“Who can that be, so late as this? Half-past nine, and almost bedtime. Run, Michael. Though I thought you’d gone upstairs before now. It takes the maid so long to answer. There it is again. Hurry. Dear, dear! I hope it isn’t a telegram.”
“I’m going, Mary,” called the lad to the maid, as he rushed to the door.
Peter stood outside, bareheaded and looking almost white in his terror.
“For mercy’s sake, Massa Michael, is there a woman in this house?”
“Of course. Lots of them. Grandmother, Mary, waitress, Samanda—Why?”
[124]“Our little Miss Josephine. I reckon she’ll die.”
“Die, Peter? That little girl? What’s the matter?” cried Michael.
“Goodness knows, I don’t. She can’t hardly breathe, she can’t. Massa Joe’s sent for his doctor and his doctor he’s out, and we don’t have no faith in them others round the square, and—Will some of your women please just step in and take a look at our poor little missy?”
“Grandma, that little girl next door is awful sick. Peter’s frightened most to death himself. He wants some of our women to go in there and help them.”
“Our women! Of what use would they be, either of them? I’ll go myself. Ring for Mary, please,” said the old lady, rising.
The maid appeared, and was directed to bring:
“My shawl and scarf, Mary. I’m going in next door to see a sick child. You stay right[125] here in the hall and keep the latch3 up, so that there’ll be no delay if I send in for you or anything needed. Yes, Michael, you may go with me to help me up and down the steps, though you ought to be in bed. Yet come. It must be something serious for Mr. Smith to thus far forego his reserve.”
Uncle Joe was waiting at the head of the stairs as Mrs. Merriman ascended5 them, with that activity upon which she prided herself, and asked:
“Are you in trouble, neighbor? What is it?”
“The little girl. I don’t know whose even. Came to me, an express ‘parcel,’ and I haven’t traced the blunder, found the right—no matter. This way, please. I’ll explain later.”
There was no trace of the gout left in the gentleman’s movements as he preceded his neighbor to Josephine’s room, where the child lay gasping6, feverish7, and clutching at her own throat in an agony of terror.
One glance, and Mrs. Merriman’s shawl was tossed aside, and she had lifted the little sufferer in her arms, observing:
[126]“Not even undressed! How long has she been like this?”
“For several hours, Peter says, but growing steadily8 worse. I’ve sent for the doctor, but he hasn’t come. He”—
She interrupted him with:
“Send for another. The nearest possible. It’s croup. Short and quick, usually. Michael, run in for Mary. Now, Peter, heat some blankets. Find me her night-clothes. Warm that bed. A foot-tub of hot water. Any oil in the house? Epicac? Any other household remedies?”
“There’s the medicine for the gout, madam,” suggested Mr. Smith.
“Oh, bother the gout. That’s nothing. This is—serious. There, Mary, lend a hand. Michael, run for Doctor Wilson. Hurry. If you can’t find him, then the next one. There are seven of them around this square, perched like vultures, seeking whom they may devour9. As a rule, I ignore the whole crowd, but I’m thinking of this little one’s mother now. Hurry, lad,” directed Mrs. Merriman.
[127]Mr. Smith stood silent, helpless, and admiring. This was a gentlewoman of the old school, such as he remembered his own mother to have been, who was not afraid to use her own hands in ministering to the suffering and who wasted no time in questions. Every movement of her wrinkled but still firm fingers meant some solace10 to the little child, whose brown eyes roamed from one to another with a silent, pitiful appeal. In a twinkling, it seemed, Josephine was undressed, reclothed in soft, warm garments, her chest anointed with the relaxing oil, and a swallow of hot milk forced between her lips. Then Michael was dispatched to the nearest drug store and brought back a dose of the old-fashioned remedy Mrs. Merriman had used for her own little children. But she had hardly time to administer it before one of the physicians summoned had appeared, and to him she promptly11 resigned the direction of affairs. His first order was that Mr. Smith should go below to his own comfortable library and remain quiet, adding:
[128]“I’ll report as soon as your child is better, sir.”
“She isn’t my child, doctor, but do you care for her as if she were. Spare no expense. She must not, she must not die upon my hands. I’d no right to retain her as long as I have, but—but— Don’t let her die, doctor, and you’ll save me from everlasting12 remorse13.”
“Go below, Mr. Smith. Peter, attend your master. There are enough of us here, and this little lady will soon be all right. It’s croup only, and— What has she been eating lately?”
“What has she not? How can I tell? But one thing I know, she ate no dinner to-night,” answered the host.
“So much the better. Now, Mr. Smith”—a wave of the hand in the direction of the doorway14 suggested that the master of the house was banished15 from the sickroom.
Daylight was breaking when at last the doctor led Mrs. Merriman down the stairs and to her own home, leaving Mary and Peter on watch, and promising16 a speedy return, with[129] the assurance that all danger was now past. At the door of the library the old lady paused and looked in. Mr. Smith still sat erect17 in his chair, and seemed as wide awake as she was drowsy18, and she advised him:
“Go to bed, neighbor. The little one is all right again. We’ve had a tussle19 for it, but she’s pulled through. Go to bed and get some rest. I’m really sorry for you that this uninvited trouble has come upon you, and will help you share it, so far as I may. But, doubtless, we’ll all see why it was allowed, before we’ve done with it.”
“For one reason, it may be, madam, to render me more just and tolerant to my neighbors. You have laid me under great”—
But she checked him, saying:
“Beg pardon, under nothing at all. It was the little child for whom I came, and if I have served you, too, why so much the better. Good morning.”
She went at once, leaving him to reflect:
“To go to bed at daylight! When ever did[130] I such a thing? But I will. Though I wonder if I am quite right in my mind. The idea of one small child upsetting two such households, all for the sake of a sled-ride! Hmm. Hmm. Peter! Here, Peter. I’m for bed at breakfast time! After an hour or two of rest I’ll set about finding that mislaid Joseph Smith and hand over to him this little-too-absorbing responsibility. Thank God, boy, that she did not die.”
“Aye, Massa Joe. I’se been a-thinkin’ of him the whole endurin’ night. Powerful queer, ain’t it? Just such a little speck21 of while, and now seems if that little missy worth more to old Peter than the whole universe. Yes, suh, the whole universe!”
“Much you know about the universe, boy. There, there! Take care that foot. If you set it aching again—Ouch!”
It was not one but many hours that Mr. Smith slept, worn out by his late physical suffering and his anxiety of the last night. When he woke his first inquiry22 was for Josephine.
[131]“Laws, Massa Joe, it’s just wonderful. That child seems if nothing ever ailed23 her. The doctor done been here again and told what to give her for breakfast. She eat it like she was ’most starved, the little lamb. Now she’s sleepin’ again, the beautifullest ever was. I ’xpect ’twas that sleddin’ round the square done fetched it on. Next time”—
“Hush, boy. Don’t count on any ‘next time’ for her here. I must hunt up that other Joseph Smith and hand her over to him forthwith,” said the master.
Peter’s heart sank. How could they ever endure that great house now with this little child gone out of it? Well, there was one thing which nobody could prevent—his wishing that the “other Joseph” might never be found!
After Mr. Smith had eaten he paid a flying visit to the little one’s room, gazed at her now peaceful, if pale face, and stole downstairs again with softened24 tread. He limped but slightly, and made a critical survey of himself before he issued from the great hall into the street.
[132]“If you’s going down town, Massa Joe, like enough you better have a cab. ’Counten your foot,” suggested Peter.
“You may ’phone for one, boy. No. Stay. I’ll not baby myself thus far. The air is warm as summer, almost, and the streets cleared. I’ll take a car; but—Shut that door, Peter. I don’t need you further. If anything happens to Miss Josephine, or any news comes concerning her, send me word at once. Shut that door, can’t you?” he finished testily25.
“Certainly, suh;” yet good Peter left it a crack ajar, the better to watch his master, whose actions somehow suggested a different order of things from usual. He saw Mr. Smith descend26 his own and ascend4 Mrs. Merriman’s stoop, and threw up his hands in dismay, exclaiming:
“For goodness! I do hope Massa Joe ain’t done gone rake up all that old line-fence trouble, just after her bein’ so good to our little missy. What if ’tis five inches on our ground, and she claimin’ it’s just so far ’tother way, and the lawyers argifying the money[133] outen both their pockets, this ain’t no time for to go hatchin’ fresh miseries27. And I never, not once, all these dozen years seen Massa Joe go a callin’ and a visitin’ nobody, not for just pure visit. Whenever he has, ’twas ’cause there was some sort of business tacked28 on to the end of it somehow. Huh! I never done looked for this, I didn’t.”
Neither had the lady expected the call which was made upon her. But she greeted her guest with a friendly courtesy that made him all the more remorseful29 for the legal difficulties he had placed in her way in the past, and quite ready to offer his apologies for the same at a fitting opportunity. At present his visit was to express his gratitude30 for her services to Josephine, and to ask her advice.
“My advice, Mr. Smith? I am the last person in the world to advise so capable a person as yourself. My opinion you’re most welcome to, if you explain what I should express it about,” she returned.
“The little girl, Josephine;” and he told all he knew and had thought concerning her; finishing[134] with the words, “I have so little information to go upon.”
She promptly inquired:
“Beg pardon, but have you gone upon what little you do possess?”
“Madam?” he asked.
“I mean, have you really set about finding this mislaid uncle as if your heart was in it?” she explained.
“I haven’t hurried. I deputized my business man to look the thing up, but—I don’t deny that I wish the other rightful Joseph Smith might be found to have left the country,” he answered.
“Even despite the anxiety Josephine has caused you?”
“Yes, madam. I mean to be honest. I hate to set detectives on the task, yet I will. But meanwhile, until the child’s relatives are found, what shall I do with her? Can you direct me to a capable woman who will engage to look after her welfare for the few days I may need her?”
Mrs. Merriman looked at him critically,[135] with a twinkle gleaming in her eye. An audacious thought had come to her, yet a thought so full of possibilities for good—and, maybe, ill—that she decided31 to act upon it, and quietly replied:
“Yes, Mr. Smith, I think I do know just the right woman. She has lately returned from a winter in California, where she has been nursing an invalid32 back to health. She is a trained nurse and was with me last year, during my long illness. I received her card recently saying that she would be in this city about now. Indeed, she must have left Southern California at about the same time as your little ward33, though she was to delay a day or so at Chicago. I will send to inquire if she is at home, at her boarding-house, if you desire.”
“I should be very grateful. I trust I may be able to prove later on that I am not unappreciative of all your goodness.”
“Don’t mention it. Good morning. I will write the note immediately, and until some[136] person is regularly established in your house to look after little Josephine, I will step in there now and then, myself, to see that all is right.”
They parted most amicably35, and the first action of Mr. Smith, upon reaching his office, was to send for his lawyer and tell him that he had abandoned the question of line-fences entirely36; that Mrs. Merriman should be notified that all claim to the “insignificant strip of land midway their respective side-yards was hereby and forever relinquished37, with no costs to herself.”
Her own proceeding38 was the writing of a note to her friend, the nurse, and so imperative39 was the summons it contained that the lady answered in person, although not yet sufficiently40 rested from the fatigue41 of a long journey and her previous engagement to desire another so promptly.
As for Josephine, after a morning of dreamless, health-restoring sleep, she woke to find a familiar figure sitting by her bedside, smiling affectionately upon her. A brief, puzzled[137] glance, a rubbing of the brown eyes to make sure they saw aright, and the child sprang out of bed, into the woman’s arms crying:
“Oh, Red Kimono! You dear, kind, Mrs. Red Kimono, where did you come from?”
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收听单词发音
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1
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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2
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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4
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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5
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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8
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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13
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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14
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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18
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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19
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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22
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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23
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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24
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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26
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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28
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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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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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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33
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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34
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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37
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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40
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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