"Is this Deacon Staples3?"
"Yes. But I 'd like t' know what ye mean by gettin' a man outern bed at this time of night?"
"Why, you were n't in bed, Deacon!"
"In bed? See here, is this some confounded joke?"
"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"
"A—joke. Who are you, anyway?"
"I don't believe you remember me; I 'm Peter Donaldson."
"Don't recoleck your name. What d' ye want this time o' night?"
"Why, it's early yet, Deacon. You weren't really in bed!"
"I tell ye I was, an' that so is all decent folk. Once 'n fer all—what d'ye want?"
"I heard you had a house to sell."
"Wall, I ain't sellin' houses on th' Lord's day."
"Won't be Sunday for two hours and twenty minutes yet, Deacon. If you talk lively, you can do a day's work before then. What will you take for the old Burnham place?"
The deacon hesitated. He was a bit confused by this unusual way of doing business. It was too hurried an affair, and besides it did not give him an opportunity to size up his man. Nor did he know how familiar this possible purchaser was with the property.
"Where be you?" he demanded.
"In New York."
"In—see here, I rec'gnize your voice; you 're Billy Harkins down to the corner. Ye need n't think ye can play your jokes on me."
"We 've only two hours and a quarter left," warned Donaldson.
"Well, ye need n't think I 'm goin' to stand here in the cold fer thet long."
"It's warm 'nuff here," Donaldson answered genially4.
"Maybe ye 've gut5 more on than I have."
"Hush6, Deacon, there are ladies present."
"They ain't neither, down here. Our women are in bed, where they oughter be."
"Not at this hour! Why, the evening is young yet. But how much will you take?"
"Wal, th' place is wuth 'bout7 two thousand dollars."
Donaldson realized that it was the magic word "New York" which had so suddenly inflated8 the price. The deacon was taking a chance that this might be some wealthy New Yorker looking for a country home.
"Do you call that a fair price?" he asked.
"The house is in good condition, and thar 's over three acres of good grass land and ten acres of pasture with pooty trees in it."
"Just so. I 'm not able to look the place over, so I 'll have to depend upon your word for it. You consider that a fair price for the property?"
"Well, o' course, fer cash I might knock off fifty."
"I see. Then nineteen hundred and fifty is an honest value of the whole estate?"
"I 'low as much."
"Deacon."
"Yes" (eagerly).
"You 're a member of the church."
"Yes" (lamely).
"And you certainly would n't deal unfairly with a neighbor on Sunday?"
"What—"
"It's thirteen minutes of ten on a Saturday night. That's pretty near Sunday, is n't it?"
"What of it?" (suspiciously).
"Remember that advertisement you inserted in the Berringdon Gazette?"
There was a silence of a minute.
"Wall," faltered9 the deacon rather feebly, "I thought mebbe ye wanted the farm fer a summer place. It's wuth more fer that."
"It is n't worth a cent more. You simply tried to steal two hundred dollars."
"Ye mean ter say—"
"Exactly that; I 've prevented you from going to bed within two hours of the Lord's day with the theft of two hundred dollars on your soul."
"If ye think I 'm gonter stand up here in th' cold and listen to sech talk as thet—"
"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars cash for the place," interrupted Donaldson. "And remember that I know you through and through. I even know how much you stole from old man Burnham."
This was a chance shot, but it evidently went home from the sound of uneasy coughing and spluttering that came to him over the telephone. Donaldson found considerable amusement in grilling10 this country Shylock.
"Why, the house 'n' barn is wuth more 'n thet," the deacon exploded.
"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars, and mail the money to you to-night."
"See here, I don't know who ye be, but ye 're darned sassy. I won't trade with ye afore Monday an'—"
"Then you won't trade at all."
"I 'll split th'—"
"You 'll take that price or leave it."
"I'll take it, but—"
"Good," broke in Donaldson sharply. "The operator here is a witness. I 'll send the money to-night, and have a tenant11 in the house Tuesday. Good night, Deacon."
"If yer—"
The rest of the sentence faded into the jangle of the line, but Donaldson broke in again.
"Say, Deacon, were you really in bed at this time of night?"
"Gol darn—"
"Careful! Careful!"
"Wall, ye need n't think cause ye 're in N' York ye can be so all-fired smart."
A sharp click told him that the deacon had hung up the receiver in something of a temper. Donaldson came out of the booth, hesitated, and then put in another call. He found relaxation12 in the vaudeville13 picture he had of the spindle-shanked hypocrite fretting14 in the cold so many miles distant. He was morally certain that the old fellow had robbed the dying Burnham of half his scant15 property. If he had had the time he would have started a lawyer upon an investigation16. As he did n't, and he saw nothing more entertaining ahead of him until morning, he took satisfaction in pestering17 him as much as possible in this somewhat childish way.
"Keep at him until he answers," he ordered the girl.
It took ten minutes to rouse the deacon again.
"Is this Deacon Staples?" he inquired.
"Consarn ye—"
"I was n't sure you said good night. I should hate to think you went to sleep in a temper."
"It's none of your business how I go to sleep. If you ring me up again I 'll have the law on ye."
"So? I 'll return good for evil. I 'll give you a warning; look out for the ghost of old Burnham to-night."
"For what?"
There was fear in the voice. Donaldson smiled. This suggested a new cue.
"He's coming sure, because his daughter is a widow, and needs that money."
"I held his notes," the deacon explained, as though really anxious to offer an excuse. "I can prove it."
"Prove it to Burnham's ghost. He may go back."
"B—back where?"
"To his grave. He sleeps uneasy to-night."
"Be you crazy?"
"Look behind you—quick!"
The receiver dropped. Donaldson could hear it swinging against the wall. Without giving the deacon an opportunity to express his wrath18 and fears, Donaldson hung up his own receiver and cheerfully paid the cost of his twenty-minute talk.
In spite of the fact that on Thursday night he had slept only three hours, that on Friday night he had not even lain down, his mind was still alert. He did not have the slightest sense of weariness. It was rest enough for him to know that the girl was asleep, relaxation enough to recall the maiden19 joy that had freshened the eyes of Mrs. Wentworth.
It was too late to get a money-order, but he secured a check from the hotel manager for the amount, and finding in the Berringdon paper the name of a local lawyer whom he remembered as a boy, he mailed it to him with a letter of explanation. The deed was to be made out to Mrs. Alice E. Wentworth, and was to be held until she called for it. In case of any difficulty—for it occurred to him that the deacon might at the last moment sacrifice a good trade out of spite—the lawyer was to telegraph him at once at the Waldorf.
Then he looked up the time the Berringdon train left and wrote a note giving Mrs. Wentworth final detailed20 instructions.
Then still unwilling21 to trust himself alone with his thoughts, Donaldson remained about the lobby. He felt in touch here with all the wide world which lay spread out below the night sky. He studied with interest the weary travellers who were dropped here by steamers which had throbbed22 across so many turbulent watery23 miles, by locomotives hot from their steel-held course. The ever-changing figures absorbed him until, with her big shouldered husband, a woman entered who remotely resembled her he had been forced to leave to the protection of one old serving maid. Then in spite of himself, his thoughts ran wild again.
He hungered to get back to his old office, where, if he could find nothing else to do for her, he could at least bury himself in his law books. This unknown man strode across the lobby so confidently—every sturdy line of him suggesting blowsy strength. The unknown woman tripped along at his heels in absolute trust of it. And he, Donaldson, sat here, a helpless spectator, with a worthier24 woman trusting him as though he were such a man.
In rebellion he argued that it was absurd that such a passion as his towards a woman of whom he had seen so little should be genuine. His condition had made him mawkishly25 sentimental26. He had been fascinated like a callow youngster by her delicate, pretty features; by her deep gray eyes, her budding lips, her gentle voice. He would be writing verse next. He was free—free, and in one stroke he had placed the world at his feet. He was above it—beyond it, and every living human soul in it. He rose as though to challenge the hotel itself, which represented the crude active part of this world.
But with the memory of his afternoon, his declaration of independence lasted but a moment. He was back in the green fields with her—back in the blazing sunshine with her, and the knowledge that from there, not here, the road began along which lay everything his eager nature craved27.
Well, even so, was he going to cower28 back into a corner? There still remained to him five days. To use them decently he must keep to the present. The big future—the true future was dead. Admit it. There still remained a little future. Let him see what he could do with that.
A porter came in with a mop and swabbed up the deserted29 floors. Donaldson watched every movement of his strong arms and felt sorry, when, his part played, he retired30 to the wings. Then he went to his room. He partly undressed and threw himself upon the bed. It was then ten minutes of four on Sunday morning, May twenty-sixth.
In spite of his apparent wakefulness he napped, for when he came to himself again it was broad daylight. An anxious looking hotel clerk stood at the foot of his bed, while a pop-eyed bell-boy pressed close behind him. Donaldson rose to his elbow.
"What the devil are you doing in here?" he demanded.
The clerk appeared relieved by the sound of his voice.
"Why, sir, we got a bit worried about you. We weren't able to raise you all day yesterday."
"Could n't what? I sat up until two o'clock this morning in the lobby. I was awake in my room here two hours after that!"
"You must be mistaken, sir. We rang your room telephone several times yesterday, and pounded at your door without getting an answer."
"I was away during the day, but I was here all last night. I asked you particularly if any call had been received for me."
The clerk smiled tentatively.
"The chamber-maid found you in bed at eleven o'clock in the morning, sir."
"The chamber-maid must have come into the wrong room," answered Donaldson, beginning to suspect that he had caught the two men in the act of thieving. "I was n't in bed at all yesterday, and left the city at nine o'clock."
The clerk hitched31 uneasily. It was evident to him that Donaldson had been drinking, and had the usual morning-after reluctance32 about admitting it. The night telephone operator had said that he had acted queer. However, as long as the man was n't dead this did n't concern him.
"Sorry the mistake was made, sir," he replied, anxious now to conciliate the guest. "I would n't have bothered you only the lady said the call was urgent."
"Good lord, man, what call?"
"It is to ring up Miss Arsdale's house at once, sir."
"When did you get that?" demanded Donaldson, as he sprang from his bed.
"This morning, sir, at one o'clock."
In three strides Donaldson was across the room. The hotel attendants crowded one another in their efforts to get out.
Donaldson gave the number and waited, every pulse beat of time throbbing33 hot through his temples. She had called and been unable to rouse him, while he lay there like a yokel34 and dreamed of her! He conjured35 up visions of all sorts of disaster. The boy might have returned and—he shuddered36 and drew back from the suggestion. He refused to imagine. He beat a tattoo37 with the inane38 hook which summons Central.
"Number does n't answer, sir," came the reply.
"They must answer! You must make them answer."
Again the interminable wait; again the dead reply. He hung up the receiver. The hallucinations which swarmed39 through his brain taken in connection with the meaningless talk of the hotel employees made him fear an instant for his sanity40.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and devoted41 five minutes to the concentration of his mind upon the fact that he must be cool, must be steady. Else he would be of no use to any one. He must be deliberate. Then he dressed himself with complete self-possession.
When he came down into the lobby he noticed with some astonishment42 the business-like appearance of the place for Sunday morning. The clerk glanced at him curiously43 as he approached. Donaldson spoke44 with exaggerated slowness and precision.
"I wish," he said, "that you would kindly45 make a careful note of any messages which may come to me to-day. Your error of this morning—"
He stopped as his eye caught the calendar, and its big black numeral. It read Monday, May 27. He looked from the calendar to the clerk.
"Have n't you made a mistake?" Donaldson asked.
"No, sir. Shall I send a boy with you to the Turkish baths, sir?"
Then the truth dawned upon him; he had lost in sleep one whole precious day!
And the girl—
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1
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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2
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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3
staples
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| 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 ) | |
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4
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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5
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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6
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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7
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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8
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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9
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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10
grilling
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| v.烧烤( grill的现在分词 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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11
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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12
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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13
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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14
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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15
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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16
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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17
pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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18
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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19
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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20
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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21
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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22
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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23
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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24
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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25
mawkishly
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| adv.mawkish（淡而无味的）的变形 | |
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26
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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27
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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28
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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29
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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30
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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31
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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32
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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33
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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34
yokel
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| n.乡下人；农夫 | |
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35
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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36
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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37
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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38
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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39
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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40
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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41
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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42
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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43
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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44
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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45
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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