Along the Long Island coast lay the haze1 of early autumn. It was the time of lassitude. In the season of ripening2 and decay Nature seemed to have lost her spring, and lay in a sort of delicious languor3. Sea and shore were in a kind of truce4, and the ocean south wind brought cool refreshment5 but no incentive6.
From the sea the old brown farmhouse7 seemed a snug8 haven9 of refuge; from the inland road it appeared, with its spreading, sloping roofs, like an ancient sea-craft come ashore10, which had been covered in and then embowered by kindly11 Nature with foliage12. In those days its golden-brown color was in harmony with the ripening orchards13 and gardens.
Surely, if anywhere in the world, peace was here. But to its owner this very peace and quietness was becoming intolerable. The waiting days were so long, the sleepless14 nights of uncertainty15 were so weary. When her work was done, and Edith sat with a book or some sewing under the arbor16 where the grape clusters hung, growing dark and transparent17, and the boy played about near her, she had a view of the blue sea, and about her were the twitter of birds and the hum of the cicada. The very beauty made her heart ache. Seaward there was nothing--nothing but the leaping little waves and the sky. From the land side help might come at any hour, and at every roll of wheels along the road her heart beat faster and hope sprang up anew. But day after day nothing came.
Perhaps there is no greater bravery than this sort of waiting, doing the daily duty and waiting. Endurance is woman's bravery, and Edith was enduring, with an almost broken but still with a courageous18 heart. It was all so strange. Was it simply shame that kept him away, or had he ceased to love her? If the latter, there was no help for her. She had begged him to come, she had offered to leave the boy with her cousin companion and go to him. Perhaps it was pride only. In one of his short letters he had said, "Thank God, your little fortune is untouched." If it were pride only, how could she overcome it? Of this she thought night and day. She thought, and she was restless, feverish19, and growing thin in her abiding20 anxiety.
It was true that her own fortune was safe and in her control. But with the usual instinct of women who know they have an income not likely to be ever increased, she began to be economical. She thought not of herself; but of the boy. It was the boy's fortune now. She began to look sharply after expenses; she reduced her household; she took upon herself the care of the boy, and other household duties. This was all well for her, for it occupied her time, and to some extent diverted her thoughts.
So the summer passed--a summer of anxiety, longing21, and dull pain for Edith. The time came when the uncertainty of it could no longer be endured. If Jack22 had deserted23 her, even if he should die, she could order her life and try to adjust her heavy burden. But this uncertainty was quite beyond her power to sustain.
She made up her mind that she would go to the city and seek him. It was what he had written that she must not on any account do, but nothing that could happen to her there could be so bad as this suspense24. Perhaps she could bring him back. If he refused, and was angry at her interference, that even would be something definite. And then she had carefully thought out another plan. It might fail, but some action had now become for her a necessity.
Early one morning--it was in September-she prepared for a journey to the city. This little trip, which thousands of people made daily, took on for her the air of an adventure. She had been immured26 so long that it seemed a great undertaking27. And when she bade good-by to the boy for the day she hugged him and kissed him again and again, as if it were to be an eternal farewell. To her cousin were given the most explicit28 directions for his care, and after she had started for the train she returned to give further injunctions. So she told herself, but it was really for one more look at the boy.
But on the whole there was a certain exhilaration in the preparation and the going, and her spirits rose as they had not done in months before. Arrived in the city, she drove at once to the club Jack most frequented. "He is not in," the porter said; "indeed, Mr. Delancy has not been here lately."
"Is Major Fairfax in?" Edith asked.
Major Fairfax was in, and he came out immediately to her carriage. From him she learned Jack's address, and drove to his lodging-house. The Major was more than civil; he was disposed to be sympathetic, but he had the tact29 to see that Mrs. Delancy did not wish to be questioned, nor to talk.
"Is Mr. Delancy at home?" she asked the small boy who ran the elevator.
"No'me."
"And he did not say where he was going?"
"No'me."
"Is he not sometimes at home in the daytime?"
"No'me."
"And what time does he usually come home in the evening?"
"Don't know. After I've gone, I guess."
Edith hesitated whether she should leave a card or a note, but she decided30 not to do either, and ordered the cabman to take her to Pearl Street, to the house of Fletcher & Co.
Mr. Fletcher, the senior partner, was her cousin, the son of her father's elder brother, and a man now past sixty years. Circumstances had carried the families apart socially since the death of her father and his brother, but they were on the most friendly terms, and the ties of blood were not in any way weakened. Indeed, although Edith had seen Gilbert Fletcher only a few times since her marriage, she felt that she could go to him any time if she were in trouble, with the certainty of sympathy and help. He had the reputation of the old-fashioned New York merchants, to whom her father belonged, for integrity and conservatism.
It was to him that she went now. The great shop, or wholesale31 warehouse32 rather, into which she entered from the narrow and cart-encumbered street, showed her at once the nature of the business of Fletcher & Co. It was something in the twine33 and cordage way. There were everywhere great coils of ropes and bales of twine, and the dark rooms had a tarry smell. Mr. Fletcher was in his office, a little space partitioned off in the rear, with half a dozen clerks working by gaslight, and a little sanctum where the senior partner was commonly found at his desk.
Mr. Fletcher was a little, round-headed man, with a shrewd face, vigorous and cheerful, thoroughly34 a man of business, never speculating, and who had been slowly gaining wealth by careful industry and cautious extension of his trade. Certain hours of the day--from ten to three--he gave to his business. It was a habit, and it was a habit that he enjoyed. He had now come back, as he told Edith, from a little holiday at the sea, where his family were, to get into shape for the fall trade.
Edith was closeted with him for a full hour. When she came out her eyes were brighter and her step more elastic35. At sundown she reached home, almost in high spirits. And when she snatched up the boy and hugged him, she whispered in his ear, "Baby, we have done it, and we shall see."
One night when Jack returned from his now almost aimless tramping about the city he found a letter on his table. It seemed from the printing on the envelope to be a business letter; and business, in the condition he was in--and it was the condition in which he usually came home--did not interest him. He was about to toss the letter aside, when the name of Fletcher caught his eye, and he opened it.
It was a brief note, written on an office memorandum36, which simply asked Mr. Delancy to call at the office as soon as it was convenient, as the writer wished to talk with him on a matter of business, and it was signed "Gilbert Fletcher."
"Why don't he say what his business is?" said Jack, throwing the letter down impatiently. "I am not going to be hauled over the coals by any of the Fletchers." And he tumbled into bed in an injured and yet independent frame of mind.
But the next morning he reread the formal little letter in a new light. To be sure, it was from Edith's cousin. He knew him very well; he was not a person to go out of his way to interfere25 with anybody, and more than likely it was in relation to Edith's affairs that he was asked to call. That thought put a new aspect on the matter. Of course if it concerned her interests he ought to go. He dressed with unusual care for him in these days, breakfasted at the cheap restaurant which he frequented, and before noon was in the Fletcher warehouse in Pearl Street.
He had never been there before, and he was somewhat curious to see what sort of a place it was where Gilbert carried on the string business, as he used to call it when speaking to Edith of her cousin's occupation. It was a much more dingy37 and smelly place than he expected, but the carts about the doors, and the bustle38 of loading and unloading, of workmen hauling and pulling, and of clerks calling out names and numbers to be registered and checked, gave him the impression that it was not a dull place.
Mr. Fletcher received him in the little dim back office with a cordial shake of the hand, gave him a chair, and reseated himself, pushing back the papers in front of him with the air of a very busy man who was dropping for a moment one thing in order to give his mind promptly39 to another.
"Our fall trade is just starting up," he said, "and it keeps us all pretty busy."
"Yes," said Jack. "I could drop in any other time--"
"No, no," interrupted Mr. Fletcher; "it is just because I am busy that I wanted to see you. Are you engaged in anything?"
"Nothing in particular," replied Jack, hesitating. "I'd thought of going into some business." And then, after a pause: "It's no use to mince40 matters. You know--everybody knows, I suppose--that I got hit in that Henderson panic."
"So did lots of others," replied Mr. Fletcher, cheerfully. "Yes, I know about it. And I'm not sure but it was a lucky thing for me." He spoke41 still more cheerfully, and Jack looked at him inquiringly.
"Are you open to an offer?"
"I'm open to almost anything," Jack answered, with a puzzled look.
"Well," and Mr. Fletcher settled back in his chair, "I can give you the situation in five minutes. I've been in this business over thirty years--yes; over thirty-five years. It has grown, little by little, until it's a pretty big business. I've a partner, a first-rate man--he is in Europe now--who attends to most of the buying. And the business keeps spreading out, and needs more care. I'm not as young as I was I shall be sixty-four in October--and I can't work right along as I used to. I find that I come later and go away earlier. It isn't the 'work exactly, but the oversight42, the details; and the fact is that I want somebody near me whom I can trust, whether I'm here or whether I'm away. I've got good, honest, faithful clerks--if there was one I did not trust, I wouldn't have him about. But do you know, Jack," it was the first time in the interview that he had used this name--"there is something in blood."
"Well, I want a confidential44 clerk. That's it."
"Me?" he asked. He was thinking rapidly while Mr. Fletcher had been speaking; something like a revolution was taking place in his mind, and when he asked this, the suggestion took on a humorous aspect--a humorous view of anything had not occurred to him in months.
"You are just the man."
"I can be confidential," Jack rejoined, with the old smile on his face that had been long a stranger to it, "but I don't know that I can be a clerk."
Mr. Fletcher was good enough to laugh at this pleasantry.
"That's all right. It isn't much of a position. We can make the salary twenty-five hundred dollars for a starter. Will you try it?"
Jack got up and went to the area window, and looked out a moment upon the boxes in the dim court. Then he came back and stood by Mr. Fletcher, and put his hand on the desk.
"Yes, I'll try."
"Good. When will you begin?"
"Now."
"That's good. No time like now. Wait a bit, and I'll show you about the place before we go to lunch. You'll get hold of the ropes directly."
This was Mr. Fletcher's veteran joke.
At three o'clock Mr. Fletcher closed his desk. It was time to take his train. "Tomorrow, then," he said, "we will begin in earnest."
"What are the business hours here?" asked Jack.
"Oh, I am usually here from ten to three, but the business hours are from nine till the business is done. By-the-way, why not run out with me and spend the night, and we can talk the thing over?"
There was no reason why he should not go, and he went. And that was the way John Corlear Delancy was initiated45 in the string business in the old house of Fletcher & Co.
收听单词发音 |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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15
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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17
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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18
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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26
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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28
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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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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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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32
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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41
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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42
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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43
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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45
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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