The wires were down; the letter-carrier could not break his way in to them. They heard no news and received no mail. Confined in a group of rude buildings, crouched5 in a hollow of the Sierra’s flank, they felt for the first time what it was to be outside that circle of busy activity in which their lives had heretofore passed. They were face to face with the nature they thought they had conquered and which now in its quiet grandeur7 awed8 them with a sense of their own small helplessness. Pressed upon by that enormous silent indifference9 they drew nearer together, each individual unit gaining in importance from the contrasting immensity without, each character unconsciously declaring itself, emerging from acquired reticences and becoming bolder and more open.
They accepted their captivity10 in a spirit of gay good humor. The only two members of the party to whom it seemed irksome were Bill Cannon11 and the actor, both girding against a confinement12 which kept them from their several spheres of action. The others abandoned themselves to a childish, almost fantastic enjoyment13 of a situation unique in their experience. It was soon to end, it would never be repeated. It was an adventure charged with romance, accidental, unsought, as all true adventures are. The world was forgotten for these few days of imprisonment14 against the mountain’s mighty15 heart. It did not exist for them. All that was real was their own little party, the whitewashed16 passages and walls of Perley’s, the dining-room with its board floor and homely17 fare, and the parlor18 at night with a semicircle of faces round the blazing logs.
On the afternoon of the sixth day Dominick made his first appearance down stairs. He achieved the descent with slow painfulness, hobbling between Perley and the doctor. The former’s bath-robe had been cast aside for a dignified19 dark-brown dressing20-gown, contributed to his wardrobe by Cannon, and which, cut to fit the burly proportions of the Bonanza21 King, hung around the long, lank6 form of the young man in enveloping22 folds.
The parlor was empty, save for Miss Cannon sitting before the fire. Dominick had ceased to feel bashfulness and constraint23 in the presence of this girl, who had been pushed—against his will if not against her own—into the position of his head attendant. The afternoon when they had sat together in his room seemed to have brushed away all his shyness and self-consciousness. He thought now that it would be difficult to retain either in intercourse24 with a being who was so candid25, so spontaneous, so freshly natural. He found himself treating her as if she were a young boy with whom he had been placed on a sudden footing of careless, cheery intimacy26. But her outward seeming—what she presented to the eye—was not in the least boyish. Her pale, opaque27 blondness, her fine, rich outlines, her softness of mien28, were things as completely and graciously feminine as the most epicurean admirer of women could have wished.
Now, at the sight of her bending over the fire, he experienced a sensation of pleasure which vaguely29 surprised him. He was hardly conscious that all the time he had been dressing and while he came down stairs he had been hoping that she would be there. He sent a quick glance ahead of him, saw her, and looked away. The pain of his feet was violent, and without again regarding her he knew that while he was gaining his chair and his attendants were settling him, she had not turned from her contemplation of the fire. He already knew her well enough to have a comfortable assurance of her invariable quick tact30. It was not till the two men were leaving the room that she turned to him and said, as if resuming an interrupted conversation,
“Well, how do you like the parlor? Speak nicely of it for I feel as if it belonged to me.”
“It’s a first-rate parlor,” he answered, looking about him. “Never saw a better one. Who’s the gentleman with the wreath of wax flowers round his head?”
“That’s Jim Granger. He comes from here, you know; and you mustn’t laugh at those flowers, they came off his coffin31.”
“My father knew him,” said the young man indifferently. “There were lots of queer stories about Jim Granger. He killed a man once up at Bodie. You’ve a fine fire here, haven’t you?”
“Fine. It’s never allowed to go out. What do you think I intend to do this afternoon? I’ve a plan for amusing and instructing you.”
“What is it?” he said somewhat uneasily. “I don’t feel in the least as if I wanted to be instructed.”
She rose and moved to the center-table which was covered with an irregular scattering32 of books.
“Before you came down I was looking over these books. There are lots of them. Mrs. Perley says they’ve been accumulating for years. Mining men have left them and some of them have the names of people I know written in them. I thought perhaps you might like to read some of them.”
Dominick sent a lazily disparaging33 glance over the books. He was not much of a reader at the best of times.
“What are they,” he said, “novels?”
“Mostly.” She sat down by the table and took up the volume nearest to her. “Here’s Tale of Two Cities. That’s a fine one.”
“I’ve read it. Yes, it’s splendid. It’s all about the French Revolution. The hero’s like a real person and heroes in books hardly ever are, only I’d have liked him better if he’d stopped drinking and married his girl.”
“I thought perhaps you might like me to read to you,” she said, turning a tentative glance on him. “That’s how I was going to amuse and instruct you.”
“I’m sure it would be much more amusing and probably just as instructive if you talked to me.”
“You’ve got to stay down here two hours. How could I talk and be amusing and instructive for two hours? You’d probably have a relapse and I’m quite sure the doctor’d find me in a dead faint on the hearth34 when he came in.”
“All right. Let’s try the books. Don’t let’s risk relapses and dead faints.”
“Very well, then, that’s understood. We’ll go through the library now. I’ll read the titles and you say if you like any of them.”
“Suppose I don’t?”
“You’ll surely have a preference.”
“All right. I’ll try to. Go on.”
“Here’s Foul35 Play, by Charles Reade. It seems to have been a good deal read. Some of the paragraphs are marked with a pencil.”
“I think I’ve read it, but I’m not sure. It sounds like a murder story. No, let’s pass on that.”
“Well, here’s Mrs. Skaggs’ Husbands, by Bret Harte. Does that sound as if you’d like it?”
“‘Husbands!’ No. We don’t want to read about a woman who has husbands. Pass on that, too.”
“The next is very nicely bound and looks quite fresh and new, as if nobody had read it much. It’s called The Amazing Marriage.”
“Oh, pass on that! I had it once and stuck in the third chapter. The last time I went East somebody gave it to me to read on the train. I read three chapters and I was more amazed than anybody in sight. The porter was a fresh coon and I gave it to him as my revenge. I’ll bet it amazed him.”
“You don’t seem to have anything in the nature of a preference, so far. I wonder how this will suit you. Notre Dame36 de Paris, by Victor Hugo.”
“I don’t understand French.”
“It’s in English and it’s quite worn out, as if it had been read over and over. Several of the pages are falling out.”
“Oh, I’ve read that. I just remember. It’s a rattling37 good story, too. About the hunchback and the gipsy girl who tells fortunes and has a pet goat. The priest, who’s a villain38, falls off the steeple and clings to a gutter39 by his finger nails with his enemy watching him. It’s the finest kind of a story.”
“What a pity that you’ve read it! Oh, here’s one that’s evidently been a great favorite. It’s in paper and it’s all thumbed and torn. Somebody’s written across the top, ‘Of all the damned fool people——’. Oh, I beg your pardon, I read it before I realized. The name is Wife in Name Only. It doesn’t seem the kind of title that makes you want to read the book, does it?”
“‘Wife in Name Only!’” he gave a short laugh. “It certainly isn’t the kind of name that would make me want to read a book.”
“Nor me,” said a deep voice behind them.
[116]They both turned to see Buford, the actor, standing40 back of the table, his tall, angular figure silhouetted41 against the pale oblong of the uncurtained window. He was smiling suavely42, but at the same time with a sort of uneasy, assumed assurance, which suggested that he was not unused to rebuffs.
“That, certainly,” he said, “is not a name to recommend a book to any man—any man, that is, who has or ever had a wife.”
He advanced into the circle of the firelight, blandly43 beaming at the young man, who, leaning back in his chair, was eying him with surprised inquiry44, never having seen him before. The look did not chill the friendly effusion of the actor who, approaching Dominick, said with the full, deep resonance45 of his remarkable46 voice,
“Congratulations, my dear sir, congratulations. Not alone on your recovery, but on the fact that you are here with us at all.” He held out his large hand, the skin chapped and red with the cold, and the long fingers closed with a wrenching47 grip on Dominick’s. “We were not sure, when you arrived among us a few nights ago, that we would have the felicity of seeing you so soon up and around—in fact, we were doubtful whether we would ever see you up and around.”
“Thanks, very kind of you. Oh, I’m all right now.” Dominick pressed the hand in return and then, bending a little forward, sent a glance of imploring48 query49 round the stranger’s shoulder at Rose.
She caught the eye, read its behest, and presented the new-comer:
“Mr. Ryan, this is Mr. Buford who is snowed in here with us. Mr. Buford came here the same day as you, only he came on the Murphysville stage.”
Buford sat down between them on one of the horsehair chairs that were sociably50 arranged round the table. The firelight threw into prominence51 the bony angles of his thin face and glazed52 the backward sweep of his hair, dark-brown, and worn combed away from his forehead, where a pair of heavy, flexible eyebrows53 moved up and down like an animated54 commentary on the conversation. When anything surprising was said they went up, anything puzzling or painful they were drawn55 down. He rested one hand on his knee, the fingers turned in, and, sitting bolt upright, buttoned tight into his worn frock-coat, turned a glance of somewhat deprecating amiability56 upon the invalid57.
“You had a pretty close call, a-pretty-close-call,” he said. “If the operator at Rocky Bar hadn’t had the sense to wire up here, that would have been the end of your life story.”
Dominick had heard this from every member of the snowed-in party. Repetition was not making it any more agreeable, and there was an effect of abrupt58 ungraciousness in his short answer which was merely a word of comment.
“Didn’t the people at the Rocky Bar Hotel try to dissuade59 you from starting?” said Buford. “They must have known it was dangerous. They must have been worried about you or they wouldn’t have telegraphed up.”
“Oh, I believe they did.” The young man tried to hide the annoyance60 the questions gave him under a dry brevity of speech. “They did all that they ought to have done. I’ll see them again on my way down.”
“And yet you persisted!” The actor turned to Rose with whom, as he sat beside her at table, he had become quite friendly. “The blind confidence of youth, Miss Cannon, isn’t it a grand, inspiring thing?”
Dominick shifted his aching feet under the rug. He was becoming exceedingly irritated and impatient, and wondered how much longer he would be able to respond politely to the conversational61 assiduities of the stranger.
“Now,” continued Buford, “kindly satisfy my curiosity on one point. Why, when you were told of the danger of the enterprise, did you start?”
“Perhaps I liked the danger, wanted it to tone me up. I’m a bank clerk, Mr. Buford, and my life’s monotonous62. Danger’s a change.”
He raised his voice and spoke63 with sudden rude defiance64. Buford looked quickly at him, while his eyebrows went up nearly to his hair.
“A bank clerk, oh!” he said with a falling inflection of disappointment, much chagrined65 to discover that the child of millions occupied such a humble66 niche67. “I—I—was not aware of that.”
“An assistant cashier,” continued Dominick in the same key of exasperation68, “and I managed to get a holiday at this season because my father was one of the founders69 of the bank and they allow me certain privileges. If you would like to know anything else ask me and I’ll answer as well as I know how.”
His manner and tone so plainly indicated his resentment70 of the other’s curiosity that the actor flushed and shrank. He was evidently well-meaning and sensitive, and the young man’s rudeness hurt rather than angered him. For a moment nothing was said, Buford making no response other than to clear his throat, while he stretched out one arm and pulled down his cuff71 with a jerking movement. There was constraint in the air, and Rose, feeling that he had been treated with unnecessary harshness, sought to palliate it by lifting the book on her lap and saying to him,
“This is the book we were talking about when you came in, Mr. Buford, Wife in Name Only. Have you read it?”
She handed him the ragged72 volume, and holding it off he eyed it with a scrutiny73 all the more marked by the way he drew his heavy brows down till they hung like bushy eaves over his eyes.
“No, my dear young lady. I have not. Nor do I feel disposed to do so. ‘Wife in Name Only!’ That tells a whole story without reading a word. Were you going to read it?”
“No; Mr. Ryan and I were just looking over them. We were thinking about reading one of them aloud. This one happened to be on the pile.”
There was a pause. He evidently expected a question which undoubtedly75 was not going to come from Dominick, who sat fallen together in the arm-chair looking at him with moody76 ill-humor. There was more hope from Rose, who gazed at the floor but said nothing. Buford was forced to repeat with an unctuous77 depth of tone, “Suggests sorrows of my own,” and fasten his glance on her, so that, as she raised her eyes, they encountered the commanding encouragement of his.
“Sorrows of your own?” she repeated timidly, but with the expected questioning inflection.
“Yes, my dear Miss Cannon,” returned the actor with a melancholy78 which was full of a rich, dark enjoyment. “My wife is one in name only.”
There was another pause, and neither of the listeners showing any intention of breaking it, Buford remarked,
“That sorrow is mine.”
“What sorrow?” said Dominick bruskly.
“The sorrow of a deserted79 man,” returned the actor with now, for the first time, something of the dignity of real feeling in his manner.
“Oh,” the monosyllable was extremely non-committal, but it had an air of finality as though Dominick intended to say no more.
“Has she—er—left you?” said the girl in a low and rather awe-stricken voice.
The actor inclined his head in an acquiescent80 bow:
“She has.”
Again there was a pause. Unless Buford chose to be more biographical, the conversation appeared to have come to a deadlock81. Neither of the listeners could at this stage break into his reserve with questions and yet to switch off on a new subject was not to be thought of at a moment of such emotional intensity82. The actor evidently felt this, for he said suddenly, with a relapse into a lighter83 tone and letting his eyebrows escape from an overshadowing closeness to his eyes,
“But why should I trouble you with the sorrows that have cast their shadow on me? Why should my matrimonial troubles be allowed to darken the brightness of two young lives which have not yet known the joys and the perils84 of the wedded85 state?”
The pause that followed this remark was the most portentous86 that had yet fallen on the trio. Rose cast a surreptitious glance at the dark figure of young Ryan, lying back in the shadows of the arm-chair. As she looked he stirred and said with the abrupt, hard dryness which had marked his manner since Buford’s entrance,
“Don’t take too much for granted, Mr. Buford. I’ve known some of the joys and perils of the wedded state myself.”
The actor stared at him in open-eyed surprise.
“Do I rightly understand,” he said, “that you are a married man?”
“You do,” returned Dominick.
“Really now, I never would have guessed it! Pardon me for not having given you the full dues of your position. Your wife, I take it, has no knowledge of the risk she recently ran of losing her husband?”
“I hope not.”
“Well,” he replied with a manner of sudden cheery playfulness, “we’ll take good care that she doesn’t learn. When the wires are up we’ll concoct87 a telegram that shall be a masterpiece of diplomatic lying. Lucky young man to have a loving wife at home. Of all of us you are the one who can best realize the meaning of the line, ‘’Tis sweet to know there is an eye to mark our coming and——’”
Dominick threw the rug off and rose to his feet.
“If you can get Perley to help me I’ll go up stairs again. I’m tired and I’ll go back to my room.”
He tried to step forward, but the pain of his unhealed foot was unbearable88, and he caught the edge of the table and held it, his face paling with sudden anguish89. The actor, startled by the abruptness90 of his uprising, approached him with a vague proffer91 of assistance and was arrested by his sharp command:
“Go and get Perley! He’s in the bar probably. I can’t stand this way for long. Hurry up!”
Buford ran out of the room, and Rose somewhat timidly drew near the young man, braced92 against the table, his eyes down-bent, his face hard in the struggle with sudden and unfamiliar93 pain.
“Can’t I help you?” she said. “Perley may not be there. Mr. Buford and I can get you up stairs.”
“Oh, no,” he answered, his words short but his tone more conciliatory. “It’s nothing to bother about. I’d have wrung94 that man’s neck if I’d had to listen to him five minutes longer.”
Here Perley and Buford entered, and the former, offering his support to the invalid, led him hobbling out of the door and into the hall. The actor looked after them for a moment and then came back to the fire where Miss Cannon was standing, thoughtfully regarding the burning logs.
“I’ve no doubt,” he said, “that young Mr. Ryan is an estimable gentleman, but he certainly appears to be possessed95 by a very impatient and ugly temper.”
Buford had found Miss Cannon one of the most amiable96 and charming ladies he had ever met, and it was therefore a good deal of a surprise to have her turn upon him a face of cold, reproving disagreement, and remark in a voice that matched it:
“I don’t agree with you at all, Mr. Buford, and you seem quite to forget that Mr. Ryan has been very sick and is still in great pain.”
Buford was exceedingly abashed97. He would not have offended Miss Cannon for anything in the world, and it seemed to him that a being so compact of graciousness and consideration would be the first to censure98 an exhibition of ill-humor such as young Ryan had just made. He stammered99 an apologetic sentence and it did not add to his comfort to see that she was not entirely100 mollified by it and to feel that she exhaled101 a slight, disapproving102 coldness that put him at a great distance and made him feel mortified103 and ill at ease.
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1
antelope
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| n.羚羊；羚羊皮 | |
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2
marooned
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| adj.被围困的；孤立无援的；无法脱身的 | |
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trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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8
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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bonanza
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| n.富矿带，幸运，带来好运的事 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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intercourse
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candid
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intimacy
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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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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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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suavely
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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45
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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52
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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53
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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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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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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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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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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deadlock
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| n.僵局，僵持 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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99
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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100
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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101
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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102
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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103
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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