When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused before the closed door. He did not expect Barstow to be in. He hoped that he was not. He did not wish to face him to-day. To-morrow perhaps—but he realized that if Barstow had gone on his proposed vacation he would not be back even then. That did not matter either. The single thing remaining for him to do was to make Elaine understand something of what his life had meant, what she had meant in it, what he hoped to mean to her in the silent future. That must be done alone, and this of all places was where he could best do it. The mere7 thought of his room at the hotel was repulsive8 to him.
He listened at the door. There was no sound—no sound save the interminable "tick-tock, tick-tock" which still haunted him through the pulse beats in his wrists. He reached forward and touched the knob; listened again, and then turned it and pressed. The door was locked. But it was a feeble affair. Barstow had made his experimental laboratory in this old building to get away from the inquisitive9, and half of the time did not take the trouble to turn the key when he left, for there was little of value here.
He knocked on the chance that Barstow might have lain down upon the sofa for a nap. Again he waited until he heard the "tick-tock, tick-tock" at his wrists. Then, pressing his body close to the lock, he turned the knob and pushed steadily10. It weakened. He drew back a little and threw his weight more heavily against it. The lock gave and the door swung open.
The sight of the threadbare sofa was as reassuring11 as the face of an old friend. Yet what an eternity12 it seemed since he had sat there and discussed his barren life with Barstow. The phrases he had used came back to mock him. He had talked of the things that lay beyond his reach, while even then they were at his hand, had he been but hardy13 enough to seize them; he had spoken of what money could buy for him, with love eagerly pressing greater gifts upon him without price; he had hungered for freedom with freedom his for the taking. Sailors have died of thirst at the broad mouth of the Amazon, thinking it to be the open salt sea; so he was dying in the midst of clean, sweet life.
He sat down on the sofa, with his head between his hands and stared at the glittering rows of bottles which caught the sun. Each one of them was a laughing demon14. They danced and winked15 their eyes—yellow, blue, and blood-red. There were a hundred of them keeping step to the bobbing shadows upon the floor. Row upon row of them—purple, brown, and blood-red—all dancing, all laughing.
"You come out wrong every time," Barstow had said.
And he—he had laughed back even as the bottles were doing.
He was not cringing16 even now. He was asking no pity, no mercy. When he had stepped across the room and had taken down that bottle, he had been clear-headed; he had been clear-headed when he had swallowed its contents. The only relief he craved17 for himself was to be allowed to remain clear-headed until he should have written his letter. Coming up the stairs he feared lest this might not be. Now he seemed to be steadying once more.
He thought of Sandy. Poor pup, he had gone out easily enough. He had curled up on a friendly knee and gone to sleep. That was all there had been to it. It would be an odd thing, he mused18, if the dog was where he could look down on this man-struggle. This braced19 him up; he would not have even this dog see him die other than bravely.
As far as he himself was concerned, he knew that he would go unflinchingly to meet his final creditor20, but there were the Others—with Sandy there had been no Others. It was easy enough to die alone, but when in addition to one's own death throes one had to bear those of others,—that was harder. When he died, it would be as when several died. There would be that mother in Vermont—part of her would die with him; there would be Saul—even part of him would die with him; there was Ben—some of him would die, too; and there was Elaine—good God, how much of her would die with him?
He sprang to his feet and began to pace the stained wooden floor. As he did so, a shadow crawled, from beneath the sofa and stole across the room like a rat. But unlike a rat, it did not disappear into a hole; it came back again towards Donaldson. He stopped. Close to the ground the shadow crept nearer until he saw that it was a dog. Then he saw that it was a black terrier. Then he saw that in size, color, and general appearance it was the living double of Sandy.
He stooped and extended his hand. He tried to pronounce the name, but his lips were too dry. The dog crouched21, frightened, some three feet distant. Donaldson, squatting22 there, watched him with straining eyes. Once again he tried to utter the name. It stuck in his throat, but at the inarticulate cry he made, the dog wagged his tail so feebly that it scarcely moved its shadow. Donaldson ventured nearer. The dog rolled over to its back and held up its trembling forefeet on guard, studying Donaldson through half closed eyes with its head turned sideways.
Donaldson put forward his trembling fingers and touched its side. The dog was warm, even as Sandy had been when he first picked him up. The dog feebly waved his padded paws and finally rested them upon Donaldson's hand.
"Sandy! Sandy!" he murmured, his voice scarcely above a whisper.
The dumb mouth moved nearer to lick the man's fingers, but his movements were negative as far as any recognition of the name went. It was just the friendly overture23 of any dog to any man.
If he could get him to answer to the name! It meant life—a chance for life! It meant, perhaps, that there had been some mistake—that, perhaps, after all, the poison was not so deadly as Barstow had thought it.
He threw himself upon the floor beside the dog. In the body of this black terrier centred everything in life that a man holds most dear. If he could speak—if the dumb tongue could wag an answer to that one question!
The dog turned over and crawled nearer. Donaldson fixed24 his burning eyes upon the blinking brute25.
"Sandy," he cried, "is this you, Sandy?"
The moist tongue reached for his fingers.
He took a deep breath. He said,
"Dick—is this you, Dick?"
Again the moist tongue reached for his fingers.
Donaldson picked him up.
"Sandy," he cried, "answer me."
The dog closed his eyes as though expecting a blow.
Donaldson dropped him. The animal crawled away beneath the sofa. Donaldson felt more alone that minute than he had ever felt in all his life. It was as though he sat there, the sole living thing in the broad universe. There was nothing left but the blinking eyes of the bottles dancing in still brisker joy. He could not endure it.
Moving across the room he knelt by the sofa and tried to coax26 the frightened animal out again.
"Sandy. Come, Sandy," he called.
There was no show of life. He snapped his fingers. He groped beneath the old lounge. Then, in a frenzy27 of fear, lest it had all been an apparition28, he swung the sofa into the middle of the room. The dog followed beneath it, but he caught a glimpse of him. He pushed the sofa back to the wall and began to coax again.
"Come out, Sandy. I 'll not hurt you. Come, Sandy."
There was a scratching movement and then the tip of a hot, dry nose appeared.
"Come. That 's a good dog. Come."
He could hear the tail vigorously thumping30 the floor, but the head appeared only inch by inch. Donaldson held his breath.
"Come," he whispered.
Slowly, with the sly pretension31 that it demanded a tremendous physical effort, the dog emerged and stood shivering beneath the big hand which smoothed its back with cooing words of assurance.
"Why, I was n't going to hurt you, Sandy," whispered Donaldson, finding comfort in pronouncing the name. "I was n't going to hurt you. We 're old friends. Don't you remember, Sandy? Don't you remember the night I held you? Don't you remember that, Sandy?"
The dog looked up at him moistening its own dry mouth. In every detail this was the same dog he had held upon his knee while arguing with Barstow. He made another test.
"Mike," he called.
In response the pup wagged his tail good naturedly and with more confidence now.
Donaldson caught his breath. Locked within that tiny brute brain was the secret of what waited for him on the morrow: love and the glories of a big life, or death and oblivion. The answer was there behind those moist eyes. But if he could reach Barstow—
Here was a new hope. He could ask him if this was Sandy, and so spare himself the terrors of the night to come. He had the right to do that as long as he abided by the decision. There was a telephone here, and he knew that Barstow lived in an up-town apartment house, so that some one was sure to be in. He found the number in the battered32, chemical-stained directory, and put in his call. It seemed an hour before he received his reply.
"No, sir, Mr. Barstow is away. Any message?"
"Where has he gone?" asked Donaldson dully.
"He's off on a yachting cruise, sir."
It would have been impossible for him to withdraw more completely out of reach.
"When do you expect him back?"
"I don't know, sir. He said he might be gone a day or two or perhaps a week."
"And he left?"
"Last Friday—very unexpectedly."
Donaldson hung up the receiver, which had grown in his hand as heavy as lead. He turned back to the dog, who had jumped upon the sofa and was now cuddled into a corner. He lifted his head and began to tremble again as Donaldson came nearer.
"Still afraid of me?" he asked with a sad smile. "Why, there is n't enough of me left to be afraid of, pup. There 's only about a day of me left and we ought to be friends during that time."
He nestled his head down upon the warm body. The dog licked his hair affectionately. The kindness went to his heart. The attention was soothing33, restful. He responded to it the more, because this dog was to him the one thing left in the world alive. He snuggled closer to the silky hide and continued to talk, finding comfort in the sound of his own voice and the insensate response of the warm head.
"We ought to be good comrades—you and I—Sandy, because we 're all alone here in this old rat trap. When a man's alone, Sandy, anything else in the world that's alive is his brother. The only thing that counts is being alive. Why, a fly is a better thing than the dead man he crawls over. And if there be a live man, a dead man, and a fly, then the fly and the live man are brothers. So you and I are brothers, and we must fight the devil-eyes in those bottles together."
They danced before him now—yellow, blue, and blood-red. A more perfect semblance34 of an evil gnome35 could not be made than the flickering36 reflection of the sunlight in the bottle of blood-red liquid. It was never still. It skipped from the bottom of the bottle to the top and from one side to the other, as though in drunken ecstasy37.
It fascinated Donaldson with the allurement38 of the gruesome. It was such a restless, scarlet39 thing! It looked as though it were trying to get out of its prison and in baffled rage was shooting its fangs40 at the sides, like a bottled viper41.
"See it, Sandy? It's trying to get at us. But it can't, if we keep together. It's only when a man's alone that those things have any power. And the little devil knows it. If it were not for you, Sandy, the thing might drive me mad—might make me mad before I had written my letter!"
He sprang to his feet in sudden passion, and the dog with all four feet planted stiffly on the sofa gave a sharp bark. This broke the tension at once.
"That's the dog," Donaldson praised him. "When the shadows get too close bark at 'em like that!"
The bellicose42 attitude of the tiny body brought a smile to Donaldson's mouth. This, too, was like a bromide to shaking nerves.
But in this position the dog did not so closely resemble that other dog which he had held upon his knee. He looked thinner, more angular. His ears were cocked like two stiff v-shaped funnels43. Now he looked like an older dog. It was more reasonable to suppose, Donaldson realized, that Barstow had two dogs of this same breed than that a dead dog had come to life.
"Sandy!" he called sharply.
The dog wagged his stub-tail with vigor29.
"Spike44!" he called again.
The tail wagged on with undiminished enthusiasm.
Donaldson passed his hand over his forehead.
This was as useless as to try to solve the enigma45 of the Sphinx. The dog's lips were sealed as tightly as the stone lips; the barrier between his brain and Donaldson's brain was as high as that between the man-chiseled46 image and the man who chiseled. He was only wasting his time on such a task, time that he should use in the framing of his letter.
He sat down again upon the sofa, took the dog upon his knee, and tried to think. Before him the bottles danced—purple, brown, and blood-red. He closed his eyes. He would begin his letter like this:
"To the most wonderful woman in all the world."
He would do this because it was true. There was no other woman like her. No other woman would have so helped an old man in his battle with himself; no other woman would have stayed on there alone in that house and would have helped the son in his battle with himself; no other woman would have followed him as she had wished to do and help him fight his battle with himself. But she was the most wonderful woman in the world because of the white courage she had shown in standing47 before him and telling of her love. The eyes of her—the glory in her hair—the marvel48 in her cheeks—the smile of her!
He opened his eyes. The devil in the bottle directly in front of him was more impish than it had been at all. Donaldson rose. The pup rolled to the floor. Donaldson crossed the room, picked out the bottle, drew back his arm, and hurled49 it against the wall, where it broke into a thousand pieces. It left a gory-looking blotch50 where it struck. He went back to the sofa. The dog crept to his side again. Before him a devil danced in a purple bottle. He closed his eyes.
He would begin his letter, then, like that. He would go on to tell her that he was unable to compute51 his life save in terms of her, that it had its beginning in her, grew to its fulness through her, and now had reached its zenith in her. At the brook52 when he had clasped her in his arms, he had drunk one deep draught53 of her.
He lost himself in one hot love phrase after another. He poured out his soul in words he had left unspoken to her. He was back again before the fire, telling her all that he did not tell her then. One gorgeous image after another swarmed54 to his brain. He was like a poet gone mad. He crowded sentence upon sentence, superlative upon superlative, until he found himself upon his feet, his cheeks hot, and his breath coming short. Then he caught sight of the crimson55 stain upon the wall and felt himself a murderer. He staggered back and threw himself full-length upon the couch, panting like one at the end of a long run. He lay here very quietly.
The dog crawled to his side and licked the hair at his hot temple.
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1
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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3
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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6
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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7
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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8
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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9
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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10
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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11
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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12
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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13
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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14
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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15
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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16
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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17
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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18
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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19
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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20
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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21
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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23
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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24
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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25
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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27
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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28
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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29
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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30
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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31
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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32
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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33
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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34
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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35
gnome
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| n.土地神；侏儒，地精 | |
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36
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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37
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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38
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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39
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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40
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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41
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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42
bellicose
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| adj.好战的；好争吵的 | |
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43
funnels
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| 漏斗( funnel的名词复数 )； （轮船，火车等的）烟囱 | |
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44
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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45
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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46
chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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47
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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48
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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49
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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50
blotch
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| n.大斑点；红斑点；v.使沾上污渍，弄脏 | |
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51
compute
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| v./n.计算，估计 | |
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52
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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53
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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54
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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55
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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