Towards the close of his second year with Mr. Slocum, Richard was assigned a work-room by himself, and relieved of his accountant's duties. His undivided energies were demanded by the carving1 department, which had proved a lucrative2 success.
The rear of the lot on which Mr. Slocum's house stood was shut off from the marble yard by a high brick wall pierced with a private door for Mr. Slocum's convenience. Over the kitchen in the extension, which reached within a few feet of the wall, was a disused chamber3, approachable on the outside by a flight of steps leading to a veranda5. To this room Richard and his traps were removed. With a round table standing6 in the center, with the plaster models arranged on shelves and sketches7 in pencil and crayon tacked8 against the whitewashed9 walls, the apartment was transformed into a delightful10 atelier. An open fire-place, with a brace11 of antiquated12 iron-dogs straddling the red brick hearth13, gave the finishing touch. The occupant was in easy communication with the yard, from which the busy din4 of clinking chisels15 came u musically to his ear, and was still beyond the reach of unnecessary interruption. Richard saw clearly all the advantages of this transfer, but he was far form having any intimation that he had made the most important move of his life.
The room had two doors: one opened on the veranda, and the other into a narrow hall connecting the extension with the main building. Frequently, that first week after taking possession, Richard detected the sweep of a broom and the rustle16 of drapery in this passage-way, the sound sometimes hushing itself quite close to the door, as if some one had paused a moment just outside. He wondered whether it was the servant-maid or Margaret Slocum, whom he knew very well by sight. It was, in fact, Margaret, who was dying with the curiosity of fourteen to peep into the studio, so carefully locked whenever the young man left it,--dying with curiosity to see the workshop, and standing in rather great awe17 of the workman.
In the home circle her father had a habit of speaking with deep respect of young Shackford's ability, and once she had seen him at their table,--at a Thanksgiving. On this occasion Richard had appalled18 her by the solemnity of his shyness,--poor Richard, who was so unused to the amenities19 of a handsomely served dinner, that the chill which came over him cooled the Thanksgiving turkey on his palate.
When it had been decided20 that he was to have the spare room for his workshop, Margaret, with womanly officiousness, had swept it and dusted it and demolished21 the cobwebs; but since then she had not been able to obtain so much as a glimpse of the interior. A ten minutes' sweeping22 had sufficed for the chamber, but the passage-way seemed in quite an irreclaimable state, judging by the number of times it was necessary to sweep it in the course of a few days. Now Margaret was not an unusual mixture of timidity and daring; so one morning, about a week after Richard was settled, she walked with quaking heart up to the door of the studio, and knocked as bold as brass23.
Richard opened the door, and smiled pleasantly at Margaret standing on the threshold with an expression of demure24 defiance25 in her face. Did Mr. Shackford want anything more in the way of pans and pails for his plaster? No, Mr. Shackford had everything he required of the kind. But would not Miss Margaret walk in? Yes, she would step in for a moment, but with a good deal of indifference26, though, giving an air of chance to her settled determination to examine that room from top to bottom.
Richard showed her his drawings and casts, and enlightened her on all the simple mysteries of the craft. Margaret, of whom he was a trifle afraid at first, amused him with her candor27 and sedateness28, seeming now a mere29 child, and now an elderly person gravely inspecting matters. The frankness and simplicity30 were hers by nature, and the oldish ways--notably her self-possession, so quick to assert itself after an instant's forgetfulness--came perhaps of losing her mother in early childhood, and the premature31 duties which that misfortune entailed32. She amused him, for she was only fourteen; but she impressed him also, for she was Mr. Slocum's daughter. Yet it was not her lightness, but her gravity, that made Richard smile to himself.
"I am not interrupting you?" she asked presently.
"Not in the least," said Richard. "I am waiting for these molds to harden. I cannot do anything until then."
"Papa says you are very clever," remarked Margaret, turning her wide black eyes full upon him. _"Are_ you?"
"Far from it," replied Richard, laughing to veil his confusion, "but I am glad your father thinks so."
"You should not be glad to have him think so," returned Margaret reprovingly, "if you are not clever. I suppose you are, though. Tell the truth, now."
"It is not fair to force a fellow into praising himself."
"You are trying to creep out!"
"Well, then, there are many cleverer persons than I in the world, and a few not so clever."
"That won't do," said Margaret positively33.
"I don't understand what you mean by cleverness, Miss Margaret. There are a great many kinds and degrees. I can make fairly honest patterns for the men to work by; but I am not an artist, if you mean that."
"You are not an artist?"
"No; an artist creates, and I only copy, and that in a small way. Any one can learn to prepare casts; but to create a bust34 or a statue--that is to say, a fine one--a man must have genius."
"You have no genius?"
"Not a grain."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Margaret, with a disappointed look. "But perhaps it will come," she added encouragingly. "I have read that nearly all great artists and poets are almost always modest. They know better than anybody else how far they fall short of what they intend, and so they don't put on airs. You don't, either. I like that in you. May be you have genius without knowing it, Mr. Shackford."
"It is quite without knowing it, I assure you!" protested Richard, with suppressed merriment. "What an odd girl!" he thought. "She is actually talking to me like a mother!"
The twinkling light in the young man's eyes, or something that jarred in his manner, caused Margaret at once to withdraw into herself. She went silently about the room, examining the tools and patterns; then, nearing the door, suddenly dropped Richard a quaint35 little courtesy, and was gone.
This was the colorless beginning of a friendship that was destined36 speedily to be full of tender lights and shadows, and to flow on with unsuspected depth. For several days Richard saw nothing more of Margaret, and scarcely thought of her. The strangle little figure was fading out of his mind, when, one afternoon, it again appeared at his door. This time Margaret had left something of her sedateness behind; she struck Richard as being both less ripe and less immature37 than he had fancied; she interested rather than amused him. Perhaps he had been partially38 insulated by his own shyness on the first occasion, and had caught only a confused and inaccurate39 impression of Margaret's personality. She remained half an hour in the workshop, and at her departure omitted the formal courtesy.
After this, Margaret seldom let a week slip without tapping once or twice at the studio, at first with some pretext40 or other, and then with no pretense41 whatever. When Margaret had disburdened herself of excuses for dropping in to watch Richard mold his leaves and flowers, she came oftener, and Richard insensibly drifted into the habit of expecting her on certain days, and was disappointed when she failed to appear. His industry had saved him, until now, from discovering how solitary42 his life really was; for his life was as solitary--as solitary as that of Margaret, who lived in the great house with only her father, the two servants, and an episodical aunt. The mother was long ago dead; Margaret could not recollect43 when that gray headstone, with blotches44 of rusty-green moss45 breaking out over the lettering, was not in the churchyard; and there never had been any brothers or sisters.
To Margaret Richard's installation in the empty room, where as a child she had always been afraid to go, was the single important break she could remember in the monotony of her existence; and now a vague yearning46 for companionship, the blind sense of the plant reaching towards the sunshine, drew her there. The tacitly prescribed half hour often lengthened47 to an hour. Sometimes Margaret brought a book with her, or a piece of embroidery48, and the two spoke49 scarcely ten words, Richard giving her a smile now and then, and she returning a sympathetic nod as the cast came out successfully.
Margaret at fifteen--she was fifteen now--was not a beauty. There is the loveliness of the bud and the loveliness of the full-blown flower; but Margaret as a blossom was not pretty. She was awkward and angular, with prominent shoulder-blades, and no soft curves anywhere in her slimness; only her black hair, growing low on the forehead, and her eyes were fine. Her profile, indeed, with the narrow forehead and the sensitive upper lip, might fairly have suggested the mask of Clytie which Richard had bought of an itinerant50 image-dealer, and fixed51 on a bracket over the mantel-shelf. But her eyes were her specialty52, if one may say that. They were fringed with such heavy lashes53 that the girl seemed always to be in half-mourning. Her smile was singularly sweet and bright, perhaps because it broke through so much somber54 coloring.
If there was a latent spark of sentiment between Richard and Margaret in those earlier days, neither was conscious of it; they had seemingly begun where happy lovers generally end,--by being dear comrades. He liked to have Margaret sitting there, with her needle flashing in the sunlight, or her eyelashes making a rich gloom above the book as she read aloud. It was so agreeable to look up from his work, and not be alone. He had been alone so much. And Margaret found nothing in the world pleasanter than to sit there and watch Richard making his winter garden, as she called it. By and by it became her custom to pass every Saturday afternoon in that employment.
Margaret was not content to be merely a visitor; she took a housewifely care of the workshop, resolutely55 straightening out its chronic56 disorder57 at unexpected moments, and fighting the white dust that settled upon everything. The green-paper shade, which did not roll up very well, at the west window was of her devising. An empty camphor vial on Richard's desk had always a clove58 pink, or a pansy, or a rose, stuck into it, according to the season. She hid herself away and peeped out in a hundred feminine things in the room. Sometimes she was a bit of crochet-work left on a chair, and sometimes she was only a hair-pin, which Richard gravely picked up and put on the mantel-piece.
Mr. Slocum threw no obstacles in the path of this idyllic59 friendship; possibly he did not observe it. In his eyes Margaret was still a child,--a point of view that necessarily excluded any consideration of Richard. Perhaps, however, if Mr. Slocum could have assisted invisibly at a pretty little scene which took place in the studio, one day, some twelve or eighteen months after Margaret's first visit to it, he might have found food for reflection.
It was a Saturday afternoon. Margaret had come into the workshop with her sewing, as usual. The papers on the round table had been neatly60 cleared away, and Richard was standing by the window, indolently drumming on the glass with a palette-knife.
"Not at work this afternoon?"
"I was waiting for you."
"That is no excuse at all," said Margaret, sweeping across the room with a curious air of self-consciousness, and arranging her drapery with infinite pains as she seated herself.
Richard looked puzzled for a moment, and then exclaimed, "Margaret, you have got on a long dress!"
"Yes," said Margaret, with dignity. "Do you like it,--the train?"
"That's a train?"
"Yes," said Margaret, standing up and glancing over her left shoulder at the soft folds of maroon-colored stuff, which, with a mysterious feminine movement of the foot, she caused to untwist itself and flow out gracefully61 behind her. There was really something very pretty in the hesitating lines of the tall, slender figure, as she leaned back that way. Certain unsuspected points emphasized themselves so cunningly.
"I never saw anything finer," declared Richard. "It was worth waiting for."
"But you shouldn't have waited," said Margaret, with a gratified flush, settling herself into the chair again. "It was understood that you were never to let me interfere63 with your work."
"You see you have, by being twenty minutes late. I've finished that acorn64 border for Stevens's capitals, and there's nothing more to do for the yard. I am going to make something for myself, and I want you to lend me a hand."
"I need a paper-weight to keep my sketches from being blown about, and I wish you literally66 to lend me a hand,--a hand to take a cast of."
"Really?"
"I think that little white claw would make a very neat paper-weight," said Richard.
Margaret gravely rolled up her sleeve to the elbow, and contemplated67 the hand and wrist critically.
"It is like a claw, isn't it. I think you can find something better than that."
"No; that is what I want, and nothing else. That, or no paper-weight for me."
"Very well, just as you choose. It will be a fright."
"The other hand, please."
"I gave you the left because I've a ring on this one."
"You can take off the ring, I suppose."
"Of course I can take it off."
"Well, then, do."
"A what?"
"A fuss, then,--a person who always wants everything some other way, and makes just twice as much trouble as anybody else."
"No, Margaret, I am not that. I prefer your right hand because the left is next to the heart, and the evaporation69 of the water in the plaster turns it as cold as snow. Your arm will be chilled to the shoulder. We don't want to do anything to hurt the good little heart, you know."
"Certainly not," said Margaret. "There!" and she rested her right arm on the table, while Richard placed the hand in the desired position on a fresh napkin which he had folded for the purpose.
"I don't; they stiffen themselves, Richard. They know they are going to have their photograph taken, and can't look natural. Who ever does?"
After a minute the fingers relaxed, and settled of their own accord into an easy pose. Richard laid his hand softly on her wrist.
"Don't move now."
"I'll be as quiet as a mouse," said Margaret giving a sudden queer little glance at his face.
Richard emptied a paper of white powder into a great yellow bowl half filled with water and fell to stirring it vigorously, like a pastry-cook beating eggs. When the plaster was of the proper consistency71 he began building it up around the hand, pouring on a spoonful at a time, here and there, carefully. In a minute or two the inert72 white fingers were completely buried. Margaret made a comical grimace73.
"Is it cold?"
"Ice," said Margaret, shutting her eyes involuntarily.
"If it is too disagreeable we can give it up," suggested Richard.
"No, don't touch it!" she cried, waving him back with her free arm. "I don't mind; but it's as cold as so much snow. How curious! What does it?"
"I suppose a scientific fellow could explain the matter to you easily enough. When the water evaporates a kind of congealing74 process sets in,--a sort of atmospheric75 change, don't you know? The sudden precipitation of the--the"--
"Oh, Tyndall is well enough in his way," returned Richard, "but of course he doesn't go into things so deeply as I do."
"The idea of telling me that 'a congealing process set in,' when I am nearly frozen to death!" cried Margaret, bowing her head over the imprisoned77 arm.
"Your unseemly levity78, Margaret, makes it necessary for me to defer79 my remarks on natural phenomena80 until some more fitting occasion."
"Oh, Richard, don't let an atmospherical81 change come over _you!"_
"When you knocked at my door, months ago," said Richard, "I didn't dream you were such a satirical little piece, or may be you wouldn't have got in. You stood there as meek82 as Moses, with your frock reaching only to the tops of your boots. You were a deception83, Margaret."
"I was dreadfully afraid of you, Richard."
"You are not afraid of me nowadays."
"Not a bit."
"You are showing your true colors. That long dress, too! I believe the train has turned your head."
"But just now you said you admired it."
"So I did, and do. It makes you look quite like a woman, though."
"I want to be a woman. I would like to be as old--as old as Mrs. Methuselah. Was there a Mrs. Methuselah?"
"I really forget," replied Richard, considering. "But there must have been. The old gentleman had time enough to have several. I believe, however, that history is rather silent about his domestic affairs."
"Well, then," said Margaret, after thinking it over, "I would like to be as old as the youngest Mrs. Methuselah."
"That was probably the last one," remarked Richard, with great profundity84. "She was probably some giddy young thing of seventy or eighty. Those old widowers85 never take a wife of their own age. I shouldn't want you to be seventy, Margaret,--or even eighty."
"On the whole, perhaps, I shouldn't fancy it myself. Do you approve of persons marrying twice?"
"N--o, not at the same time."
"But they used to,--in the olden time, don't you know?"
"No, I don't."
Richard burst out laughing. "Imagine him," he cried,--"imagine Methuselah in his eight or nine hundredth year, dressed in his customary bridal suit, with a sprig of century-plant stuck in his button-hole!"
"Richard," said Margaret solemnly, "you shouldn't speak jestingly of a scriptural character."
At this Richard broke out again. "But gracious me!" he exclaimed, suddenly checking himself. "I am forgetting you all this while!"
Richard hurriedly reversed the mass of plaster on the table, and released Margaret's half-petrified fingers. They were shriveled and colorless with the cold.
"There isn't any feeling in it whatever," said Margaret, holding up her hand helplessly, like a wounded wing.
Richard took the fingers between his palms, and chafed87 them smartly for a moment or two to restore the suspended circulation.
"There, that will do," said Margaret, withdrawing her hand.
"Are you all right now?"
"Yes, thanks;" and then she added, smiling, "I suppose a scientific fellow could explain why my fingers seem to be full of hot pins and needles shooting in every direction."
"Tyndall's your man--Tyndall on Heat," answered Richard, with a laugh, turning to examine the result of his work. "The mold is perfect, Margaret. You were a good girl to keep so still."
Richard then proceeded to make the cast, which was soon placed on the window ledgde to harden in the sun. When the plaster was set, he cautiously chipped off the shell with a chisel14, Margaret leaning over his shoulder to watch the operation,--and there was the little white claw, which ever after took such dainty care of his papers, and ultimately became so precious to him as a part of Margaret's very self that he would not have exchanged it for the Venus of Milo.
But as yet Richard was far enough from all that.
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1
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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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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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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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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7
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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8
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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12
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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chisels
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| n.凿子，錾子( chisel的名词复数 )；口凿 | |
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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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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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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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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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sedateness
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| n.安详，镇静 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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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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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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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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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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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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51
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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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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evaporation
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| n.蒸发，消失 | |
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stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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congealing
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的现在分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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atmospherical
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| adj.空气的，气压的 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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widowers
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| n.鳏夫( widower的名词复数 ) | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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