'An answer, if you please, Miss,' he said to her, touching1 his hat, and giving a pull to the leathern belt which, surrounding his waist, alone seemed to hold his frame together. Agnes, much impressed, took the note. She had never before seen that resplendent automaton2 apart from the equipage which he directed. Always afterwards, Barrett formally saluted3 her in the streets, affording her thus, every time, a thrilling moment of delicious joy.
'A letter, and there's an answer, and he's waiting,' she cried, running into the parlour.
'Less row!' said her father. 'Here, give it me.'
'It's for Miss Tellwright—that's Anna, isn't it? Oh! Scent4!' She put the grey envelope to her nose like a flower.
Anna, secretly as excited as her sister, opened the note and read:—'Lansdowne House, Wednesday. Dear Miss Tellwright,—Mother gives tea to the Sunday-school Sewing Meeting here to-morrow. Will you give us the pleasure of your company? I do not think you have been to any of the S.S.S. meetings yet, but we should all be glad to see you and have your assistance. Everyone is working very hard for the Autumn Bazaar5, and mother has set her mind on the Sunday-school stall being the best. Do come, will you? Excuse this short notice. Yours sincerely, BEATRICE SUTTON. P.S.—We begin at 3.30.'
'They want me to go to their sewing meeting to-morrow,' she exclaimed timidly to her father, pushing the note towards him across the table. 'Must I go, father?'
'What dost ask me for? Please thysen. I've nowt do wi' it.'
'I don't want to go——'
'Oh! Sis, do> go,' Agnes pleaded.
'Perhaps I'd better,' she agreed, but with the misgivings6 of diffidence. 'I haven't a rag to wear. I really must have a new dress, father, at once.'
'Shall I run and tell him you'll go?' Agnes suggested. 'It 'll be splendid for you.'
'Don't be silly, dear. I must write.'
'Well, write then,' said the child energetically. 'I'll get you the ink and paper.' She flew about and hovered8 over Anna while the answer to the invitation was being written. Anna made her reply as short and simple as possible, and then tendered it for her father's inspection9. 'Will that do?'
He pretended to be nonchalant, but in fact he was somewhat interested.
'Thou's forgotten to put th' date in,' was all his comment, and he threw the note back.
'I've put Wednesday.'
'That's not the date.'
'Does it matter? Beatrice Sutton only puts Wednesday.'
His response was to walk out of the room.
The next day at half-past three Anna, having put on her best clothes, was ready to start. She had seen almost nothing of social life, and the prospect12 of taking part in this entertainment of the Suttons filled her with trepidation13. Should she arrive early, in which case she would have to talk more, or late, in which case there would be the ordeal14 of entering a crowded room? She could not decide. She went into her father's bedroom, whose window overlooked Trafalgar Road, and saw from behind a curtain that small groups of ladies were continually passing up the street to disappear into Alderman Sutton's house. Most of the women she recognised; others she knew but vaguely15 by sight. Then the stream ceased, and suddenly she heard the kitchen clock strike four. She ran downstairs—Agnes, swollen16 by importance, was carrying her father's tea into the parlour—and hastened out the back way. In another moment she was at the Suttons' front-door. A servant in black alpaca, with white wristbands, cap, streams, and embroidered17 apron18 (each article a dernier cri from Bostock's great shop at Hanbridge), asked her in a subdued19 and respectful tone to step within. Externally there had been no sign of the unusual, but once inside the house Anna found it a humming hive of activity. Women laden20 with stuffs and implements21 were crossing the picture-hung hall, their footsteps noiseless on the thick rugs which lay about in rich confusion. On either hand was an open door, and from each door came the sound of many eager voices. Beyond these doors a broad staircase rose majestically22 to unseen heights, closing the vista23 of the hall. As the servant was demanding Anna's name, Beatrice Sutton, radiant and gorgeous, came with a rush out of the room to the left, the dining-room, and, taking her by both hands, kissed her.
'My dear, we thought you were never coming. Everyone's here, except the men, of course. Come along upstairs and take your things off. I'm so glad you've kept your promise.'
'Oh, no, my dear. But you're such a shy little bird.'
The conception of herself as a shy little bird amused Anna. By a curious chain of ideas she came to wonder who could clean those stairs the better, she or this gay and flitting butterfly in a pale green tea-gown. Beatrice led the way to a large bedroom, crammed25 with furniture and knick-knacks. There were three mirrors in this spacious26 apartment—one in the wardrobe, a cheval-glass, and a third over the mantelpiece; the frame of the last was bordered with photographs.
'This is my room,' said Beatrice. 'Will you put your things on the bed?' The bed was already laden with hats, bonnets27, jackets, and wraps.
'I hope your mother won't give me anything fancy to do,' Anna said. 'I'm no good at anything except plain sewing.'
'Oh, that's all right,' Beatrice answered carelessly. 'It's all plain sewing.' She drew a cardboard box from her pocket, and offered it to Anna. 'Here, have one.' They were chocolate creams.
'Thanks,' said Anna, taking one. 'Aren't they very expensive? I've never seen any like these before.'
'Oh! Just ordinary. Four shillings a pound. Papa buys them for me: I simply dote on them. I love to eat them in bed, if I can't sleep.' Beatrice made these statements with her mouth full. 'Don't you adore chocolates?' she added.
'I don't know,' Anna lamely28 replied. 'Yes, I like them.' She only adored her sister, and perhaps God; and this was the first time she had tasted chocolate.
'I couldn't live without them,' said Beatrice. 'Your hair is lovely. I never saw such a brown. What wash do you use?'
'Wash?' Anna repeated.
'Yes, don't you put anything on it?'
'No, never.'
'Well! Take care you don't lose it, that's all. Now, will you come and have just a peep at my studio—where I paint, you know? I'd like you to see it before we go down.'
They proceeded to a small room on the second floor, with a sloping ceiling and a dormer window.
'I'm obliged to have this room,' Beatrice explained, 'because it's the only one in the house with a north light, and of course you can't do without that. How do you like it?'
Anna said that she liked it very much.
The walls of the room were hung with various odd curtains of Eastern design. Attached somehow to these curtains some coloured plates, bits of pewter, and a few fans were hung high in apparently29 precarious30 suspense31. Lower down on the walls were pictures and sketches32, chiefly unframed, of flowers, fishes, loaves of bread, candlesticks, mugs, oranges and tea-trays. On an immense easel in the middle of the room was an unfinished portrait of a man.
'Who's that?' Anna asked, ignorant of those rules of caution which are observed by the practised frequenter of studios.
'Don't you know?' Beatrice exclaimed, shocked. 'That's papa; I'm doing his portrait; he sits in that chair there. The silly old master at the school won't let me draw from life yet—he keeps me to the antique—so I said to myself I would study the living model at home. I'm dreadfully in earnest about it, you know—I really am. Mother says I work far too long up here.'
Anna was unable to perceive that the picture bore any resemblance to Alderman Sutton, except in the matter of the aldermanic robe, which she could now trace beneath the portrait's neck. The studies on the walls pleased her much better. Their realism amazed her. One could make out not only that here for instance, was a fish—there was no doubt that it was a hallibut; the solid roundness of the oranges and the glitter on the tea-trays seemed miraculously33 achieved. 'Have you actually done all these?' she asked, in genuine admiration34. 'I think they're splendid.'
'Oh, yes, they're all mine; they're only still-life studies,' Beatrice said contemptuously of them, but she was nevertheless flattered.
'I see now that that is Mr. Sutton,' Anna said, pointing to the easel picture.
'Yes, it's pa right enough. But I'm sure I'm boring you. Let's go down now, or perhaps we shall catch it from mother.'
As Anna, in the wake of Beatrice, entered the drawing-room, a dozen or more women glanced at her with keen curiosity, and the even flow of conversation ceased for a moment, to be immediately resumed. In the centre of the room, with her back to the fire-place, Mrs. Sutton was seated at a square table, cutting out. Although the afternoon was warm she had a white woollen wrap over her shoulders; for the rest she was attired35 in plain black silk, with a large stuff apron containing a pocket for scissors and chalk. She jumped up with the activity of which Beatrice had inherited a part, and greeted Anna, kissing her heartily36.
'How are you, my dear? So pleased you have come.' The time-worn phrases came from her thin, nervous lips full of sincere and kindly37 welcome. Her wrinkled face broke into a warm, life-giving smile. 'Beatrice, find Miss Anna a chair.' There were two chairs in the bay of the window, and one of them was occupied by Miss Dickinson, whom Anna slightly knew. The other, being empty, was assigned to the late-comer.
'Now you want something to do, I suppose,' said Beatrice.
'Please.'
'Mother, let Miss Tellwright have something to get on with at once. She has a lot of time to make up.'
Mrs. Sutton, who had sat down again, smiled across at Anna. 'Let me see, now, what can we give her?'
'There's several of those boys' nightgowns ready tacked,' said Miss Dickinson, who was stitching at a boy's nightgown. 'Here's one half-finished,' and she picked up an inchoate38 garment from the floor. 'Perhaps Miss Tellwright wouldn't mind finishing it.'
'Yes, I will do my best at it,' said Anna.
The thoughtless girl had arrived at the sewing meeting without needles or thimble or scissors, but one lady or another supplied these deficiencies, and soon she was at work. She stitched her best and her hardest, with head bent39, and all her wits concentrated on the task. Most of the others seemed to be doing likewise, though not to the detriment40 of conversation. Beatrice sank down on a stool near her mother, and, threading a needle with coloured silk, took up a long piece of elaborate embroidery41.
The general subjects of talk were the Revival42, now over, with a superb record of seventy saved souls, the school-treat shortly to occur, the summer holidays, the fashions, and the change of ministers which would take place in August. The talkers were the wives and daughters of tradesmen and small manufacturers, together with a few girls of a somewhat lower status, employed in shops: it was for the sake of these latter that the sewing meeting was always fixed43 for the weekly half-holiday. The splendour of Mrs. Sutton's drawing-room was a little dazzling to most of the guests, and Mrs. Sutton herself seemed scarcely of a piece with it. The fact was that the luxury of the abode44 was mainly due to Alderman Sutton's inability to refuse anything to his daughter, whose tastes lay in the direction of rich draperies, large or quaint45 chairs, occasional tables, dwarf46 screens, hand-painted mirrors, and an opulence47 of bric-à-brac. The hand of Beatrice might be perceived everywhere, even in the position of the piano, whose back, adorned48 with carelessly-flung silks and photographs, was turned away from the wall. The pictures on the walls had been acquired gradually by Mr. Sutton at auction49 sales: it was commonly held that he had an excellent taste in pictures, and that his daughter's aptitude50 for the arts came from him, and not from her mother. The gilt51 clock and side pieces on the mantelpiece were also peculiarly Mr. Sutton's, having been publicly presented to him by the directors of a local building society of which he had been chairman for many years.
Less intimidated53 by all this unexampled luxury than she was reassured54 by the atmosphere of combined and homely55 effort, the lowliness of several of her companions, and the kind, simple face of Mrs. Sutton, Anna quickly began to feel at ease. She paused in her work, and, glancing around her, happened to catch the eye of Miss Dickinson, who offered a remark about the weather. Miss Dickinson was head-assistant at a draper's in St. Luke's Square, and a pillar of the Sunday-school, which Sunday by Sunday and year by year had watched her develop from a rosy-cheeked girl into a confirmed spinster with sallow and warted face. Miss Dickinson supported her mother, and was a pattern to her sex. She was lovable, but had never been loved. She would have made an admirable wife and mother, but fate had decided56 that this material was to be wasted. Miss Dickinson found compensation for the rigour of destiny in gossip, as innocent as indiscreet. It was said that she had a tongue.
'I hear,' said Miss Dickinson, lowering her contralto voice to a confidential57 tone, 'that you are going into partnership58 with Mr. Mynors, Miss Tellwright.'
The suddenness of the attack took Anna by surprise. Her first defensive59 impulse was boldly to deny the statement, or at the least to say that it was premature60. A fortnight ago, under similar circumstances, she would not have hesitated to do so. But for more than a week Anna had been 'leading a new life,' which chiefly meant a meticulous61 avoidance of the sins of speech. Never to deviate62 from the truth, never to utter an unkind or a thoughtless word, under whatever provocation63: these were two of her self-imposed rules. 'Yes,' she answered Miss Dickinson, 'I am.'
'I don't know,' said Anna. 'It's only a business arrangement; father arranged it. Really I have nothing to do with it, and I had no idea that people were talking about it.'
'Oh! Of course I should never breathe a syllable,' Miss Dickinson said with emphasis. 'I make a practice of never talking about other people's affairs. I always find that best, don't you? But I happened to hear it mentioned in the shop.'
'It's very funny how things get abroad, isn't it?' said Anna.
'Yes, indeed,' Miss Dickinson concurred65. 'Mr. Mynors hasn't been to our sewing meetings for quite a long time, but I expect he'll turn up to-day.'
Anna took thought. 'Is this a sort of special meeting, then?'
'Oh, not at all. But we all of us said just now, while you were upstairs, that he would be sure to come,' Miss Dickinson's features, skilled in innuendo66, conveyed that which was too delicate for utterance67. Anna said nothing.
'You see a good deal of him at your house, don't you?' Miss Dickinson continued.
'He comes sometimes to see father on business,' Anna replied sharply, breaking one of her rules.
'Oh! Of course I meant that. You didn't suppose I meant anything else, did you?' Miss Dickinson smiled pleasantly. She was thirty-five years of age. Twenty of those years she had passed in a desolating68 routine; she had existed in the midst of life and never lived; she knew no finer joy than that which she at that moment experienced.
Again Anna offered no reply. The door opened, and every eye was centred on the stately Mrs. Clayton Vernon, who, with Mrs. Banks, the minister's wife, was in charge of the other half of the sewing party in the dining-room. Mrs. Clayton Vernon had heroic proportions, a nose which everyone admitted to be aristocratic, exquisite69 tact70, and the calm consciousness of social superiority. In Bursley she was a great lady: her instincts were those of a great lady; and she would have been a great lady no matter to what sphere her God had called her. She had abundant white hair, and wore a flowered purple silk, in the antique taste.
'Well, I am sent as a deputation from the other room to ask you to sing something.'
'I'm very busy, Mrs. Vernon. I shall never get this mantel-cloth finished in time.'
'We shall all work better for a little music,' Mrs. Clayton Vernon urged. 'Your voice is a precious gift, and should be used for the benefit of all. We entreat73, my dear girl.'
Beatrice arose from the footstool and dropped her embroidery.
'Thank you,' said Mrs. Clayton Vernon. 'If both doors are left open we shall hear nicely.'
'What would you like?' Beatrice asked.
'I once heard you sing "Nazareth," and I shall never forget it. Sing that. It will do us all good.'
Mrs. Clayton Vernon departed with the large movement of an argosy, and Beatrice sat down to the piano and removed her bracelets74. 'The accompaniment is simply frightful75 towards the end,' she said, looking at Anna with a grimace76. 'Excuse mistakes.'
During the song, Mrs. Sutton beckoned77 with her finger to Anna to come and occupy the stool vacated by Beatrice. Glad to leave the vicinity of Miss Dickinson, Anna obeyed, creeping on tiptoe across the intervening space. 'I thought I would like to have you near me, my dear,' she whispered maternally78. When Beatrice had sung the song and somehow executed that accompaniment which has terrorised whole multitudes of drawing-room pianists, there was a great deal of applause from both rooms. Mrs. Sutton bent down and whispered in Anna's ear: 'Her voice has been very well trained, has it not?' 'Yes, very,' Anna replied. But, though 'Nazareth' had seemed to her wonderful, she had neither understood it nor enjoyed it. She tried to like it, but the effect of it on her was bizarre rather than pleasing.
Shortly after half-past five the gong sounded for tea, and the ladies, bidden by Mrs. Sutton, unanimously thronged79 into the hall and towards a room at the back of the house. Beatrice came and took Anna by the arm. As they were crossing the hall there was a ring at the door. 'There's father—and Mr. Banks, too,' Beatrice exclaimed, opening to them. Everyone in the vicinity, animated80 suddenly by this appearance of the male sex, turned with welcoming smiles. 'A greeting to you all,' the minister ejaculated with formal suavity81 as he removed his low hat. The Alderman beamed a rather absent-minded goodwill82 on the entire company, and said: 'Well! I see we're just in time for tea.' Then he kissed his daughter, and she accepted from him his hat and stick. 'Miss Tellwright, pa,' Beatrice said, drawing Anna forward: he shook hands with her heartily, emerging for a moment from the benignant dream in which he seemed usually to exist.
That air of being rapt by some inward vision, common in very old men, probably signified nothing in the case of William Sutton: it was a habitual83 pose into which he had perhaps unconsciously fallen. But people connected it with his humble84 archæological, geological, and zoological hobbies, which had sprung from his membership of the Five Towns Field Club, and which most of his acquaintances regarded with amiable85 secret disdain86. At a school-treat once, held at a popular rural resort, he had taken some of the teachers to a cave, and pointing out the wave-like formation of its roof had told them that this peculiar52 phenomenon had actually been caused by waves of the sea. The discovery, valid87 enough and perfectly88 substantiated89 by an inquiry90 into the levels, was extremely creditable to the amateur geologist91, but it seriously impaired92 his reputation among the Wesleyan community as a shrewd man of the world. Few believed the statement, or even tried to believe it, and nearly all thenceforth looked on him as a man who must be humoured in his harmless hallucinations and inexplicable93 curiosities. On the other hand, the collection of arrowheads, Roman pottery94, fossils and birds' eggs which he had given to the Museum in the Wedgwood Institution was always viewed with municipal pride.
The tea-room opened by a large French window into a conservatory95, and a table was laid down the whole length of the room and the conservatory. Mr. Sutton sat at one end and the minister at the other, but neither Mrs. Sutton nor Beatrice occupied a distinctive96 place. The ancient clumsy custom of having tea-urns on the table itself had been abolished by Beatrice, who had read in a paper that carving97 was now never done at table, but by a neatly-dressed parlour-maid at the sideboard. Consequently the tea-urns were exiled to the sideboard, and the tea dispensed98 by a couple of maids. Thus, as Beatrice had explained to her mother, the hostess was left free to devote herself to the social arts. The board was richly spread with fancy breads and cakes, jams of Mrs. Sutton's own celebrated99 preserving, diverse sandwiches compiled by Beatrice, and one or two large examples of the famous Bursley pork-pie. Numerous as the company was, several chairs remained empty after everyone was seated. Anna found herself again next to Miss Dickinson, and five places from the minister, in the conservatory. Beatrice and her mother were higher up, in the room. Grace was sung, by request of Mrs. Sutton. At first, silence prevailed among the guests, and the inquiries100 of the maids about milk and sugar were almost painfully audible. Then Mr. Banks, glancing up the long vista of the table and pretending to descry101 some object in the distance, called out:
At this all laughed, and a natural ease was established. The minister and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, who sat on his right, exchanged badinage103 on the merits and demerits of pork-pies, and their neighbours formed an appreciative104 audience. Then there was a sharp ring at the front door, and one of the maids went out.
'Didn't I tell you?' Miss Dickinson whispered to Anna.
'What?' asked Anna.
'That he would come to-day—Mr. Mynors, I mean.'
'Who can that be?' Mrs. Sutton's voice was heard from the room.
'I dare say it's Henry, mother,' Beatrice answered.
Mynors entered, joyous105 and self-possessed106, a white rose in his coat: he shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Sutton, sent a greeting down the table to Mr. Banks and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, and offered a general apology for being late.
'Sit here,' said Beatrice to him, sharply, indicating a chair between Mrs. Banks and herself. 'Mrs. Banks has a word to say to you about the singing of that anthem107 last Sunday.'
Mynors made some laughing rejoinder, and the voices sank so that Anna could not catch what was said.
'That's a new frock that Miss Sutton is wearing to-day,' Miss Dickinson remarked in an undertone.
'It looks new,' Anna agreed.
'Do you like it?'
'Yes. Don't you?'
'Hum! Yes. It was made at Brunt's at Hanbridge. It's quite the fashion to go there now,' said Miss Dickinson, and added, almost inaudibly, 'She's put it on for Mr. Mynors. You saw how she saved that chair for him.'
Anna made no reply.
'Did you know they were engaged once?' Miss Dickinson resumed.
'No,' said Anna.
'At least people said they were. It was all over the town—oh! let me see, three years ago.'
'I had not heard,' said Anna.
During the rest of the meal she said little. On some natures Miss Dickinson's gossip had the effect of bringing them to silence. Anna had not seen Mynors since the previous Sunday, and now she was apparently unperceived by him. He talked gaily108 with Beatrice and Mrs. Banks: that group was a centre of animation109. Anna envied their ease of manner, their smooth and sparkling flow of conversation. She had the sensation of feeling vulgar, clumsy, tongue-tied; Mynors and Beatrice possessed something which she would never possess. So they had been engaged! But had they? Or was it an idle rumour110, manufactured by one who spent her life in such creations? Anna was conscious of misgivings. She had despised Beatrice once, but now it seemed that after all Beatrice was the natural equal of Henry Mynors. Was it more likely that Mynors or she, Anna, should be mistaken in Beatrice? That Beatrice had generous instincts she was sure. Anna lost confidence in herself; she felt humbled111, out-of-place, and shamed.
'If our hostess and the company will kindly excuse me,' said the minister with a pompous112 air, looking at his watch, 'I must go. I have an important appointment, or an appointment which some people think is important.'
He got up and made various adieux. The elaborate meal, complex with fifty dainties each of which had to be savoured, was not nearly over. The parson stopped in his course up the room to speak with Mrs. Sutton. After he had shaken hands with her, he caught the admired violet eyes of his slim wife, a lady of independent fortune whom the wives of circuit stewards113 found it difficult to please in the matter of furniture, and who despite her forty years still kept something of the pose of a spoiled beauty. As a minister's spouse114 this languishing115 but impeccable and invariably correct dame116 was unique even in the experience of Mrs. Clayton Vernon.
'Shall you not be home early, Rex?' she asked in the tone of a young wife lounging amid the delicate odours of a boudoir.
'My love,' he replied with the stern fixity of a histrionic martyr117, 'did you ever know me have a free evening?'
After tea, Mynors was one of the first to leave the room, and Anna one of the last, but he accosted119 her in the hall, on the way back to the drawing-room, and asked how she was, and how Agnes was, with such deference and sincerity120 of regard for herself and everything that was hers that she could not fail to be impressed. Her sense of humiliation121 and of uncertainty122 was effaced123 by a single word, a single glance. Uplifted by a delicious reassurance124, she passed into the drawing-room, expecting him to follow: strange to say, he did not do so. Work was resumed, but with less ardour than before. It was in fact impossible to be strenuously125 diligent126 after one of Mrs. Sutton's teas, and in every heart, save those which beat over the most perfect and vigorous digestive organs, there was a feeling of repentance127. The building-society's clock on the mantel-piece intoned seven: all expressed surprise at the lateness of the hour, and Mrs. Clayton Vernon, pleading fatigue128 after her recent indisposition, quietly departed. As soon as she was gone, Anna said to Mrs. Sutton that she too must go.
'Why, my dear?' Mrs. Sutton asked.
'I shall be needed at home,' Anna replied.
'Ah! In that case—— I will come upstairs with you, my dear,' said Mrs. Sutton.
When they were in the bedroom, Mrs. Sutton suddenly clasped her hand. 'How is it with you, dear Anna?' she said, gazing anxiously into the girl's eyes. Anna knew what she meant, but made no answer. 'Is it well?' the earnest old woman asked.
Mrs. Sutton kissed her almost passionately130. 'Ah! my dear,' she exclaimed with an impulsive131 gesture, 'I am glad, so glad. I did so want to have a word with you. You must "lean hard," as Miss Havergal says. "Lean hard" on Him. Do not be afraid.' And then, changing her tone: 'You are looking pale, Anna. You want a holiday. We shall be going to the Isle132 of Man in August or September. Would your father let you come with us?'
'I don't know,' said Anna. She knew, however, that he would not. Nevertheless the suggestion gave her much pleasure.
'We must see about that later,' said Mrs. Sutton, and they went downstairs.
'I must say good-bye to Beatrice. Where is she?' Anna said in the hall. One of the servants directed them to the dining-room. The Alderman and Henry Mynors were looking together at a large photogravure of Sant's 'The Soul's Awakening,' which Mr. Sutton had recently bought, and Beatrice was exhibiting her embroidery to a group of ladies: sundry133 stitchers were scattered134 about, including Miss Dickinson.
'It is a great picture—a picture that makes you think,' Henry was saying, seriously, and the Alderman, feeling as the artist might have felt, was obviously flattered by this sagacious praise.
Anna said good-night to Miss Dickinson and then to Beatrice. Mynors, hearing the words, turned round. 'Well, I must go. Good evening,' he said suddenly to the astonished Alderman.
'What? Now?' the latter inquired, scarcely pleased to find that Mynors could tear himself away from the picture with so little difficulty.
'Yes.'
'Good-night, Mr. Mynors,' said Anna.
'If I may I will walk down with you,' Mynors imperturbably135 answered.
It was one of those dramatic moments which arrive without the slightest warning. The gleam of joyous satisfaction in Miss Dickinson's eyes showed that she alone had foreseen this declaration. For a declaration it was, and a formal declaration. Mynors stood there calm, confident with masculine superiority, and his glance seemed to say to those swiftly alert women, whose faces could not disguise a thrilling excitation: 'Yes. Let all know that I, Henry Mynors, the desired of all, am honourably136 captive to this shy and perfect creature who is blushing because I have said what I have said.' Even the Alderman forgot his photogravure. Beatrice hurriedly resumed her explanation of the embroidery.
'How did you like the sewing meeting?' Mynors asked Anna when they were on the pavement.
Anna paused. 'I think Mrs. Sutton is simply a splendid woman,' she said enthusiastically.
When, in a moment far too short, they reached Tellwright's house, Mynors, obeying a mutual137 wish to which neither had given expression, followed Anna up the side entry, and so into the yard, where they lingered for a few seconds. Old Tellwright could be seen at the extremity138 of the long narrow garden—a garden which consisted chiefly of a grass-plot sown with clothes-props and a narrow bordering of flower beds without flowers. Agnes was invisible. The kitchen-door stood ajar, and as this was the sole means of ingress from the yard Anna, humming an air, pushed it open and entered, Mynors in her wake. They stood on the threshold, happy, hesitating, confused, and looked at the kitchen as at something which they had not seen before. Anna's kitchen was the only satisfactory apartment in the house. Its furniture included a dresser of the simple and dignified139 kind which is now assiduously collected by amateurs of old oak. It had four long narrow shelves holding plates and saucers; the cups were hung in a row on small brass140 hooks screwed into the fronts of the shelves. Below the shelves were three drawers in a line, with brass handles, and below the drawers was a large recess141 which held stone jars, a copper142 preserving-saucepan, and other receptacles. Seventy years of continuous polishing by a dynasty of priestesses of cleanliness had given to this dresser a rich ripe tone which the cleverest trade-trickster could not have imitated. In it was reflected the conscientious143 labour of generations. It had a soft and assuaged144 appearance, as though it had never been new and could never have been new. All its corners and edges had long lost the asperities145 of manufacture, and its smooth surfaces were marked by slight hollows similar in spirit to those worn by the naked feet of pilgrims into the marble steps of a shrine146. The flat portion over the drawers was scarred with hundreds of scratches, and yet even all these seemed to be incredibly ancient, and in some distant past to have partaken of the mellowness147 of the whole. The dark woodwork formed an admirable background for the crockery on the shelves, and a few of the old plates, hand-painted according to some vanished secret in pigments148 which time could only improve, had the look of relationship by birth to the dresser. There must still be thousands of exactly similar dressers in the kitchens of the people, but they are gradually being transferred to the dining rooms of curiosity-hunters. To Anna this piece of furniture, which would have made the most taciturn collector vocal149 with joy, was merely 'the dresser.' She had always lamented150 that it contained no cupboard. In front of the fireless range was an old steel kitchen fender with heavy fire-irons. It had in the middle of its flat top a circular lodgment for saucepans, but on this polished disc no saucepan was ever placed. The fender was perhaps as old as the dresser, and the profound depths of its polish served to mitigate151 somewhat the newness of the patent coal-economising range which Tellwright had had put in when he took the house. On the high mantelpiece were four tall brass candlesticks which, like the dresser, were silently awaiting their apotheosis152 at the hands of some collector. Beside these were two or three common mustard tins, polished to counterfeit153 silver, containing spices; also an abandoned coffee-mill and two flat-irons. A grandfather's clock of oak to match the dresser stood to the left of the fireplace; it had a very large white dial with a grinning face in the centre. Though it would only run for twenty-four hours, its leisured movement seemed to have the certainty of a natural law, especially to Agnes, for Mr. Tellwright never forgot to wind it before going to bed. Under the window was a plain deal table, with white top and stained legs. Two Windsor chairs completed the catalogue of furniture. The glistening154 floor was of red and black tiles, and in front of the fender lay a list hearthrug made by attaching innumerable bits of black cloth to a canvas base. On the painted walls were several grocers' almanacs, depicting155 sailors in the arms of lovers, children crossing brooks156, or monks157 swelling158 themselves with Gargantuan159 repasts. Everything in this kitchen was absolutely bright and spotless, as clean as a cat in pattens, except the ceiling, darkened by fumes160 of gas. Everything was in perfect order, and had the humanised air of use and occupation which nothing but use and occupation can impart to senseless objects. It was a kitchen where, in the housewife's phrase, you might eat off the floor, and to any Bursley matron it would have constituted the highest possible certificate of Anna's character, not only as housewife but as elder sister—for in her absence Agnes had washed the tea-things and put them away.
'This is the nicest room, I know,' said Mynors at length.
'I mean there is nothing to beat a clean, straight kitchen,' Mynors replied, 'and there never will be. It wants only the mistress in a white apron to make it complete. Do you know, when I came in here the other night, and you were sitting at the table there, I thought the place was like a picture.'
'How funny!' said Anna, puzzled but well satisfied. 'But won't you come into the parlour?'
The Persian with one ear met them in the lobby, his tail flying, but cautiously sidled upstairs at sight of Mynors. When Anna opened the door of the parlour she saw Agnes seated at the table over her lessons, frowning and preoccupied162. Tears were in her eyes.
'Why, what's the matter, Agnes?' she exclaimed.
'Oh! Go away,' said the child crossly. 'Don't bother.'
'But what's the matter? You're crying.'
'No, I'm not. I'm doing my sums, and I can't get it—can't—-' The child burst into tears just as Mynors entered. His presence was a complete surprise to her. She hid her face in her pinafore, ashamed to be thus caught.
'Where is it?' said Mynors. 'Where is this sum that won't come right?' He picked up the slate163 and examined it while Agnes was finding herself again. 'Practice!' he exclaimed. 'Has Agnes got as far as practice?' She gave him an instant's glance and murmured 'Yes.' Before she could shelter her face he had kissed her. Anna was enchanted164 by his manner, and as for Agnes, she surrendered happily to him at once. He worked the sum, and she copied the figures into her exercise-book. Anna sat and watched.
'Now I must go,' said Mynors.
'But surely you'll stay and see father,' Anna urged.
'No. I really had not meant to call. Good-night, Agnes.' In a moment he was gone out of the room and the house. It was as if, in obedience165 to a sudden impulse, he had forcibly torn himself away.
'Was he at the sewing meeting?' Agnes asked, adding in parenthesis166, 'I never dreamt he was here, and I was frightfully vexed. I felt such a baby.'
'Yes. At least, he came for tea.'
'Why did he call here like that?'
'How can I tell?' Anna said. The child looked at her.
'It's awfully167 queer, isn't it?' she said slowly. 'Tell me all about the sewing meeting. Did they have cakes or was it a plain tea? And did you go into Beatrice Sutton's bedroom?'
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1
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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2
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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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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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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7
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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11
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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12
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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13
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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14
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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15
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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16
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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17
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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21
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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22
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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23
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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24
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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27
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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29
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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31
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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32
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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33
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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34
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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35
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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37
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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38
inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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39
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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40
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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41
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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42
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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43
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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44
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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45
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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46
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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47
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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48
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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49
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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50
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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51
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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52
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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53
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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54
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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55
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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56
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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57
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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58
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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59
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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60
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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61
meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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62
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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63
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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64
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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65
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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67
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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68
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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69
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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70
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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71
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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72
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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73
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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74
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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75
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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76
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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77
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
maternally
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79
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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81
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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82
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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83
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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84
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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85
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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86
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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87
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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88
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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89
substantiated
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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91
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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92
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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94
pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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95
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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96
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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97
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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98
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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100
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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101
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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102
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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103
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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104
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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105
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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106
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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107
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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108
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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109
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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110
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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111
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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112
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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113
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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114
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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115
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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116
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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117
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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118
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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119
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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120
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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121
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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122
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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123
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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124
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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125
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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126
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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127
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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128
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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129
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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133
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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134
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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137
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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138
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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140
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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141
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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143
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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144
assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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asperities
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| n.粗暴( asperity的名词复数 )；（表面的）粗糙；（环境的）艰苦；严寒的天气 | |
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146
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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147
mellowness
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| 成熟； 芳醇； 肥沃； 怡然 | |
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148
pigments
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| n.（粉状）颜料( pigment的名词复数 )；天然色素 | |
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149
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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150
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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152
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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153
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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154
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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155
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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156
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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157
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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158
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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159
gargantuan
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| adj.巨大的，庞大的 | |
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160
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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161
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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162
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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163
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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164
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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165
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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166
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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167
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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