. Blessed are the meek, blessed are the failures, blessed are the stupid, for they, unknown to themselves, have a grace which is denied to the haughty195, the successful, and the wise. The very repulsiveness196 of old Titus, his underhand methods, his insincerities, only served to increase her sympathy for the pair. How could Titus help being himself any more than Henry Mynors could help being himself? And that idea led her to think of the prospective197 partnership, destined198 by every favourable199 sign to brilliant success, and to contrast it with the ignoble200 and forlorn undertaking201 in Edward Street.
She tried to discover some method of soothing202 the young man's fears, of being considerate to him without injuring her father's scheme.
'If you will pay what you owe,' she said, 'we will spend it all, every penny, on improving the works.'
'Miss Tellwright,' he answered with fatal emphasis, 'we cannot pay.'
Ah! She wished to follow Christ day by day, hour by hour—constantly to endeavour after saintliness. What was she to do now? Left to herself, she might have said in a burst of impulsive203 generosity204, 'I forgive you all arrears205. Start afresh.' But her father had to be reckoned with.......
'How much do you think you can pay on Monday?' she asked coldly.
At that moment her father entered the room. His first act was to light the gas. Willie Price's eyes blinked at the glare, as though he were trembling before the anticipated decree of this implacable old man. Anna's heart beat with sympathetic apprehension206. Tellwright shook hands grimly with the youth, who re-stated hurriedly what he had said to Anna.
'It's o' this'n,' the old man began with finality, and stopped. Anna caught a glance from him dismissing her. She went out in silence. On the Monday Titus Price paid another twenty pounds.
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sonority
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| n.响亮，宏亮 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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6
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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7
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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8
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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9
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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10
kiln
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| n.（砖、石灰等）窑，炉；v.烧窑 | |
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11
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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12
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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13
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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14
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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15
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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16
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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17
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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18
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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19
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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20
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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21
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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22
cogitated
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| v.认真思考，深思熟虑( cogitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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24
overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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25
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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26
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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27
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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28
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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29
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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30
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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31
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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32
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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33
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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34
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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35
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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36
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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37
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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38
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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39
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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40
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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41
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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42
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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43
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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44
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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45
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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48
certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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49
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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50
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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52
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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53
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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54
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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55
shudderingly
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56
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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57
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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58
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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59
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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60
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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61
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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62
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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64
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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65
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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66
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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67
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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68
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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69
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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70
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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71
footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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72
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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73
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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74
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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75
verities
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| n.真实( verity的名词复数 )；事实；真理；真实的陈述 | |
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76
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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77
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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78
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
momentary
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|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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80
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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81
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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82
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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83
fatigued
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|
| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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84
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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85
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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86
aged
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|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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87
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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88
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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89
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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90
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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91
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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92
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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93
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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94
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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95
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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96
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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97
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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98
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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99
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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100
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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101
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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102
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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103
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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104
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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105
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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106
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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107
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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108
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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109
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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110
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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111
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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112
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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113
desolating
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| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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114
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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115
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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116
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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117
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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118
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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119
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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120
apprehending
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的现在分词 )； 理解 | |
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121
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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122
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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123
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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124
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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125
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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126
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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127
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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128
salespeople
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| n.售货员，店员；售货员( salesperson的名词复数 ) | |
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129
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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130
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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131
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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132
upheavals
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| 突然的巨变( upheaval的名词复数 )； 大动荡； 大变动； 胀起 | |
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133
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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134
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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136
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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137
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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138
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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139
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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140
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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141
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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142
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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143
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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144
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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145
deducted
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| v.扣除，减去( deduct的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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147
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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148
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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149
utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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152
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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153
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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154
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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156
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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157
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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158
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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159
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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160
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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161
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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164
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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165
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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166
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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167
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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171
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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172
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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173
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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174
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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175
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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176
distrain
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| n.为抵债而扣押 | |
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177
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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178
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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179
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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180
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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181
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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182
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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183
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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184
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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185
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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186
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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187
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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188
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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189
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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190
lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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191
placatory
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| adj.安抚的，抚慰的 | |
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192
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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193
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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194
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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195
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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196
repulsiveness
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197
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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198
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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199
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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200
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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201
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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202
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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203
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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204
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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205
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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206
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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