Aunt Sue was installed as supreme3 power in the sick-room. Grace's life hung by a thread for days, and before the doctor could be sure that all would be well the disquieting4 news of Joe Tobet's arrest came to disturb them still further.
Snow lay deep over everything before Grace came down among them, a pale wraith5 of a woman, but with a deepened sweetness of expectation in her face. They feared to tell her of Joe's predicament, but knew afterward6 that it would have been better to do so; for she was to discover it in one of those unforeseen, brutal7 ways that so often accompany the disasters of the poor. One day a shivering small boy brought a note to the back door, and Grace herself happened to be the one to take it in. It would have been less cruel to give her a coal of living fire.
The folded paper was soiled, as if it had been passed from hand to hand. Its pencilled words were:
"You or she told Youl be got even with Curs you JOE."
Grace waited to speak of it until the doctor came. Then her dignity of manner was a revelation to Rosamund, who had yet to discover that elemental passions can sometimes be as silent as the ages that create them.
Rosamund exclaimed, and motioned to him not to reply; but he was wiser than she. His answer, as simple and direct as her question, gave no evidence of surprise. "In the city. The jail is stronger there."
"Will they let him out?"
"The evidence may not be enough to hold him. He is awaiting trial."
"Will we know if they let him out?"
"I think so."
Then she gave him the soiled paper, which he read and passed on to Rosamund. "He wrote that," she said. "Miss Rose hadn't ought to be here when he gets out."
She gave Rosamund a look of agonized9 tenderness, then left them. Presently they heard her walking in her room upstairs, up and down, up and down. Ogilvie shook his head when Rosamund asked him to go up to her.
"She must work it out alone," he said. "She's strong enough."
But Rosamund, uneasy, went to Mother Cary.
"Yes, she's strong enough," the old woman said, when she had heard all about it. "Land! She's got to be! An' she's jest got to fight it out by herself. Don't you try to cross her, honey, nor say anything to ease her, 'cause that ain't the way to treat hurts like that. Joe's her man, an' she'd lay down her life for him, ef 'twas only her own life; an' I reckon even ef she thought 'twould save his soul she couldn't 'a' found stren'th to tell on him. Yet that's what he thinks she done! Eh, me! The contrairy fools men like him can be when they sets out!"
"He's not worth her caring for! He's not worth it!"
"Land, no! I shouldn't think he was! But that ain't got a mite10 to do with it! Women folks don't care for them they ought to care for, jest because they ought to; nor they don't stop carin' when they ought to stop, neither. An' Joe bein' her man, she can't give a thought to whether he's worth it or not; she's jest got to go on lovin' him."
"But, oh!" the girl cried, "shouldn't you think his distrust would make her loathe11 him? To know herself a true and faithful wife, and to be distrusted! Oh!"
Mother Cary's eyes were very bright as she looked out of the window across the snowy field to where Pap was cutting down a tree for firewood. She took one of Rosamund's hands in hers before she spoke, and patted it.
"Yes, I reckon distrust must be about one of the hardest things to set down under," she said. "I know somethin' about it, 'cause time was when I distrusted Pap, though 'twas before we was married, o' course. I distrusted Pap's love, like poor Joe distrusts Grace's. I thought he couldn't possibly love me enough to last for ever an' always, me bein' crippled up like I be; an' I thought it wasn't fair to let him try. So I up an' run away. I tried to get to the station an' so back to the city. It was a long ol' walk for me, an' I had to hide all one night in a barn. But betwixt walkin' an' hobblin' an' crawlin' I got to the station at last; an' there was Pap a-waitin' to take me into his arms, which he did then an' there, good an' strong. I ain't never tried to get far from 'em sence!"
Rosamund was afraid to break the thread of the story by a question, and the old woman mused12 a while before she went on.
"I reckon there's a door o' distrust that most of us have to open and pass through an' shet fast behind us, before we get to the place where's only content, an' love, an' trust. It ain't confined to jest a few; 'pears to me most everybody has to go through it."
Again she paused, while the girl waited.
"When your time comes, honey—an' I hope it will come, 'cause you can't rightly feel the glory tell you know the shadder—when your time comes to feel distrust, or have it felt against you, jest you do as your Ma Cary tells you! You take a firm holt o' your heart and your thoughts, an' don't you let 'em turn all topsy-turvy! You jest take a firm holt on 'em an' wait. WAIT! Don't run away, like I did; 'cause they ain't any more Pap Carys in the world! It ain't everybody you'd find ahead of you at the station, waitin'. You jest remember that it ain't but a door, even though the doorsill does seem dretful wide. It'll shet behind you, when the right time comes, an' you'll find yo'self a-standin' in the land o' content. That's the best dwellin'-place there is, I'm a-tellin' you!"
Rosamund had not been alone with John Ogilvie since the afternoon, three weeks earlier, when Flood's automobile13 interrupted them; but during the interval14 she was conscious of an uplift of the soul, a new serenity15.
One of the great memories of her life was of an hour of her childhood when for the first time a revelation of something beyond her childish world was vouchsafed16 to her. She had been awakened17 at night by a touch of light upon her face; the full moon shone through her window, and its rays had called her from sleep. In her little bare feet she slipped from bed and went toward the casement18, drawn19 by the moon-magic to look upon the beauty her early bedtime had left undiscovered. Great dark masses of cloud floated across the face of the golden disc, black on the side that hung over the shadowy fields and woods, but shining with a marvelous radiance where the moonlight touched them from above.
The child had watched them floating, forming, massing, until they had passed away to the horizon, and left the moon, a floating ship of light, far, far up in the sky, dimming the brilliance20 of the stars. She had crept back to her little bed with a new sense of things hitherto undreamed of in her childish imaginings, yet never again to be entirely21 lost—a sense of majesty22, of order and immutability23, of strange beauty, and of the Greatness that kept watch while she, a little child, safely slumbered24.
The hour left its mark upon her entire life; and now once more such an impression of security, of beauty, and perhaps of destiny had been laid upon her in the moment when she had faced his soul through John Ogilvie's eyes.
There was no need to hasten further revelation. Indeed, she did not wish for it. She was more than content to rest for a while in the calm of unspoken assurance. It was enough, as much as the hours would hold, until they could grow used to it and expand to the greater glory that was to come.
Ogilvie, too, had something of the same sense of uplift. He, too, had had his revelation. But, man-like, he would have grasped at once at something more definite, more dear, if he had not, with a lover's keenness of intuition, seen that Rosamund was satisfied to wait. He had no fear, no misconception; he felt, rather, a reverence25 which forbade his hastening her toward the avowal26 which would bring the surrender he so ardently27 desired. The same force of love which made him long for it, made him also too tender to urge it. His coming to the brown cottage every day was too much a matter of custom to be remarked upon. There were Eleanor and Grace, Yetta and Timmy to talk to, as well as Rosamund; and he fell into the way of arriving in time for the mid-day dinner, just as Tim fell into the way of waiting for him with the announcement of what good things Aunt Susan was going to give them to eat. Rosamund teased Ogilvie about it a little, but Eleanor, the ostensible28 hostess, remembered the ancient person with whom he lived, took pity on him, and kept him as often as she could. Indeed, Eleanor, like Mother Cary, regarded him as an overgrown boy, very much in need of maternal29 attentions; if she suspected the state of affairs between him and Rosamund, she tactfully gave no sign of it. So Ogilvie came and went as naturally as if he were a member of the household, and his daily sight of Rosamund lent him patience.
But always he was on the watch for signs of the distrust that still muttered against "the stranger woman." Grace's taking refuge in the brown house had affected30 the mountaineers in two ways. One faction31—for so strongly did each side feel that there were, indeed, definite factions—held that Rosamund had only offered her the shelter which any woman would have given to another in such sore need, and declared that all of Grace's friends were bound to Rosamund by the obligation of gratitude32. The other faction, and perhaps the larger, held that if Grace had not actually betrayed her husband to the authorities, she had run away from him and so failed in her duty of hiding him, and that Rosamund shared her guilt33, if, indeed, she was not directly responsible for it. Mother Cary, whom all adored, came in for a share of blame, for being friends with the guilty ones, and even the doctor, though he was known to be faithfully in sympathy with all his mountain patients, and though no one suspected his integrity toward them, found many faces turned away from him which had hitherto shown only confidence and affection.
That Rosamund was aware of the state of things he could only guess; she gallantly34 denied any uneasiness, although there were many evidences of the bad feeling against her. They were only trivial things, little annoyances35, surly answers, eyes that would not see her; yet they told their story with unmistakable plainness.
It was while things were in this unsettled state that she was surprised by a second visit from Flood and Pendleton; not, this time, in the car, for the roads were impassable. They drove up in the only sleigh that was for hire at the Summit.
Pendleton had hardly got out of his great fur coat before he opened fire; he had evidently come primed.
"What's all this about arrests and moonshiners, Rosamund?" he demanded. "Cecilia's very uneasy. Had a letter from her day before yesterday, saying she'd come herself if she could do any good, and wouldn't I run up and look around a bit. So here we are, both of us, because Flood wouldn't be left behind!"
"That wasn't quite fair of Cecilia," Rosamund said, flushing angrily. Pendleton had promptly got on her nerves with the alacrity36 that only an old friend is capable of. "I thought I had made it plain that I mean to be let alone."
"Oh, please!" Flood, the peacemaker, besought37 them; and Rosamund had come to like his helpless "Oh, please!" so well that she smiled at him, though her eyes were still bright with anger.
"I say, Pendleton," he went on, "you're always trying to fight with Miss Randall." Pendleton only grinned at him. "Really, Miss Randall, we haven't come to interfere38, not in the very least, I assure you! Mrs. Maxwell did write; but we wanted very much to see you. That is why I came, anyway!"
So far he dared venture, and at the very bathos of his distress39 Rosamund laughed, and peace reigned40 again. She told them of Tobet's arrest, and that his wife was now a member of her household. She declared that there remained no possible danger, with Joe out of the way.
Pendleton appealed to Eleanor; and Flood, too, gave her a questioning look. She could not hide her anxiety; but that she was not afraid to admit it gave Flood a feeling of security that he would have missed if she had shown herself, like Rosamund, inclined to deny the danger. For Flood believed that the newspaper accounts of trouble present and to come must be the smoke of some fire; yet he feared only a possible unpleasantness for Rosamund, rather than any actual danger.
Ogilvie came in while they were still discussing it. To-day there were no traces of tell-tale emotion to be hidden. He had seen the sleigh before the house, guessed who were within, and now showed himself unaffectedly glad to see Flood. Rosamund inwardly trembled lest Ogilvie should express himself on the subject of the mountaineers' suspicions; she could not know that a look, passed between himself and Flood, was enough to set Flood on the alert.
She talked feverishly41 while they were at dinner, and her heart sank when, afterwards, Pendleton announced that he was hit with an idea. He was standing42 at the window, taking in the white sweeps and stretches of snow, the black trunks of the leafless trees, the dark pyramids of the spruces, the more distant shadow of pines.
"Jove!" he cried. "Just look at those slopes for skiing and tobogganing! It's better than Davos!"
Then he turned from the window, his hands deep in his pockets, and stood in front of Rosamund, his head on one side, tipping backward and forward from heels to toes.
"I say, Rosy," he said, "the best way you can convince us, and poor dear Cecilia, that you are safe up here is to let us stay for a while and see for ourselves!"
Rosamund flushed; he was so wilfully43 provoking. "Marshall! How can you? You know very well I can't have two men in my house! Why do you want to make me appear so inhospitable?"
Flood, too, looked as if he would like to express himself forcibly. "Oh, I say, Pendleton——" he began.
But Ogilvie, apparently44, saw something of good in the suggestion. "That's a capital idea, Mr. Pendleton," he said. "Stay up here a while, and see for yourselves. I'll be very glad to put you up, if Mrs. Reeves will invite us over to dinner once in a while! My landlady45 isn't much of a chef!"
Flood had turned to him quickly, with a keen look of questioning. "Could you really, old man?" he asked.
But Rosamund, biting her lip in dismay, would not look at him.
"I can snow-fight!" Tim announced. "I know how to make a snow man, too! My muvver showed me!"
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收听单词发音
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1
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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glamor
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| n.魅力，吸引力 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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8
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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9
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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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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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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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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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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immutability
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| n.不变(性) | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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36
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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37
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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38
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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39
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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40
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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41
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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42
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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43
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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44
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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45
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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46
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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