"One thing after another came back to her."
"One thing after another came back to her."
After the car had borne away her irate2 sister and friends, the red-headed doctor carefully went over his directions to her, and she had some difficulty in ignoring the twinkle in his eyes; Cecilia's horror and Flood's disgust had been as amusing as Pendleton's lazy irony3. But before supper the doctor, too, had hurried away. Flood had not offered him a lift, and the walk back to the Summit was long. Father Cary, whom she found to be a friendly giant with a well-developed rustic4 sense of humor, had driven off with his tiny wife down the mountain to their daughter's home, leaving Yetta to clear away the supper.
Until then the black eyes of that other daughter of cities had scarcely left Rosamund. As soon as she had washed and put away the dishes, she came to the door of the room where the little boy lay, and after asking if 'the lady' were afraid of the quiet and dark, she went upstairs.
Then Rosamund stood at the window and watched the stars come out. The great boles of the oaks and chestnuts5 in the strip of woods across the way drew about themselves mantles6 of shadow. An apple fell from a tree near the low, white spring-house, and a cricket began to chirp7. From some lower mountain slope there sounded the faint tinkle8 of a cow bell, and still farther down the valley twinkling lights marked, in the darkness, the places where people were gathered—little beacons9 of home; and she knew that overhead there shone another light, set in a window by the old woman before she went down the mountain. The placing of that light in the window, Mother Cary had told her, was the uninterrupted custom of the house since her first child was born. On that day of wonder, when the shadows had deepened in the quiet room where the miracle had taken place, they had set a lamp on the window sill, and a light had burned in the same window every night since then, a signal to all who should see it that happiness had come to live on the mountain, and still dwelt there. It was so small a light that, even when dark closed in, the girl standing10 beneath it could scarcely discern its rays; yet she knew that it was large enough to be seen far off, miles down the valley, across on the other mountains. Flood had told her of seeing it from Doctor Ogilvie's house at the Summit. She felt its symbolism—so small and humble11 a light, shedding its rays and carrying its message so far; and with that thought there came another.
This humble life of love and service, how beautiful it was! Only that morning she had believed her life the real one, her world the only one worth living in; but already she was beginning to suspect that there might be a life more real, a world less circumscribed12. She looked back into the little bedroom, and beyond into the dimly lighted kitchen; it was so poor a house, so rich a home!
And of their poverty these mountain folk had given immeasurable largesse13 to how many waifs—dust of the city's greed and sin, taken them into this loving shelter, tended them back to usefulness, taught them cleanliness of heart and body. Yet even to the waif so rescued the city's power of harm reached out! How strange it was that the boy lying there should have escaped so many of the city's dangers, found this safe refuge on the mountain, and then have been injured on a quiet country road by one of those very dangers he had dodged14 every day since he first toddled15 across city streets!
As she watched the child, another thought presented itself, caused her cheeks to burn in the dark, sent a wave of disgust and shame over her: these people, who had added nothing to the city's harm, recognized their responsibility to the city's offspring; whereas Flood and Pendleton, her sister and herself, who fed upon the city and its workers, would almost have left the boy by the roadside, but for very shame of one another. Her friends believed her whimsical, unreasonable17, utterly18 foolish to watch beside him through one night; and she had been, in her inmost heart, taking credit to herself for doing so!
She asked herself whether, indeed, she would have remained, if it had not been for the compelling force of Ogilvie, no less insistent19 for being unvoiced. She recalled what Flood had told her about him; yet, now that she had met him, all of Flood's enthusiasm did not seem to explain the man, and she smiled as she remembered how little of that enthusiasm poor Flood had shown in his disgust at Ogilvie's quiet demand for her assistance. She felt suddenly ashamed as she admitted to herself her secret delight in teasing Flood and Cecilia and Marshall by obeying the doctor's appeal. In her growing humility20 she was almost ready to believe that there had been no impulse of good in her remaining. Yet she knew that she would have had to remain, even if the others had not been there. What manner of man, she wondered, was this red-headed country doctor who had first aroused the admiration21 of a man like Benson Flood, and now had forced Rosamund Randall to perform a service that, a day before, she would have thought a menial one? Certainly he must differ in many respects from the men she had hitherto met.
The loudly ticking clock on the kitchen mantel struck off hour after hour. A lusty cock began calling his fellows long before the fading of the stars. Rosamund, standing again at the breast-high casement22 of the little window, for the first time in her life watched the day break. Rosy23 fingers of light reached up from the eastern mountains; valley and hillsides threw off their purple and silver wrappings of night, and gradually took on their natural colors; little fitful gusts24 of air, sweet with night-drawn fragrance25, touched her face at the window; from their nests in the near-by fruit-trees faint, sleepy twitterings soon increased to a joyful26 chorus of bird music; the shadows melted, it was day, and the world awoke; but it was a new world to Rosamund. She had touched the pulse of life, and with the dawn there was born in her heart a purpose, feeble and immature27 as yet, but as surely purpose as the newborn babe is man.
Father Cary came up the mountain early to attend to his cattle, bringing word that his daughter was not so well, and that Mother Cary could not leave her until later in the day, but that Miss Randall was to feel at home, and Yetta was to do all she could for her comfort. He had made breakfast ready by the time Rosamund came into the kitchen; and presently Yetta stumbled down the stairs, yawning and sleepy-eyed.
"Gee28!" she said, by way of morning greeting, "If this place ain't the limit for sleep! When I first come up here I jist had to set up in bed an' listen to the quiet; kept me awake all night, it did. Now I want to sleep all day an' all night, too! Ain't it the limit?"
"But that's the best thing in the world for you," Rosamund said, and smiled at her. The girl must have divined a difference in the smile, for she beamed cheerfully back.
"That's what Doctor Ogilvie says," she replied. "All's the matter with me is m'eyes. Y'see I been sewin' ever since I's about as big as a peanut; first I sewed on buttons to help my mother, an' then I sewed beads29. There was my mother an' me an' m'father, on'y he wasn't ever there; an' we had four boarders. Course the boarders had to set next to the light, an' I couldn't see very well. Then after my mother died, I sewed collars day-times and beads at night, till I got the job in the shirt-waist shop. Tha's where m'eyes got inspected—they don't never inspect you till you get a good job. It don't do me no good to know my eyes is bad; I could a told 'em that m'self—only thing is, that was the reason they sent me up here, so I've that much to thank 'em for, I guess. Still, I——"
But Father Cary interrupted the stream of chatter30. "Now look a here," he said, "supposin' you do less talkin' an' more eatin'! Two glasses of milk, two dishes o' oatmeal, and two eggs is what you got to get away with before you get up from this table."
But Yetta's tongue was irrepressible. "You watch me!" she replied, and grinned at him, her black eyes sparkling. "That's another funny thing about the country," she informed Rosamund, nodding. It was evident that she believed Miss Randall to be as much a stranger to the country as she herself had been. "In the city all you want to eat in the mornin' is a bite o' bread an' some tea; nobody ever heard o' eatin' eggs in the mornin', nor oatmeal any other time; but here—Gee! I can stow away eggs while the band plays on, an' tea ain't in it with milk—this yere kind o' milk!"
Rosamund's strained ear caught a faint rustle31 from the inner room; she sprang up, followed closely by the others; the child had moved his head, and his eyes were closed; before that they had been ever so slightly open. Rosamund laid her hand upon his forehead, bent32 down so that his breath fanned her soft cheek. Then she looked up at Father Cary.
"I believe he is really sleeping, not unconscious," she whispered. "I think we must keep very, very quiet."
Yetta nodded, tiptoed out of the room, and presently Father Cary's large form passed the window on the way to the stable.
So again was Rosamund's vigil renewed, unbroken through several hours except by faint noises from without, the humming of a locust33, the chirps34 of birds, the homely35 conversation of some chickens, who had stolen up to the little house, lonely for Mother Cary. She must have dozed36, for it seemed only a short time before the kitchen clock struck eleven, and almost at the same moment the doctor stood in the doorway37, with Mother Cary behind him.
The doctor's hair had been very much blown by the wind, but it would have taken more than wind to send his smile awry38.
"Morning!" he threw towards Rosamund.
She was at once aware that he thought of her only as the child's nurse, oblivious39 of all that other men saw in her, of her beauty and grace, of the signs of wealth and well-being40 in her garments and bearing. It amused her, though her smile was, perhaps, a little disdainful.
The boy was better; the doctor could find no serious injuries. "I am sure the car barely touched him," Rosamund said, and the doctor nodded.
"But it sometimes takes so little to shock the life out of a little underfed, weakened body like this," he said. "There's nothing to fight with, nothing to build on."
Rosamund's hand went over her heart. "Then you think," she asked, "you think that he will not——"
"On the contrary, I am very sure that he will," the doctor smiled at her. "Mother Cary, here, will teach you how to make him well."
Mother Cary laid her wrinkled hand on the girl's arm, but Rosamund's eyes filled with tears. "Poor mite41!" she said, bending over the child, "we will try to make you well—but I don't know what for!"
Then Mother Cary spoke42 for the first time since her return. "Don't you trouble yourself about the what for, dearie," she said. "Folks is got plenty to keep 'em busy with the 'what way' and the 'what next' without troublin' themselves with the 'what for.' Ain't it so, Doctor?"
"It most certainly is," the red-headed doctor agreed, running his fingers through his already tousled hair. When he had given her further directions for the care of the child and driven off behind his jogging old white mare43, he seemed to have left with her some of his own happy energy and assurance. Quite suddenly, the fatigue44 of her sleepless45 night fell from her, and from some unsuspected inner store-house of strength there crept a serenity46 and determination hitherto undreamed of. The boy would sleep, the doctor had told her, until late afternoon, probably awake hungry and thirsty, and then ought to sleep again; he must be kept very quiet, nourished regularly and lightly, made clean and comfortable; such careful and ceaseless nursing should, in a week or two, bring him out with even more strength than he had had before. So, until afternoon, there would be little for her to do.
She went into the kitchen to be with the old woman, who was moving about with her queer, crab-like motion of crutches47 and hands, preparing their dinner; Yetta had taken herself to the fields.
"No, indeedy, you can't help me one mite," Mother Cary declared, "exceptin' by settin' in that arm cheer and puttin' your pretty head back and restin.' There's nothin' I enjoy more'n a body to talk to whilst I'm a gettin' dinner, or supper. Yetta ain't that kind of a body, though! Land! The way the child can talk, and the things she knows!" Mother Cary turned about from her biscuit board to emphasize her horror. "Honey," she said, impressively, "that child knows more o' the world, the bad side of it, than—well, than I do!"
Rosamund smiled, and the old woman shook her head at her. "Oh, I was brought up in the city, honey," she told her, "so I know more about it than you think for. That's what makes me glad the doctor brought us a girl, this time; she's the first girl we've had this summer. I wisht it might be that she could stay up here as I did, but land! they ain't but one Pap! Pap jest made me stay, and me a cripple, too! He said he couldn't be happy without somebody to look after; and whilst it was a new idea to me then, I come to see the sense of it many a long year ago! That poor little Yetta! It's her eyes is bad. They ain't so bad but what they won't do well enough for most things; but all she knows how to do is to sew beads and buttons and run a big sewin' machine in a shop. They say her eyes won't hold out for that! Land! If I was rich, I'd have her taught music, that's what I'd do! You jest ought to hear the child sing, dearie! To hear her in the evenin's settin' down on the fence an' singin', why, it's prettier 'n a whip-poor-will a-callin'. It wouldn't surprise me a mite if Yetta could be learnt to sing that well, with some new songs and such, that folks would pay money to hear her!"
"Perhaps we could find some way to help her," Miss Randall suggested. Mother Cary flashed a keen look at her.
"Do you know any rich folks, honey, that might?" she asked eagerly. "Yetta's a good little thing, for all the bad she knows. An' she jest loves an' loves whatever is pretty an' sweet!"
"I think perhaps I do know someone," Rosamund said. "But I wanted especially to ask you to let me board with you here for a while. Is there room for me?"
"Room a plenty, dearie," the old woman said, as she hobbled to the door to strike the metal hoop48 that swung from the over-hanging floor of the second story. "But," she added, when she had sent the summons ringing out to Pap and Yetta, and had come back and seated herself near the girl, "but there ain't any call for you to pay. Pap an' me has a plenty to share with folks that come our way; and you're helpin' with Timmy. I'd be real pleased to have you stay."
But Rosamund hesitated. "I'm afraid I cannot do that," she said, "unless you will let me pay something. I can afford it, really," she added, smiling.
For a long moment the old woman looked at her, keenly, kindly49, with the faintest, tenderest, most teasing smile on her little wrinkled face that was as brown as a nut. "An' can't you really afford to visit?" she asked. "There's a plenty of folks that can afford to pay and to give; there ain't so many as can afford to take and to be done for. Ain't you forgettin' which kind you be?"
Rosamund lifted her head, and looked directly into the twinkling, faded old eyes. "No," she said, "I'm not forgetting the kind I am! I think I am only beginning to find out!"
Mother Cary laid her hand over the girl's in her usual gesture of caress50 before she hobbled to the dinner table. Pap and Yetta had come in and were already seating themselves.
It was the sweetest meal that Rosamund had ever tasted; but she had still to find out more about herself. They had not risen from the table when a musical view-halloo sounded up from the road below the stretch of woods, and in a moment Flood and Pendleton sprang out of the big red car and came briskly up the little walk. Rosamund went forward to meet them.
"Why, I say," said Flood, beaming at her, "you're looking right as a trivet, you know!"
Pendleton drawled: "Ah, fair knight-errantess! Miss Nightingale! Also Rose o' the World! You wouldn't be smiling like that if you knew Cecilia's state of mind!"
Rosamund laughed, and held out her hand to them. "I can imagine it," she said. "It's plain that I had better keep out of her way for a time!"
"I'm at your service," cried Flood bowing low: with mock servility, delighted at her merry mood, at her smiles which included even himself.
But Pendleton understood her better. "Now, what are you up to, Rosy?" he asked, severely51, uneasily. She came directly to the point.
"I am going to stay here," she announced.
Both men stared at her. "How d'ye mean?" asked Flood weakly.
"The deuce you are!" cried Pendleton.
"Oh! With Mrs. Reeves!" Flood beamed, as if he had found an answer even while asking.
"Is that it? Why didn't you say so? Where is Eleanor, anyway?" Pendleton asked.
Rosamund laughed again. "I'm sure I don't know!" she said. "She is at Bluemont, and that's miles away, isn't it? I haven't even asked. No, Marshall, no, Mr. Flood, I am going to stay here, right here, here in this house, or this valley, or this mountain, but here, here as long as I like—forever, if I want to! That's what I mean—or part of it!"
It was evident that her laughter carried more conviction than any amount of seriousness would have done. Poor Flood's face got redder, and he suddenly, after a stare, turned on his heel, and walked rather slowly down the path to his car, standing beside it with his arms folded, looking across at the strip of woods, but seeing nothing. Pendleton, however, felt it incumbent52 upon him to remonstrate53.
"Of course, we all know you can afford any whim16 you like, Rosamund," he said, in the tone of the old friend who dares, "but I think I ought to warn you that this sort of thing is not—not in the best of taste, you know! It is not done, really—in—in—among our sort, you know!"
Rosamund openly showed her amusement. "That is undoubtedly54 true, my dear Marshall," she said, "but this time it is going to be done! I am going to do it! You think it is a freak, and I'm sure I can say it isn't, because I don't in the least know what it is!"
"I think you're mad. If I had not been an unwilling55 observer of the accident, I should believe it was you had got concussion56, and not the infant."
"My dear Marshall, your diagnosis57 is wrong! I may have a—a disease, but it is not madness. Did you ever hear of people who had suffered from loss of memory for years and years and quite suddenly recovered it? Perhaps I'm one of those—I feel as if I had only just come to my senses!"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" said Pendleton.
"Don't you? I thought you wouldn't!" Again she laughed, and at the sound Flood started, looked back towards the house where she stood, radiant and lovely, framed in the doorway, and then got into his car.
But Pendleton had one further protest. "You can't stay in this—this hovel, alone, Rosamund! You can't think of doing it! Please remember I have got to go back to Cecilia! What on earth am I going to say to her?"
"Poor Marshall! Tell Cecilia, with my love, that I am going to stay here for the present. She may send me some clothes by express, or not, as she likes. Please give her my love, and tell her that I hope she will have a pleasant visit with the Whartons—she had better go there to-morrow. And try, my dear Marshall, to assure her of my sanity58! Good-by! Don't let me keep you waiting!"
Pendleton pushed back his hat, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and looked at her. Then he drew a long breath and delivered himself, oracularly. "Rosamund," he said, "you're a fool! You can't, you really can't, do this sort of thing, you know. Why, my dear girl, it—it is not done, you know, in—"
But Rosamund ran back into the house, turned a flashing, smiling look upon him over her shoulder, cried, "Good-by, Marshall! Give my love to Cecilia!" and was gone, leaving him there agape. There was really nothing for him to do but rejoin Flood.
Cecilia, however, remained for a time inconsolable. Flood and Pendleton motored back across the mountain, told Mrs. Maxwell of Rosamund's decision to remain indefinitely in the little cottage on the mountain, and forthwith avoided the presence of the irate lady as much as possible. Fortunately, the newly arriving week-end guests had to be entertained. They were very good and very stupid; but, as Pendleton said, anything was better than Cecilia in a temper.
Left to herself, Cecilia's mind was occupied with a veritable jack-straw puzzle of events, motives59, contingencies60. She had had good reason, before this, to know that Rosamund enjoyed unforeseen departures; but that anyone should deliberately61 choose to forego the luxuries of Oakleigh, to stay, instead, in what Mrs. Maxwell considered a peasant's cottage—such conduct, such a choice, were beyond the lady's imagination and experience. Rosamund must be wild; for surely not even pique62 at Cecilia's generalship, not even annoyance63 at Flood's attentions, not even the desire to be near that tiresome64 Eleanor Reeves, could have determined65 her to such a move. As for the accident, anyone could have cared for the child. Rosamund could have paid a dozen nurses to stay there, if she was charitably inclined; and certainly Mr. Flood had shown that he wanted to do what was right. Cecilia could not understand it.
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1
preclude
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| vt.阻止，排除，防止；妨碍 | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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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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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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largesse
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| n.慷慨援助，施舍 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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toddled
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的过去式和过去分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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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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locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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chirps
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的第三人称单数 )； 啾； 啾啾 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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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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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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