Philip, in luck, had become suddenly a person of consideration, whose speech was freighted with meaning, whose looks were all significant. The words of the proprietor1 of a rich coal mine have a golden sound, and his common sayings are repeated as if they were solid wisdom.
Philip wished to be alone; his good fortune at this moment seemed an empty mockery, one of those sarcasms2 of fate, such as that which spreads a dainty banquet for the man who has no appetite. He had longed for success principally for Ruth’s sake; and perhaps now, at this very moment of his triumph, she was dying.
“Shust what I said, Mister Sederling,” the landlord of the Ilium hotel kept repeating. “I dold Jake Schmidt he find him dere shust so sure as noting.”
“You ought to have taken a share, Mr. Dusenheimer,” said Philip.
“Yaas, I know. But d’old woman, she say ‘You sticks to your pisiness. So I sticks to ’em. Und I makes noting. Dat Mister Prierly, he don’t never come back here no more, ain’t it?”
“Why?” asked Philip.
“Vell, dere is so many peers, and so many oder dhrinks, I got ’em all set down, ven he coomes back.”
It was a long night for Philip, and a restless one. At any other time the swing of the cars would have lulled3 him to sleep, and the rattle4 and clank of wheels and rails, the roar of the whirling iron would have only been cheerful reminders5 of swift and safe travel. Now they were voices of warning and taunting6; and instead of going rapidly the train seemed to crawl at a snail’s pace. And it not only crawled, but it frequently stopped; and when it stopped it stood dead still and there was an ominous7 silence. Was anything the matter, he wondered. Only a station probably. Perhaps, he thought, a telegraphic station. And then he listened eagerly. Would the conductor open the door and ask for Philip Sterling8, and hand him a fatal dispatch?
How long they seemed to wait. And then slowly beginning to move, they were off again, shaking, pounding, screaming through the night. He drew his curtain from time to time and looked out. There was the lurid9 sky line of the wooded range along the base of which they were crawling. There was the Susquehannah, gleaming in the moon-light. There was a stretch of level valley with silent farm houses, the occupants all at rest, without trouble, without anxiety. There was a church, a graveyard10, a mill, a village; and now, without pause or fear, the train had mounted a trestle-work high in air and was creeping along the top of it while a swift torrent11 foamed12 a hundred feet below.
What would the morning bring? Even while he was flying to her, her gentle spirit might have gone on another flight, whither he could not follow her. He was full of foreboding. He fell at length into a restless doze13. There was a noise in his ears as of a rushing torrent when a stream is swollen14 by a freshet in the spring. It was like the breaking up of life; he was struggling in the consciousness of coming death: when Ruth stood by his side, clothed in white, with a face like that of an angel, radiant, smiling, pointing to the sky, and saying, “Come.” He awoke with a cry—the train was roaring through a bridge, and it shot out into daylight.
When morning came the train was industriously15 toiling16 along through the fat lands of Lancaster, with its broad farms of corn and wheat, its mean houses of stone, its vast barns and granaries, built as if, for storing the riches of Heliogabalus. Then came the smiling fields of Chester, with their English green, and soon the county of Philadelphia itself, and the increasing signs of the approach to a great city. Long trains of coal cars, laden17 and unladen, stood upon sidings; the tracks of other roads were crossed; the smoke of other locomotives was seen on parallel lines; factories multiplied; streets appeared; the noise of a busy city began to fill the air;—and with a slower and slower clank on the connecting rails and interlacing switches the train rolled into the station and stood still.
It was a hot August morning. The broad streets glowed in the sun, and the white-shuttered houses stared at the hot thoroughfares like closed bakers’ ovens set along the highway. Philip was oppressed with the heavy air; the sweltering city lay as in a swoon. Taking a street car, he rode away to the northern part of the city, the newer portion, formerly18 the district of Spring Garden, for in this the Boltons now lived, in a small brick house, befitting their altered fortunes.
He could scarcely restrain his impatience19 when he came in sight of the house. The window shutters20 were not “bowed”; thank God, for that. Ruth was still living, then. He ran up the steps and rang. Mrs. Bolton met him at the door.
“Thee is very welcome, Philip.”
“And Ruth?”
“She is very ill, but quieter than she has been, and the fever is a little abating21. The most dangerous time will be when the fever leaves her. The doctor fears she will not have strength enough to rally from it. Yes, thee can see her.”
Mrs. Bolton led the way to the little chamber22 where Ruth lay. “Oh,” said her mother, “if she were only in her cool and spacious23 room in our old home. She says that seems like heaven.”
Mr. Bolton sat by Ruth’s bedside, and he rose and silently pressed Philip’s hand. The room had but one window; that was wide open to admit the air, but the air that came in was hot and lifeless. Upon the table stood a vase of flowers. Ruth’s eyes were closed; her cheeks were flushed with fever, and she moved her head restlessly as if in pain.
“Ruth,” said her mother, bending over her, “Philip is here.”
Ruth’s eyes unclosed, there was a gleam of recognition in them, there was an attempt at a smile upon her face, and she tried to raise her thin hand, as Philip touched her forehead with his lips; and he heard her murmur24,
“Dear Phil.”
There was nothing to be done but to watch and wait for the cruel fever to burn itself out. Dr. Longstreet told Philip that the fever had undoubtedly25 been contracted in the hospital, but it was not malignant26, and would be little dangerous if Ruth were not so worn down with work, or if she had a less delicate constitution.
“It is only her indomitable will that has kept her up for weeks. And if that should leave her now, there will be no hope. You can do more for her now, sir, than I can?”
“How?” asked Philip eagerly.
“Your presence, more than anything else, will inspire her with the desire to live.”
When the fever turned, Ruth was in a very critical condition. For two days her life was like the fluttering of a lighted candle in the wind. Philip was constantly by her side, and she seemed to be conscious of his presence, and to cling to him, as one borne away by a swift stream clings to a stretched-out hand from the shore. If he was absent a moment her restless eyes sought something they were disappointed not to find.
Philip so yearned27 to bring her back to life, he willed it so strongly and passionately28, that his will appeared to affect hers and she seemed slowly to draw life from his.
After two days of this struggle with the grasping enemy, it was evident to Dr. Longstreet that Ruth’s will was beginning to issue its orders to her body with some force, and that strength was slowly coming back. In another day there was a decided29 improvement. As Philip sat holding her weak hand and watching the least sign of resolution in her face, Ruth was able to whisper,
“I so want to live, for you, Phil!”
“You will; darling, you must,” said Philip in a tone of faith and courage that carried a thrill of determination—of command—along all her nerves.
Slowly Philip drew her back to life. Slowly she came back, as one willing but well nigh helpless. It was new for Ruth to feel this dependence30 on another’s nature, to consciously draw strength of will from the will of another. It was a new but a dear joy, to be lifted up and carried back into the happy world, which was now all aglow31 with the light of love; to be lifted and carried by the one she loved more than her own life.
“Sweetheart,” she said to Philip, “I would not have cared to come back but for thy love.”
“Not for thy profession?”
“Oh, thee may be glad enough of that some day, when thy coal bed is dug out and thee and father are in the air again.”
When Ruth was able to ride she was taken into the country, for the pure air was necessary to her speedy recovery. The family went with her. Philip could not be spared from her side, and Mr. Bolton had gone up to Ilium to look into that wonderful coal mine and to make arrangements for developing it, and bringing its wealth to market. Philip had insisted on re-conveying the Ilium property to Mr. Bolton, retaining only the share originally contemplated32 for himself, and Mr. Bolton, therefore, once more found himself engaged in business and a person of some consequence in Third street. The mine turned out even better than was at first hoped, and would, if judiciously33 managed, be a fortune to them all. This also seemed to be the opinion of Mr. Bigler, who heard of it as soon as anybody, and, with the impudence34 of his class called upon Mr. Bolton for a little aid in a patent car-wheel he had bought an interest in. That rascal35, Small, he said, had swindled him out of all he had.
Mr. Bolton told him he was very sorry, and recommended him to sue Small.
Mr. Small also came with a similar story about Mr. Bigler; and Mr. Bolton had the grace to give him like advice. And he added, “If you and Bigler will procure36 the indictment37 of each other, you may have the satisfaction of putting each other in the penitentiary38 for the forgery39 of my acceptances.”
Bigler and Small did not quarrel however. They both attacked Mr. Bolton behind his back as a swindler, and circulated the story that he had made a fortune by failing.
In the pure air of the highlands, amid the golden glories of ripening40 September, Ruth rapidly came back to health. How beautiful the world is to an invalid41, whose senses are all clarified, who has been so near the world of spirits that she is sensitive to the finest influences, and whose frame responds with a thrill to the subtlest ministrations of soothing42 nature. Mere43 life is a luxury, and the color of the grass, of the flowers, of the sky, the wind in the trees, the outlines of the horizon, the forms of clouds, all give a pleasure as exquisite44 as the sweetest music to the ear famishing for it. The world was all new and fresh to Ruth, as if it had just been created for her, and love filled it, till her heart was overflowing45 with happiness.
It was golden September also at Fallkill. And Alice sat by the open window in her room at home, looking out upon the meadows where the laborers46 were cutting the second crop of clover. The fragrance47 of it floated to her nostrils48. Perhaps she did not mind it. She was thinking. She had just been writing to Ruth, and on the table before her was a yellow piece of paper with a faded four-leaved clover pinned on it—only a memory now. In her letter to Ruth she had poured out her heartiest49 blessings50 upon them both, with her dear love forever and forever.
“Thank God,” she said, “they will never know”
They never would know. And the world never knows how many women there are like Alice, whose sweet but lonely lives of self-sacrifice, gentle, faithful, loving souls, bless it continually.
“She is a dear girl,” said Philip, when Ruth showed him the letter.
“Yes, Phil, and we can spare a great deal of love for her, our own lives are so full.”
The End
The End
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1
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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3
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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7
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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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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12
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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industriously
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16
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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27
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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29
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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32
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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33
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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34
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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35
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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36
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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38
penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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39
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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40
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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43
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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44
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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45
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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46
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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47
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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48
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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49
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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50
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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