Uncle William crept into the rooms like a thief, but the artist was sleeping soundly. He did not stir as the latch1 gave a little click in the lock. “That’s good,” said Uncle William. He had slipped off his shoes and was in his stocking feet. He stole over to the bed and stood looking down at the thin face. It was a little drawn2, with hollow eyes. “He’ll perk3 considabul when he hears about them picters,” said Uncle William.
But in the morning when, after breakfast, Uncle William announced his great news, the artist ignored it. “Is she coming—Sergia?”
Uncle William scowled4 his forehead in recollection. “Now, I can’t seem to remember ’t she said so.”
“What did she say?” The tone was imperative5.
“Well, she asked how you was gettin’ along. I told her that—as well as I could.”
“Didn’t you tell her I wanted to see her?”
“Well?”
“She didn’t seem to think much of it. I guess if I was you I’d hurry up and get well so ’s to go see her.”
The artist’s face had grown hard. “I shall not go until I can carry her the money in my hand—all that I owe her.”
“Is ’t a good deal?” asked Uncle William.
But the artist had turned his face to the wall.
Uncle William looked down at him with a kind of compassionate7 justice. “If I was you—”
A whistle sounded and an arm, holding a letter, was thrust in at the door.
“What is it?” The artist had turned. He half raised himself, reaching out a hand. “What is it? Give it to me.”
Uncle William examined the lines slowly. “Why, it seems to be for me,” he said kindly8. “I dunno anybody that’d be writin’ to me.”
He found his glasses and opened it, studying the address once or twice and shaking his head.
The artist had sunk back, indifferent.
The artist started up, glaring at him.
Uncle William shook his head, looking at him pityingly. “Like as not we sha’n’t see her again, ever.”
The artist’s hand groped. “What is it?” he whispered.
“She’s gone—left in the night.”
Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of sternness. “I dunno,” he says. “When a man treats her like Andy has, she must kind o’ hate him—like pizen.”
The artist sat up, a look of hope faint and perplexed11, dawning beneath his stare. He leaned forward, speaking slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about that.” Uncle William held out the letter. “It’s from Andy, and Juno’s left him. Took to the woods. She couldn’t stan’ havin’ him round, I guess.” Uncle William chuckled13 a little.
The young man lay back. He moistened his lips a little with his tongue. “You were talking about her?” The words were a whisper.
Uncle William looked at him over his glasses. “Didn’t you hear me say so?”
There was a long silence. “I thought you meant—Sergia.”
“Sergia!—What!” Uncle William looked down at the letter. A light dawned slowly in his eye. He fixed it on the young man. A chuckle12 sounded somewhere and grew in little rolls, tumbling up from the depths. “You thought I meant—her!” Uncle William’s sides shook gently. “Lord, no! Sergia didn’t run away. She’ll stan’ by till the last man’s hung. She’s that kind.”
“I know.” The tone was jealous. “I ought to know.”
“Yes, you ought to know.” Uncle William left the moral to take care of itself. He did up the work, singing hopefully as he rolled about the room, giving things what he called “a lick and a promise.”
“You were late last night,” said the artist, watching him.
“Yes, considabul late,” said Uncle William. He had come upon another pile of cigar-ashes behind a picture on the shelf, and was brushing it up, whistling softly. “You must ’a’ smoked a good deal,” he said, rapping out the ashes. “I’ve been sweepin’ ’em up ever since I come.”
“I did. It helped me forget.”
“It didn’t help you get well, I reckon,” said Uncle William. “What you need,” he added, “is fresh air and wind—and rocks.”
The old man had paused in his work. “Will you go—to-morrow?”
The artist looked about him, hesitating. “I couldn’t get ready—”
“I’ll get ye ready.”
“We might—in a week?”
“I can’t wait,” said Uncle William, decisively. “I’ve got to look up Juno. She’ll like enough get desperate—drown herself the first thing I know. I’m goin’ to start to-morrow. If you want to go along, I’ll pack ye up.”
The young man looked at him helplessly. “I can’t get along without you. You know I need you.”
“Yes, I know you need me,” said Uncle William. “I kind o’ counted on that.” He began to pack vigorously, emerging now and then out of the dust and clatter15 to beam on the young man. “Now, don’t you worry a mite16. You’re goin’ to get well and earn money and come back and pay her, and everything’s comin’ out all right.”
In the afternoon tickets arrived from Sergia. There was a line with them, asking Uncle William to call for her, at eight, that evening. The artist looked at the tickets a little enviously17. “I should like to go, myself,” he said. “It’s the first view.” He glanced at Uncle William appealingly.
The old man ignored it. “You couldn’t go, noways,” he said; “not if we’re goin’ to start to-morrow.”
The artist sighed. He was sitting in an arm-chair, wrapped in a blanket, a pillow behind his head. “I don’t suppose I could.” He sighed again.
Uncle William looked at him keenly. “The’ ’s a good deal of leg-work to an exhibit, ain’t they?”
“Yes.” The artist smiled faintly.
Uncle William nodded. “I thought so. Well, it’s all you can do to set in a chair with a piller behind you. I wouldn’t say no more about picters if I was you.” He took down the mirror and laid it between two cushions, holding it in place while he reached for the knot. “I don’t suppose you have the least idee how you look,” he said. “I cal’ate to have you look a sight better’n that ’fore Sergia sees you.”
The artist’s face flushed. “Give me the glass.”
Uncle William shook his head. “I’ve got to hustle18 to get these things done.” He drew the sailor’s knot firmly in place. “I cal’ate to have everything ready so ’s to get an early start.”
“She wouldn’t mind how I looked,” said the young man, defensively.
“Mebbe not.” Uncle William was gathering19 together the trifles from the shelf and table, and knotting them in a table-spread. “You want to save this out?” he asked indifferently. It was a picture of the girl in an oval frame.
The young man seized it. He was looking at it with warm eyes.
Uncle William glanced down on them from his height. “Mebbe not,” he said gently, “but I reckon she’d hate to see ye lookin’ like that. It’s about all I can stan’ to see ye, myself.”
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收听单词发音
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1
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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2
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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3
perk
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| n.额外津贴；赏钱；小费； | |
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4
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
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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6
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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7
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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8
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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9
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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11
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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12
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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13
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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15
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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16
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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17
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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18
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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19
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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