The reason is obvious. Who in Woodhouse was going to afford a two-guinea nurse, for a confinement2? And who who was going to engage Alvina Houghton, even if they were ready to stretch their purse-strings? After all, they all knew her as Miss Houghton, with a stress on the Miss, and they could not conceive of her as Nurse Houghton. Besides, there seemed something positively3 indecent in technically4 engaging one who was so much part of themselves. They all preferred either a simple mid-wife, or a nurse procured5 out of the unknown by the doctor.
If Alvina wanted to make her fortune—or even her living—she should have gone to a strange town. She was so advised by every one she knew. But she never for one moment reflected on the advice. She had become a maternity nurse in order to practise in Woodhouse, just as James Houghton had purchased his elegancies to sell in Woodhouse. And father and daughter alike calmly expected Woodhouse demand to rise to their supply. So both alike were defeated in their expectations.
For a little while Alvina flaunted6 about in her nurse's uniform. Then she left it off. And as she left it off she lost her bounce, her colour, and her flesh. Gradually she shrank back to the old, slim, reticent7 pallor, with eyes a little too large for her face. And now it seemed her face was a little too long, a little gaunt. And in her civilian8 clothes she seemed a little dowdy9, shabby. And altogether, she looked older: she looked more than her age, which was only twenty-four years. Here was the old Alvina come back, rather battered10 and deteriorated11, apparently12. There was even a tiny touch of the trollops in her dowdiness13—so the shrewd-eyed collier-wives decided14. But she was a lady still, and unbeaten. Undeniably she was a lady. And that was rather irritating to the well-to-do and florid daughter of W.H. Johnson, next door but one. Undeniably a lady, and undeniably unmastered. This last was irritating to the good-natured but easy-coming young men in the Chapel15 Choir16, where she resumed her seat. These young men had the good nature of dogs that wag their tails and expect to be patted. And Alvina did not pat them. To be sure, a pat from such a shabbily-black-kid-gloved hand would not have been so flattering—she need not imagine it! The way she hung back and looked at them, the young men, as knowing as if she were a prostitute, and yet with the well-bred indifference17 of a lady—well, it was almost offensive.
As a matter of fact, Alvina was detached for the time being from her interest in young men. Manchester House had settled down on her like a doom18. There was the quartered shop, through which one had to worm one's encumbered19 way in the gloom—unless one liked to go miles round a back street, to the yard entry. There was James Houghton, faintly powdered with coal-dust, flitting back and forth21 in a fever of nervous frenzy22, to Throttle-Ha'penny—so carried away that he never saw his daughter at all the first time he came in, after her return. And when she reminded him of her presence, with her—"Hello, father!"—he merely glancied hurriedly at her, as if vexed24 with her interruption, and said:
Mrs. Houghton was now very weak, and so nervous in her weakness that she could not bear the slightest sound. Her greatest horror was lest her husband should come into the room. On his entry she became blue at the lips immediately, so he had to hurry out again. At last he stayed away, only hurriedly asking, each time he came into the house, "How is Mrs. Houghton? Ha!" Then off into uninterrupted Throttle-Ha'penny ecstasy once more.
When Alvina went up to her mother's room, on her return, all the poor invalid26 could do was to tremble into tears, and cry faintly:
"Child, you look dreadful. It isn't you."
This from the pathetic little figure in the bed had struck Alvina like a blow.
"Why not, mother?" she asked.
But for her mother she had to remove her nurse's uniform. And at the same time, she had to constitute herself nurse. Miss Frost, and a woman who came in, and the servant had been nursing the invalid between them. Miss Frost was worn and rather heavy: her old buoyancy and brightness was gone. She had become irritable28 also. She was very glad that Alvina had returned to take this responsibility of nursing off her shoulders. For her wonderful energy had ebbed29 and oozed30 away.
Alvina said nothing, but settled down to her task. She was quiet and technical with her mother. The two loved one another, with a curious impersonal31 love which had not a single word to exchange: an almost after-death love. In these days Mrs. Houghton never talked—unless to fret32 a little. So Alvina sat for many hours in the lofty, sombre bedroom, looking out silently on the street, or hurriedly rising to attend the sick woman. For continually came the fretful murmur33:
"Vina!"
To sit still—who knows the long discipline of it, nowadays, as our mothers and grandmothers knew. To sit still, for days, months, and years—perforce to sit still, with some dignity of tranquil34 bearing. Alvina was old-fashioned. She had the old, womanly faculty35 for sitting quiet and collected—not indeed for a life-time, but for long spells together. And so it was during these months nursing her mother. She attended constantly on the invalid: she did a good deal of work about the house: she took her walks and occupied her place in the choir on Sunday mornings. And yet, from August to January, she seemed to be seated in her chair in the bedroom, sometimes reading, but mostly quite still, her hands quietly in her lap, her mind subdued36 by musing37. She did not even think, not even remember. Even such activity would have made her presence too disturbing in the room. She sat quite still, with all her activities in abeyance38—except that strange will-to-passivity which was by no means a relaxation39, but a severe, deep, soul-discipline.
For the moment there was a sense of prosperity—or probable prosperity, in the house. And there was an abundance of Throttle-Ha'penny coal. It was dirty ashy stuff. The lower bars of the grate were constantly blanked in with white powdery ash, which it was fatal to try to poke40 away. For if you poked41 and poked, you raised white cumulus clouds of ash, and you were left at last with a few darkening and sulphurous embers. But even so, by continuous application, you could keep the room moderately warm, without feeling you were consuming the house's meat and drink in the grate. Which was one blessing42.
The days, the months darkened past, and Alvina returned to her old thinness and pallor. Her fore-arms were thin, they rested very still in her lap, there was a ladylike stillness about them as she took her walk, in her lingering, yet watchful43 fashion. She saw everything. Yet she passed without attracting any attention.
Early in the year her mother died. Her father came and wept self-conscious tears, Miss Frost cried a little, painfully. And Alvina cried also: she did not quite know why or wherefore. Her poor mother! Alvina had the old-fashioned wisdom to let be, and not to think. After all, it was not for her to reconstruct her parents' lives. She came after them. Her day was not their day, their life was not hers. Returning up-channel to re-discover their course was quite another matter from flowing down-stream into the unknown, as they had done thirty years before. This supercilious44 and impertinent exploration of the generation gone by, by the present generation, is nothing to our credit. As a matter of fact, no generation repeats the mistakes of the generation ahead, any more than any river repeats its course. So the young need not be so proud of their superiority over the old. The young generation glibly45 makes its own mistakes: and how detestable these new mistakes are, why, only the future will be able to tell us. But be sure they are quite as detestable, quite as full of lies and hypocrisy46, as any of the mistakes of our parents. There is no such thing as absolute wisdom.
Wisdom has reference only to the past. The future remains47 for ever an infinite field for mistakes. You can't know beforehand.
So Alvina refrained from pondering on her mother's life and fate. Whatever the fate of the mother, the fate of the daughter will be otherwise. That is organically inevitable48. The business of the daughter is with her own fate, not with her mother's.
Miss Frost however meditated49 bitterly on the fate of the poor dead woman. Bitterly she brooded on the lot of woman. Here was Clariss Houghton, married, and a mother—and dead. What a life! Who was responsible? James Houghton. What ought James Houghton to have done differently? Everything. In short, he should have been somebody else, and not himself. Which is the reductio ad absurdum of idealism. The universe should be something else, and not what it is: so the nonsense of idealistic conclusion. The cat should not catch the mouse, the mouse should not nibble50 holes in the table-cloth, and so on and so on, in the House that Jack51 Built.
But Miss Frost sat by the dead in grief and despair. This was the end of another woman's life: such an end! Poor Clariss: guilty James.
Yet why? Why was James more guilty than Clariss? Is the only aim and end of a man's life, to make some woman, or parcel of women, happy? Why? Why should anybody expect to be made happy, and develop heart-disease if she isn't? Surely Clariss' heart-disease was a more emphatic52 sign of obstinate53 self-importance than ever James' shop-windows were. She expected to be made happy. Every woman in Europe and America expects it. On her own head then if she is made unhappy: for her expectation is arrogant54 and impertinent. The be-all and end-all of life doesn't lie in feminine happiness—or in any happiness. Happiness is a sort of soap-tablet—he won't be happy till he gets it, and when he's got it, the precious baby, it'll cost him his eyes and his stomach. Could anything be more puerile55 than a mankind howling because it isn't happy: like a baby in the bath!
Poor Clariss, however, was dead—and if she had developed heart-disease because she wasn't happy, well, she had died of her own heart-disease, poor thing. Wherein lies every moral that mankind can wish to draw.
Miss Frost wept in anguish56, and saw nothing but another woman betrayed to sorrow and a slow death. Sorrow and a slow death, because a man had married her. Miss Frost wept also for herself, for her own sorrow and slow death. Sorrow and slow death, because a man had not married her. Wretched man, what is he to do with these exigeant and never-to-be-satisfied women? Our mothers pined because our fathers drank and were rakes. Our wives pine because we are virtuous57 but inadequate58. Who is this sphinx, this woman? Where is the Oedipus that will solve her riddle59 of happiness, and then strangle her?—only to marry his own mother!
In the months that followed her mother's death, Alvina went on the same, in abeyance. She took over the housekeeping, and received one or two overflow60 pupils from Miss Frost, young girls to whom she gave lessons in the dark drawing-room of Manchester House. She was busy—chiefly with housekeeping. There seemed a great deal to put in order after her mother's death.
She sorted all her mother's clothes—expensive, old-fashioned clothes, hardly worn. What was to be done with them? She gave them away, without consulting anybody. She kept a few private things, she inherited a few pieces of jewellery. Remarkable61 how little trace her mother left—hardly a trace.
She decided to move into the big, monumental bedroom in front of the house. She liked space, she liked the windows. She was strictly62 mistress, too. So she took her place. Her mother's little sitting-room63 was cold and disused.
Then Alvina went through all the linen64. There was still abundance, and it was all sound. James had had such large ideas of setting up house, in the beginning. And now he begrudged65 the household expenses, begrudged the very soap and candles, and even would have liked to introduce margarine instead of butter. This last degradation66 the women refused. But James was above food.
The old Alvina seemed completely herself again. She was quiet, dutiful, affectionate. She appealed in her old, childish way to Miss Frost, and Miss Frost called her "Dear!" with all the old protective gentleness. But there was a difference. Underneath67 her appearance of appeal, Alvina was almost coldly independent. She did what she thought she would. The old manner of intimacy68 persisted between her and her darling. And perhaps neither of them knew that the intimacy itself had gone. But it had. There was no spontaneous interchange between them. It was a kind of deadlock69. Each knew the great love she felt for the other. But now it was a love static, inoperative. The warm flow did not run any more. Yet each would have died for the other, would have done anything to spare the other hurt.
Miss Frost was becoming tired, dragged looking. She would sink into a chair as if she wished never to rise again—never to make the effort. And Alvina quickly would attend on her, bring her tea and take away her music, try to make everything smooth. And continually the young woman exhorted70 the elder to work less, to give up her pupils. But Miss Frost answered quickly, nervously71:
"When I don't work I shan't live."
"But why—?" came the long query72 from Alvina. And in her expostulation there was a touch of mockery for such a creed73.
In these days Alvina struck up an odd friendship with Miss Pinnegar, after so many years of opposition75. She felt herself more in sympathy with Miss Pinnegar—it was so easy to get on with her, she left so much unsaid. What was left unsaid mattered more to Alvina now than anything that was expressed. She began to hate outspokenness76 and direct speaking-forth of the whole mind. It nauseated77 her. She wanted tacit admission of difference, not open, wholehearted communication. And Miss Pinnegar made this admission all along. She never made you feel for an instant that she was one with you. She was never even near. She kept quietly on her own ground, and left you on yours. And across the space came her quiet commonplaces—but fraught78 with space.
With Miss Frost all was openness, explicit79 and downright. Not that Miss Frost trespassed80. She was far more well-bred than Miss Pinnegar. But her very breeding had that Protestant, northern quality which assumes that we have all the same high standards, really, and all the same divine nature, intrinsically. It is a fine assumption. But willy-nilly, it sickened Alvina at this time.
She preferred Miss Pinnegar, and admired Miss Pinnegar's humble81 wisdom with a new admiration82. The two were talking of Dr. Headley, who, they read in the newspaper, had disgraced himself finally.
"I suppose," said Miss Pinnegar, "it takes his sort to make all sorts."
Such bits of homely83 wisdom were like relief from cramp84 and pain, to Alvina. "It takes his sort to make all sorts." It took her sort too. And it took her father's sort—as well as her mother's and Miss Frost's. It took every sort to make all sorts. Why have standards and a regulation pattern? Why have a human criterion? There's the point! Why, in the name of all the free heavens, have human criteria85? Why? Simply for bullying86 and narrowness.
Alvina felt at her ease with Miss Pinnegar. The two women talked away to one another, in their quiet moments: and slipped apart like conspirators87 when Miss Frost came in: as if there was something to be ashamed of. If there was, heaven knows what it might have been, for their talk was ordinary enough. But Alvina liked to be with Miss Pinnegar in the kitchen. Miss Pinnegar wasn't competent and masterful like Miss Frost: she was ordinary and uninspired, with quiet, unobserved movements. But she was deep, and there was some secret satisfaction in her very quality of secrecy88.
So the days and weeks and months slipped by, and Alvina was hidden like a mole89 in the dark chambers90 of Manchester House, busy with cooking and cleaning and arranging, getting the house in her own order, and attending to her pupils. She took her walk in the afternoon. Once and only once she went to Throttle-Ha'penny, and, seized with sudden curiosity, insisted on being wound down in the iron bucket to the little workings underneath. Everything was quite tidy in the short gang-ways down below, timbered and in sound order. The miners were competent enough. But water dripped dismally91 in places, and there was a stale feeling in the air.
Her father accompanied her, pointed92 her to the seam of yellow-flecked coal, the shale93 and the bind94, the direction of the trend. He had already an airy-fairy kind of knowledge of the whole affair, and seemed like some not quite trustworthy conjuror95 who had conjured96 it all up by sleight97 of hand. In the background the miners stood grey and ghostly, in the candle-light, and seemed to listen sardonically98. One of them, facile in his subordinate way as James in his authoritative99, kept chiming in:
"Ay, that's the road it goes, Miss Huffen—yis, yo'll see th' roof theer bellies100 down a bit—s' loose. No, you dunna get th' puddin' stones i' this pit—s' not deep enough. Eh, they come down on you plumb101, as if th' roof had laid its egg on you. Ay, it runs a bit thin down here—six inches. You see th' bed's soft, it's a sort o' clay-bind, it's not clunch such as you get deeper. Oh, it's easy workin'—you don't have to knock your guts102 out. There's no need for shots, Miss Huffen—we bring it down—you see here—" And he stooped, pointing to a shallow, shelving excavation103 which he was making under the coal. The working was low, you must stoop all the time. The roof and the timbered sides of the way seemed to press on you. It was as if she were in her tomb for ever, like the dead and everlasting104 Egyptians. She was frightened, but fascinated. The collier kept on talking to her, stretching his bare, grey-black hairy arm across her vision, and pointing with his knotted hand. The thick-wicked tallow candles guttered105 and smelled. There was a thickness in the air, a sense of dark, fluid presence in the thick atmosphere, the dark, fluid, viscous106 voice of the collier making a broad-vowelled, clapping sound in her ear. He seemed to linger near her as if he knew—as if he knew—what? Something for ever unknowable and inadmissible, something that belonged purely107 to the underground: to the slaves who work underground: knowledge humiliated108, subjected, but ponderous109 and inevitable. And still his voice went on clapping in her ear, and still his presence edged near her, and seemed to impinge on her—a smallish, semi-grotesque110, grey-obscure figure with a naked brandished111 forearm: not human: a creature of the subterranean112 world, melted out like a bat, fluid. She felt herself melting out also, to become a mere23 vocal113 ghost, a presence in the thick atmosphere. Her lungs felt thick and slow, her mind dissolved, she felt she could cling like a bat in the long swoon of the crannied, underworld darkness. Cling like a bat and sway for ever swooning in the draughts114 of the darkness—
When she was up on the earth again she blinked and peered at the world in amazement115. What a pretty, luminous116 place it was, carved in substantial luminosity. What a strange and lovely place, bubbling iridescent117-golden on the surface of the underworld. Iridescent golden—could anything be more fascinating! Like lovely glancing surface on fluid pitch. But a velvet118 surface. A velvet surface of golden light, velvet-pile of gold and pale luminosity, and strange beautiful elevations119 of houses and trees, and depressions of fields and roads, all golden and floating like atmospheric120 majolica. Never had the common ugliness of Woodhouse seemed so entrancing. She thought she had never seen such beauty—a lovely luminous majolica, living and palpitating, the glossy121, svelte122 world-surface, the exquisite123 face of all the darkness. It was like a vision. Perhaps gnomes124 and subterranean workers, enslaved in the era of light, see with such eyes. Perhaps that is why they are absolutely blind to conventional ugliness. For truly nothing could be more hideous125 than Woodhouse, as the miners had built it and disposed it. And yet, the very cabbage-stumps and rotten fences of the gardens, the very back-yards were instinct with magic, molten as they seemed with the bubbling-up of the under-darkness, bubbling up of majolica weight and luminosity, quite ignorant of the sky, heavy and satisfying.
Slaves of the underworld! She watched the swing of the grey colliers along the pavement with a new fascination126, hypnotized by a new vision. Slaves—the underground trolls and iron-workers, magic, mischievous127, and enslaved, of the ancient stories. But tall—the miners seemed to her to loom20 tall and grey, in their enslaved magic. Slaves who would cause the superimposed day-order to fall. Not because, individually, they wanted to. But because, collectively, something bubbled up in them, the force of darkness which had no master and no control. It would bubble and stir in them as earthquakes stir the earth. It would be simply disastrous128, because it had no master. There was no dark master in the world. The puerile world went on crying out for a new Jesus, another Saviour129 from the sky, another heavenly superman. When what was wanted was a Dark Master from the underworld.
So they streamed past her, home from work—grey from head to foot, distorted in shape, cramped130, with curious faces that came out pallid131 from under their dirt. Their walk was heavy-footed and slurring132, their bearing stiff and grotesque. A stream they were—yet they seemed to her to loom like strange, valid27 figures of fairy-lore, unrealized and as yet unexperienced. The miners, the iron-workers, those who fashion the stuff of the underworld.
As it always comes to its children, the nostalgia133 of the repulsive134, heavy-footed Midlands came over her again, even whilst she was there in the midst. The curious, dark, inexplicable135 and yet insatiable craving136—as if for an earthquake. To feel the earth heave and shudder137 and shatter the world from beneath. To go down in the débâcle.
And so, in spite of everything, poverty, dowdiness, obscurity, and nothingness, she was content to stay in abeyance at home for the time. True, she was filled with the same old, slow, dreadful craving of the Midlands: a craving insatiable and inexplicable. But the very craving kept her still. For at this time she did not translate it into a desire, or need, for love. At the back of her mind somewhere was the fixed138 idea, the fixed intention of finding love, a man. But as yet, at this period, the idea was in abeyance, it did not act. The craving that possessed139 her as it possesses everybody, in a greater or less degree, in those parts, sustained her darkly and unconsciously.
A hot summer waned140 into autumn, the long, bewildering days drew in, the transient nights, only a few breaths of shadow between noon and noon, deepened and strengthened. A restlessness came over everybody. There was another short strike among the miners. James Houghton, like an excited beetle141, scurried142 to and fro, feeling he was making his fortune. Never had Woodhouse been so thronged143 on Fridays with purchasers and money-spenders. The place seemed surcharged with life.
Autumn lasted beautiful till end of October. And then suddenly, cold rain, endless cold rain, and darkness heavy, wet, ponderous. Through the wind and rain it was a toil144 to move. Poor Miss Frost, who had seemed almost to blossom again in the long hot days, regaining145 a free cheerfulness that amounted almost to liveliness, and who even caused a sort of scandal by her intimacy with a rather handsome but common stranger, an insurance agent who had come into the place with a good, unused tenor146 voice—now she wilted147 again. She had given the rather florid young man tea in her room, and had laboured away at his fine, metallic148 voice, correcting him and teaching him and laughing with him and spending really a remarkable number of hours alone with him in her room in Woodhouse—for she had given up tramping the country, and had hired a music-room in a quiet street, where she gave her lessons. And the young man had hung round, and had never wanted to go away. They would prolong their tête-à-tête and their singing on till ten o'clock at night, and Miss Frost would return to Manchester House flushed and handsome and a little shy, while the young man, who was common, took on a new boldness in the streets. He had auburn hair, high colouring, and a rather challenging bearing. He took on a new boldness, his own estimate of himself rose considerably149, with Miss Frost and his trained voice to justify150 him. He was a little insolent151 and condescending152 to the natives, who disliked him. For their lives they could not imagine what Miss Frost could find in him. They began even to dislike her, and a pretty scandal was started about the pair, in the pleasant room where Miss Frost had her piano, her books, and her flowers. The scandal was as unjust as most scandals are. Yet truly, all that summer and autumn Miss Frost had a new and slightly aggressive cheerfulness and humour. And Manchester House saw little of her, comparatively.
And then, at the end of September, the young man was removed by his Insurance Company to another district. And at the end of October set in the most abominable153 and unbearable154 weather, deluges155 of rain and north winds, cutting the tender, summer-unfolded people to pieces. Miss Frost wilted at once. A silence came over her. She shuddered156 when she had to leave the fire. She went in the morning to her room, and stayed there all the day, in a hot, close atmosphere, shuddering157 when her pupils brought the outside weather with them to her.
She was always subject to bronchitis. In November she had a bad bronchitis cold. Then suddenly one morning she could not get up. Alvina went in and found her semi-conscious.
The girl was almost mad. She flew to the rescue. She despatched her father instantly for the doctor, she heaped the sticks in the bedroom grate and made a bright fire, she brough hot milk and brandy.
"Thank you, dear, thank you. It's a bronchial cold," whispered Miss Frost hurriedly, trying to sip158 the milk. She could not. She didn't want it.
"I've sent for the doctor," said Alvina, in her cool voice, wherein none the less there rang the old hesitancy of sheer love.
Miss Frost lifted her eyes:
It was pneumonia161. Useless to talk of the distracted anguish of Alvina during the next two days. She was so swift and sensitive in her nursing, she seemed to have second sight. She talked to nobody. In her silence her soul was alone with the soul of her darling. The long semi-consciousness and the tearing pain of pneumonia, the anguished162 sickness.
But sometimes the grey eyes would open and smile with delicate winsomeness163 at Alvina, and Alvina smiled back, with a cheery, answering winsomeness. But that costs something.
On the evening of the second day, Miss Frost got her hand from under the bedclothes, and laid it on Alvina's hand. Alvina leaned down to her.
"Everything is for you, my love," whispered Miss Frost, looking with strange eyes on Alvina's face.
"Don't talk, Miss Frost," moaned Alvina.
"Everything is for you," murmured the sick woman—"except—" and she enumerated164 some tiny legacies165 which showed her generous, thoughtful nature.
"Yes, I shall remember," said Alvina, beyond tears now.
Miss Frost smiled with her old bright, wonderful look, that had a touch of queenliness in it.
"Kiss me, dear," she whispered.
Alvina kissed her, and could not suppress the whimpering of her too-much grief.
The night passed slowly. Sometimes the grey eyes of the sick woman rested dark, dilated166, haggard on Alvina's face, with a heavy, almost accusing look, sinister167. Then they closed again. And sometimes they looked pathetic, with a mute, stricken appeal. Then again they closed—only to open again tense with pain. Alvina wiped her blood-phlegmed lips.
In the morning she died—lay there haggard, death-smeared168, with her lovely white hair smeared also, and disorderly: she who had been so beautiful and clean always.
Alvina knew death—which is untellable. She knew that her darling carried away a portion of her own soul into death.
But she was alone. And the agony of being alone, the agony of grief, passionate169, passionate grief for her darling who was torn into death—the agony of self-reproach, regret; the agony of remembrance; the agony of the looks of the dying woman, winsome159, and sinisterly170 accusing, and pathetically, despairingly appealing—probe after probe of mortal agony, which throughout eternity171 would never lose its power to pierce to the quick!
Alvina seemed to keep strangely calm and aloof172 all the days after the death. Only when she was alone she suffered till she felt her heart really broke.
"I shall never feel anything any more," she said in her abrupt173 way to Miss Frost's friend, another woman of over fifty.
"Nonsense, child!" expostulated Mrs. Lawson gently.
"I shan't! I shall never have a heart to feel anything any more," said Alvina, with a strange, distraught roll of the eyes.
"Not like this, child. But you'll feel other things—"
"I haven't the heart," persisted Alvina.
"Not yet," said Mrs. Lawson gently. "You can't expect—But time—time brings back—"
"Oh well—but I don't believe it," said Alvina.
People thought her rather hard. To one of her gossips Miss Pinnegar confessed:
"I thought she'd have felt it more. She cared more for her than she did for her own mother—and her mother knew it. Mrs. Houghton complained bitterly, sometimes, that she had no love. They were everything to one another, Miss Frost and Alvina. I should have thought she'd have felt it more. But you never know. A good thing if she doesn't, really."
Miss Pinnegar herself did not care one little bit that Miss Frost was dead. She did not feel herself implicated174.
The nearest relatives came down, and everything was settled. The will was found, just a brief line on a piece of notepaper expressing a wish that Alvina should have everything. Alvina herself told the verbal requests. All was quietly fulfilled.
As it might well be. For there was nothing to leave. Just sixty-three pounds in the bank—no more: then the clothes, piano, books and music. Miss Frost's brother had these latter, at his own request: the books and music, and the piano. Alvina inherited the few simple trinkets, and about forty-five pounds in money.
"Poor Miss Frost," cried Mrs. Lawson, weeping rather bitterly—"she saved nothing for herself. You can see why she never wanted to grow old, so that she couldn't work. You can see. It's a shame, it's a shame, one of the best women that ever trod earth."
Manchester House settled down to its deeper silence, its darker gloom. Miss Frost was irreparably gone. With her, the reality went out of the house. It seemed to be silently waiting to disappear. And Alvina and Miss Pinnegar might move about and talk in vain. They could never remove the sense of waiting to finish: it was all just waiting to finish. And the three, James and Alvina and Miss Pinnegar, waited lingering through the months, for the house to come to an end. With Miss Frost its spirit passed away: it was no more. Dark, empty-feeling, it seemed all the time like a house just before a sale.
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1
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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2
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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4
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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5
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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6
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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7
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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8
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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9
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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10
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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11
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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13
dowdiness
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14
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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15
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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16
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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17
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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18
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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19
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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21
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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22
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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24
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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25
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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26
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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27
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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28
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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29
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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30
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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31
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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32
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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33
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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34
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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35
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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36
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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37
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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38
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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39
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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40
poke
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|
| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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41
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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42
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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43
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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44
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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45
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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46
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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47
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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48
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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49
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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50
nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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51
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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52
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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53
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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54
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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55
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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56
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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57
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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58
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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59
riddle
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|
| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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60
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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61
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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62
strictly
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|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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63
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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64
linen
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|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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65
begrudged
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|
| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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66
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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67
underneath
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|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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68
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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69
deadlock
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| n.僵局，僵持 | |
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70
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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72
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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73
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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74
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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75
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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76
outspokenness
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77
nauseated
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|
| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
fraught
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|
| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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79
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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80
trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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81
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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82
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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83
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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84
cramp
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|
| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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85
criteria
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| n.标准 | |
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86
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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87
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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88
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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89
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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90
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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91
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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92
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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93
shale
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| n.页岩，泥板岩 | |
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94
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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95
conjuror
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| n.魔术师，变戏法者 | |
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96
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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97
sleight
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| n.技巧，花招 | |
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98
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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99
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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100
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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101
plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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102
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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103
excavation
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| n.挖掘，发掘；被挖掘之地 | |
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104
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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105
guttered
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| vt.形成沟或槽于…（gutter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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106
viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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107
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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108
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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109
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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110
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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111
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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112
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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113
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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114
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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115
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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116
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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117
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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118
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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119
elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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120
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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121
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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122
svelte
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| adj.（女人）体态苗条的 | |
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123
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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124
gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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125
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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126
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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127
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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128
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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129
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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130
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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131
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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132
slurring
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| 含糊地说出( slur的现在分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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133
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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134
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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135
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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136
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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137
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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140
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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141
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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142
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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145
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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146
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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147
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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150
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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151
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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152
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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153
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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154
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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155
deluges
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| v.使淹没( deluge的第三人称单数 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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156
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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157
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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158
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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159
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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160
winsomely
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161
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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162
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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163
winsomeness
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164
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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166
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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168
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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169
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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170
sinisterly
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| 不吉祥地，邪恶地 | |
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171
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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172
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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173
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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174
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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