“What about the watcher of the dead?” Thurley said softly.
“The watcher must have some one to keep him company and when the last one that has died has stayed with him long enough and goes away, they do say the watcher goes about the village looking into faces to see in which lies the shadow of death—and he loses no time in taking him so that he will have company. Miss Clergy1 remembered the story. She went to sleep sayin’, ‘Tell Thurley—to—use—her—own—judgment.’”
“Ali Baba—did she—” Thurley grasped his arm.
He nodded. “Just like I said—‘Tell—Thurley—to—use—her—own judgment,’—and then she looks up at me and she says, ‘An hour’s drive, Ali Baba—not too fast.’” His rough hand was across his eyes.
“Are you quite sure, Ali Baba, that she knew what she was saying?”
“As sure as I am what you are askin’,” the old man answered.
Miss Clergy’s will was dated the year that Thurley went with her to New York. It left, requiring neither bond nor security, everything to Thurley Precore.
[392]
But the excitement over the death and the disposal of the fortune was increased by Thurley’s prompt use of it. Even the war lost its prominence2 when Thurley in remarkably3 short time gave out a statement declaring her intentions.
Her contracts would be kept but after the present season Thurley Precore was to retire for a year at least, in which she would devote herself—secretly, she whispered, “to being a gray angel and helping4 Bliss5,” but to the public she named it “to the philanthropic enterprise which, with Miss Clergy’s money, was to be started.”
She wrote Bliss Hobart as school-girlish and impulsive6 a note as one could imagine, setting forth7 her gray angel theories in superlative fashion, even underlining and putting exclamation8 points in pairs and punctuating9 sentences by a wriggling10 up and down mark which she said he was to consider as “a grin.”
“Of course you’ll be rushed to death when this reaches you,” she concluded, “but you must hear me out. Remember, I listened to all you told me! Never could I spend all that money for myself nor in a sense would it be right. Miss Clergy should have lived down her disappointment, married and raised her boys to fight and her girls to wait and serve. Why should I, stranger that I am, use the money for personal pleasures? I will not even buy a bankrupt title with it.” Here she drew a very large “grin” mark.
“I am buying all the deserted11 lake houses—we have begun negotiations12 for them and together with the Fincherie there will be a little city of ex-soldiers learning new trades, forgetting empty sleeves and wheel-chair means of travelling, shell shock, snagged souls—all the wilful13 things which prevent settling down to every day living.
“It seems to me, Bliss Hobart, it will always be up to one-tenth of the world to look after the other nine-tenths—so this enterprise[393] will not end as the tapping of crutches14 dies away. The soldiers must, of necessity, come first. But there is to be a permanent ‘practical art’ colony there—to teach all who need to be taught the thing best fitted for him—or her. (Grin mark.) There are to be ‘hers’!
“Life may be shorn of fineries and extravagances and it may be simple—but it need never be sordid15 and unendurable and that is what I shall try to prove. My heart is set on having flower beds of deep, purple violets and mignonette for the lawns, sun dials with comforting mottoes—there will be a task—the carving16 of them. I want the one before the Fincherie itself to read:
“‘And as our years do run apace,
Let us love God
And live in peace.’
“Do you like it? (Grin mark.)
“I shall have huge, copper17 lanterns to light the roads at night, there must be yellow ivy18 and gorse about the walls and cool, gray lavender as a background for pink ramblers and yellow tea roses and, oh, gray angel, I must have a wind screen of willows19. I shall build a great archway in the middle of the estate and a stone fence encircling it all. Over the archway I want a thick, oak slab20 with this motto cut in by a master hand: ‘God gave them a great thing to do—and they did it.’
“In each house there shall be particular equipment for particular occupations. Children’s theaters—and fine weaving—carving of wood and ivory and copying brocades. Just see the work to be done, the joy of it—and the pity, too! There must be a bee farm and a poultry21 annex22 and I’ve a regular bag of tricks up my sleeve. I’ve Ali Baba as overseer—Betsey and Hopeful as managers—and myself (grin mark) to demonstrate the practical worth of your vision.
“For you are the dreamer and I the doer. We are, in our relations, the same as that of science towards theology: ‘Nous nous saluons mais nous ne parlons pas.’ Is it not so? (Wee grin mark.) You speak but you are afraid to do and I am afraid to[394] speak but I must do. There, write me you will come to my Fincherie and see my children and give us your blessing23,
“Thurley.”
She received her answer via wire the night she returned to New York unwillingly24 to sing her first concert.
“Not a gray angel but white. Wait until I can say not write it.
“B. H.”
All New York whispered that “the Precore voice” was more ravishing than ever, particularly when it sang love songs!
While Thurley bustled25 about between her season and her remodelling26 of the lake colony and assembling her new family, the original family underwent some thrilling events.
Hobart was taken unawares with a fresh budget of duties which kept him West without respite27, although he went so far as to send Thurley numerous flowergrams and offer donations towards her Fincherie, writing notes in which he demanded more details as to the work and advice as to her career.
Polly Harris had a mysterious surprise which resolved itself into a great success. It was not the grand opera that Polly stubbornly dreamed of during the lean years of struggle; without warning, she composed and had published camp songs which roused the country to topnotch enthusiasm. They were jingles28, really, but with sincere sentiments, a tinge29 of humor and a vigorous little melody—they sprang from the depths of Polly’s loyal heart, bravely relinquishing30 opera ambitions because “a song fights as well as an army,” she decided31, locking her attic32 door and preparing to drudge33.
[395]
“I feel light-headed,” she informed Thurley when she came to the latter’s apartment to tell all about it. “As if I were going to open my eyes to find myself in a dentist’s chair, following the taking of old fashioned laughing gas while I lost a wisdom tooth! That it would be the same ‘’ammer, ’ammer, ’ammer on the broad ’ighway’ for yours truly! Oh, don’t ask how I wrote them—how do you sing or Bliss direct—or Collin paint?” she added softly.
“Come, sit in my lap, Polly,” said Thurley suddenly. “I’ve always wanted to have you, you’re such a featherweight and I’m so huge. I always wanted to capture you and make you hear me out. You don’t know how glad I am for you and what wonderful things are ahead for every one.” She beckoned34 so enticingly35 that Polly, the same, unspoiled Polly in brown smock and shabby boots, perched herself on Thurley’s knee while they talked it all out. The Fincherie Colony and Hobart’s precious dreams, the useless, selfish work Caleb was doing, Ernestine’s amusingly complaining letters, Lissa’s lack of success in finding a duke or a blue-blooded patroness, the threat that she might have to cut her hair short if she was really going to stay—what would become of that lazy rascal36 of a Mark?—and here was Collin giving no one a hint as to what he was doing. And then Polly flushed and she said awkwardly:
“Perhaps he will come to care a little, now, Thurley—success sometimes makes people seem different—more desirable, doesn’t it? I know it ought not to be the bait—but when you have cared so long—you are reckless. Money never brings a person the real things, does it?” And Polly began to sob37, as she had refrained from sobbing38 for years while Thurley rocked her in her arms, playing comforting gray angel and understanding woman[396] all in one. They ended quite normally by a heated argument as to whether Polly should or should not—now that she was to be placed on a pedestal with Francis Scott Key—wear a distinctive39 costume while she toured the country and sang her songs—say a bright red sailor and a blue cloth cape40 with a single line of white braid—and didn’t she feel ashamed to make such distressing41 faces because Thurley was planning a pink chiffon evening dress for her—base ingratitude42 of these newly arrived!
So Polly toured the country in the costume Thurley designed, singing her songs and meeting with success, while music shops plastered their windows with Polly Harris’ latest, and news of her triumph echoed in the trenches43 to startle Ernestine into cabling congratulations and Lissa into groaning44 in envy. Polly was to join Bliss in San Francisco for a spring campaign and, when she visited Thurley at the Fincherie, she took endless photographs and mental notes of the colony with which to regale45 him, asking if there was any special message Thurley wished him to have.
“How wonderfully it is coming on! How kind every one is and workmen seem to do wonders in no time! We shall have the last house restored by July—and tell him we have two hundred boys here and they say they never want to move along—”
“I mean personal message,” Polly interrupted.
Thurley shook her head.
“I’ll use my own judgment,” Polly added, not knowing how dangerously near she came to repeating words of grave and liberating46 importance.
The third event of the family happened in June when Ernestine and Caleb met each other at the steamer pier47. Having faced reality and realized what she was not[397] capable of doing, Ernestine was flying home in honest haste to try to do what she felt was her duty.
She looked forward to meeting Caleb as the same sentimental48 person who would propose to her before they had passed down the gangway. Ernestine had discovered that reality, while a stern friend at first, was a sincere and lasting49 one. The ooze50 had vanished from her scheme of things since she faced the horrors of—not war—but of the jumblers-in such as Lissa and Mark and the hysterical51 young things from Birge’s Corners. She had even come across Hortense Quinby who was occupied by making intellectual love to a thick-set young private who contemptuously accepted her affection with the excuse, “An educated dame52 is better than no one—but when I get back to my girl in Harlem—” while Hortense told herself that this Jo Carter had a soul above being an elevator boy; his was a spirit destined53 to lead men; and she tried to check his constant assault on the King’s English and planned on being his “fairy godmother” when he should return to America! Ernestine had watched with disapproval54 the onslaught of débutantes upon the regulars who accepted the adoration55 with scornful grins and conceited56 smirks57, allowing these delicately bred and reared young creatures who had been so bored or misunderstood by their families, to lavish58 their attentions on them unchecked. She had seen, by way of contrast, the capable, heroic men and women who managed with admirable tact59 to suppress these feverish60 young things from doing their worst and yet not allow them to escape without a whirl at the grindstone. Ernestine looked upon these young things as one does at straggling boys, stray dogs and hoboes who invariably follow the wind-up of any dignified61 and splendid procession, tagging[398] after and convinced in their own minds they are attracting as much attention as the mounted police who swish along in advance.
Having looked honestly at reality and judged it fairly, Ernestine had honestly judged of both her former and her present self. She felt she could never return to the unreal, intensive selfishness which she had fostered and excused under the title of “being different”—that she could greet Caleb in almost flapper fashion, saying,
“Here I am, ready to marry you! Let’s have a general confession62. First, one Caleb Patmore has never done his best work—but he will. Secondly63, one Ernestine Christian64 has been a neurotic65, selfish soul but she is going to reform.”
Caleb met her, to be sure. But before he spoke66 she knew some catastrophe67 had happened in his affairs. As he piloted her to her apartment, trying to ask interested questions, and saying that she looked fagged and he thanked heaven she was not going for public talks, Ernestine waited for him to speak of himself.
To her amazement68, he would have left her at the doorway69. But she took his arm, as Thurley might have done, in impulsive fashion and commanded him to come inside.
Rather unwillingly, he obeyed, telling about Thurley and her “rather far-fetched scheme,” and Polly’s success and her tour of the country with Bliss who must be “completely out of his element” boosting for this and that and actually prophesying70 a near and sudden peace. Had she seen much of Mark? How was Lissa getting on? And where was Collin,—no need for him to rush over to fight beside bricklayers!
“What has happened,” Ernestine asked. “You are trying to lie to me—by silence. Don’t—don’t you[399] care any more?” feeling a reluctance71 to speak of her own change of heart.
“Of course, but you can’t love a beggar,” he flung back roughly. “You don’t mean to say that when it’s too late you’ve come back prepared to marry a bankrupt—a failure,” his teeth gritted72 together.
“What are you babbling73 of? Please don’t be like a Henry James conversation, say it! I’ve learned to honor directness of speech and action.”
“I’ll oblige you and take my leave. The damned public is as fickle74 as a weather vane. They raved75 over my ‘Patriotic Burglar’—I made more off of it than any three of my other books. The public couldn’t get enough of it. And I went ahead, as I always do,” this with insolent76 assurance, “on my next best seller, ‘Military Molly’—no plot but a pretty girl, German spy and Yankee hero—it is enough for these days—there was to be a red, white and blue cover on it and Molly in her nursing costume. And the firm refused it! They dared to say the tide has turned against war fiction, people felt reality too keenly to want imaginary woes77 and victories pictured for them—they said that to me, Caleb Patmore,” he was unconscious of his absurdity78, “when my books have made more money for them than any other author they have. They said it was thin and I had better take a long rest ... that an editor’s greatest need in the world was to discover whether or not an author was trying to kid himself and to disillusionize him as quickly and painlessly as possible—” he tried to laugh.
“That is not so bad,” Ernestine said quietly, “it had to come some time. Rest for a year and then see what your viewpoints are.”
“But I’m stony79 broke! I never dreamed I’d be turned down! They dared tell me the story had nothing to[400] commend it save questionable80 cleverness in nomenclature.... Why, I was hard to convince when they first wrote me; I had made some bad plays on the stock market—I counted on ‘Military Molly’ to pull me out of the hole and my next book, ‘The Battles of Billy Girl,’ to get me back to where I was a year ago. I guess there will never be any more of my books, unless some one stakes me to publish independently and every one shies when you hint of it ... would you, Ernestine?”
“Not if you were never to speak to me.”
He gave a half snarl81, half exclamation. “You always wanted to see me a failure! Enjoy yourself,”—picking up his hat.
“Caleb, I came back because I was not needed over there. I came back to be a real woman—and my first job is to make you a real man. I shall marry you, almost before I unpack82 my trunks, and proceed to show you that the really great things in life are never written out; that your firm have had the courage, no matter what their motive83, to show you the truth, and your wife is going to see that you follow it!”
As he stared at her, half enraged84 and half delighted, he realized that here spoke a new and rejuvenated85 woman and artist combined. The clever, sallow face was blushing prettily86 and there was something softly beautiful in the dark eyes.
At that moment neither knew they were about to join Thurley’s angel-band and with the gray angels not to sing—but to do.
“Suppose I’m a permanent failure, grumbling87 and jealous of your success and bitter towards the world at large? You want to take such a risk? And it is a risk, laugh all you wish and shake your head, I’m terribly done[401] up, feel gone to bits, brain of an oyster88 and my nerves are shaky—”
“You remind me of nothing more terrible, Caleb, than the picture over which the world has often smiled: the tiny lad sitting on a doorstep and murmuring in hopes cruel relatives will overhear and be grief-stricken and remorseful89, ‘I’m going into the garden to eat worms!’ And we all know, relatives included, what a stampede indoors there would be if some one called out, ‘But, oh, Jack90, before you do, let’s go to the circus and have pink lemonade—’.”
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1
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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punctuating
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的现在分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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remodelling
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的现在分词 ) | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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jingles
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| 叮当声( jingle的名词复数 )； 节拍十分规则的简单诗歌 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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beckoned
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enticingly
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rascal
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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smirks
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| n.傻笑，得意的笑( smirk的名词复数 )v.傻笑( smirk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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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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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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69
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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72
gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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73
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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74
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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81
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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82
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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83
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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84
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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85
rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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86
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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87
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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88
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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89
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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90
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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