A well established society in Woodhouse, full of fine shades, ranging from the dark of coal-dust to grit4 of stone-mason and sawdust of timber-merchant, through the lustre5 of lard and butter and meat, to the perfume of the chemist and the disinfectant of the doctor, on to the serene6 gold-tarnish of bank-managers, cashiers for the firm, clergymen and such-like, as far as the automobile8 refulgence9 of the general-manager of all the collieries. Here the ne plus ultra. The general manager lives in the shrubberied seclusion10 of the so-called Manor11. The genuine Hall, abandoned by the "County," has been taken over as offices by the firm.
Here we are then: a vast substratum of colliers; a thick sprinkling of tradespeople intermingled with small employers of labour and diversified12 by elementary schoolmasters and nonconformist clergy7; a higher layer of bank-managers, rich millers13 and well-to-do ironmasters, episcopal clergy and the managers of collieries, then the rich and sticky cherry of the local coal-owner glistening14 over all.
Such the complicated social system of a small industrial town in the Midlands of England, in this year of grace 1920. But let us go back a little. Such it was in the last calm year of plenty, 1913.
A calm year of plenty. But one chronic15 and dreary16 malady17: that of the odd women. Why, in the name of all prosperity, should every class but the lowest in such a society hang overburdened with Dead Sea fruit of odd women, unmarried, unmarriageable women, called old maids? Why is it that every tradesman, every school-master, every bank-manager, and every clergyman produces one, two, three or more old maids? Do the middle-classes, particularly the lower middle-classes, give birth to more girls than boys? Or do the lower middle-class men assiduously climb up or down, in marriage, thus leaving their true partners stranded18? Or are middle-class women very squeamish in their choice of husbands?
However it be, it is a tragedy. Or perhaps it is not.
Perhaps these unmarried women of the middle-classes are the famous sexless-workers of our ant-industrial society, of which we hear so much. Perhaps all they lack is an occupation: in short, a job. But perhaps we might hear their own opinion, before we lay the law down.
In Woodhouse, there was a terrible crop of old maids among the "nobs," the tradespeople and the clergy. The whole town of women, colliers' wives and all, held its breath as it saw a chance of one of these daughters of comfort and woe19 getting off. They flocked to the well-to-do weddings with an intoxication20 of relief. For let class-jealousy be what it may, a woman hates to see another woman left stalely on the shelf, without a chance. They all wanted the middle-class girls to find husbands. Every one wanted it, including the girls themselves. Hence the dismalness21.
Now James Houghton had only one child: his daughter Alvina. Surely Alvina Houghton—
But let us retreat to the early eighties, when Alvina was a baby: or even further back, to the palmy days of James Houghton. In his palmy days, James Houghton was crême de la crême of Woodhouse society. The house of Houghton had always been well-to-do: tradespeople, we must admit; but after a few generations of affluence22, tradespeople acquire a distinct cachet. Now James Houghton, at the age of twenty-eight, inherited a splendid business in Manchester goods, in Woodhouse. He was a tall, thin, elegant young man with side-whiskers, genuinely refined, somewhat in the Bulwer style. He had a taste for elegant conversation and elegant literature and elegant Christianity: a tall, thin, brittle23 young man, rather fluttering in his manner, full of facile ideas, and with a beautiful speaking voice: most beautiful. Withal, of course, a tradesman. He courted a small, dark woman, older than himself, daughter of a Derbyshire squire24. He expected to get at least ten thousand pounds with her. In which he was disappointed, for he got only eight hundred. Being of a romantic-commercial nature, he never forgave her, but always treated her with the most elegant courtesy. To seehim peel and prepare an apple for her was an exquisite26 sight. But that peeled and quartered apple was her portion. This elegant Adam of commerce gave Eve her own back, nicely cored, and had no more to do with her. Meanwhile Alvina was born.
Before all this, however, before his marriage, James Houghton had built Manchester House. It was a vast square building—vast, that is, for Woodhouse—standing on the main street and high-road of the small but growing town. The lower front consisted of two fine shops, one for Manchester goods, one for silk and woollens. This was James Houghton's commercial poem.
For James Houghton was a dreamer, and something of a poet: commercial, be it understood. He liked the novels of George Macdonald, and the fantasies of that author, extremely. He wove one continual fantasy for himself, a fantasy of commerce. He dreamed of silks and poplins, luscious27 in texture28 and of unforeseen exquisiteness29: he dreamed of carriages of the "County" arrested before his windows, of exquisite women ruffling30 charmed, entranced to his counter. And charming, entrancing, he served them his lovely fabrics31, which only he and they could sufficiently32 appreciate. His fame spread, until Alexandra, Princess of Wales, and Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, the two best-dressed women in Europe, floated down from heaven to the shop in Woodhouse, and sallied forth33 to show what could be done by purchasing from James Houghton.
We cannot say why James Houghton failed to become the Liberty or the Snelgrove of his day. Perhaps he had too much imagination. Be that as it may, in those early days when he brought his wife to her new home, his window on the Manchester side was a foam34 and a may-blossom of muslins and prints, his window on the London side was an autumn evening of silks and rich fabrics. What wife could fail to be dazzled! But she, poor darling, from her stone hall in stony35 Derbyshire, was a little bit repulsed36 by the man's dancing in front of his stock, like David before the ark.
The home to which he brought her was a monument. In the great bedroom over the shop he had his furniture built: built of solid mahogany: oh too, too solid. No doubt he hopped37 or skipped himself with satisfaction into the monstrous38 matrimonial bed: it could only be mounted by means of a stool and chair. But the poor, secluded39 little woman, older than he, must have climbed up with a heavy heart, to lie and face the gloomy Bastille of mahogany, the great cupboard opposite, or to turn wearily sideways to the great cheval mirror, which performed a perpetual and hideous40 bow before her grace. Such furniture! It could never be removed from the room.
The little child was born in the second year. And then James Houghton decamped to a small, half-furnished bedroom at the other end of the house, where he slept on a rough board and played the anchorite for the rest of his days. His wife was left alone with her baby and the built-in furniture. She developed heart disease, as a result of nervous repressions41.
But like a butterfly James fluttered over his fabrics. He was a tyrant42 to his shop-girls. No French marquis in a Dickens' novel could have been more elegant and raffiné and heartless. The girls detested43 him. And yet, his curious refinement44 and enthusiasm bore them away. They submitted to him. The shop attracted much curiosity. But the poor-spirited Woodhouse people were weak buyers. They wearied James Houghton with their demand for common zephyrs45, for red flannel46 which they would scallop with black worsted, for black alpacas and bombazines and merinos. He fluffed out his silk-striped muslins, his India cotton-prints. But the natives shied off as if he had offered them the poisoned robes of Herakles.
There was a sale. These sales contributed a good deal to Mrs. Houghton's nervous heart-disease. They brought the first signs of wear and tear into the face of James Houghton. At first, of course, he merely marked down, with discretion47, his less-expensive stock of prints and muslins, nuns-veilings and muslin delaines, with a few fancy braidings and trimmings in guimp or bronze to enliven the affair. And Woodhouse bought cautiously.
After the sale, however, James Houghton felt himself at liberty to plunge48 into an orgy of new stock. He flitted, with a tense look on his face, to Manchester. After which huge bundles, bales and boxes arrived in Woodhouse, and were dumped on the pavement of the shop. Friday evening came, and with it a revelation in Houghton's window: the first piqués, the first strangely-woven and honey-combed toilet covers and bed quilts, the first frill-caps and aprons49 for maid-servants: a wonder in white. That was how James advertised it. "A Wonder in White." Who knows but that he had been reading Wilkie Collins' famous novel!
As the nine days of the wonder-in-white passed and receded50, James disappeared in the direction of London. A few Fridays later he came out with his Winter Touch. Weird51 and wonderful winter coats, for ladies—everything James handled was for ladies, he scorned the coarser sex—: weird and wonderful winter coats for ladies, of thick, black, pockmarked cloth, stood and flourished their bear-fur cuffs52 in the background, while tippets, boas, muffs and winter-fancies coquetted in front of the window-space. Friday-night crowds gathered outside: the gas-lamps shone their brightest: James Houghton hovered53 in the background like an author on his first night in the theatre. The result was a sensation. Ten villages stared and crushed round the plate glass. It was a sensation: but what sensation! In the breasts of the crowd, wonder, admiration54, fear, and ridicule55. Let us stress the word fear. The inhabitants of Woodhouse were afraid lest James Houghton should impose his standards upon them. His goods were in excellent taste: but his customers were in as bad taste as possible. They stood outside and pointed25, giggled56, and jeered57. Poor James, like an author on his first night, saw his work fall more than flat.
But still he believed in his own excellence58: and quite justly. What he failed to perceive was that the crowd hated excellence. Woodhouse wanted a gently graduated progress in mediocrity, a mediocrity so stale and flat that it fell outside the imagination of any sensitive mortal. Woodhouse wanted a series of vulgar little thrills, as one tawdry mediocrity was imported from Nottingham or Birmingham to take the place of some tawdry mediocrity which Nottingham and Birmingham had already discarded. That Woodhouse, as a very condition of its own being, hated any approach to originality59 or real taste, this James Houghton could never learn. He thought he had not been clever enough, when he had been far, far too clever already. He always thought that Dame60 Fortune was a capricious and fastidious dame, a sort of Elizabeth of Austria or Alexandra, Princess of Wales, elegant beyond his grasp. Whereas Dame Fortune, even in London or Vienna, let alone in Woodhouse, was a vulgar woman of the middle and lower middle-class, ready to put her heavy foot on anything that was not vulgar, machine-made, and appropriate to the herd62. When he saw his delicate originalities, as well as his faint flourishes of draper's fantasy, squashed flat under the calm and solid foot of vulgar Dame Fortune, he fell into fits of depression bordering on mysticism, and talked to his wife in a vague way of higher influences and the angel Israfel. She, poor lady, was thoroughly63 scared by Israfel, and completely unhooked by the vagaries64 of James.
At last—we hurry down the slope of James' misfortunes—the real days of Houghton's Great Sales began. Houghton's Great Bargain Events were really events. After some years of hanging on, he let go splendidly. He marked down his prints, his chintzes, his dimities and his veilings with a grand and lavish65 hand. Bang went his blue pencil through 3/11, and nobly he subscribed66 1/0-3/4. Prices fell like nuts. A lofty one-and-eleven rolled down to six-three, 1/6 magically shrank into 4-3/4d, whilst good solid prints exposed themselves at 3-3/4d per yard.
Now this was really an opportunity. Moreover the goods, having become a little stale during their years of ineffectuality, were beginning to approximate to the public taste. And besides, good sound stuff it was, no matter what the pattern. And so the little Woodhouse girls went to school in petties and drawers made of material which James had destined68 for fair summer dresses: petties and drawers of which the little Woodhouse girls were ashamed, for all that. For if they should chance to turn up their little skirts, be sure they would raise a chorus among their companions: "Yah-h-h, yer've got Houghton's threp'ny draws on!"
All this time James Houghton walked on air. He still saw the Fata Morgana snatching his fabrics round her lovely form, and pointing him to wealth untold69. True, he became also Superintendent70 of the Sunday School. But whether this was an act of vanity, or whether it was an attempt to establish an Entente71 Cordiale with higher powers, who shall judge.
Meanwhile his wife became more and more an invalid72; the little Alvina was a pretty, growing child. Woodhouse was really impressed by the sight of Mrs. Houghton, small, pale and withheld73, taking a walk with her dainty little girl, so fresh in an ermine tippet and a muff. Mrs. Houghton in shiny black bear's-fur, the child in the white and spotted74 ermine, passing silent and shadowy down the street, made an impression which the people did not forget.
But Mrs. Houghton had pains at her heart. If, during her walk, she saw two little boys having a scrimmage, she had to run to them with pence and entreaty75, leaving them dumfounded, whilst she leaned blue at the lips against a wall. If she saw a carter crack his whip over the ears of the horse, as the horse laboured uphill, she had to cover her eyes and avert76 her face, and all her strength left her.
So she stayed more and more in her room, and the child was given to the charge of a governess. Miss Frost was a handsome, vigorous young woman of about thirty years of age, with grey-white hair and gold-rimmed spectacles. The white hair was not at all tragical77: it was a family trait.
Miss Frost mattered more than any one else to Alvina Houghton, during the first long twenty-five years of the girl's life. The governess was a strong, generous woman, a musician by nature. She had a sweet voice, and sang in the choir78 of the chapel79, and took the first class of girls in the Sunday-School of which James Houghton was Superintendent. She disliked and rather despised James Houghton, saw in him elements of a hypocrite, detested his airy and gracious selfishness, his lack of human feeling, and most of all, his fairy fantasy. As James went further into life, he became a dreamer. Sad indeed that he died before the days of Freud. He enjoyed the most wonderful and fairy-like dreams, which he could describe perfectly80, in charming, delicate language. At such times his beautifully modulated82 voice all but sang, his grey eyes gleamed fiercely under his bushy, hairy eyebrows83, his pale face with its side-whiskers had a strange lueur, his long thin hands fluttered occasionally. He had become meagre in figure, his skimpy but genteel coat would be buttoned over his breast, as he recounted his dream-adventures, adventures that were half Edgar Allan Poe, half Andersen, with touches of Vathek and Lord Byron and George Macdonald: perhaps more than a touch of the last. Ladies were always struck by these accounts. But Miss Frost never felt so strongly moved to impatience84 as when she was within hearing.
For twenty years, she and James Houghton treated each other with a courteous85 distance. Sometimes she broke into open impatience with him, sometimes he answered her tartly86: "Indeed, indeed! Oh, indeed! Well, well, I'm sorry you find it so—" as if the injury consisted in her finding it so. Then he would flit away to the Conservative Club, with a fleet, light, hurried step, as if pressed by fate. At the club he played chess—at which he was excellent—and conversed87. Then he flitted back at half-past twelve, to dinner.
The whole morale88 of the house rested immediately on Miss Frost. She saw her line in the first year. She must defend the little Alvina, whom she loved as her own, and the nervous, petulant89, heart-stricken woman, the mother, from the vagaries of James. Not that James had any vices90. He did not drink or smoke, was abstemious91 and clean as an anchorite, and never lowered his fine tone. But still, the two unprotected ones must be sheltered from him. Miss Frost imperceptibly took into her hands the reins92 of the domestic government. Her rule was quiet, strong, and generous. She was not seeking her own way. She was steering93 the poor domestic ship of Manchester House, illuminating94 its dark rooms with her own sure, radiant presence: her silver-white hair, and her pale, heavy, reposeful95 face seemed to give off a certain radiance. She seemed to give weight, ballast, and repose96 to the staggering and bewildered home. She controlled the maid, and suggested the meals—meals which James ate without knowing what he ate. She brought in flowers and books, and, very rarely, a visitor. Visitors were out of place in the dark sombreness of Manchester House. Her flowers charmed the petulant invalid, her books she sometimes discussed with the airy James: after which discussions she was invariably filled with exasperation97 and impatience, whilst James invariably retired98 to the shop, and was heard raising his musical voice, which the work-girls hated, to one or other of the work-girls.
James certainly had an irritating way of speaking of a book. He talked of incidents, and effects, and suggestions, as if the whole thing had just been a sensational-æsthetic attribute to himself. Not a grain of human feeling in the man, said Miss Frost, flushing pink with exasperation. She herself invariably took the human line.
Meanwhile the shops began to take on a hopeless and frowsy look. After ten years' sales, spring sales, summer sales, autumn sales, winter sales, James began to give up the drapery dream. He himself could not bear any more to put the heavy, pock-holed black cloth coat, with wild bear cuffs and collar, on to the stand. He had marked it down from five guineas to one guinea, and then, oh ignoble99 day, to ten-and-six. He nearly kissed the gipsy woman with a basket of tin saucepan-lids, when at last she bought it for five shillings, at the end of one of his winter sales. But even she, in spite of the bitter sleety100 day, would not put the coat on in the shop. She carried it over her arm down to the Miners' Arms. And later, with a shock that really hurt him, James, peeping bird-like out of his shop door, saw her sitting driving a dirty rag-and-bone cart with a green-white, mouldy pony102, and flourishing her arms like some wild and hairy-decorated squaw. For the long bear-fur, wet with sleet101, seemed like a chevaux de frise of long porcupine103 quills104 round her fore-arms and her neck. Yet such good, such wonderful material! James eyed it for one moment, and then fled like a rabbit to the stove in his back regions.
The higher powers did not seem to fulfil the terms of treaty which James hoped for. He began to back out from the Entente. The Sunday School was a great trial to him. Instead of being carried away by his grace and eloquence105, the nasty louts of colliery boys and girls openly banged their feet and made deafening106 noises when he tried to speak. He said many acid and withering107 things, as he stood there on the rostrum. But what is the good of saying acid things to those little fiends and gall-bladders, the colliery children. The situation was saved by Miss Frost's sweeping108 together all the big girls, under her surveillance, and by her organizing that the tall and handsome blacksmith who taught the lower boys should extend his influence over the upper boys. His influence was more than effectual. It consisted in gripping any recalcitrant109 boy just above the knee, and jesting with him in a jocular manner, in the dialect. The blacksmith's hand was all a blacksmith's hand need be, and his dialect was as broad as could be wished. Between the grip and the homely110 idiom no boy could endure without squealing111. So the Sunday School paid more attention to James, whose prayers were beautiful. But then one of the boys, a protegé of Miss Frost, having been left for half an hour in the obscure room with Mrs. Houghton, gave away the secret of the blacksmith's grip, which secret so haunted the poor lady that it marked a stage in the increase of her malady, and made Sunday afternoon a nightmare to her. And then James Houghton resented something in the coarse Scotch112 manner of the minister of that day. So that the superintendency of the Sunday School came to an end.
At the same time, Solomon had to divide his baby. That is, he let the London side of his shop to W. H. Johnson, the tailor and haberdasher, a parvenu113 little fellow whose English would not bear analysis. Bitter as it was, it had to be. Carpenters and joiners appeared, and the premises114 were completely severed115. From her room in the shadows at the back the invalid heard the hammering and sawing, and suffered. W. H. Johnson came out with a spick-and-span window, and had his wife, a shrewd, quiet woman, and his daughter, a handsome, loud girl, to help him on Friday evenings. Men flocked in—even women, buying their husbands a sixpence-halfpenny tie. They could have bought a tie for four-three from James Houghton. But no, they would rather give sixpence-halfpenny for W.H. Johnson's fresh but rubbishy stuff. And James, who had tried to rise to another successful sale, saw the streams pass into the other doorway116, and heard the heavy feet on the hollow boards of the other shop: his shop no more.
After this cut at his pride and integrity he lay in retirement117 for a while, mystically inclined. Probably he would have come to Swedenborg, had not his clipt wings spread for a new flight. He hit upon the brilliant idea of working up his derelict fabrics into ready-mades: not men's clothes, oh no: women's, or rather, ladies'. Ladies' Tailoring, said the new announcement.
James Houghton was happy once more. A zig-zag wooden stair-way was rigged up the high back of Manchester House. In the great lofts118 sewing-machines of various patterns and movements were installed. A manageress was advertised for, and work-girls were hired. So a new phase of life started. At half-past six in the morning there was a clatter119 of feet and of girls' excited tongues along the back-yard and up the wooden stair-way outside the back wall. The poor invalid heard every clack and every vibration120. She could never get over her nervous apprehension121 of an invasion. Every morning alike, she felt an invasion of some enemy was breaking in on her. And all day long the low, steady rumble122 of sewing-machines overhead seemed like the low drumming of a bombardment upon her weak heart. To make matters worse, James Houghton decided123 that he must have his sewing-machines driven by some extra-human force. He installed another plant of machinery124—acetylene or some such contrivance—which was intended to drive all the little machines from one big belt. Hence a further throbbing125 and shaking in the upper regions, truly terrible to endure. But, fortunately or unfortunately, the acetylene plant was not a success. Girls got their thumbs pierced, and sewing machines absolutely refused to stop sewing, once they had started, and absolutely refused to start, once they had stopped. So that after a while, one loft67 was reserved for disused and rusty126, but expensive engines.
Dame Fortune, who had refused to be taken by fine fabrics and fancy trimmings, was just as reluctant to be captured by ready-mades. Again the good dame was thoroughly lower middle-class. James Houghton designed "robes." Now Robes were the mode. Perhaps it was Alexandra, Princess of Wales, who gave glory to the slim, glove-fitting Princess Robe. Be that as it may, James Houghton designed robes. His work-girls, a race even more callous127 than shop-girls, proclaimed the fact that James tried on his own inventions upon his own elegant thin person, before the privacy of his own cheval mirror. And even if he did, why not? Miss Frost, hearing this legend, looked sideways at the enthusiast128.
Let us remark in time that Miss Frost had already ceased to draw any maintenance from James Houghton. Far from it, she herself contributed to the upkeep of the domestic hearth129 and board. She had fully81 decided never to leave her two charges. She knew that a governess was an impossible item in Manchester House, as things went. And so she trudged130 the country, giving music lessons to the daughters of tradesmen and of colliers who boasted pianofortes. She even taught heavy-handed but dauntless colliers, who were seized with a passion to "play." Miles she trudged, on her round from village to village: a white-haired woman with a long, quick stride, a strong figure, and a quick, handsome smile when once her face awoke behind her gold-rimmed glasses. Like many short-sighted people, she had a certain intent look of one who goes her own way.
The miners knew her, and entertained the highest respect and admiration for her. As they streamed in a grimy stream home from pit, they diverged131 like some magic dark river from off the pavement into the horse-way, to give her room as she approached. And the men who knew her well enough to salute132 her, by calling her name "Miss Frost!" giving it the proper intonation133 of salute, were fussy134 men indeed. "She's a lady if ever there was one," they said. And they meant it. Hearing her name, poor Miss Frost would flash a smile and a nod from behind her spectacles, but whose black face she smiled to she never, or rarely knew. If she did chance to get an inkling, then gladly she called in reply "Mr. Lamb," or "Mr. Calladine." In her way she was a proud woman, for she was regarded with cordial respect, touched with veneration135, by at least a thousand colliers, and by perhaps as many colliers' wives. That is something, for any woman.
Miss Frost charged fifteen shillings for thirteen weeks' lessons, two lessons a week. And at that she was considered rather dear. She was supposed to be making money. What money she made went chiefly to support the Houghton household. In the meanwhile she drilled Alvina thoroughly in theory and pianoforte practice, for Alvina was naturally musical, and besides this she imparted to the girl the elements of a young lady's education, including the drawing of flowers in water-colour, and the translation of a Lamartine poem.
Now incredible as it may seem, fate threw another prop61 to the falling house of Houghton, in the person of the manageress of the work-girls, Miss Pinnegar. James Houghton complained of Fortune, yet to what other man would Fortune have sent two such women as Miss Frost and Miss Pinnegar, gratis136? Yet there they were. And doubtful if James was ever grateful for their presence.
If Miss Frost saved him from heaven knows what domestic débâcle and horror, Miss Pinnegar saved him from the workhouse. Let us not mince137 matters. For a dozen years Miss Frost supported the heart-stricken, nervous invalid, Clariss Houghton: for more than twenty years she cherished, tended and protected the young Alvina, shielding the child alike from a neurotic138 mother and a father such as James. For nearly twenty years she saw that food was set on the table, and clean sheets were spread on the beds: and all the time remained virtually in the position of an outsider, without one grain of established authority.
And then to find Miss Pinnegar! In her way, Miss Pinnegar was very different from Miss Frost. She was a rather short, stout139, mouse-coloured, creepy kind of woman with a high colour in her cheeks, and dun, close hair like a cap. It was evident she was not a lady: her grammar was not without reproach. She had pale grey eyes, and a padding step, and a soft voice, and almost purplish cheeks. Mrs. Houghton, Miss Frost, and Alvina did not like her. They suffered her unwillingly140.
But from the first she had a curious ascendancy141 over James Houghton. One would have expected his æsthetic eye to be offended. But no doubt it was her voice: her soft, near, sure voice, which seemed almost like a secret touch upon her hearer. Now many of her hearers disliked being secretly touched, as it were beneath their clothing. Miss Frost abhorred142 it: so did Mrs. Houghton. Miss Frost's voice was clear and straight as a bell-note, open as the day. Yet Alvina, though in loyalty143 she adhered to her beloved Miss Frost, did not really mind the quiet suggestive power of Miss Pinnegar. For Miss Pinnegar was not vulgarly insinuating144. On the contrary, the things she said were rather clumsy and downright. It was only that she seemed to weigh what she said, secretly, before she said it, and then she approached as if she would slip it into her hearer's consciousness without his being aware of it. She seemed to slide her speeches unnoticed into one's ears, so that one accepted them without the slightest challenge. That was just her manner of approach. In her own way, she was as loyal and unselfish as Miss Frost. There are such poles of opposition145 between honesties and loyalties146.
Miss Pinnegar had the second class of girls in the Sunday School, and she took second, subservient147 place in Manchester House. By force of nature, Miss Frost took first place. Only when Miss Pinnegar spoke148 to Mr. Houghton—nay, the very way she addressed herself to him—"What do you think, Mr. Houghton?"—then there seemed to be assumed an immediacy of correspondence between the two, and an unquestioned priority in their unison149, his and hers, which was a cruel thorn in Miss Frost's outspoken150 breast. This sort of secret intimacy151 and secret exulting152 in having, really, the chief power, was most repugnant to the white-haired woman. Not that there was, in fact, any secrecy153, or any form of unwarranted correspondence between James Houghton and Miss Pinnegar. Far from it. Each of them would have found any suggestion of such a possibility repulsive154 in the extreme. It was simply an implicit155 correspondence between their two psyches156, an immediacy of understanding which preceded all expression, tacit, wireless157.
Miss Pinnegar lived in: so that the household consisted of the invalid, who mostly sat, in her black dress with a white lace collar fastened by a twisted gold brooch, in her own dim room, doing nothing, nervous and heart-suffering; then James, and the thin young Alvina, who adhered to her beloved Miss Frost, and then these two strange women. Miss Pinnegar never lifted up her voice in household affairs: she seemed, by her silence, to admit her own inadequacy158 in culture and intellect, when topics of interest were being discussed, only coming out now and then with defiant159 platitudes160 and truisms—for almost defiantly161 she took the commonplace, vulgarian point of view; yet after everything she would turn with her quiet, triumphant162 assurance to James Houghton, and start on some point of business, soft, assured, ascendant. The others shut their ears.
Now Miss Pinnegar had to get her footing slowly. She had to let James run the gamut163 of his creations. Each Friday night new wonders, robes and ladies' "suits"—the phrase was very new—garnished the window of Houghton's shop. It was one of the sights of the place, Houghton's window on Friday night. Young or old, no individual, certainly no female left Woodhouse without spending an excited and usually hilarious164 ten minutes on the pavement under the window. Muffled165 shrieks166 of young damsels who had just got their first view, guffaws167 of sympathetic youths, continued giggling168 and expostulation and "Eh, but what price the umbrella skirt, my girl!" and "You'd like to marry me in that, my boy—what? not half!"—or else "Eh, now, if you'd seen me in that you'd have fallen in love with me at first sight, shouldn't you?"—with a probable answer "I should have fallen over myself making haste to get away"—loud guffaws:—all this was the regular Friday night's entertainment in Woodhouse. James Houghton's shop was regarded as a weekly comic issue. His piqué costumes with glass buttons and sort of steel-trimming collars and cuffs were immortal169.
But why, once more, drag it out. Miss Pinnegar served in the shop on Friday nights. She stood by her man. Sometimes when the shrieks grew loudest she came to the shop door and looked with her pale grey eyes at the ridiculous mob of lasses in tam-o-shanters and youths half buried in caps. And she imposed a silence. They edged away.
Meanwhile Miss Pinnegar pursued the sober and even tenor170 of her own way. Whilst James lashed171 out, to use the local phrase, in robes and "suits," Miss Pinnegar steadily172 ground away, producing strong, indestructible shirts and singlets for the colliers, sound, serviceable aprons for the colliers' wives, good print dresses for servants, and so on. She executed no flights of fancy. She had her goods made to suit her people. And so, underneath173 the foam and froth of James' creative adventure flowed a slow but steady stream of output and income. The women of Woodhouse came at last to depend on Miss Pinnegar. Growing lads in the pit reduce their garments to shreds174 with amazing expedition. "I'll go to Miss Pinnegar for thy shirts this time, my lad," said the harassed175 mothers, "and see if they'll stand thee." It was almost like a threat. But it served Manchester House.
James bought very little stock in these days: just remnants and pieces for his immortal robes. It was Miss Pinnegar who saw the travellers and ordered the unions and calicoes and grey flannel. James hovered round and said the last word, of course. But what was his last word but an echo of Miss Pinnegar's penultimate! He was not interested in unions and twills.
His own stock remained on hand. Time, like a slow whirlpool churned it over into sight and out of sight, like a mass of dead sea-weed in a backwash. There was a regular series of sales fortnightly. The display of "creations" fell off. The new entertainment was the Friday-night's sale. James would attack some portion of his stock, make a wild jumble176 of it, spend a delirious177 Wednesday and Thursday marking down, and then open on Friday afternoon. In the evening there was a crush. A good moiré underskirt for one-and-eleven-three was not to be neglected, and a handsome string-lace collarette for six-three would iron out and be worth at least three-and-six. That was how it went: it would nearly all of it iron out into something really nice, poor James' crumpled178 stock. His fine, semi-transparent face flushed pink, his eyes flashed as he took in the sixpences and handed back knots of tape or packets of pins for the notorious farthings. What matter if the farthing change had originally cost him a halfpenny! His shop was crowded with women peeping and pawing and turning things over and commenting in loud, unfeeling tones. For there were still many comic items. Once, for example, he suddenly heaped up piles of hats, trimmed and untrimmed, the weirdest179, sauciest180, most screaming shapes. Woodhouse enjoyed itself that night.
And all the time, in her quiet, polite, think-the-more fashion Miss Pinnegar waited on the people, showing them considerable forbearance and just a tinge181 of contempt. She became very tired those evenings—her hair under its invisible hairnet became flatter, her cheeks hung down purplish and mottled. But while James stood she stood. The people did not like her, yet she influenced them. And the stock slowly wilted182, withered183. Some was scrapped184. The shop seemed to have digested some of its indigestible contents.
James accumulated sixpences in a miserly fashion. Luckily for her work-girls, Miss Pinnegar took her own orders, and received payments for her own productions. Some of her regular customers paid her a shilling a week—or less. But it made a small, steady income. She reserved her own modest share, paid the expenses of her department, and left the residue185 to James.
James had accumulated sixpences, and made a little space in his shop. He had desisted from "creations." Time now for a new flight. He decided it was better to be a manufacturer than a tradesman. His shop, already only half its original size, was again too big. It might be split once more. Rents had risen in Woodhouse. Why not cut off another shop from his premises?
No sooner said than done. In came the architect, with whom he had played many a game of chess. Best, said the architect, take off one good-sized shop, rather than halve186 the premises. James would be left a little cramped187, a little tight, with only one-third of his present space. But as we age we dwindle188.
More hammering and alterations189, and James found himself cooped in a long, long narrow shop, very dark at the back, with a high oblong window and a door that came in at a pinched corner. Next door to him was a cheerful new grocer of the cheap and florid type. The new grocer whistled "Just Like the Ivy," and shouted boisterously190 to his shop-boy. In his doorway, protruding191 on James' sensitive vision, was a pyramid of sixpence-halfpenny tins of salmon192, red, shiny tins with pink halved193 salmons194 depicted195, and another yellow pyramid of four-pence-halfpenny tins of pineapple. Bacon dangled196 in pale rolls almost over James' doorway, whilst straw and paper, redolent of cheese, lard, and stale eggs filtered through the threshold.
This was coming down in the world, with a vengeance197. But what James lost downstairs he tried to recover upstairs. Heaven knows what he would have done, but for Miss Pinnegar. She kept her own work-rooms against him, with a soft, heavy, silent tenacity198 that would have beaten stronger men than James. But his strength lay in his pliability199. He rummaged200 in the empty lofts, and among the discarded machinery. He rigged up the engines afresh, bought two new machines, and started an elastic201 department, making elastic for garters and for hat-chins.
He was immensely proud of his first cards of elastic, and saw Dame Fortune this time fast in his yielding hands. But, becoming used to disillusionment, he almost welcomed it. Within six months he realized that every inch of elastic cost him exactly sixty per cent. more than he could sell it for, and so he scrapped his new department. Luckily, he sold one machine and even gained two pounds on it.
After this, he made one last effort. This was hosiery webbing, which could be cut up and made into as-yet-unheard-of garments. Miss Pinnegar kept her thumb on this enterprise, so that it was not much more than abortive202. And then James left her alone.
Meanwhile the shop slowly churned its oddments. Every Thursday afternoon James sorted out tangles203 of bits and bobs, antique garments and occasional finds. With these he trimmed his window, so that it looked like a historical museum, rather soiled and scrappy. Indoors he made baskets of assortments204: threepenny, sixpenny, ninepenny and shilling baskets, rather like a bran pie in which everything was a plum. And then, on Friday evening, thin and alert he hovered behind the counter, his coat shabbily buttoned over his narrow chest, his face agitated205. He had shaved his side-whiskers, so that they only grew becomingly as low as his ears. His rather large, grey moustache was brushed off his mouth. His hair, gone very thin, was brushed frail206 and floating over his baldness. But still a gentleman, still courteous, with a charming voice he suggested the possibilities of a pad of green parrots' tail-feathers, or of a few yards of pink-pearl trimming or of old chenille fringe. The women would pinch the thick, exquisite old chenille fringe, delicate and faded, curious to feel its softness. But they wouldn't give threepence for it. Tapes, ribbons, braids, buttons, feathers, jabots, bussels, appliqués, fringes, jet-trimmings, bugle-trimmings, bundles of old coloured machine-lace, many bundles of strange cord, in all colours, for old-fashioned braid-patterning, ribbons with H.M.S. Birkenhead, for boys' sailor caps—everything that nobody wanted, did the women turn over and over, till they chanced on a find. And James' quick eyes watched the slow surge of his flotsam, as the pot boiled but did not boil away. Wonderful that he did not think of the days when these bits and bobs were new treasures. But he did not.
And at his side Miss Pinnegar quietly took orders for shirts, discussed and agreed, made measurements and received instalments.
The shop was now only opened on Friday afternoons and evenings, so every day, twice a day, James was seen dithering bare-headed and hastily down the street, as if pressed by fate, to the Conservative Club, and twice a day he was seen as hastily returning, to his meals. He was becoming an old man: his daughter was a young woman: but in his own mind he was just the same, and his daughter was a little child, his wife a young invalid whom he must charm by some few delicate attentions—such as the peeled apple.
At the club he got into more mischief207. He met men who wanted to extend a brickfield down by the railway. The brickfield was called Klondyke. James had now a new direction to run in: down hill towards Bagthorpe, to Klondyke. Big penny-daisies grew in tufts on the brink208 of the yellow clay at Klondyke, yellow eggs-and-bacon spread their midsummer mats of flower. James came home with clay smeared209 all over him, discoursing210 brilliantly on grit and paste and presses and kilns211 and stamps. He carried home a rough and pinkish brick, and gloated over it. It was a hard brick, it was a non-porous brick. It was an ugly brick, painfully heavy and parched-looking.
This time he was sure: Dame Fortune would rise like Persephone out of the earth. He was all the more sure, because other men of the town were in with him at this venture: sound, moneyed grocers and plumbers212. They were all going to become rich.
Klondyke lasted a year and a half, and was not so bad, for in the end, all things considered, James had lost not more than five per cent. of his money. In fact, all things considered, he was about square. And yet he felt Klondyke as the greatest blow of all. Miss Pinnegar would have aided and abetted213 him in another scheme, if it would but have cheered him. Even Miss Frost was nice with him. But to no purpose. In the year after Klondyke he became an old man, he seemed to have lost all his feathers, he acquired a plucked, tottering214 look.
Yet he roused up, after a coal-strike. Throttle-Ha'penny put new life into him. During a coal-strike the miners themselves began digging in the fields, just near the houses, for the surface coal. They found a plentiful215 seam of drossy216, yellowish coal behind the Methodist New Connection Chapel. The seam was opened in the side of a bank, and approached by a footrill, a sloping shaft217 down which the men walked. When the strike was over, two or three miners still remained working the soft, drossy coal, which they sold for eight-and-sixpence a ton—or sixpence a hundredweight. But a mining population scorned such dirt, as they called it.
James Houghton, however, was seized with a desire to work the Connection Meadow seam, as he called it. He gathered two miner partners—he trotted218 endlessly up to the field, he talked, as he had never talked before, with inumerable colliers. Everybody he met he stopped, to talk Connection Meadow.
And so at last he sank a shaft, sixty feet deep, rigged up a corrugated-iron engine-house with a winding219-engine, and lowered his men one at a time down the shaft, in a big bucket. The whole affair was ricketty, amateurish220, and twopenny. The name Connection Meadow was forgotten within three months. Everybody knew the place as Throttle-Ha'penny. "What!" said a collier to his wife: "have we got no coal? You'd better get a bit from Throttle-Ha'penny." "Nay," replied the wife, "I'm sure I shan't. I'm sure I shan't burn that muck, and smother221 myself with white ash."
It was in the early Throttle-Ha'penny days that Mrs. Houghton died. James Houghton cried, and put a black band on his Sunday silk hat. But he was too feverishly222 busy at Throttle-Ha'penny, selling his hundredweights of ash-pit fodder223, as the natives called it, to realize anything else.
He had three men and two boys working his pit, besides a superannuated224 old man driving the winding engine. And in spite of all jeering225, he flourished. Shabby old coal-carts rambled226 up behind the New Connection, and filled from the pit-bank. The coal improved a little in quality: it was cheap and it was handy. James could sell at last fifty or sixty tons a week: for the stuff was easy getting. And now at last he was actually handling money. He saw millions ahead.
This went on for more than a year. A year after the death of Mrs. Houghton, Miss Frost became ill and suddenly died. Again James Houghton cried and trembled. But it was Throttle-Ha'penny that made him tremble. He trembled in all his limbs, at the touch of success. He saw himself making noble provision for his only daughter.
But alas—it is wearying to repeat the same thing over and over. First the Board of Trade began to make difficulties. Then there was a fault in the seam. Then the roof of Throttle-Ha'penny was so loose and soft, James could not afford timber to hold it up. In short, when his daughter Alvina was about twenty-seven years old, Throttle-Ha'penny closed down. There was a sale of poor machinery, and James Houghton came home to the dark, gloomy house—to Miss Pinnegar and Alvina.
It was a pinched, dreary house. James seemed down for the last time. But Miss Pinnegar persuaded him to take the shop again on Friday evening. For the rest, faded and peaked, he hurried shadowily down to the club.
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1
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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refulgence
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| n.辉煌，光亮 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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13
millers
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| n.（尤指面粉厂的）厂主( miller的名词复数 )；磨房主；碾磨工；铣工 | |
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14
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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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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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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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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dismalness
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| 阴沉的 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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exquisiteness
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ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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repressions
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| n.压抑( repression的名词复数 )；约束；抑制；镇压 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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45
zephyrs
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| n.和风，微风( zephyr的名词复数 ) | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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48
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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49
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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50
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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51
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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52
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
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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54
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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55
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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56
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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60
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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63
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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64
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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65
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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66
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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67
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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68
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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70
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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71
entente
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| n.协定；有协定关系的各国 | |
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72
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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73
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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75
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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76
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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77
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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78
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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79
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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80
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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81
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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82
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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83
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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84
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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85
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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86
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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87
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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88
morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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89
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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90
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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91
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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92
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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93
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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94
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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95
reposeful
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|
| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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96
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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97
exasperation
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|
| n.愤慨 | |
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98
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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99
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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100
sleety
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| 雨夹雪的，下雨雪的 | |
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101
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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102
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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103
porcupine
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| n.豪猪， 箭猪 | |
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104
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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105
eloquence
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|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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106
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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107
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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108
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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109
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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110
homely
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|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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111
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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112
scotch
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|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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113
parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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114
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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115
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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116
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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117
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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118
lofts
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| 阁楼( loft的名词复数 )； （由工厂等改建的）套房； 上层楼面； 房间的越层 | |
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119
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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120
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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121
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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122
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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123
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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124
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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125
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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126
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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127
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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128
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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129
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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130
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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131
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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132
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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133
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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134
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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135
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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136
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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137
mince
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|
| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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138
neurotic
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|
| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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140
unwillingly
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|
| adv.不情愿地 | |
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141
ascendancy
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|
| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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142
abhorred
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|
| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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143
loyalty
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|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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144
insinuating
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|
| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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145
opposition
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|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
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146
loyalties
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|
| n.忠诚( loyalty的名词复数 )；忠心；忠于…感情；要忠于…的强烈感情 | |
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147
subservient
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|
| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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148
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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149
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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150
outspoken
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|
| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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151
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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152
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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153
secrecy
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|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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154
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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155
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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156
psyches
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| n.灵魂，心灵( psyche的名词复数 ) | |
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157
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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158
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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159
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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160
platitudes
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|
| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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161
defiantly
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|
| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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162
triumphant
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|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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163
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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164
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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165
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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166
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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167
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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168
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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169
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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170
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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171
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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172
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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173
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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174
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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175
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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176
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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177
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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178
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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179
weirdest
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|
| 怪诞的( weird的最高级 )； 神秘而可怕的； 超然的； 古怪的 | |
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180
sauciest
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| adj.粗鲁的( saucy的最高级 )；粗俗的；不雅的；开色情玩笑的 | |
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181
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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182
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
withered
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|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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184
scrapped
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| 废弃(scrap的过去式与过去分词)； 打架 | |
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185
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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186
halve
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| vt.分成两半，平分；减少到一半 | |
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187
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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188
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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189
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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190
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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191
protruding
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|
| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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192
salmon
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|
| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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193
halved
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|
| v.把…分成两半( halve的过去式和过去分词 )；把…减半；对分；平摊 | |
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194
salmons
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| n.鲑鱼，大马哈鱼( salmon的名词复数 ) | |
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195
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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196
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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197
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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198
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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199
pliability
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| n.柔韧性；可弯性 | |
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200
rummaged
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|
| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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201
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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202
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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203
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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204
assortments
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| 分类，各类物品或同类各种物品的聚集，混合物( assortment的名词复数 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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207
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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208
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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209
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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210
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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211
kilns
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| n.窑( kiln的名词复数 )；烧窑工人 | |
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plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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213
abetted
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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214
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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215
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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216
drossy
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| adj.浮渣一样的，铁渣的，碎屑的 | |
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217
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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218
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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219
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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220
amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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221
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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222
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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223
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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224
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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225
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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226
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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