Her husband's mental attitude toward the doctor, if the truth be told, was one of the things that had never ceased to trouble her. Polite as he was to everybody, he had been so particularly polite to Sperry that it always aroused her suspicions. She knew he had sent for him purely4 to oblige her and to help her over the chasm5 which divided Big Shanty6 from Newport, but what other reasons her husband had for inviting7 him to share his hospitality at the camp, she was not so familiar with. It therefore came as a distinct surprise when she heard him repeat with increased warmth in his manner:
"Yes, a special Providence, my dear Dr. Sperry"—nor did the real cause of the doctor's welcome set her mind at rest.
"This way, doctor," continued Thayor, dragging Sperry with him. "Blakeman will bring your bag. One of our men is badly hurt; I was on my way to him when I heard you driving up. He's only a few rods away—hurry!"
The little man lay on his back on the floor of the lower shanty where the men had carried him. The chain cinching down a heavy sapling binding9 a load of shingles10 had snapped, and the wiry little Frenchman—Gaston Le Boeuf—who was standing11 on top of the load, had been shot into the air and landed in a ditch with his right forearm splintered in two. The pain was intense, both bones of the forearm—the ulnar and radius—being shattered transversely, the ulnar poking12 through the flesh in an ugly blue wound.
When Thayor and the doctor reached him, the Clown was holding the broken arm taut—he had to keep up a steady pull, for with the slightest release the knotty13 sinews and muscles would cause the broken forearm to fly back at right angles. Although this had happened a dozen times while they were bringing him in, the wiry little man did not utter a groan14. He lay there white, in a cold sweat, the corners of his black eyes crinkling over his bad luck. He had known what pain was before. Once on Bog15 River his skinning knife had slipped while he was dressing16 out a deer, and the keen blade had gone through his knotty calf17, severing18 the nerve; yet he had walked nearly a dozen miles back to Morrison's.
As Sperry entered, the circle of lumber19 jacks20 about the wounded man widened, then closed again about him, watching the doctor who soon had the broken arm in an improvised21 splint.
The man from the city rarely gets very close to a backwoods people unless he possesses sincerity22, democracy, and an inborn23 love of the woods—three virtues24 without which a man may remain always a stranger in the wilderness25.
The New York doctor possessed26 none of these qualities; moreover, he was pitifully unadaptable outside of the artificial world in which he posed. So much so that at first sight of the trapper and the Clown—two men whom Thayor had pointed27 out to him as being his most reliable assistants next to Holcomb—his only thought had been how Sam Thayor could have such eccentric boors28 on the place. He noticed, too, with irritation29 and astonishment, that none of the men raised their hats until Alice and Margaret arrived on the scene; then not a man among them remained covered.
What he did not notice, however, was the way the men around him were, to use the Clown's expression, "sizin' him up," as they did all city men and this before he had been ten minutes among them, with the result that the trapper had concluded that he looked like a man who was afraid of spoiling his clothes; that Holcomb and the Clown thought him sadly lacking in Sam Thayor's frank simplicity30; while the others stood about waiting for some word or gesture on which to hang their opinions.
But all this was changed now. With his ready skill Sperry had become, by the turn of his hand, so to speak, the Medicine Man of the tribe. They were even ready to let down their social barriers and extend to him all their friendship—a friendship he could have relied on for the rest of his days.
"Dunno as I ever see a neater job," remarked a big fellow—a former doubter—peering over the shoulders of the crowd, intent on the doctor's handling of the wounded arm.
"Yes—yes—" drawled the Clown. "Goll! seems 'ough he knowed jest whar to take hold."
"There," said Sperry, as he gave a final adjustment to the improvised bandage. "You had better get him to bed."
"By gar, Doc'," grunted31 the little man between his teeth, "what you goin' to do now, hein! I feel lot bettaire I tink eff I tak a drink." He had not even asked for a drop of water before, nor had he spoken a word.
"He may have it," said Sperry, in the voice he used at consultations32.
The Clown poured a tin cup full of whiskey and the little man drained it to the last drop.
"He'll suffer," said Sperry, turning to the trapper, "when the arm begins to swell33 under the bandage."
"Broke bad, Doc'?" asked the trapper.
"Yes, a compound fracture; but he'll be all right, my man, in a few weeks." Sperry opened a thin leather case, which he took from his bag, extracted a phial, and shook two whitish gray pills into the trapper's palm. "Give him one in an hour, and another to-night if he can't sleep," he said. He went over to the patient, felt his pulse, then with a nod to the rest, he started toward the door.
"Hold on, Doc'!" came from half a dozen in the group of lumber jacks; "won't ye take a leetle somethin' 'fore8 ye go?"
Sperry shook his head and smiled. "No, thank you," he said, half amused. "I seldom take anything before luncheon34."
"But, say—we'd like to fix it with ye—what's the damage, Doc'?" and half a dozen rough hands went into their trousers pockets. But Sperry only waved his hand in an embarrassed way in protest, and added:
"Of course not—what I have done for one of you men, I would do for anybody. I shall see him in the morning"—and he strode out of the shanty.
By this time the little Frenchman's eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily—he was dead drunk.
"Goll! warn't that an awful hooker ye give him, Freme?" asked the trapper. He turned to the sufferer, now that the doctor had disappeared, and drew an extra blanket tenderly over him.
"Wall, he ain't no home'path," replied the Clown with a grin; "'sides,
I presume likely he needed all he could git down him."
* * * * *
The days that followed were full of joy to Alice. Never had Thayor seen her in so merry a mood. Le Boeuf's broken arm had somehow changed Thayor's attitude toward his guest—so much so that the man's personality no longer jarred on him. He concluded that whatever suspicions he had had—and they were never definite—were groundless. Alice was simply bored in New York and Sperry amused her. That was the secret of his success with his women patients; she was bored here, and again Sperry amused her! Why not, then, give her all the pleasure she wanted? With this result fixed35 in his mind, his attitude to the "Exquisite36" changed. He even sought out ways in which his guest's stay could be made happy.
"You must see the trout37 pond, doctor," he would say. "Ah! you don't believe we've got one—but we have; you must show it to the doctor, my dear"—at which her eyes would seek her friend's, only to be met with an answering look and the words:
"Delighted, my dear Mrs. Thayor," as he dropped a second lump of sugar in his cup. Whereupon the two would disappear for the day, it being nearly dusk before they returned again to camp; Alice bounding into the living room radiant from her walk, her arms full of wild flowers.
There came a day, however, when Sperry, with one of his sudden resolves, preferred the daughter's company to the wife's. What had influenced his decision he must have confided38 to Alice—that is, his version of it—for when he asked Margaret to come for a walk, and had received the girl's answer, "I'm afraid we haven't time for a walk before luncheon," Alice had replied: "Of course you have. The walk will do you good."
What really determined39 him to seek Margaret's companionship was a desire to fathom40 her heart. She was her father's confidante, and as such might be dangerous, or useful. To have refused him Margaret knew would only have made matters worse. Much as she disliked him, she was grateful to him for having set the little Frenchman's arm; so she ran into the house and returned in a moment, her fresh young face shaded by a brim of straw covered with moss41 roses.
"What a pretty hat!" exclaimed Sperry, as they crossed the compound to the trail leading down to the brook42. "Oh, you young New York girls know just what is and what is not becoming."
"Do you think so?" returned Margaret vaguely43, not knowing just what answer to make. "It was my own idea."
Sperry looked at the young girl, fresh and trim in her youth, and a memory rushed over him of his Paris days. Margaret reminded him of Lucille, he thought to himself, all except the eyes—Lucille's eyes were black.
"Yes, it's adorable," he replied, drinking in the fresh beauty of the young girl. "You are very pretty, my dear—just like your mother." This line of attack had always succeeded in sounding the hearts of the young girls he had known.
The girl blushed—the freedom of his tone troubled, and then half frightened her. So much so that she walked on in silence, wishing she had not come. Then again it was the first time she had been entirely44 alone with him, and the feeling was not altogether a pleasant one. There was, too, a certain familiarity in his voice and manner which she would have resented in a younger man but which, somehow, she had to submit to.
She stopped abruptly45 as they came to a steep rock.
"Please go on ahead," she said with an appealing look in her brown eyes, as he put out his hand to help her down. "I can get down very well myself."
"Come, be sensible, little girl," he returned; "we must not have another accident to-day. Pretty ankles are as hard to mend as broken arms."
Again the colour mounted to her cheeks; no one had ever spoken to her in this way before.
"Please don't," she returned, her voice trembling.
"Don't what, may I ask?" he laughed.
"Please don't call me 'little girl'; I—I don't like it," she returned, not knowing what else to say and still uneasy—outraged, really, if she had understood her feelings. She sat down quickly, and as he turned to look at the torrent46 below, slid down the rock in safety. Sperry's brow knit. What surprised him was to find her different from the girls he had known. Then he said in an absent way:
"What splendid rapids!"
"It's the most beautiful old stream in the world," replied Margaret, glad he had found another topic besides herself.
"But be careful," he cautioned her a few rods farther on; "it's slippery here. Come, give me your arm."
Again she evaded47 him.
"I'm not an invalid," she laughed—she was farther from him now and her courage had accordingly increased.
"Of course you're not—whoever said you were. Invalids48 do not have cheeks like roses, my little girl, and yours are wonderful to-day."
The girl turned away her head in silence, and the two picked their steps the remainder of the way down to the brook without speaking. There she made a spring and landed on a flat rock about the edge of which swirled49 the green water of a broad pool. Sperry, undaunted, seated himself beside her.
"Margaret," he began, "why don't you like me? I seem to have offended you. Tell me, what have I said? I wouldn't offend you for the world, and you know it. Why don't you like me?" he repeated.
"Why, doctor!" she exclaimed with a forced little laugh that trembled in her fresh, young throat, "what a funny question!"
"I am quite serious," he added, with a sudden vibrant50 tone in his voice. Impulsively51 his hand closed over hers; she felt for a second the warm pressure of his fingers, the next instant she started to her feet.
"Don't!" she cried indignantly, flushing to the roots of her fair hair, her wide-open eyes staring at him. "You mustn't do that; I don't like it!" Her lips were trembling now, her eyes full of tears. Then she added helplessly "We had better be going—we shall be late for luncheon."
He was standing beside her now. "Then tell me you like me," he insisted. "Besides, we have loads of time. Why, it's only twenty minutes to one," he said, looking hurriedly at his watch, careful to conceal52 the tell-tale hands of its dial from her frightened glance.
Without answering the girl turned and began to retrace53 her steps.
"But you haven't said you like me," he called out, hurrying to her side.
Margaret did not speak; she only knew that her head was throbbing54, that she heard but indistinctly the words of the man who kept close to her as they went on up the steep trail. At the rock where she had been too quick for him, Sperry abruptly stepped in front of her, barring her way.
"Come now," he said; "be sensible. You must not go in to luncheon looking as you do." He put forth55 both hands to assist her up the rock; she offered her own mechanically, in a helpless sort of way, knowing it would be impossible to ascend56 otherwise while he was there. A quick, steady pull, and she was abreast57 of him, the brim of her gay little hat touching58 for a second his waistcoat. The moment was irresistible—in that second he was conscious of the fragrance59 and warmth of her girlhood. He felt her soft brown hands in his own, straining to release themselves.
"Don't!" she faltered60; "please—I beg of you—"
A voice behind him brought him to his senses:
"Beg pardon, miss, but luncheon is served."
It was Blakeman. The butler stood respectfully aside to let them pass. Slowly he followed the retreating form of the doctor and Margaret, his hands clenched61. For some seconds he stood immovable, then he broke hastily into the woods, cross-cutting back to his pantry.
"Damn him!" he muttered, as he squeezed the cork62 from a bottle of
Pomard. "I hadn't a second to lose!"
At luncheon Blakeman served the Burgundy without a trace upon his round, smug face of the indignation surging within him. His skilled hand replenished63 Sperry's glass generously.
The doctor grew talkative; he told his complete set of luncheon stories with enthusiasm, while Margaret sat in grateful silence; she was in no mood to talk herself; the incident of the morning had left her depressed64 and nervous.
"She's pulling out of it," he said to Alice when the girl had left the room. "Colour good and walks without losing her breath. I think now you can dismiss all anxiety from your mind. The woods have saved her life." What he said to himself was: "I made a mess of this morning's work; she's not such a fool as I thought."
The end of the week, and Sperry's last (for Thayor, despite all of Alice's numerous hints, had not asked that his visit be prolonged), brought Alice's paradise to a close. So far their days together had seemed like a dream—his departure the next morning would mean the renewal65 of an ennui66 which would continue until she reached the month of freedom which her husband had promised her.
If Thayor had noticed his wife's anxiety he made no sign. He had gratified her wishes and she had been happy; further than that he did not care to go.
As to Alice, that which occupied her waking thoughts was how to prolong the situation without letting the doctor feel her need of him. Then again there was her husband. Would he agree to a continuance of Sperry's visit if she proposed it outright67? She had lately noticed a certain reserved manner in Thayor whenever he found them together—nothing positive—but something unusual in one so universally courteous68 to everybody about him, especially a guest. Would this develop into antagonism69 if he read her thoughts?
That same day Sperry went twice to the lower shanty to see Le Boeuf. His increasing his usual morning visit to glance at the slowly mending fracture was sufficient to make Thayor inquire anxiously about the little Frenchman's condition.
"Is poor Le Boeuf worse?" he asked the doctor as they sat over their cigars in the den2 after dinner.
Sperry rose, bent70 over the lamp chimney and kindled71 the end of a fresh
Havana.
"I am afraid," he said, resuming his seat, "that the poor fellow's arm is in a rather discouraging condition. I shall see him again to-night."
Thayor frowned—the old worried look came again into his eyes. Suffering of any kind always affected72 him—suffering for which in a measure he was responsible was one of the things he could not bear.
"You don't say so!" he exclaimed; "that is bad news. I'm very, very sorry. You know my men are my children; there is not one of them who would not stand by me if I was ill or in danger. And you really consider Le Boeufs condition alarming?"
Sperry shrugged73 his shoulders. "A fracture like that sometimes gives us serious trouble," he replied in his best professional manner. "Frankly75, I do not like the looks of things at all."
"And he needs a doctor," Thayor said, suddenly looking up. "You will, of course, stay until he is out of danger?"
"No, I must return to New York," Sperry protested. "I feel I have already imposed on you and your good wife's hospitality; besides, there are my patients waiting. It is neither right nor fair to my assistant, Bainbridge. His last letter was rather savage," laughed Sperry.
"But can Le Boeuf be moved?"
"Well—er—no. Frankly, I would not take the risk."
"Then you consider his condition alarming?"
"Alarming enough to know that unless things take a sudden turn for the better, blood-poisoning will set in. We shall then have to amputate. These cases sometimes prove fatal."
"Then I will not hear of your going," Thayor said in a decisive tone—"at least not until Le Boeuf is out of danger. You have set his arm and are thoroughly76 in touch with the case. You must stay here and pull him through."
Sperry raised his arms in hopeless protest.
"Really, my dear Mr. Thayor, it is impossible," he said.
"No—nothing is impossible where a man's life is at stake," Thayor continued, lapsing77 into his old business-like manner. "As to your practice, you know me well enough to know I would not for a moment put you to any personal loss."
"But my dear Thayor—"
"I won't listen to you, Dr. Sperry. It is a matter of the life or death of one of my men—a man who, Holcomb tells me, has been most faithful in his work. I will not hear of your going, and that ends it!"
Sperry rose, and for some moments regarded intently the blue spiral of smoke from his cigar curl lazily past his nose; then with a smile of ill-concealed triumph and a slight shrug74 of acquiescence78, he replied:
"Of course, if you insist; yes, I'll stay. I shall do my best to save him."
"Thank you," cried Thayor. "Now we will join Alice and Margaret. He held back the heavy portiere screening the door of the living room.
"Not a word to Margaret, remember," Thayor whispered, "about Le Boeuf, nor to Mrs. Thayor—she doesn't like these things and I try to keep them from her all I can."
"Certainly not," returned the doctor. "It would only worry her.
Besides, I think I have a fighting chance to save him."
As they entered the living room Alice raised her eyes. Margaret put down a treatise79 on forestry80 that Holcomb had lent her, rose, and said good-night. She did not relish81 the thought of general conversation when the doctor was present—especially after the experiences she had had.
"Ah, Alice," said Thayor, as he crossed the room to where his wife was sitting, "I have a bit of news for you, my dear. Our friend here has positively82 refused to leave. Oh—it's the air," he added as the doctor laughed, "and the charm of old nature. You know, doctor, it's contagious83, this enchantment84 of the woods." Alice gave an involuntary start and the little ball of blue worsted in her lap dropped to the floor, and unravelled85 itself to the edge of the Persian rug.
"Not really!" she exclaimed, smothering86 her secret joy. "You see what a useless person I am at persuasion87, doctor. Come, be truthful88—didn't I try to persuade you to stay?"
"Yes, my dear lady, to be truthful you did; but I had no intention of wearing my welcome into shreds89."
The sense of an exquisite relief thrilled every nerve in Alice's body.
Sperry saw her breast heave a little, then their eyes met.
Thayor touched the bell for whiskey and soda90. As the doctor drained his second glass he snapped out his watch.
"I must look in on Le Boeuf," he said briskly.
Again Thayor touched the bell. "Blakeman will accompany you with a lantern, doctor."
Sperry turned and bid Alice a formal good-night. "Don't wait up for me; I may not be in until late—my overcoat, Blakeman"—and the two passed out into the night.
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1
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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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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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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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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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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42
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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53
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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54
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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56
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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58
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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59
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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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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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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63
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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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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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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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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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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73
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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79
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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80
forestry
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| n.森林学；林业 | |
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81
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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84
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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85
unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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89
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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90
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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