Mr. Townsend was “out of a position,” a stage of tenuous5 existence over which self-respecting families draw a decent veil. In the three months of his detachment he had experienced all its usual effects in his relations with a comfortably occupied world—the sympathetic indignation and inefficient6, helpful efforts in his behalf, with the haphazard7, temporary “jobs,” the gradual subsidence of poignant8 interest, and, finally, the semi-irritation at his “not having anything yet,”[188] which would really seem to imply a culpable9 torpidity10 on his part to all but the wife who alone knew the struggle which he no longer heralded11 abroad. Her indignation daily burned stronger against the friends who couldn’t seem to do anything for him, but who were themselves successful without half of his talent.
She herself had done what she could, besides looking after the house and the two children. For ten weeks she had secretly given music lessons to the child of a friend, steadily12 refusing payment until the end of the term, and she now held in the little bag at her belt the princely sum of seven dollars and fifty cents, all her own, and destined13 for great uses. Mrs. Townsend was, above all things, a woman of action, and to resolve was to dare immediately.
It was with a faint sigh of farewell to a hope barely entertained that she heard the aggressive briskness14 of her husband’s tread, and she answered the florid cheerfulness of his greeting with the studied carelessness of custom in the well-worn words:
“Nothing new to-day, I suppose?”
“No, nothing new,” said Mr. Townsend heartily15. He was a large, attractive-looking man, with the slightly greyish hair which had handicapped him so much in getting a position,[189] though his wife was eagerly ready to tell every one how really young he was.
“Dinner’s about ready, I see; well I’m ready for it.” He relapsed into a chair by the table as he spoke16. “Where are the children?”
“They’re spending the evening at the Mays’,” said his wife, bringing in the hot dishes from the kitchen and taking quick note of his unconscious lassitude and the new wrinkles in his broad forehead. “We can have a quiet, little cozy17 time all by ourselves. Would you mind tying the thread around this rag on my finger? I sliced it when I was peeling the potatoes.”
“You dash at everything so,” remonstrated18 the husband, accomplishing the thread-tying slowly and painstakingly19. “I should think you would learn to be more careful after you had burned yourself so badly. Stand still. Don’t be in such a hurry; the dinner can wait.”
“No, it can’t,” said Mrs. Townsend, escaping to the head of the table. “Have you seen any one to-day?”
“About seven hundred people.”
“Francis! You know what I mean. Have you seen any one I know?”
“No. Yes, I did see Harry20 Jenkins for a moment.”
[190]
“What did he have to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, Francis!” Mrs. Townsend looked despairing. “Why do you make me drag things out of you this way? Didn’t he tell you anything about his wife’s return from England——?”
“Not a word.”
“And you didn’t ask——?”
“My dear Polly, I saw him for about two seconds, crossing the street on his way to the tailor’s. If that can give you any satisfaction you’re welcome to it.”
“I wish you could go to the tailor’s,” said Mrs. Townsend deeply, with a sudden moistening of her luminous21 grey eyes. “I wish—I wish your clothes weren’t getting so—so——”
“It will soon be cold enough for my overcoat,” said her husband consolingly.
“Yes, I know, but—Francis! I’ve been wanting to speak to you for ever so long. Those trousers you have on—really, you know they were always perfectly22 hideous23. I nearly cried when you brought them home. How a man who has always dressed as well as you have could ever have chosen those things! Of course, I know you only bought them because they were so cheap, but there’s always a choice. And now they’re so shabby[191] it makes me positively24 sick to see you in them. Last Sunday when you passed the plate in church—well, you thought I went out because I was faint, but it was simply because I couldn’t sit there and see you walk up the aisle25 and stand in front of the whole congregation until that anthem26 was finished.”
“Let’s change the subject,” said Mr. Townsend. “It’s a fine day.”
“No, I won’t change the subject. Do you know they’re advertising27 trousers at Brooker’s—such a good place!—for six dollars. Mrs. Bond says her husband got two pairs there yesterday—the very best quality. And—I want you to buy a pair to-morrow. She says they wear forever.”
“Where could I get the six dollars?” asked Mr. Townsend facetiously28.
“I knew you’d say that. Oh, Francis! I have the money right here. I earned it myself.” Mrs. Townsend rose and swept her chair down beside her husband. “I never told you a word, but I’ve been giving Alice May music lessons ever since—Francis! Now see here, you’re not going to mind! How perfectly absurd! It’s been a real pleasure. Mrs. May paid me seven dollars and a-half to-day. Now, Francis, I want you to take this money and buy those trousers to-morrow.”
[192]
“Well, I’ll see myself—farther,” said Mr. Townsend comprehensively. He half rose, and pushed her gently from him. “I’d like to see myself take—take your little money. Spend it on yourself, now you’ve got it, or on the children if you want to—heaven knows you need things badly enough! I won’t touch a cent of it.”
“But Francis, you must! You never can get a position dressed as you are; you look like—— Clothes make such a difference! Oh, I didn’t want to say it but—Francis, you’ve got to take the money.” She strove to put it in his pocket and he thrust forth her hand with a grip that held her slender wrist like a vise.
“It’s no use, Polly. You don’t know how your having to earn it hurts me; I haven’t the right to forbid it but”—he stopped, and forced down something—“I haven’t come to such a pass that I’ll take your money to buy my clothes.” He fixed29 her sternly with a masterful eye. “There’s no use in your persisting. I’ll tell you once for all that I won’t do it; and I don’t want to hear any more on the subject.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Townsend soothingly30, in the tone of one who bides31 her time. She added afterwards in protest, “You haven’t half eaten your dinner—and I took such pains with it.”
[193]
“I think—you make it so nicely—but I think I’m just a little tired of stew,” said Mr. Townsend apologetically.
Later she found him rummaging32 in his closet, appearing as he heard her step to say explanatorily:
“I want to see if I can’t find another pair of trousers to wear to-morrow. I guess I’d better leave these I have on for you to fix up a little. The fact is—I didn’t tell you before, for I don’t want you to raise your hopes in any way—but I’ve at last got an appointment for the day after to-morrow to see Mr. Effingham.”
“An appointment with Mr. Effingham! Oh, Francis!”
“Cartwright’s letter was what did it. Cartwright says Effingham is the kind of a fellow who either likes you or doesn’t like you, straight off the bat. I tell you, I think a lot of Cartwright’s writing all the way from Chicago about this, taking so much pains for a man that’s almost a stranger to him.”
“Oh, you never do anything for people yourself!” said his wife sarcastically33.
“I never did anything for Cartwright—except put his wife once on the right train,” said Mr. Townsend. “Now, what’s the matter with these trousers?” He held up a pair for inspection34. “They look all right.”
[194]
“Oh, nothing’s the matter, nothing whatever,” said his wife scornfully, “except that they’re full of moth35 holes. Those are the winter trousers—the only good pair you had—that you left at your sister’s—you said you could get them any time—and she had them stuffed into a dark closet this summer while she was away in the country; she just sent them over Monday.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Mr. Townsend hastily. “You’d better get rid of them. Now, here’s a pair—I didn’t know I had any so good.”
“Those are the ones you painted the attic36 in last spring,” said Mrs. Townsend, “and the pair next are what you keep for fishing. Those belong to your dress-suit, and the ones beyond are too short, and worn all over so that you were afraid to put them on.”
Mr. Townsend surveyed the last named with raised eyebrows37 and a consenting, cornerwise glance at his wife. “Yes, they are pretty bad—but I guess I’d better wear them to-morrow while you fix up these.”
“Francis, if you’re going to see Mr. Effingham you’ll just have to buy a pair of trousers.”
He turned on her sternly as he said: “Didn’t I tell you not to speak of it?”
“Yes, but I will speak of it!” Mrs. Townsend[195] hurled38 herself into the fray39. “Francis, I can’t help it! When I think of all you’ve suffered, and all you’ve done, and how much depends now on—oh, my dearest!” she tried to put her head on an eluding40 shoulder as she followed him around the room, flushed with her eloquence—“please take this money. If you knew how happy I’d been all the time to think that I was working for you, and how I had set my heart on it, you wouldn’t be so unkind. I know I told you my shoes were bad, but they do quite well as they are, and the children do not need warm underwear yet. It was very stupid of me to talk of it, and it will make all the difference how you are dressed when you go to see Mr. Effingham. You’ve often said what a difference a person’s appearance made—and it’s so unlike you to look shabby! You ought to do everything to try and get that position; you can’t afford to lose the ghost of a chance. You are so foolish, you won’t listen to reason! Oh, Francis, won’t you stand still and answer me?”
“Yes, I’ll answer you,” said Mr. Townsend deliberately41. “You can ‘reason,’ as you call it, until you’re blind. Once for all, I will never take that money.”
“You will.”
“I will not. Now, Polly not another[196] word; do you hear? Not another word!”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Townsend, as before with conventional obedience42, and followed the words with a reckless flash of her grey eyes as she left the room, murmuring with quick breath: “But I give you fair warning, I’ll make you take that money yet; I don’t care whether you’re angry or not. You’ll see, you’ll see!”
If the subject was dropped from speech afterwards it was nevertheless present in thought. Mr. Townsend rose late in the morning, as is the habit of the man “out of a position,” who has no place on the early trains into town with his customary confrères, the workers, or in their busy offices. The heads of departments whom he goes in to see are only accessible in the later hours, and a delayed breakfast obviates43 the necessity for luncheon44. When husband and wife parted, he in the trousers that were a good deal too short and a good deal too worn, she, indeed, broke through the ice with temerity45 to adjure46 him for goodness sake not to let any one see him to-day with those on, and he had retorted grimly that he would endeavour to keep his hundred and eighty pounds entirely47 invisible to oblige her.
During the course of the morning Mrs.[197] Townsend went around with knitted brows, pondering deeply over the vexed48 question. Her back ached and her feet were weary long before her household labours were ended. She wasn’t accustomed to doing her own work, and, though she was willing, experience, that time-saver, was not hers. Mrs. Townsend knew that ladies were popularly supposed to bring a deftness49 and daintiness to kitchen work that was lacking in the efforts of a rougher class, but for herself it was just the opposite. The scalding kettles and saucepans she carried would perform a tremolo movement with the shaking of her slight wrists that sent greasy50 splashes of the contents over the kitchen floor; the beef-steak she broiled51 took in not only the fire but the whole top of the range in its sputterings, and plates and dishes, whether empty or filled with food for the table, slipped from her tired fingers and broke with ruinous celerity. After all the ceaseless effort of her heroic incapacity she was forced to long for the look of shining cleanliness accomplished52 easily by the strong, accustomed arms of an ordinary “girl.”
And the children were going half-clothed, she had so little time to sew! If this sort of thing didn’t stop soon she didn’t know what would become of them all. Depression had[198] grown to be her usual frame of mind in the morning when there was no one to look at her. She had known that Francis couldn’t get a place when he was so shabby. People were afraid of men who looked poor; it seemed as if they couldn’t be capable. In spite of himself she must save him, though he hurled javelins53 at her afterwards. She would have gone and bought him the trousers out of hand if remembrance had not brought uncomfortably to mind a time when she had tried to demonstrate how economically she could regulate his smoking by purchasing an advertized box of cigars from a department store. To Polly Townsend, if you did a certain thing one certain effect ought to follow—that, instead, it ramified off into all sorts of different ways was the mean advantage life took over theory. She felt now that if she could only make her Francis buy those trousers he couldn’t help realizing gratefully afterwards how wise and good she’d been, and her heart glowed at the prospect54.
But Mr. Effingham! He was a man whose old-fashioned punctiliousness56 was notably57 affected58 by externals: by suitable dress, by polish of manner, by a certain air in addition to more solid requirements. It was bad enough for Francis to hand the plate in those hideous, old, faded, mended trousers,[199] but to go supplicantly in them to Mr. Effingham would be suicidal. She could have wept at the thought.
Yet later in the day Mrs. Townsend might have been seen with a face lightened by a persistent59 smile—a jimpy, sly, inwardly-lurking, swiftly-flashing, three-cornered gleam that took in two reckless eyes and a demure60 mouth, and brought forth curious comment from Mrs. Whymer, a friend whom she met in the street.
“How well you do look! No one would think you had a girl of ten—but you always did have colour. I feel all dragged out; the doctor says I’m just going on my nerves. My husband has been home all day. No, there’s nothing really the matter with him, just one of his attacks, but he always gets so worried about himself. I often tell him, when he sits there looking so depressed61, if he only knew all I go through without saying a word! Having a man around the house is so upsetting, but I suppose you’re used to it. Mr. Townsend hasn’t anything yet, I believe?”
“He has several positions in view,” said Mrs. Townsend with elegant indefiniteness, and a quick, hot resentment62 at the implied reproach, which was answerable for the expenditure63 of twenty-five cents of her little[200] hoard64 for peaches to be used in the manufacture of the deep peach pie which her Francis loved.
She derived65 an exquisite66 satisfaction from outwitting him in this way, forcing her money thus secretly down his throat, watching him eat each mouthful, and meeting his raised eyebrows and the “Isn’t this a little extravagant67?” with the reassuring68 answer:
“Now, it’s all right; I just want you to enjoy it. No, Frankie, no more; you had a large plateful.”
“You made papa be helped three times,” said Frankie.
Her husband put an affectionate arm around her when she came up-stairs afterwards. “Fixed those trousers for me to-day, dear?”
“Yes, I fixed them,” said Mrs. Townsend.
“That’s a good girl. These I have on now—I don’t believe they’d last over another day.”
“You see Mr. Effingham to-morrow, don’t you?”
“Why, yes, I believe I do,” said Mr. Townsend with an effect of carelessness. Heaven only knew how their two thoughts travelled together in that long hopefulness that must have an end somewhere in something tangible69. Yet even as they sat there Mr. Townsend[201] became conscious of a not unknown quantity.
“What do you want to keep kissing my hand for? What have you been doing? You haven’t lamed70 your back again moving the flour-barrel, I hope. See here,” his tone suddenly stiffened71, “you haven’t been spending that money of yours for——”
“No,” said Mrs. Townsend hurriedly. “Not a penny; well, just a few cents for peaches.”
“Oh, I knew you bought them,” said Mr. Townsend indulgently. “Well, that pie was awfully72 good, but don’t do so any more. I don’t like it, Polly; it hurts.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Townsend in an odd voice. She faced him with gleaming eyes. “I’ll never do anything that doesn’t please you, no matter how foolish it is. If you say the sky is pea-green I’ll say it is pea-green, too. And if you want to kill yourself I’ll bring the carbolic acid. Oh, yes, I’m to be just too sweet for anything and never say boo when you want to go out looking like a tramp and ruin every chance you have just because it ‘hurts you’ to take this money from me, from your own wife. Haven’t I a right to earn money for you, and love and help you, and work my fingers off for you, if I want to?” Her voice trembled. “Wouldn’t I rather go barefoot than see the[202] way you’ve looked this last month?” She refused to quail73 before his gaze as she went on piteously: “Oh, you’re so exactly like a man. I know you just hate to hear me talk like this. I know I’ll never convince you in this wide world, but some things hurt me! Francis——”
“Well,” said Mr. Townsend as she stopped short. He had withdrawn74 his arm from around her.
“I want you to take that money.”
“I think I’ll go down and read for a while if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Townsend dryly.
Francis Townsend was always a punctilious55 man as to his toilette, but the next morning he made it a sort of continuous performance. Mrs. Townsend down-stairs, “redding up” the place after the children, and keeping his breakfast hot, felt her heart thump75 and sink alternately as she heard his footstep advance and retreat interminably on the floor above. Her coat and hat lay upon a chair, in furtherance of her morning journey to market, but no matter what she was doing her eyes turned, in spite of herself, to the place set for Francis at the end of the table, where there was a fringed napkin, a plate, a knife and fork, and a coffee-cup with the unusual addition of a little roll of greenbacks sticking up in it. Prepared as she was for some commotion[203] she involuntarily clutched a chair back as she caught the sound of a quick and angry stride across the room above to the hall, and heard the tone of towering wrath76:
“Polly!”
“Yes, Francis.”
“Did you cut off the leg of this pair of trousers?”
“Your breakfast’s in the oven,” said Mrs. Townsend glibly77, “and the coffee’s on the stove. I’ve got to go to market.” She flung herself into her jacket and hat as she spoke, jabbing in the hatpins viciously. The triumph was exciting, but she didn’t know she was going to be quite so scared. She hesitated a moment, and then called back: “Good-bye, dearest!” as she closed the hall door and then ran down the steps into the street.
“Seventy-five cents for each dancing lesson, but if there are two in the family she makes a reduction.”
Mrs. Whymer sat rocking idly while she watched Mrs. Townsend basting78 seams on a dark piece of cloth, in her little sewing-room.
“I’ll see about it to-morrow when I’m in town,” said Mrs. Townsend.
“Going shopping? If you want that skirt pattern I’ll get it for you.”
[204]
“Thank you, I would like it,” said Mrs. Townsend, “though I’m not going shopping exactly; I have to take Pinky to the dentist’s—it’s so long since she’s been—but I may get some material for myself on the way home.”
Her husband had been for several months with Mr. Effingham, and they were just about beginning to get their feet on the first rungs of the ladder which leads to the plateau of Living Like Other People.
“Why on earth did you cut up those trousers to make knickerbockers for Frankie?” said the other, taking up the end of Mrs. Townsend’s work. “They look just like new, and the cloth doesn’t seem worn at all.”
“It isn’t,” said Mrs. Townsend briefly79; “Mr. Townsend only had them on a few times. They are the best material, they were bought at Brooker’s, and I thought he’d get such good wear out of them, but he says there’s something wrong with the cut.”
“Well, it’s no use to try and make a man wear anything he doesn’t want to,” said Mrs. Whymer. She yawned as she rose. “You don’t say I’ve been here over an hour! I do get so lonesome at home all day, and Mr. Whymer is working until eleven o’clock every night. I’m thinking of going to that new sanitarium at Westly for a while. I really[205] haven’t been able to do a thing for the last six weeks. I get so tired out ordering the meals, and the doctor thinks I had better try a rest cure. Your husband likes it with Mr. Effingham, I hear. He was very fortunate in getting the position. Mr. Butts80 tried for it, but he always looked so—well, not up-to-date, you know. Clothes do make such a difference.”
“That’s what I always say,” returned Mrs. Townsend demurely81, with a queer little hazy82, retrospective smile, that was somehow wistful, too. Her wisdom had certainly been vindicated83, yet there were results that, as usual, eluded84 theory. She was never quite sure whether her rebellion had been a success or not. The time might come when she and her Francis would laugh over it together in company—but it hadn’t come yet.
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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torpidity
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heralded
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steadily
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destined
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briskness
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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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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cozy
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remonstrated
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painstakingly
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harry
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luminous
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perfectly
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hideous
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positively
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aisle
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anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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facetiously
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fixed
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soothingly
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bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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sarcastically
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inspection
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moth
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attic
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eyebrows
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hurled
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fray
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eluding
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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obviates
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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deftness
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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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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javelins
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| n.标枪( javelin的名词复数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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punctiliousness
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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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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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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lamed
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| 希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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basting
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| n.疏缝；疏缝的针脚；疏缝用线；涂油v.打( baste的现在分词 )；粗缝；痛斥；（烤肉等时）往上抹[浇]油 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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