Take it between four and five in the afternoon, which was a couple of hours before Bobby was expected home, and in consequence, at least an hour and a half before anything was astir in the way of supper, things got sort of lonesome looking and dull to Sis, daughter of the house. Ten to one that the baby—the tow-headed youngest—was a bit fussy3; ten to one the mother gave you a sharp answer if you spoke4 to her, though, considering everything, she was remarkably5 patient; ten to one that every torn and cracked thing in the room became so conspicuous6 that you felt like a poor lone2 orphan7 girl and wanted to cry. If you did n't live below the sidewalk this was apt to go on until it was time to get supper, but here, in order to see to do the mending, the lamp was lighted, even in May, an hour or so earlier than the fire.
Then what a change! Instantly it was as though every one was tucked in from the night as children get tucked into bed. Not being able to see out of the windows any longer it was possible to imagine out there what one wished,—a big field, for instance, sprinkled over with flowers. The dull grays on wall and ceiling became brightened as though mixed with gold fire paint. Everything snuggled in closer; the kitchen table covered with a red table-cloth, the mirror with putty in the centre of the crack to keep the pieces from falling out, the kitchen stove, the wooden chairs, the iron sink with the tin dishes hanging over it, and the shelf on the wall with the wooden clock ticking cheerfully away, all closed in noiselessly nearer to the lamp. Ten to one that now mother glanced up with a smile; ten to one that the baby chuckled8 and fell to playing with his toes if he could n't find anything better within reach; ten to one there was nothing in the room that did n't look almost new. One thing was certain,—the light did n't reveal any dirt that would come off for there was n't any. Mrs. Wentworth's New England ancestry9 and training had survived even the blows of a hard luck which had n't fought her fair.
On this particular night Sis had just lost herself in her thumbworn volume of Grimm's Fairy Tales when—there came a kick on the outside door and the sound of two voices coming down the short hall. The next minute Bobby entered with his clothes all mud and behind him a strange gentleman.
It was evident that something had happened to the boy, but the mother did not scream. She was not that kind. Her lips tightened10 as she braced11 herself for whatever this new decree of Fate might be. In a jiffy Bobby, who recognized that look as the same he had seen when they had brought Daddy home, was at her side.
"Cheer up, Mumsy," he exclaimed. "Nothin' doin' in caskits this time."
She lifted her thin, angular face from the boy to Donaldson. The latter explained,
"He got tangled12 up a bit with an automobile13, but I guess the machine got the worst of it. At any rate your boy is all right."
The mother passed her hand over the lad's head, expressing a world of tenderness in the act.
"It was kind of you to bring him home," she said.
The directness of the woman, her self control, her simplicity14, enlisted15 Donaldson's interest at once. He had expected hysterics. He would have staked his last dollar that the woman came from Vermont. His observant eyes had in these few minutes covered everything in the room, including the long-handled dipper by the faucet16 used for dipping into pails sweating silver mist, the wooden clock upon the mantelpiece, and the Hicks Almanac hanging below it. He felt as though he were standing17 in a Berringdon kitchen with acres of green outside the windows sweeping18 in a circle off to the little hills, the acres of forest green, and the big hills beyond.
The mother stepped forward and brushed the mud from Bobby's coat. The baby screwed up his face for a howl to call attention to his neglect in the midst of all this excitement.
"What's this?" exclaimed Bobby, picking him up with as substantial an air of paternity as though he were forty. "What's this? Goneter cry afore a stranger?"
He held the child up to Donaldson.
"The kid," he announced laconically19. "What yuh think of him?"
"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think of him?"
"The kid," he announced laconically. "What yuh think of him?"
"Corker," answered Donaldson. "Let me hold him."
"Sure. Get a chair for the gent, Sis."
In another minute Donaldson found himself sitting by the kitchen stove with a chuckling20 youngster on his knee. No one paid any attention to him; just took him for granted as a friend until he felt as though he had been one of the family all his life. Besides, the centre of the stage rightly belonged to Bobby, who was occupying it with something of a swagger in his walk.
"Well, I hope this will teach you a lesson, Bobby Wentworth," scolded the mother, now that after various proddings she had determined21 to her satisfaction that none of the boy's bones were broken. "I wish to the Lord you was back where the hills are so steep there ain't no automobiles22."
Donaldson broke in.
"You were brought up in the country, Mrs. Wentworth?"
"Laws, yes, and lived there most of my life."
"In New England?"
"Berringdon, Vermont."
"Berringdon? Your husband was n't one of the Wentworth boys?"
"He was Jim Wentworth, the oldest"
"Well, well! Then you are Sally Burnham."
"And you," she hesitated, "I do b'lieve you 're Peter Donaldson."
"Yes," he said, "I 'm Peter Donaldson."
The name from her lips took on its boyhood meaning. He shifted the youngster to his arms and crossing the room held out his hand to her.
"We did n't know each other very well in those days, but from now on—from now on we 're old friends, are n't we?"
The steel blue eyes grew moist.
"It's a long time," she said, "since I 've seen any one from there."
"Or I. You left—"
"When I was married. Jim came here because his cousin got him a job as motorman. He done well,—but he was killed by his car just after the baby was born."
"Killed? That's tough. And it left you all alone with the children?"
"Yes. The road paid us a little, but I was sick and the children were sick, so it did n't last long."
She was not complaining. It was a bare recital23 of facts. But it raised a series of keen incisive24 thoughts in Donaldson's brain.
Wentworth had been killed. Chance had deprived this woman of her man; Chance had grabbed at her boy; Chance had sent Donaldson to save the latter; Chance—Donaldson caught his breath at the possibility the sequence suggested—Chance may have sent him to offset25 as far as possible the husband's death. It was too late, although he felt the obligation in a new light, for him to give his life for the life of that other, but there was one other thing he could do. He could play the father with what he had left of himself. So that when he came to face Wentworth—he smiled gently at the approaching possibility—he could hold his head high as he went to meet him.
He had argued to Barstow that he was shirking no responsibilities,—but what of such unseen responsibilities as this? What of the thousand others that he should die too soon to realize? It was possible that countless26 other such opportunities as this must be wasted because he should not be there to play his part. But there was still time to do something; he need not see, as with the girl and with love, the fine possibilities go utterly27 to waste.
The mother had noticed a warm light steal over his face, not realizing how closely his thoughts concerned her own future; she had seen the sabre cut of pain which had followed his thought of the girl and what she might have meant, knowing nothing of that grim tragedy. Now she saw his eyes clear as with their inspired light they were lifted to her. Yet the talk went on uninterruptedly on the same commonplace level.
"How old was Jim?"
"He was within a week of thirty."
That was within a few days of his own age. At thirty, Jim Wentworth, clinging to life, had been wrenched28 from it; at thirty, he himself had thrown it away. Wentworth had shouldered his duties manfully; he had been blind to them. But it was not too late to do something. He was being led as by Marley's ghost to one new vision of life after another. He saw love—with death grinning over love's shoulder; he was to be given a taste of fatherhood,—the grave at his feet.
"Do you ever hear from the people back home?" he asked abruptly29.
"Not very often," she answered. "After the old folks went I sorter got out of tech with the others."
"What became of the homestead?"
"It was sold little by little when father was sick. When he died there was n't much left. That went to pay the debts."
"Who lives there now?"
"Let me see—I don't think any one is there now. Last I heard, it was fer sale."
"Who holds it?"
"Deacon Staples30. Leastways it was him who held the notes."
"That old pirate? No wonder there was n't anything left."
"He was a leetle hard," she admitted. "I wanted Jim to go back an' take it after father died, but he couldn't seem to make a deal with the deacon."
"I s'pose not. No one this side of the devil himself will ever make a square deal with him. He 's still as strong in the church as ever?"
She smiled.
"I see by the Berringdon paper that he begun some revival31 meetin's in town."
"Which means he 's just put through some particularly thievish deal and wants to ease his conscience. Have you the paper? Perhaps the sale is advertised there."
She found the paper and ran a finger down the columns until she came to the item.
"Makes you feel sort of queer," she said, "to see the old place for sale. Almost like slaves must ha' felt to see their own in the market."
She read slowly,
"'Nice farm for sale cheap; story and a half frame house, good barn, ten acres of land, and a twenty-acre pasture lot. $1800. Apply to A. F. Staples, Berringdon, Vermont.'
"I 'm glad the old pasture is going with the house. Somehow the two seem to belong together. It was right in front across the road, an' all us children used to play there. There 's a clump32 of oak trees at th' end of it. Hope they have n't cut them down."
"Eighteen hundred dollars, was it?" asked Donaldson.
"Eighteen hundred dollars," she repeated slowly. "My, thet 's a lot of money!"
"That depends," he said, "on many things. Should you like to go back there?"
The answer came before her lips could utter the words, in the awakening33 of every dormant34 hope in her nature—in every suppressed dream. Some younger creature was freed in the hardening eyes. The strain of the lips was loosened. Even the passive worn hands became alert.
"I 'd sell my soul a'most to get back there—to get the children back there," she answered.
"It 's the place for them."
"Thet's the way I 've felt," she ran on. "Mine don't belong here. It's not 'cause they 're any better, but because they've got the country in their blood. They was meant to grow up in thet very pasture just like I did. I 've ben oneasy ever since the boys was born, and so was Jim. Both of us hankered after the old sights and sounds—the garden with its mixed up colors an' the smell of lilac an' the tinkle35 of the cow bells. Funny how you miss sech little things as those."
"Little things?" Donaldson returned. "Little things? They are the really big things; they are the things you remember, the things that hang by you and sweeten your life to the end!"
"Then it ain't just my own notions? But I have wanted the children to grow up in the garden instead of the gutters36. If Jim had lived it would have be'n. We 'd planned to save a little every year until we had enough ahead to take a mortgage. But you can't do it with nothin'. There ain't no way, is there?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps," he said.
She leaned toward him, in her face the strength of a man.
"I 'd work," she said, "I 'd work my fingers to the bone if I had a chance to get back there. I 'm strong 'nuff to take care of a place. If I only had just a tiny strip of land—just 'nuff fer a garden. I could get some chickens an' pay off little by little. I 'm good for ten years yet an' by thet time Bobby would be old 'nough to take hold. If I only had a chance I could do it!"
Her cheeks had taken on color. She looked like one inspired. Donaldson sat dumb in admiration37 of her splendid courage.
"How long," he asked, "how long would it take you to get ready to leave here?"
She scarcely understood. She didn't dare to understand for fear it might be a mistake.
"I mean," he said, "if you had a chance to go back to the farm how long would it take you to pack up?"
"You don't mean if—if I really had the chance?"
He nodded.
"Lord, if I had the chance—if I really had the chance, I 'd leave afore to-morrer night."
"To-morrow is Sunday. But it seems as though you might get ready to take the noon train on Tuesday."
She thought he was merely carrying her dream a little farther than she had ever ventured to carry it herself. So she looked at him with a smile checked half-way by the beauty of the fantasy.
"It's too good a'most to dream about," she sighed.
"It is n't a dream," he answered, "unless it is a dream come true. Pack up such things as you wish to take with you and be ready to leave at noon Tuesday."
"Peter Donaldson!"
"I 'm in earnest," he assured her.
"Peter, Peter, it can't be true! I can't believe it!"
There were tears in her eyes.
"Hush," he pleaded. "Don't—don't do that. Sit down. Had n't you better sit down?"
She obeyed as meekly38 as a child, her hands clasped in her lap.
"Now," he said, "I 'll tell you what I want to do; I 'm going to buy the farm for you and I 'm going to get a couple of cows or so, a yard full of chickens, a horse and a porker, and start you fair."
"But why should you do this?" she demanded.
"I don't exactly know," he answered. "But I 'm going to do for you so far as I can what Jim would have done if he had lived."
"But you did n't know Jim!"
"I did n't, but I know him now. The kids introduced me."
"He was a good man—a very good man, Peter."
"Yes, he must have been that. I am glad that I can do something to finish a good man's work."
"You are rich? You can afford this?"
"Yes, I can afford it. But I don't feel that I 'm giving,—I 'm getting. It would not be possible for me to use my money with greater satisfaction to myself."
"Oh, you are generous!"
"No, not I. I can't claim that. I 've been selfish—intensely, cowardly selfish."
He meant to stand squarely before this woman. He would not soil his act by any hypocrisy39. But she only smiled back at him unbelieving.
He glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He was ready now to return to the hotel. He wished to leave at once, for he shrank from the undeserved gratitude40 he saw welling up in her eyes.
"You must listen carefully to what I tell you," he said, "for I may not be able to see you again before you leave. Do you think you can get ready without any help?"
"Yes," she answered excitedly; "there is n't much here to pack up."
"If I were you I would n't pack up anything but what I could put in a trunk. Sell off these things for what you can get and start fresh. I'll send you enough to furnish the house."
"I ought to do that much myself," she objected feebly.
"No, I want to do this thing right up chuck. As soon as I reach the hotel I will telephone the Deacon. If I can't buy that house, I 'll get another, and in either case, I will drop you a note to-night. I 'll arrange to have the deed left with some one up there, and I 'll also deposit in the local bank enough for the other things. So all you 've to do is to get ready and start on Tuesday. Do you understand?"
"Yes! Yes!" she gasped41. "But it doesn't sound true—it sounds like a dream."
"Are you going to have faith enough to act on it?"
"Oh, I did n't mean that I doubted! I trust you, Peter Donaldson."
He reached in his pocket and took out five ten-dollar bills.
"This is for your fare and to settle up any little accounts you may have."
She took the money with trembling fingers while Bobby and Sis crowded around to gape42 at it.
"There," exclaimed Donaldson in relief. "Now you 're all fixed43 up, and on Monday morning Bobby can throw up his job. He can fire the company."
"Gee44!" he gasped.
And almost before any of them could catch their breath he had kissed the baby, gripped Mrs. Wentworth's hand a second, and with a "S'long" to the others disappeared as though, Sis declared, a magician had waved his wand over him.
It was after nine before he finally reached the Waldorf. No message was waiting for him from either the girl or Saul. He hunted up the telephone operator at once.
"Call up Berringdon, Vermont, for me, please."
"With whom do you wish to talk?"
"With Deacon Staples."
He smiled as he saw the hands of the clock pointing to nine-thirty. It was long after the Deacon's bedtime.
![](../../../skin/default/image/4.jpg)
点击
收听单词发音
![收听单词发音](/template/default/tingnovel/images/play.gif)
1
technically
![]() |
|
adv.专门地,技术上地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
2
lone
![]() |
|
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
3
fussy
![]() |
|
adj.为琐事担忧的,过分装饰的,爱挑剔的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
4
spoke
![]() |
|
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
5
remarkably
![]() |
|
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
6
conspicuous
![]() |
|
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
7
orphan
![]() |
|
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
8
chuckled
![]() |
|
轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
9
ancestry
![]() |
|
n.祖先,家世 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
10
tightened
![]() |
|
收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)变紧; (使)绷紧; 加紧 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
11
braced
![]() |
|
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
12
tangled
![]() |
|
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
13
automobile
![]() |
|
n.汽车,机动车 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
14
simplicity
![]() |
|
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
15
enlisted
![]() |
|
adj.应募入伍的v.(使)入伍, (使)参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 );获得(帮助或支持) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
16
faucet
![]() |
|
n.水龙头 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
17
standing
![]() |
|
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
18
sweeping
![]() |
|
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
19
laconically
![]() |
|
adv.简短地,简洁地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
20
chuckling
![]() |
|
轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
21
determined
![]() |
|
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
22
automobiles
![]() |
|
n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
23
recital
![]() |
|
n.朗诵,独奏会,独唱会 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
24
incisive
![]() |
|
adj.敏锐的,机敏的,锋利的,切入的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
25
offset
![]() |
|
n.分支,补偿;v.抵消,补偿 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
26
countless
![]() |
|
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
27
utterly
![]() |
|
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
28
wrenched
![]() |
|
v.(猛力地)扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 );扭伤;使感到痛苦;使悲痛 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
29
abruptly
![]() |
|
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
30
staples
![]() |
|
n.(某国的)主要产品( staple的名词复数 );钉书钉;U 形钉;主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
31
revival
![]() |
|
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
32
clump
![]() |
|
n.树丛,草丛;vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
33
awakening
![]() |
|
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
34
dormant
![]() |
|
adj.暂停活动的;休眠的;潜伏的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
35
tinkle
![]() |
|
vi.叮当作响;n.叮当声 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
36
gutters
![]() |
|
(路边)排水沟( gutter的名词复数 ); 阴沟; (屋顶的)天沟; 贫贱的境地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
37
admiration
![]() |
|
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
38
meekly
![]() |
|
adv.温顺地,逆来顺受地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
39
hypocrisy
![]() |
|
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
40
gratitude
![]() |
|
adj.感激,感谢 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
41
gasped
![]() |
|
v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 );喘息;倒抽气;很想要 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
42
gape
![]() |
|
v.张口,打呵欠,目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
43
fixed
![]() |
|
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
44
gee
![]() |
|
n.马;int.向右!前进!,惊讶时所发声音;v.向右转 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
欢迎访问英文小说网 |