Two months passed before Mahony could help Polly and Mrs. Beamish into the coach bound for Geelong.
It had been touch and go with Polly; and for weeks her condition had kept him anxious. With the inset of the second month, however, she seemed fairly to turn the corner, and from then on made a steady recovery, thanks to her youth and an unimpaired vitality1.
He had hurried the little cradle out of sight. But Polly was quick to miss it, and quite approved of its having been given to a needy2 expectant mother near by. Altogether she bore the thwarting3 of her hopes bravely.
“Poor little baby, I should have been very fond of it,” was all she said, when she was well enough to fold and pack away the tiny garments at which she had stitched with such pleasure.
It was not to Mahony’s mind that she returned with Mrs. Beamish — but what else could be done? After lying a prisoner through the hot summer, she was sadly in need of a change. And Mrs. Beamish promised her a diet of unlimited4 milk and eggs, as well as the do nothing life that befitted an invalid5. Just before they left, a letter arrived from John demanding the keys of his house, and proposing that Polly should come to town to set it in order for him, and help him to engage a housekeeper6. A niggardly7 — a truly “John-ish”— fashion of giving an invitation, thought Mahony, and was not for his wife accepting it. But Polly was so pleased at the prospect8 of seeing her brother that he ended by agreeing to her going on to Melbourne as soon as she had thoroughly10 recuperated11.
Peace between him and Mrs. Beamish was dearly bought up to the last; they barely avoided a final explosion. At the beginning of her third month’s absence from home the good woman grew very restive12, and sighed aloud for the day on which she would be able to take her departure.
“I expec’ my bein’ away like this’ll run clean into a fifty-poun’ note,” she said one evening. “When it comes to managin’ an ’ouse, those two girls of mine ‘aven’t a h’ounce o’ gumption13 between them.”
It WAS tactless of her, even Polly felt that; though she could sympathise with the worry that prompted the words. As for Mahony, had he had the money to do it, he would have flung the sum named straight at her head.
“She must never come again,” said Polly to herself, as she bent14 over the hair-chain she was making as a gift for John. “It is a pity, but it seems as if Richard can’t get on with those sort of people.”
In his relief at having his house to himself, Mahony accepted even Polly’s absence with composure. To be perpetually in the company of other people irked him beyond belief. A certain amount of privacy was as vital to him as sleep.
Delighting in his new-found solitude15, he put off from day to day the disagreeable job of winding16 up his affairs and discovering how much — or how little — ready money there would be to set sail with. Another thing, some books he had sent home for, a year or more ago, came to hand at this time, and gave him a fresh pretext17 for delay. There were eight or nine volumes to unpack18 and cut the pages of. He ran from one to another, sipping19, devouring20. Finally he cast anchor in a collected edition of his old chief’s writings on obstetrics — slipped in, this, as a gift from the sender, a college chum — and over it, his feet on the table, his dead pipe in the corner of his mouth, Mahony sat for the better part of the night.
The effect of this master-mind on his was that of a spark on tinder. Under the flash, he cursed for the hundredth time the folly21 he had been guilty of in throwing up medicine. It was a vocation22 that had fitted him as coursing fits a hound, or house-wifery a woman. The only excuse he could find for his apostasy23 was that he had been caught in an epidemic24 of unrest, which had swept through the country, upsetting the balance of men’s reason. He had since wondered if the Great Exhibition of ‘51 had not had something to do with it, by unduly25 whetting26 people’s imaginations; so that but a single cry of “Gold!” was needed, to loose the spirit of vagrancy27 that lurks28 in every Briton’s blood. His case had perhaps been peculiar29 in this: no one had come forward to warn or dissuade30. His next relatives — mother and sisters — were, he thought, glad to know him well away. In their eyes he had lowered himself by taking up medicine; to them it was still of a piece with barber’s pole and cupping-basin. Before his time no member of the family had entered any profession but the army. Oh, that infernal Irish pride! . . . and Irish poverty. It had choke-damped his youth, blighted31 the prospects32 of his sisters. He could remember, as if it were yesterday, the jibes33 and fleers called forth34 by the suit of a wealthy Dublin brewer35, who had been attracted — by sheer force of contrast, no doubt — to the elder of the two swan-necked, stiff-backed Miss Townshend-Mahonys, with their long, thin noses, and the ingrained lines that ran from the curled nostrils36 to the corners of their supercilious37 mouths, describing a sneer38 so deep that at a distance it was possible to mistake it for a smile. “Beer, my dear, indeed and there are worse things in the world than beer!” he heard his mother declare in her biting way. “By all means take him! You can wash yourself in it if water gets scarce, and I’ll place my kitchen orders with you.” Lucinda, who had perhaps sniffed39 timidly at release, burnt crimson40: thank you! she would rather eat rat-bane.— He supposed they pinched and scraped along as of old — the question of money was never broached41 between him and them. Prior to his marriage he had sent them what he could; but that little was in itself an admission of failure. They made no inquiries42 about his mode of life, preferring it to remain in shadow; enough for them that he had not amassed43 a fortune. Had that come to pass, they might have pardoned the rude method of its making — in fancy he listened to the witty44, cutting, self-derisive words, in which they would have alluded45 to his success.
Lying back in his chair he thought of them thus, without unkindliness, even with a dash of humour. That was possible, now that knocking about the world had rubbed off some of his own corners. In his young days, he, too, had been hot and bitter. What, however, to another might have formed the chief crux46 in their conduct — it was by squandering47 such money as there was, his own portion among it, on his scamp of an elder brother, that they had forced him into the calling they despised — this had not troubled him greatly. For medicine was the profession on which his choice would anyhow have fallen. And to-night the book that lay before him had infected him with the old enthusiasm. He re-lived those days when a skilfully48 handled case of PLACENTA PREVIA, or a successful delivery in the fourth position, had meant more to him than the Charge of the Light Brigade.
Fresh from this dip into the past, this foretaste of the future, he turned in good heart to business. An inventory49 had to be taken; damaged goods cleared out; a list of bad and less bad debts drawn50 up: he and Hempel were hard at work all next day. The result was worse even than he had expected. His outlay51 that summer — ever since the day on which he had set off to the aid of his bereaved52 relative — had been enormous. Trade had run dry, and throughout Polly’s long illness he had dipped blindly into his savings53. He could never have said no to Mrs. Beamish when she came to him for money — rather would he have pawned54 the coat off his back. And she, good woman, was unused to cheeseparing. His men’s wages paid, berths55 booked, the numerous expenses bound up with a departure defrayed, he would have but a scanty56 sum in hand with which to start on the other side.
For himself he was not afraid; but he shrank from the thought of Polly undergoing privations. So far, they had enjoyed a kind of frugal57 comfort. But should he meet with obstacles at the outset: if patients were laggardly58 and the practice slow to move, or if he himself fell ill, they might have a spell of real poverty to face. And it was under the goad59 of this fear that he hit on a new scheme. Why not leave Polly behind for a time, until he had succeeded in making a home for her?— why not leave her under the wing of brother John? John stood urgently in need of a head for his establishment, and who so well suited for the post as Polly? Surely, if it were put before him, John must jump at the offer! Parting from Polly, and were it only for a little while, would be painful; but, did he go alone, he would be free to do his utmost — and with an easy mind, knowing that she lacked none of the creature-comforts. Yes, the more he considered the plan, the better he liked it. The one flaw in his satisfaction was the thought that if their child had lived, no such smooth and simple arrangement would have been possible. He could not have foisted61 a family on Turnham.
Now he waited with impatience62 for Polly to return — his reasonable little Polly! But he did not hurry her. Polly was enjoying her holiday. Having passed to Melbourne from Geelong she wrote:
JOHN IS SO VERY KIND. HE DOESN’T OF COURSE GO OUT YET HIMSELF, BUT I WAS PRESENT WITH SOME FRIENDS OF HIS AT A VERY ELEGANT SOIREE. JOHN GAVE ME A HEADDRESS COMPOSED OF BLACK PEARLS AND FROSTED LEAVES. HE MEANS TO GO IN FOR POLITIES AS SOON AS HIS YEAR OF MOURNING IS UP.
Mahony replied:
ENJOY YOURSELF, MY HEART, AND SET ALL THE SIGHTS YOU CAN.
While into more than one of his letters he slipped a banknote.
FOR YOU KNOW I LIKE YOU TO PAY YOUR OWN WAY AS FAR AS POSSIBLE.
And at length the day came when he could lift his wife out of the coach. She emerged powdered brown with dust and very tired, but radiantly happy: it was a great event in little Polly’s life, this homecoming, and coming, too, strong and well. The house was a lively place that afternoon: Polly had so much to tell that she sat holding her bonnet63 for over an hour, quite unable to get as far as the bedroom; and even Long Jim’s mouth went up at the corners instead of down; for Polly had contrived64 to bring back a little gift for every one. And in presenting these, she found out more of what people were thinking and feeling than her husband had done in all the eight weeks of her absence.
Mahony was loath65 to damp her pleasure straightway; he bided66 his time. He could not know that Polly also had been laying plans, and that she watched anxiously for the right moment to unfold them.
The morning after her return, she got a lift in the baker’s cart and drove out to inspect John’s children. What she saw and heard on this visit was disquieting67. The children had run wild, were grown dirty, sly, untruthful. Especially the boy.—“A young Satan, and that’s a fact, Mrs. Mahony! What he needs is a man’s hand over him, and a good hidin’ six days outer seven.”
It was not alone little Johnny’s misconduct, however, that made Polly break silence. An incident occurred that touched her still more nearly.
Husband and wife sat snug68 and quiet as in the early days of their marriage. Autumn had come round and a fire burnt in the stove, before which Pompey snorted in his dreams. But, for all the cosy69 tranquillity70, Polly was not happy; and time and again she moistened and bit at the tip of her thread, before pointing it through her needle. For the book open before Richard, in which he was making notes as he read, was — the Bible. Bending over him to drop a kiss on the top of his head, Polly had been staggered by what she saw. Opposite the third verse of the first chapter of Genesis: “And God said, Let there be light: and there was light,” he had written: “Three days before the sun!” Her heart seemed to shrivel, to grow small in her breast, at the thought of her husband being guilty of such impiety71. Ceasing her pretence72 at sewing, she walked out of the house into the yard. Standing73 there under the stars she said aloud, as if some one, THE One, could hear her: “He doesn’t mean to do wrong. . . . I KNOW he doesn’t!” But when she re-entered the room he was still at it. His beautiful writing, reduced to its tiniest, wound round the narrow margins74.
Deeply red, Polly took her courage in both hands, and struck a blow for the soul whose salvation75 was more to her than her own. “Richard, do you think that . . . is . . . is right?” she asked in a low voice.
Mahony raised his head. “Eh?— what, Pollykin?”
“I mean, do you think you ought . . . that it is right to do what you are doing?”
The smile, half-tender, half-quizzical that she loved, broke over her husband’s face. He held out his hand. “Is my little wife troubled?”
“Richard, I only mean. . .”
“Polly, my dear, don’t worry your little head over what you don’t understand. And have confidence in me. You know I wouldn’t do anything I believed to be wrong?”
“Yes, indeed. And you are really far more religious than I am.”
“One can be religious and yet not shut one’s eyes to the truth. It’s Saint Paul, you know, who says: we can do nothing against the Truth but for the Truth. And you may depend on it, Polly, the All-Wise would never have given us the brains He has, if He had not intended us to use them. Now I have long felt sure that the Bible is not wholly what it claims to be — direct inspiration.”
“Oh, Richard!” said Polly, and threw an anxious glance over her shoulder. “If anyone should hear you!”
“We can’t afford to let our lives be governed by what other people think, Polly. Nor will I give any man the right to decide for me what my share of the Truth shall be.”
On seeing the Bible closed Polly breathed again, at the same time promising76 herself to take the traitorous77 volume into safe-keeping, that no third person’s eye should rest on it. Perhaps, too, if it were put away Richard would forget to go on writing in it. He had probably begun in the first place only because he had nothing else to do. In the store he sat and smoked and twirled his thumbs — not half a dozen customers came in, in the course of the day. If he were once properly occupied again, with work that he liked, he would not be tempted78 to put his gifts to such a profane79 use. Thus she primed herself for speaking. For now was the time. Richard was declaring that trade had gone to the dogs, his takings dropped to a quarter of what they had formerly80 been. This headed just where she wished. But Polly would not have been Polly, had she not glanced aside for a moment, to cheer and console.
“It’s the same everywhere, Richard. Everybody’s complaining. And that reminds me, I forgot to tell you about the Beamishes. They’re in great trouble. You see, a bog81 has formed in front of the Hotel, and the traffic goes round another way, so they’ve lost most of their custom. Mr. Beamish never opens his mouth at all now, and mother is fearfully worried. That’s what was the matter when she was here — only she was too kind to say so.”
“Hard lines!”
“Indeed it is. But about us; I’m not surprised to hear trade is dull. Since I was over in the western township last, no less than six new General Stores have gone up — I scarcely knew the place. They’ve all got big plate-glass windows; and were crowded with people.”
“Yes, there’s a regular exodus82 up west. But that doesn’t alter the fact, wife, that I’ve made a very poor job of storekeeping. I shall leave here with hardly a penny to my name.”
“Yes, but then, Richard,” said Polly, and bent over her strip of needlework, “you were never cut out to be a storekeeper, were you?”
“I was not. And I verily believe, if it hadn’t been for that old sober-sides of a Hempel, I should have come a cropper long ago.”
“Yes, and Hempel,” said Polly softly; “Hempel’s been wanting to leave for ever so long.”
“The dickens he has!” cried Mahony in astonishment83. “And me humming and hawing about giving him notice! What’s the matter with him? What’s he had to complain of?”
“Oh, nothing like that. He wants to enter the ministry84. A helper’s needed at the Baptist Chapel85, and he means to apply for the post. You see, he’s saved a good deal, and thinks he can study to be a minister at the same time.”
“Study for his grave, the fool! So that’s it, is it? Well, well! it saves trouble in the end. I don’t need to bother my head now over what’s to become of him . . . him or anyone else. My chief desire is to say good-bye to this hole for ever. There’s no sense, Polly, in my dawdling86 on. Indeed, I haven’t the money to do it. So I’ve arranged, my dear, with our friend Ocock to come in and sell us off, as soon as you can get our personal belongings87 put together.”
Here Polly raised her head as if to interrupt; but Mahony, full of what he had to say, ignored the movement, and went on speaking. He did not wish to cause his wife uneasiness, by dwelling88 on his difficulties; but some explanation was necessary to pave the way for his proposal that she should remain behind, when he left the colony. He spent all his eloquence89 in making this sound natural and attractive. But it was hard, when Polly’s big, astonished eyes hung on his face. “Do you think, for my sake, you could be brave enough?” he wound up, rather unsurely. “It wouldn’t be for long, love, I’m certain of that. Just let me set foot in England once more!”
“Why . . . why, yes, dear Richard, I . . . I think I could, if you really wished it,” said Polly in a small voice. She tried to seem reasonable; though black night descended90 on her at the thought of parting, and though her woman’s eyes saw a hundred objections to the plan, which his had overlooked. (For one thing, John had just installed Sara as housekeeper, and Sara would take it very unkindly to be shown the door.) “I THINK I could,” she repeated. “But before you go on, dear, I should like to ask YOU something.”
She laid down her needlework; her heart was going pit-a-pat. “Richard, did you ever.. . I mean have you never thought of. .. of taking up your profession again — I mean here — starting practice here?— No, wait a minute! Let me finish. I . . . I . . . oh, Richard!” Unable to find words, Polly locked her fingers under the tablecloth91 and hoped she was not going to be so silly as to cry. Getting up, she knelt down before her husband, laying her hands on his knees. “Oh, Richard, I wish you would — HOW I wish you would!”
“Why, Polly!” said Mahony, surprised at her agitation92. “Why, my dear, what’s all this?— You want to know if I never thought of setting up in practice out here? Of course I did . . . in the beginning. You don’t think I’d have chosen to keep a store, if there’d been any other opening for me? But there wasn’t, child. The place was overrun. Never a medico came out and found digging too much for him, but he fell back in despair on his profession. I didn’t see my way to join their starvation band.”
“Yes, THEN, Richard!— but now?” broke in Polly. “Now, it’s quite, quite different. Look at the size Ballarat has grown — there are more than forty thousand people settled on it; Mr. Ocock told me so. And you know, dear, doctors have cleared out lately, not come fresh. There was that one, I forget his name, who drank himself to death; and the two, you remember, who were sold up just before Christmas.” But this was an unfortunate line of argument to have hit on, and Polly blushed and stumbled.
Mahony laughed at her slip, and smoothed her hair. “Typical fates, love! They mustn’t be mine. Besides, Polly, you’re forgetting the main thing — how I hate the place, and how I’ve always longed to get away.”
“No, I’m not. But please let me go on.— You know, Richard, every one believes some day Ballarat will be the chief city — bigger even than Geelong or Melbourne. And then to have a good practice here would mean ever such a lot of money. I’m not the only person who thinks so. There’s Sara, and Mrs. Beamish — I know, of course, you don’t care much what they say; but still —” Polly meant: still, you see, I have public opinion on my side. As, however, once more words failed her, she hastened to add: “John, too, is amazed to hear you think of going home to bury yourself in some little English village. He’s sure there’d be a splendid opening for you here. John thinks very, very highly of you. He told me he believes you would have saved Emma’s life, if you had been there.”
“I’m much obliged to your brother for his confidence,” said Mahony dryly; “but —”
“Wait a minute, Richard! You see, dear, I can’t help feeling myself that you ought not to be too hasty in deciding. Of course, I know I’m young, and haven’t had much experience, but . . . You see, you’re KNOWN here, Richard, and that’s always something; in England you’d be a perfect stranger. And though you may say there are too many doctors on the Flat, still, if the place goes on growing as it is doing, there’ll soon be room for more; and then, if it isn’t you, it’ll just be some one else. And that DOES seem a pity, when you are so clever — so much, much cleverer than other people! Yes, I know all about it; Mrs. Beamish told me it was you I owed my life to, not Dr. Rogers”— at which Mahony winced93, indignant that anyone should have betrayed to Polly how near death she had been. “Oh, I DO want people to know you for what you really are!” said little Polly.
“Pussy, I believe she has ambitions for her husband,” said Mahony to Palmerston.
“Of course I have. You say you hate Ballarat, and all that, but have you ever thought, Richard, what a difference it would make if you were in a better position? You think people look down on you, because you’re in trade. But if you were a doctor, there’d be none of that. You’d call yourself by your full name again, and write it down on the visiting list at Government House, and be as good as anybody, and be asked into society, and keep a horse. You’d live in a bigger house, and have a room to yourself and time to read and write. I’m quite sure you’d make lots of money and soon be at the top of the tree. And after all, dear Richard, I don’t want to go home. I would much rather stay here and look after Jerry, and dear Ned, and poor John’s children,” said Polly, falling back as a forlorn hope on her own preference.
“Why, what a piece of special pleading!” cried Mahony, and leaning forward, he kissed the young flushed face.
“Don’t laugh at me. I’m in earnest.”
“Why, no, child. But Polly, my dear, even if I were tempted for a moment to think seriously of what you say, where would the money come from? Fees are high, it’s true, if the ball’s once set a-rolling. But till then? With a jewel of a wife like mine, I’d be a scoundrel to take risks.”
Polly had been waiting for this question. On hearing it, she sat back on her heels and drew a deep breath. The communication she had now to make him was the hub round which all turned. Should he refuse to consider it.... Plucking at the fringe of the tablecloth, she brought out, piecemeal94, the news that John was willing to go surety for the money they would need to borrow for the start. Not only that: he offered them a handsome sum weekly to take entire charge of his children.—“Not here, in this little house — I know that wouldn’t do,” Polly hastened to throw in, forestalling95 the objection she read in Richard’s eyes. Now did he not think he should weigh an offer of this kind very carefully? A name like John’s was not to be despised; most people in their position would jump at it. “I understand something about it,” said the little woman, and sagely96 nodded her head. “For when I was in Geelong, Mr. Beamish tried his hardest to raise some money and couldn’t, his sureties weren’t good enough.” Mahony had not the heart to chide97 her for discussing his private affairs with her brother. Indeed, he rather admired the businesslike way she had gone about it. And he admitted this, by ceasing to banter98 and by calling her attention to the various hazards and inconveniences the step would entail99.
Polly heard him out in silence. Enough for her, in the beginning, that he did not decline off-hand. They had a long talk, the end of which was that he promised to sleep over John’s proposal, and delay fixing the date of the auction100 till the morning.
Having yielded this point Mahony kissed his wife and sent her to bed, himself going out with the dog for his usual stroll.
It was a fine night — moonless, but thick with stars. So much, at least, could be said in favour of the place: there was abundant sky-room; you got a clear half of the great vault101 at once. How he pitied, on such a night, the dwellers102 in old, congested cities, whose view of the starry103 field was limited to a narrow strip, cut through house-tops.
Yet he walked with a springless tread. The fact was, certain of his wife’s words had struck home; and in the course of the past year he had learnt to put considerable faith in Polly’s practical judgment104. As he wound his way up the little hill to which he had often carried his perplexities, he let his pipe go out, and forgot to whistle Pompey off butcher’s garbage.
Sitting down on a log he rested his chin in his hands. Below him twinkled the sparse105 lights of the Flat; shouts and singing rose from the circus.— And so John would have been willing to go surety for him! Let no one say the unexpected did not happen. All said and done, they were little more than strangers to each other, and John had no notion what his money-making capacities as a doctor might be. It was true, Polly had been too delicate to mention whether the affair had come about through her persuasions106 or on John’s own initiative. John might have some ulterior motive107 up his sleeve. Perhaps he did not want to lose his sister . . . or was scheming to bind108 a pair of desirables fast to this colony, the welfare of which he had so much at heart. Again, it might be that he wished to buy off the memory of that day on which he had stripped his soul naked. Simplest of all, why should he not be merely trying to pay back a debt? He, Mahony, might shrink from lying under an obligation to John, but, so far, the latter had not scrupled110 to accept favours from him. But that was always the way with your rich men; they were not troubled by paltry111 pride; for they knew it was possible to acquit112 themselves of their debts at a moment’s notice, and with interest. This led him to reflect on the great help to him the loan of his wealthy relative’s name would be: difficulties would melt before it. And surely no undue113 risk was involved in the use of it? Without boasting, he thought he was better equipped, both by aptitude114 and training, than the ruck of colonial practitioners115. Did he enter the lists, he could hardly fail to succeed. And out here even a moderate success spelled a fortune. Gained double-quick, too. After which the lucky individual sold out and went home, to live in comfort. Yes, that was a point, and not to be overlooked. No definite surrender of one’s hopes was called for; only a postponement116. Ten years might do it — meaty years, of course, the best years of one’s life — still . . . . It would mean very hard work; but had he not just been contemplating117, with perfect equanimity118, an even more arduous119 venture on the other side? What a capricious piece of mechanism120 was the human brain!
Another thought that occurred to him was that his services might prove more useful to this new country than to the old, where able men abounded121. He recalled many good lives and promising cases he had here seen lost and bungled122. To take the instance nearest home — Polly’s confinement123. Yes, to show his mettle124 to such as Rogers; to earn respect where he had lived as a mere109 null — the idea had an insidious125 fascination126. And as Polly sagely remarked: if it were not he, it would be some one else; another would harvest the KUDOS127 that might have been his. For the rough-and-ready treatment — the blue pills and black draughts128 — that had satisfied the early diggers had fallen into disrepute; medical skill was beginning to be appreciated. If this went on, Ballarat would soon stand on a level with any city of its size at home. But even as it was, he had never been quite fair to it; he had seen it with a jaundiced eye. And again he believed Polly hit the nail on the head, when she asserted that the poor position he had occupied was responsible for much of his dislike.
But there was something else at work in him besides. Below the surface an admission awaited him, which he shrank from making. All these pros9 and cons60, these quibbles and hair-splittings were but a misfit attempt to cloak the truth. He might gull129 himself with them for a time: in his heart he knew that he would yield — if yield he did — because he was by nature only too prone130 to follow the line of least resistance. What he had gone through to-night was no new experience. Often enough after fretting131 and fuming132 about a thing till it seemed as if nothing under the sun had ever mattered so much to him, it could happen that he suddenly threw up the sponge and bowed to circumstance. His vitality exhausted133 itself beforehand — in a passionate134 aversion, a torrent135 of words — and failed him at the critical moment. It was a weakness in his blood — in the blood of his race.— But in the present instance, he had an excuse for himself. He had not known — till Polly came out with her brother’s offer — how he dreaded136 having to begin all over again in England, an utter stranger, without influence or recommendations, and with no money to speak of at his back.
But now he owned up, and there was no more need of shift or subterfuge137: now it was one rush and hurry to the end. He had capitulated; a thin-skinned aversion to confronting difficulties, when he saw the chance of avoiding them, had won the day. He intended — had perhaps the whole time intended — to take the hand held out to him. After all, why not? Anyone else, as Polly said, would have jumped at John’s offer. He alone must argue himself blue in the face over it.
But as he sat and pondered the lengthy138 chain of circumstance — Polly’s share in it, John’s, his own, even the part played by incorporeal139 things — he brought up short against the word “decision”. He might flatter himself by imagining he had been free to decide; in reality nothing was further from the truth. He had been subtly and slily guided to his goal — led blindfold140 along a road that not of his choosing. Everything and every one had combined to constrain141 him: his favours to John, the failure of his business, Polly’s inclinations142 and persuasions, his own fastidious shrinkings. So that, in the end, all he had had to do was to brush aside a flimsy gossamer143 veil, which hung between him and his fate. Was it straining a point to see in the whole affair the workings of a Power outside himself — against himself, in so far as it took no count of his poor earth-blind vision?
Well, if this were so, better still: his ways were in God’s hand. And after all, what did it matter where one strove to serve one’s Maker144 — east or west or south or north — and whether the stars overhead were grouped in this constellation145 or in that? Their light was a pledge that one would never be overlooked or forgotten, traced by the hand of Him who had promised to note even a sparrow’s fall. And here he spoke146 aloud into the darkness the ancient and homely147 formula that is man’s stand-by in face of the untried, the unknown.
“If God wills.... God knows best.”
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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5
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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6
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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7
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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8
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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9
pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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10
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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recuperated
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| v.恢复（健康、体力等），复原( recuperate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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13
gumption
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| n.才干 | |
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14
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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15
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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16
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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17
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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18
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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19
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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20
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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21
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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22
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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23
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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24
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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25
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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26
whetting
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的现在分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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27
vagrancy
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| （说话的，思想的）游移不定； 漂泊； 流浪； 离题 | |
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28
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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29
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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30
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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31
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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32
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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33
jibes
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| n.与…一致( jibe的名词复数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配v.与…一致( jibe的第三人称单数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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34
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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35
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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36
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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37
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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38
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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39
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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40
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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41
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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42
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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43
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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45
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
crux
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| adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点 | |
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47
squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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48
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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49
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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50
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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51
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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52
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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53
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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54
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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55
berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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56
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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57
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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58
laggardly
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| adj.缓慢的，落后的adv.行动缓慢地 | |
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59
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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60
cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
foisted
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| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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63
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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64
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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65
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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66
bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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67
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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68
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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69
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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70
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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71
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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72
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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73
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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74
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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75
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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76
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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77
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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78
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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79
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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80
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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81
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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82
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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83
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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84
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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85
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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86
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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87
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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88
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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89
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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90
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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91
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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92
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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93
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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95
forestalling
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的现在分词 ) | |
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96
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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97
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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98
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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99
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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100
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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101
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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102
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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103
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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104
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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105
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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106
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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107
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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108
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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109
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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110
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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112
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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113
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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114
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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115
practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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116
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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117
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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118
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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119
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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120
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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121
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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123
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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124
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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125
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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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
kudos
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| n.荣誉，名声 | |
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128
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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129
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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130
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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131
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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132
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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133
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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134
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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135
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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136
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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137
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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138
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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139
incorporeal
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| adj.非物质的，精神的 | |
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140
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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141
constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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142
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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143
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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144
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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145
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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146
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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147
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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