The music of a sleigh-bell, which for some time had been increasing in volume behind them, swelled6 suddenly into a shrill-voiced warning close at their backs, and they stepped aside into the snow to let the conveyance7 pass. It was then that the express-man called out his cheery greeting, and that Reuben lifted his hat.
As the sleigh grew small in the near distance, Reuben turned to his companion. “I notice that you told him you weren’t quite sure about staying here for good,” he remarked. “Perhaps I was mistaken—I understood you to say a few minutes ago that it was all settled.”
Horace was not to be embarrassed by so slight a discrepancy8 as this—although for the instant the reappearance of Jessica had sent his wits tripping—and he was ready with a glib9 explanation.
“What I meant was that I am quite settled in my desire to stay here. But of course there is just a chance that there may be no opening, and I don’t want to prematurely10 advertise what may turn out a failure. By the way, wasn’t that that Lawton girl?”
“Yes—Ben Lawton’s oldest daughter.”
Reuben’s tone had a slow preciseness in it which caused Horace to glance closely at him, and wonder if it were possible that it masked some ulterior meaning. Then he reflected that Reuben had always taken serious views of things, and talked in that grave, measured way, and that this was probably a mere11 mannerism12. So he continued, with a careless voice:
“I haven’t seen her in years—should scarcely have known her. Isn’t it a little queer, her coming back?”
Reuben Tracy was a big man, with heavy shoulders, a large, impassive countenance13, and an air which to the stranger suggested lethargy. It was his turn to look at Horace now, and he did so with a deliberate, steady gaze, to which the wide space between his eyes and the total absence of lines at the meeting of his brows lent almost the effect of a stare. When he had finished this inspection14 of his companion’s face, he asked simply:
“Why?”
“Well, of course, I have only heard it from others—but there seems to be no question about it—that she—”
“That she has been a sadly unfortunate and wretched girl,” interposed Reuben, finishing the sentence over which the other hesitated. “No, you are right. There is no question about that—no question whatever.”
“Well, that is why I spoke15 as I did—why I am surprised at seeing her here again. Weren’t you yourself surprised?”
“No, I knew that she was coming. I have a letter telling me the train she would arrive by.”
“Oh!”
The two walked on in silence for a minute or two. Then Horace said, with a fine assumption of good feeling and honest regret:
“I spoke thoughtlessly, old fellow; of course I couldn’t know that you were interested in—in the matter. I truly hope I didn’t say anything to wound your feelings.”
“Not at all,” replied Reuben. “How should you? What you said is what everybody will say—must say. Besides, my feelings are of no interest whatever, so far as this affair is concerned. It is her feelings that I am thinking of; and the more I think—well, the truth is, I am completely puzzled. I have never in all my experience been so wholly at sea.”
Manifestly Horace could do nothing at this juncture16 but look his sympathy. To ask any question might have been to learn nothing. But his curiosity was so great that he almost breathed a sigh of relief when Reuben spoke again, even though the query17 he put had its disconcerting side:
“I daresay you never knew much about her before she left Thessaly?”
“I knew her by sight, of course, just as a village boy knows everybody. I take it you did know her. I can remember that she was a pretty girl.”
If there was an underlying18 hint in this conjunction of sentences, it missed Reuben’s perception utterly19. He replied in a grave tone:
“She was in my school, up at the Burfield. And if you had asked me in those days to name the best-hearted girl, the brightest girl, the one who in all the classes had the making of the best woman in her, I don’t doubt that I should have pointed20 to her. That is what makes the thing so inexpressibly sad to me now; and, what is more, I can’t in the least see my way.”
“Your way to what?”
“Why, to helping21 her, of course. She has undertaken something that frightens me when I think of it. This is the point: She has made up her mind to come back here, earn her own living decently, face the past out and live it down here among those who know that past best.”
“That’s a resolution that will last about three weeks.”
“No, I think she is determined22 enough. But I fear that she cruelly underestimates the difficulties of her task. To me it looks hopeless, and I’ve thought it over pretty steadily23 the last few days.”
“Pardon my asking you,” said Horace, “but you have confided24 thus far in me—what the deuce have you got to do with either her success or her failure?”
“I’ve told you that I was her teacher,” answered Reuben, still with the slow, grave voice. “That in itself would give me an interest in her. But there has been a definite claim made on me in her behalf. You remember Seth Fairchild, don’t you?”
“Perfectly25. He edits a paper down in Tecumseh, doesn’t he? He did, I know, when I went abroad.”
“Yes. Well, his wife—who was his cousin, Annie Fairchild, and who took the Burfield school after I left it to study law—she happens to be an angel. She is the sort of woman who, when you know her, enables you to understand all the exalted26 and sublime27 things that have ever been written about her sex. Well, a year or so after she married Seth and went to live in Tecumseh, she came to hear about poor Jessica Lawton, and her woman’s heart prompted her to hunt the girl up and give her a chance for her life. I don’t know much about what followed—this all happened a good many months ago—but I get a letter now from Seth, telling me that the girl is resolved to come home, and that his wife wants me to do all I can to help her.”
“Well, that’s what I call letting a friend in for a particularly nice thing.”
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” said Reuben; “I shall be only too glad if I can serve the poor girl. But how to do it—that’s what troubles me.”
“Her project is a crazy one, to begin with. I wonder that sane28 people like the Fairchilds should have encouraged it.”
“I don’t think they did. My impression is that they regarded it as unwise and tried to dissuade29 her from it. Seth doesn’t write as if he thought she would succeed.”
“No, I shouldn’t say there was much danger of it. She will be back again in Tecumseh before Christmas.” After a pause Horace added, in a confidential30 way: “It’s none of my business, old fellow; but if I were you I’d be careful how I acted in this matter. You can’t afford to be mixed up with her in the eyes of the people here. Of course your motives31 are admirable, but you know what an overgrown village is for gossip. You won’t be credited with good intentions or any disinterestedness32, believe me.”
This seemed to be a new view of the situation to Reuben. He made no immediate33 answer, but walked along with his gaze bent34 on the track before him and his hands behind his back. At last he said, with an air of speaking to himself:
“But if one does mean well and is perfectly clear about it in his own mind, how far ought he to allow his course to be altered by the possible misconceptions of others? That opens up a big question, doesn’t it?”
“But you have said that you were not clear about it—that you were all at sea.”
“As to means, yes; but not as to motives.”
“Nobody but you will make the distinction. And you have your practice to consider—the confidence of your clients. Fancy the effect it will have on them—your turning up as the chief friend and patron of a—of the Lawton girl! You can’t afford it.” Reuben looked at his companion again with the same calm, impassive gaze. Then he said slowly: “I can see how the matter presents itself to you. I had thought first of going to the dép?t to meet her; but, on consideration, it seemed better to wait and have a talk with her after she had seen her family. I am going out to their place now.”
The tone in which this announcement was made served to change the topic of conversation. The talk became general again, and Horace turned it upon the subject of the number of lawyers in town, their relative prosperity and value, and the local condition of legal business. He found that he was right in guessing that Mr. Clarke enjoyed Thessaly’s share of the business arising from the Minster ironworks, and that this share was more important than formerly35, when all important affairs were in the hands of a New York firm. He was interested, too, in what Reuben Tracy revealed about his own practice.
“Oh, I have nothing to complain of,” Reuben said, in response to a question. “It is a good thing to be kept steadily at work—good for a man’s mind as well as for his pocket. Latterly I have had almost too much to attend to, since the railroad business on this division was put in my charge; and I grumble36 to myself sometimes over getting so little spare time for reading and for other things I should like to attempt. I suppose a good many of the young lawyers here would call that an ungrateful frame of mind. Some of them have a pretty hard time of it, I am afraid. Occasionally I can put some work in their way; but it isn’t easy, because clients seem to resent having their business handled by unsuccessful men. That would be an interesting thing to trace, wouldn’t it?—the law of the human mind which prompts people to boost a man as soon as he has shown that he can climb without help, and to pull down those who could climb well enough with a little assistance.”
“So you think there isn’t much chance for still another young lawyer to enter the field here?” queried37 Horace, bringing the discussion back to concrete matters.
“Oh, that’s another thing,” replied Reuben. “There is no earthly reason why you shouldn’t try. There are too many lawyers here, it is true, but then I suppose there are too many lawyers everywhere—except heaven. A certain limited proportion of them always prosper—the rest don’t. It depends upon yourself which class you will be in. Go ahead, and if I can help you in any way I shall be very glad.”
“You’re kind, I’m sure. But, you know, it won’t be as if I came a stranger to the place,” said Horace. “My father’s social connections will help me a good deal”—Horace thought he noted38 a certain incredulous gesture by his companion here, and wondered at it, but went on—“and then my having studied in Europe ought to count. I have another advantage, too, in being on very friendly terms with Mrs. and Miss Minster. I rode up with them from New York to-day, and we had a long talk. I don’t want anything said about it yet, but it looks mightily39 as if I were to get the whole law business of the ironworks and of their property in general.”
Young Mr. Boyce did not wince40 or change color under the meditative41 gaze with which Reuben regarded him upon hearing this; but he was conscious of discomfort42, and he said to himself that his companion’s way of staring like an introspective ox at people was unpleasant.
“That would be a tremendous start for you,” remarked Reuben at last. “I hope you won’t be disappointed in it.”
“It seems a tolerably safe prospect,” answered Horace, lightly. “You say that you’re overworked.”
“Not quite that, but I don’t get as much time as I should like for outside matters. I want to go on the school board here, for example—I see ever so many features of the system which seem to me to be flaws, and which I should like to help remedy—but I can’t spare the time. And then there is the condition of the poor people in the quarter grown up around the iron-works and the factories, and the lack of a good library, and the saloon question, and the way in which the young men and boys of the village spend their evenings, and so on. These are the things I am really interested in; and instead of them I have to devote all my energies to deeds and mortgages and specifications43 for trestle-works. That’s what I meant.”
“Why don’t you take in a partner? That would relieve you of a good deal of the routine.”
“Do you know, I’ve thought of that more than once lately. I daresay that if the right sort of a young man had been at hand, the idea would have attracted me long ago. But, to tell the truth, there isn’t anybody in Thessaly who meets precisely44 my idea of a partner—whom I quite feel like taking into my office family, so to speak.”
“Perhaps I may want to talk with you again on this point,” said Horace.
To this Reuben made no reply, and the two walked on for a few moments in silence.
They were approaching a big, ungainly, shabby-looking structure, which presented a receding45 roof, a row of windows with small, old-fashioned panes46 of glass, and a broad, rickety veranda47 sprawling48 the whole width of its front, to the highway on their left. This had once been a rural wayside tavern49, but now, by the encircling growth of the village, it had taken on a hybrid50 character, and managed to combine in a very complete way the coarse demerits of a town saloon with the evil license51 of a suburban52 dive. Its location rendered it independent of most of the restrictions53 which the village authorities were able to enforce in Thessaly itself, and this freedom from restraint attracted the dissipated imagination of town and country alike. It was Dave Rantell’s place, and being known far and wide as the most objectionable resort in Dearborn County, was in reality much worse than its reputation.
The open sheds at the side of the tavern were filled with horses and sleighs, and others were ranged along at the several posts by the roadside in front—these latter including some smart city cutters, and even a landau on runners. From the farther side of the house came, at brief intervals54, the sharp report of rifle-shots, rising loud above the indistinct murmuring of a crowd’s conversation.
“It must be a turkey-shoot,” said Reuben. “This man Rantell has them every year at Thanksgiving and Christmas,” he added, as they came in view of the scene beyond the tavern. “There! Have you seen anything in Europe like that?” Let it be stated without delay that there was no trace of patriotic55 pride in his tone.
The wide gate of the tavern yard was open, and the path through it had been trampled56 smooth by many feet. In the yard just beyond were clustered some forty or fifty men, standing57 about in the snow, and with their backs to the road. Away in the distance, and to the right, were visible two or three slouching figures of men. Traversing laterally58 and leftward the broad, unbroken field of snow, the eye caught a small, dark object on the great white sheet; if the vision was clear and far-sighted, a closer study would reveal this to be a bird standing alone in the waste of whiteness, tied by the leg to a stake near by, and waiting to be shot at. The attention of every man in the throng59 was riveted60 on this remote and solitary61 fowl62. There was a deep hush63 for a fraction of a second after each shot. Then the turkey either hopped64 to one side, which meant that the bullet had gone whistling past, or sank to the ground after a brief wild fluttering of wings. In the former case, another loaded rifle was handed out, and suspense65 began again; in the latter event, there ensued a short intermission devoted66 to beverages67 and badinage68, the while a boy started across the fields toward the throng with the dead turkey, and the distant slouching figures busied themselves in tying up a new feathered target.
“No, it isn’t what you would call elevating, is it?” said Horace, as the two stood looking over the fence upon the crowd. “Still, it has its interest as a national product. I’ve seen dog-fights and cock-mains in England attended by whole thousands of men, that were ever so much worse than this. If you think of it, this isn’t particularly brutal69, as such sports go.”
“But what puzzles me is that men should like such sports at all,” said Reuben.
“At any rate,” replied Horace, “we’re better off in that respect than the English are. The massacre70 of rats in a pit is a thing that you can get an assemblage of nobility, and even royalty71, for, over there. Now, that isn’t even relatively72 true here. Take this turkey-shoot of Rantell’s, for example. You won’t find any gentlemen here; that is, anybody who sets up to be a gentleman in either the English or the American sense of the word.”
As if in ironical73 answer, a sharp, strident voice rose above the vague babble74 of the throng inside the yard, and its accents reached the two young men with painful distinctness:
“I’ll bet five dollars that General Boyce kills his six birds in ten shots—bad cartridges75 barred!”
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1
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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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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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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disinterestedness
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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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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specifications
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| n.规格；载明；详述；（产品等的）说明书；说明书( specification的名词复数 )；详细的计划书；载明；详述 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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46
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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51
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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55
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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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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laterally
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| ad.横向地；侧面地；旁边地 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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62
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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63
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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66
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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69
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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74
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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