At the Works
i
That night, late, Hilda and Janet shut themselves up in the bedroom together. The door clicked softly under Janet’s gentle push, and they were as safe from invasion as if the door had been of iron, and locked and double-locked and barred with bars of iron. Alicia alone might have disturbed them, but Alicia was asleep. Hilda had a sense of entire security in this room such as she had never had since she drove away from Lessways Street, Turnhill, early one morning, with Florrie Bagster in a cab. It was not that there had been the least real fear of any room of hers being attacked: it was that this room seemed to have been rendered mystically inviolate1 by long years of Janet’s occupation. “Janet’s bedroom!”—the phrase had a sanction which could not possibly have attached itself to, for instance, “Hilda’s bedroom!” Nor even to “mother’s bedroom”—mother’s bedroom being indeed at the mercy of any profane2 and marauding member of the family, a sort of market-place for the transaction of affairs.
And, further, Janet’s bedroom was distinguished3 and made delicious for Hilda by its fire. It happened to be one of the very few bedrooms in the Five Towns at that date with a fire, as a regular feature of it. Mrs. Orgreave had a fire in the parental4 bedroom, when she could not reasonably do without it, but Osmond Orgreave suffered the fire rather than enjoyed it. As for Tom, though of a shivery disposition5, he would have dithered to death before admitting that a bedroom fire might increase his comfort. Johnnie and Jimmie genuinely liked to be cold in their bedroom. Alicia pined for a fire, but Mrs. Orgreave, imitating the contrariety of fate, forbade a fire to Alicia, and one consequence of this was that Alicia sometimes undressed in Janet’s bedroom, making afterwards a dash for the Pole. The idea of a bedroom was always, during nearly half the year, associated with the idea of discomfort6 in Hilda’s mind. And now, in Janet’s bedroom, impressed as she was by the strangeness of the fact that the prime reason for hurrying at top-speed into bed had been abolished, she yet positively7 could not linger, the force of habit being too strong for her. And she was in bed, despite efforts to dawdle8, while Janet was still brushing her hair.
As she lay and watched Janet’s complex unrobing, she acquired knowledge. And once more, she found herself desiring to be like Janet—not only in appearance, but in soft manner and tone. She thought: “How shall I dress tomorrow afternoon?” All the operations of her brain related themselves somehow to tomorrow afternoon. The anticipation9 of the visit to the printing-works burned in her heart like a steady lamp that shone through the brief, cloudy interests of the moment. And Edwin Clayhanger was precisely10 the topic which Janet seemed, as it were, expressly to avoid. Janet inquired concerning life at Brighton and the health of Sarah Gailey; Janet even mentioned George Cannon11; Hilda steadied her voice in replying, though she was not really apprehensive12, for Janet’s questions, like the questions of the whole family, were invariably discreet13 and respectful of the individual’s privacy. But of Edwin Clayhanger, whose visit nevertheless had been recounted to her in the drawing-room on her return, Janet said not a word.
And then, when she had extinguished the gas, and the oriental sleeve of her silk nightgown delicately brushed Hilda’s face, as she got into bed, she remarked:
“Strange that Edwin Clayhanger should call just to-night!”
Hilda’s cheek warmed.
“He asked me to go and look over their printing-works tomorrow,” said she quickly.
Janet was taken aback.
“Really!” she exclaimed, unmistakably startled. She spoke14 a second too soon. If she had delayed only one second, she might have concealed15 from Hilda that which Hilda had most plainly perceived, to wit, anxiety and jealousy16. Yes, jealousy, in this adorably benevolent17 creature’s tone. Hilda’s interest in tomorrow afternoon was intensified18.
“Shall you be able to come?” she asked.
“What time?”
“He said about half-past six, or a quarter to seven.”
“I can’t,” said Janet dreamily, “because of that Musical Society meeting—you know—I told you, didn’t I?”
In the faint light of the dying fire, Hilda made out little by little the mysterious, pale heaps of clothes, and all the details of the room strewn and disordered by reason of an additional occupant. The adventure was now of infinite complexity19, and its complexity seemed to be symbolized20 by the suggestive feminine mysteriousness of what she saw and what she divined in the darkness of the chamber21. She thought: “I am here on false pretences22. I ought to tell my secret. That would be fair—I have no right to intrude23 between her and him.” But she instinctively25 and powerfully resisted such ideas; with firmness she put them away, and yielded herself with a more exquisite27 apprehension28 to the anticipation of tomorrow.
ii
The order of meals at Lane End was somewhat peculiar29 even then, and would now be almost unique. It was partly the natural expression of an instinctive24 and justified30 feeling of superiority, and partly due to a discretion31 which forbade the family to scandalize the professional classes of the district by dining at night. Dinner occurred in the middle of the day, and about nine in the evening was an informal but copious32 supper. Between those two meals, there came a tea which was neither high or low, and whose hour, six o’clock in theory, depended to a certain extent, in practice, on Mr. Orgreave’s arrival from the office. Not seldom Mr. Orgreave was late; occasionally he was very late. The kitchen waited to infuse the tea until a command came from some woman, old or young, who attentively33 watched a window for a particular swinging of the long gate at the end of the garden, or listened, when it was dark, for the bang of the gate and a particular crunching34 of gravel35.
On this Tuesday evening, Osmond Orgreave was very late, and the movement of the household was less smooth than usual, owing to Mrs. Orgreave’s illness and to the absence of Janet at Hillport in connection with the projected Hillport Choral Society. (Had Janet been warned of Hilda’s visit, she would not have accepted an invitation to a tea at Hillport as a preliminary to the meeting of the provisional committee.) Hilda was in a state of acute distress36. The appointment with Edwin Clayhanger seemed to be absolutely sacred to her; to be late for it would amount to a crime: to miss it altogether would be a calamity37 inconceivable. The fingers of all the clocks in the house were revolving38 with the most extraordinary rapidity—she was helpless.
She was helpless, because she had said nothing all day of her appointment, and because Janet had not mentioned it either. Janet might have said before leaving: “Tea had better not wait too long—Hilda has to be down at Clayhanger’s at half-past six.” Janet’s silence impressed Hilda: it was not merely strange—it was formidable: it affected40 the whole day. Hilda thought: “Is she determined41 not to speak of it unless I do?” Immediately Janet was gone, Hilda had run up to the bedroom. She was minded to change the black frock which she had been wearing, and which she hated, and to put on another skirt and bodice that Janet had praised. She longed to beautify herself, and yet she was still hesitating about it at half-past five in the evening as she had hesitated at eight in the morning. In the end she had decided42 not to change, an account of the rain. But the rain had naught43 to do with her decision. She would not change, because she was too proud to change. She would go just as she was! She could not accept the assistance of an attractive bodice!... Unfeminine, perhaps, but womanly.
At twenty-five minutes to seven, she went into Mrs. Orgreave’s bedroom, rather like a child, and also rather like an adult creature in a distracting crisis. Tom Orgreave and Alicia were filling the entire house with the stormy noise of a piano duet based upon Rossini’s William Tell.
“I think I’ll miss tea, Mrs. Orgreave,” she said. “Edwin Clayhanger invited me to go over the printing-works at half-past six, and it’s twenty-five minutes to seven now.”
“Oh, but, my dear,” cried Mrs. Orgreave, “why ever didn’t you tell them downstairs, or let me know earlier?”
And she pulled at the bell-rope that overhung the head of the bed. Not a trace of teasing archness in her manner! Hilda’s appointment might have been of the most serious business interest, for anything Mrs. Orgreave’s demeanor44 indicated to the contrary. Hilda stood mute and constrained45.
“You run down and tell them to make tea at once, dear. I can’t let you go without anything at all. I wonder what can have kept Osmond.”
Almost at the same moment, Osmond Orgreave entered the bedroom. His arrival had been unnoticed amid the tremendous resounding46 of the duet.
“Oh, Osmond,” said his wife. “Wherever have you been so late? Hilda wants to go—Edwin Clayhanger has invited her to go over the works.”
Hilda, trembling at the door, more than half expected Mr. Orgreave to say: “You mean, she’s invited herself.” But Osmond received the information with exactly the same polite, apologetic seriousness as his wife, and, reassured47, Hilda departed from the room.
Ten minutes later, veiled and cloaked, she stepped out alone into the garden. And instantly her torment48 was assuaged49, and she was happy. She waited at the corner of the street for the steam-car. But, when the car came thundering down, it was crammed50 to the step; with a melancholy51 gesture, the driver declined her signal. She set off down Trafalgar Road in the mist and the rain, glad that she had been compelled to walk. It seemed to her that she was on a secret and mystic errand. This was not surprising. The remarkable52 thing was that all the hurrying people she met seemed also each of them to be on a secret and mystic errand. The shining wet pavement was dotted with dark figures, suggestive and enigmatic, who glided53 over a floor that was pierced by perpendicular54 reflections.
iii
In the Clayhanger shop, agitated55 and scarcely aware of what she did, she could, nevertheless, hear her voice greeting Edwin Clayhanger in firm, calm tones; and she soon perceived very clearly that he was even more acutely nervous than herself: which perception helped to restore her confidence, while, at the same time, it filled her with bliss56. The young, fair man, with his awkward and constrained movements, took possession of her umbrella, and then suggested that she should remove her mackintosh. She obeyed, timid and glad. She stripped off her mackintosh, as though she were stripping off her modesty57, and stood before him revealed. To complete the sacrifice, she raised her veil, and smiled up at him, as it were, asking: “What next?” Then a fat, untidy old man appeared in the doorway58 of a cubicle59 within the shop, and Edwin Clayhanger blushed.
“Father, this is Miss Lessways. Miss Lessways, my father.... She’s—she’s come to look over the place.”
“How-d’ye-do, miss?”
She shook hands with the tyrannic father, who was, however, despite his reputation, apparently60 just as nervous as the son. There followed a most sinister61 moment of silence. And, at last, the shop door opened, and the father turned to greet a customer. Hilda thought: “Suppose this fat old man is one day my father-in-law? Is it possible to imagine him as a father-in-law?” And she had a transient gleam of curiosity concerning the characters of the two Clayhanger sisters, and recalled with satisfaction that Janet liked the elder one.
Edwin Clayhanger, muttering, pointed62 to an aperture63 in the counter, and immediately she was going through it with him, and through a door at the back of the shop. They were alone, facing a rain-soaked yard. Edwin Clayhanger sneezed violently.
“It keeps on raining,” Edwin murmured. “Better to have kept umbrella! However—”
He glanced at her inquiringly and invitingly64. They ran side by side across the yard to a roofed flight of steps that led to the printing-office. For a couple of seconds, the rain wet them, and then they were under cover again. It seemed to Hilda that they had escaped from the shop like fox-terriers—like two friendly dogs from the surveillance of an incalculable and dangerous old man. She felt a comfortable, friendly confidence in Edwin Clayhanger—a tranquil65 sentiment such as she had never experienced for George Cannon. After more than a year—and what a period of unforeseen happenings!—she thought again: “I like him.” Not love, she thought, but liking66! She liked being with him. She liked the sensation of putting confidence in him. She liked his youth, and her own. She was sorry because he had a cold and was not taking care of it.... Now they were climbing a sombre creaking staircase towards a new and remote world that was separated from the common world just quitted by the adventurous67 passage of the rainy yard.... And now they were amid oily odours in a large raftered workshop, full of machines.... The printing-works!... An enormous but very deferential68 man saluted69 them with majestic70 solemnity. He was the foreman, and labelled by his white apron71 as an artisan, but his gigantic bulk—he would have outweighed72 the pair of them—and his age set him somehow over them, so that they were a couple of striplings in his vasty presence. When Edwin Clayhanger employed, as it were, daringly, the accents of a master to this intimidating73 fellow, Hilda thrilled with pleasure at the piquancy74 of the spectacle, and she was admiringly proud of Edwin. The foreman’s immense voice, explaining machines and tools, caused physical vibrations75 in her. But she understood nothing of what he said—nothing whatever. She was in a dream of oily odours and monstrous76 iron constructions, dominated by the grand foreman: and Edwin was in the dream. She began talking quite wildly of the four-hundredth anniversary of the inventor of printing, of which she had read in Cranswick’s History... at Brighton! Brighton had sunk away over the verge77 of memory. Even Lane End House was lost somewhere in the vague past. All her previous life had faded. She reflected guiltily: “He’s bound to think I’ve been reading about printing because I was interested in him I don’t care! I hope he does think it!” She heard a suggestion that, as it was too late that night to see the largest machine in motion, she might call the next afternoon. She at once promised to come.... She impatiently desired now to leave the room where they were, and to see something else. And then she feared lest this might be all there was to see.... Edwin Clayhanger was edging towards the door.... They were alone on the stairway again.... The foreman had bowed at the top like a chamberlain.... She gathered, with delicious anticipation, that other and still more recondite78 interiors awaited their visit.
iv
They were in an attic79 which was used for the storage of reams upon reams of paper. By the light of a candle in a tin candlestick, they had passed alone together through corridors and up flights of stairs at the back of the shop. She had seen everything that was connected with the enterprise of steam-printing, and now they were at the top of the old house and at the end of the excursion.
“I used to work here,” said Edwin Clayhanger.
She inquired about the work.
“Well,” he drawled, “reading and writing, you know—at that very table.”
In the aperture of the window, amid piles of paper, stood a rickety old table, covered with dust.
“But there’s no fireplace,” she said, glancing round the room, and then directly at him.
“I know.”
“But how did you do in winter?” she eagerly appealed.
And he replied shortly, and with a slight charming affectation of pride: “I did without.”
Her throat tightened80, and she could feel the tears suddenly swim in her eyes. She was not touched by the vision of his hardships. It was the thought of all his youth that exquisitely81 saddened her—or all the years which were and would be for ever hidden from her. She knew that she alone of all human beings was gifted with the power to understand and fully26 sympathize with him. And so she grieved over the long wilderness82 of time during which he had been uncomprehended. She wanted, by some immense effort of tenderness, to recompense him for all that he had suffered. And she had a divine curiosity concerning the whole of his past life. She had never had this curiosity in relation to George Cannon—she had only wondered about his affairs with other women. Nor had George Cannon ever evoked83 the tenderness which sprang up in her from some secret and inexhaustible source at the mere39 sight of Edwin Clayhanger’s wistful smile. Still, in that moment, standing84 close to Edwin in the high solitude85 of the shadowed attic, the souvenir of George Cannon gripped her painfully. She thought: “He loves me, and he is ruined, and he will never see me again! And I am here, bursting with hope renewed, and dizzy with joy!” And she pictured Janet, too, wearying herself at a committee meeting. And she thought, “And here am I...!” Her bliss was tragic86.
“I think I ought to be going,” she said softly.
They rethreaded the corridors, and in each lower room, as they passed, Edwin Clayhanger extinguished the gas which he had lit there on the way up, and Hilda waited for him. And then they were back in the crude glare of the shop. The fat, untidy old man was not visible. Edwin helped her with the mackintosh, and she liked him for the awkwardness of his efforts in doing so.
At the door, she urged him not to come out, and referred to his cold.
“This isn’t the end of winter, it’s the beginning,” she warned him. Nobody else, she knew, would watch over him.
But he insisted on coming out.
They arranged a rendezvous87 for three o’clock on the morrow, and then they shook hands.
“Now, do go in,” she entreated88, as she hurried away. The rain had ceased. She fled triumphantly89 up Trafalgar Road, with her secret, guarding it. “He’s in love with me!” If a scientific truth is a statement of which the contrary is inconceivable, then it was a scientific truth for her that she and Edwin must come together. She simply would not and could not conceive the future without him.... And this so soon, so precipitately90 soon, after her misfortune! But it was her very misfortune which pushed her violently forward. Her life had been convulsed and overthrown91 by the hazard of destiny, and she could have no peace now until she had repaired and reestablished it. At no matter what risk, the thing must be accomplished92 quickly... quickly.
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inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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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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dawdle
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| vi.浪费时间；闲荡 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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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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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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