When Robert Turner came to the green, ferny triangle where the station road forked to the right and left under the birches, he hesitated as to which direction he would take. The left led out to the old Turner homestead, where he had spent his boyhood and where his cousin still lived; the right led down to the Cove1 shore where the Jameson property was situated2. Since he had stopped off at Chiswick for the purpose of looking this property over before foreclosing the mortgage on it he concluded that he might as well take the Cove road; he could go around by the shore afterward—he had not forgotten the way even in forty years—and so on up through the old spruce wood in Alec Martin's field—if the spruces were there still and the field still Alec Martin's—to his cousin's place. He would just about have time to make the round before the early country supper hour. Then a brief visit with Tom—Tom had always been a good sort of a fellow although woefully dull and slow-going—and the evening express for Montreal. He swung with a businesslike stride into the Cove road.
As he went on, however, the stride insensibly slackened into an unaccustomed saunter. How well he remembered that old road, although it was forty years since he had last traversed it, a set-lipped boy of fifteen, cast on the world by the indifference4 of an uncle. The years had made surprisingly little difference in it or in the surrounding scenery. True, the hills and fields and lanes seemed lower and smaller and narrower than he remembered them; there were some new houses along the road, and the belt of woods along the back of the farms had become thinner in most places. But that was all. He had no difficulty in picking out the old familiar spots. There was the big cherry orchard5 on the Milligan place which had been so famous in his boyhood. It was snow-white with blossoms, as if the trees were possessed6 of eternal youth; they had been in blossom the last time he had seen them. Well, time had not stood still with him as it had with Luke Milligan's cherry orchard, he reflected grimly. His springtime had long gone by.
The few people he met on the road looked at him curiously8, for strangers were not commonplace in Chiswick. He recognized some of the older among them but none of them knew him. He had been an awkward, long-limbed lad with fresh boyish colour and crisp black curls when he had left Chiswick. He returned to it a somewhat portly figure of a man, with close-cropped, grizzled hair, and a face that looked as if it might be carved out of granite9, so immobile and unyielding it was—the face of a man who never faltered10 or wavered, who stuck at nothing that might advance his plans and purposes, a face known and dreaded11 in the business world where he reigned12 master. It was a cold, hard, selfish face, but the face of the boy of forty years ago had been neither cold nor hard nor selfish.
Presently the homesteads and orchard lands grew fewer and then ceased altogether. The fields were long and low-lying, sloping down to the misty13 blue rim7 of sea. A turn of the road brought him in sudden sight of the Cove, and there below him was the old Jameson homestead, built almost within wave-lap of the pebbly14 shore and shut away into a lonely grey world of its own by the sea and sands and those long slopes of tenantless15 fields.
He paused at the sagging16 gate that opened into the long, deep-rutted lane and, folding his arms on it, looked earnestly and scrutinizingly over the buildings. They were grey and faded, lacking the prosperous appearance that had characterized them once. There was an air of failure about the whole place as if the very land had become disheartened and discouraged.
Long ago, Neil Jameson, senior, had been a well-to-do man. The big Cove farm had been one of the best in Chiswick then. As for Neil Jameson, Junior, Robert Turner's face always grew something grimmer when he recalled him—the one person, boy and man, whom he had really hated in the world. They had been enemies from childhood, and once in a bout3 of wrestling at the Chiswick school Neil had thrown him by an unfair trick and taunted17 him continually thereafter on his defeat. Robert had made a compact with himself that some day he would pay Neil Jameson back. He had not forgotten it—he never forgot such things—but he had never seen or heard of Neil Jameson after leaving Chiswick. He might have been dead for anything Robert Turner knew. Then, when John Kesley failed and his effects turned over to his creditors18, of whom Robert Turner was the chief, a mortgage on the Cove farm at Chiswick, owned by Neil Jameson, had been found among his assets. Inquiry19 revealed the fact that Neil Jameson was dead and that the farm was run by his widow. Turner felt a pang20 of disappointment. What satisfaction was there in wreaking21 revenge on a dead man? But at least his wife and children should suffer. That debt of his to Jameson for an ill-won victory and many a sneer22 must be paid in full, if not to him, why, then to his heirs.
His lawyers reported that Mrs. Jameson was two years behind with her interest. Turner instructed them to foreclose the mortgage promptly23. Then he took it into his head to revisit Chiswick and have a good look at the Cove farm and other places he knew so well. He had a notion that it might be a decent place to spend a summer month or two in. His wife went to seaside and mountain resorts, but he liked something quieter. There was good fishing at the Cove and in Chiswick pond, as he remembered. If he liked the farm as well as his memory promised him he would do, he would bid it in himself. It would make Neil Jameson turn in his grave if the penniless lad he had jeered24 at came into the possession of his old ancestral property that had been owned by a Jameson for over one hundred years. There was a flavour in such a revenge that pleased Robert Turner. He smiled one of his occasional grim smiles over it. When Robert Turner smiled, weather prophets of the business sky foretold25 squalls.
Presently he opened the gate and went through. Halfway26 down the lane forked, one branch going over to the house, the other slanting27 across the field to the cove. Turner took the latter and soon found himself on the grey shore where the waves were tumbling in creamy foam28 just as he remembered them long ago. Nothing about the old cove had changed; he walked around a knobby headland, weather-worn with the wind and spray of years, which cut him off from sight of the Jameson house, and sat down on a rock. He thought himself alone and was annoyed to find a boy sitting on the opposite ledge29 with a book on his knee.
The lad lifted his eyes and looked Turner over with a clear, direct gaze. He was about twelve years old, tall for his age, slight, with a delicate, clear-cut face—a face that was oddly familiar to Turner, although he was sure he had never seen it before. The boy had oval cheeks, finely tinted30 with colour, big, shy blue eyes quilled about with long black lashes31, and silvery-golden hair lying over his head in soft ringlets like a girl's. What girl's? Something far back in Robert Turner's dreamlike boyhood seemed to call to him like a note of a forgotten melody, sweet yet stirring like a pain. The more he looked at the boy the stronger the impression of a resemblance grew in every feature but the mouth. That was alien to his recollection of the face, yet there was something about it, when taken by itself, that seemed oddly familiar also—yes, and unpleasantly familiar, although the mouth was a good one—finely cut and possessing more firmness than was found in all the other features put together.
"It's a good place for reading, sonny, isn't it?" he inquired, more genially32 than he had spoken to a child for years. In fact, having no children of his own, he so seldom spoke33 to a child that his voice and manner when he did so were generally awkward and rusty34.
The boy nodded a quick little nod. Somehow, Turner had expected that nod and the glimmer35 of a smile that accompanied it.
"What book are you reading?" he asked.
The boy held it out; it was an old Robinson Crusoe, that classic of boyhood.
"It's splendid," he said. "Billy Martin lent it to me and I have to finish it today because Ned Josephs is to have it next and he's in a hurry for it."
"It's a good while since I read Robinson Crusoe," said Turner reflectively. "But when I did it was on this very shore a little further along below the Miller36 place. There was a Martin and a Josephs in the partnership37 then too—the fathers, I dare say, of Billy and Ned. What is your name, my boy?"
"Paul Jameson, sir."
The name was a shock to Turner. This boy a Jameson—Neil Jameson's son? Why, yes, he had Neil's mouth. Strange he had nothing else in common with the black-browed, black-haired Jamesons. What business had a Jameson with those blue eyes and silvery-golden curls? It was flagrant forgery38 on Nature's part to fashion such things and label them Jameson by a mouth.
Hated Neil Jameson's son! Robert Turner's face grew so grey and hard that the boy involuntarily glanced upward to see if a cloud had crossed the sun.
Paul nodded. "Yes, but he is dead. He has been dead for eight years. I don't remember him."
"Have you any brothers or sisters?"
"I have a little sister a year younger than I am. The other four are dead. They died long ago. I'm the only boy Mother had. Oh, I do so wish I was bigger and older! If I was I could do something to save the place—I'm sure I could. It is breaking Mother's heart to have to leave it."
"Yes. There is a mortgage on it and we're to be sold out very soon—so the lawyers told us. Mother has tried so hard to make the farm pay but she couldn't. I could if I was bigger—I know I could. If they would only wait a few years! But there is no use hoping for that. Mother cries all the time about it. She has lived at the Cove farm for over thirty years and she says she can't live away from it now. Elsie—that's my sister—and I do all we can to cheer her up, but we can't do much. Oh, if I was only a man!"
The lad shut his lips together—how much his mouth was like his father's—and looked out seaward with troubled blue eyes. Turner smiled another grim smile. Oh, Neil Jameson, your old score was being paid now!
Yet something embittered41 the sweetness of revenge. That boy's face—he could not hate it as he had accustomed himself to hate the memory of Neil Jameson and all connected with him.
"What was your mother's name before she married your father?" he demanded abruptly.
"Lisbeth Miller," answered the boy, still frowning seaward over his secret thoughts.
Turner started again. Lisbeth Miller! He might have known it. What woman in all the world save Lisbeth Miller could have given her son those eyes and curls? So Lisbeth had married Neil Jameson—little Lisbeth Miller, his schoolboy sweetheart. He had forgotten her—or thought he had; certainly he had not thought of her for years. But the memory of her came back now with a rush.
Little Lisbeth—pretty little Lisbeth—merry little Lisbeth! How clearly he remembered her! The old Miller place had adjoined his uncle's farm. Lisbeth and he had played together from babyhood. How he had worshipped her! When they were six years old they had solemnly promised to marry each other when they grew up, and Lisbeth had let him kiss her as earnest of their compact, made under a bloom-white apple tree in the Miller orchard. Yet she would always blush furiously and deny it ever afterwards; it made her angry to be reminded of it.
He saw himself going to school, carrying her books for her, the envied of all the boys. He remembered how he had fought Tony Josephs because Tony had the presumption42 to bring her spice apples: he had thrashed him too, so soundly that from that time forth43 none of the schoolboys presumed to rival him in Lisbeth's affections—roguish little Lisbeth! who grew prettier and saucier44 every year.
He recalled the keen competition of the old days when to be "head of the class" seemed the highest honour within mortal reach, and was striven after with might and main. He had seldom attained45 to it because he would never "go up past" Lisbeth. If she missed a word, he, Robert, missed it too, no matter how well he knew it. It was sweet to be thought a dunce for her dear sake. It was all the reward he asked to see her holding her place at the head of the class, her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes starry46 with her pride of position. And how sweetly she would lecture him on the way home from school about learning his spellings better, and wind up her sermon with the frank avowal47, uttered with deliciously downcast lids, that she liked him better than any of the other boys after all, even if he couldn't spell as well as they could. Nothing of success that he had won since had ever thrilled him as that admission of little Lisbeth's!
She had been such a sympathetic little sweetheart too, never weary of listening to his dreams and ambitions, his plans for the future. She had always assured him that she knew he would succeed. Well, he had succeeded—and now one of the uses he was going to make of his success was to turn Lisbeth and her children out of their home by way of squaring matters with a dead man!
Lisbeth had been away from home on a long visit to an aunt when he had left Chiswick. She was growing up and the childish intimacy48 was fading. Perhaps, under other circumstances, it might have ripened49 into fruit, but he had gone away and forgotten her; the world had claimed him; he had lost all active remembrance of Lisbeth and, before this late return to Chiswick, he had not even known if she were living. And she was Neil Jameson's widow!
He was silent for a long time, while the waves purred about the base of the big red sandstone rock and the boy returned to his Crusoe. Finally Robert Turner roused himself from his reverie.
"I used to know your mother long ago when she was a little girl," he said. "I wonder if she remembers me. Ask her when you go home if she remembers Bobby Turner."
"Won't you come up to the house and see her, sir?" asked Paul politely. "Mother is always glad to see her old friends."
"No, I haven't time today." Robert Turner was not going to tell Neil Jameson's son that he did not care to look for the little Lisbeth of long ago in Neil Jameson's widow. The name spoiled her for him, just as the Jameson mouth spoiled her son for him. "But you may tell her something else. The mortgage will not be foreclosed. I was the power behind the lawyers, but I did not know that the present owner of the Cove farm was my little playmate, Lisbeth Miller. You and she shall have all the time you want. Tell her Bobby Turner does this in return for what she gave him under the big sweeting apple tree on her sixth birthday. I think she will remember and understand. As for you, Paul, be a good boy and good to your mother. I hope you'll succeed in your ambition of making the farm pay when you are old enough to take it in hand. At any rate, you'll not be disturbed in your possession of it."
"Oh, sir! oh, sir!" stammered50 Paul in an agony of embarrassed gratitude51 and delight. "Oh, it seems too good to be true. Do you really mean that we're not to be sold out? Oh, won't you come and tell Mother yourself? She'll be so happy—so grateful. Do come and let her thank you."
"Not today. I haven't time. Give her my message, that's all. There, run; the sooner she gets the news the better."
Turner watched the boy as he bounded away, until the headland hid him from sight.
"There goes my revenge—and a fine bit of property eminently52 suited for a summer residence—all for a bit of old, rusty sentiment," he said with a shrug53. "I didn't suppose I was capable of such a mood. But then—little Lisbeth. There never was a sweeter girl. I'm glad I didn't go with the boy to see her. She's an old woman now—and Neil Jameson's widow. I prefer to keep my old memories of her undisturbed—little Lisbeth of the silvery-golden curls and the roguish blue eyes. Little Lisbeth of the old time! I'm glad to be able to have done you the small service of securing your home to you. It is my thanks to you for the friendship and affection you gave my lonely boyhood—my tribute to the memory of my first sweetheart."
He walked away with a smile, whose amusement presently softened54 to an expression that would have amazed his business cronies. Later on he hummed the air of an old love song as he climbed the steep spruce road to Tom's.
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1
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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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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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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8
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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9
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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10
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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11
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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12
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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17
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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21
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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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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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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39
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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40
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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41
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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43
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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44
saucier
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| n.调味汁厨师adj.粗鲁的( saucy的比较级 )；粗俗的；不雅的；开色情玩笑的 | |
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45
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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46
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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47
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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48
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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49
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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52
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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53
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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54
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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