Tom Vanrevel always went to the post-office soon after the morning distribution of the mail; that is to say, about ten o'clock, and returned with the letters for the firm of Gray and Vanrevel, both personal and official. Crailey and he shared everything, even a box at the post-office; and in front of this box, one morning, after a night of rain, Tom stood staring at a white envelope bearing a small, black seal. The address was in a writing he had never seen before, but the instant it fell under his eye he was struck with a distinctly pleasurable excitement.
Whether through some spiritual exhalation of the writer fragrant1 on any missive, or because of a hundred microscopic2 impressions, there are analysts4 who are able to select, from a pile of letters written by women (for the writing of women exhibits certain phenomena5 more determinably than that of men) those of the prettiest or otherwise most attractive. And out upon the lover who does not recognize his mistress's hand at the first glimpse ever he has of it, without post-mark or other information to aid him! Thus Vanrevel, worn, hollow-eyed, and sallow, in the Rouen post-office, held the one letter separate from a dozen (the latter not, indeed, from women), and stared at it until a little color came back to his dark skin and a great deal of brightness to his eye. He was no analyst3 of handwritings, yet it came to him instantly that this note was from a pretty woman. To see that it was from a woman was simple, but that he knew—and he did know—that she was pretty, savors6 of the occult. More than this: there was something about it that thrilled him. Suddenly, and without reason, he knew that it came from Elizabeth Carewe.
He walked back quickly to his office with the letter in the left pocket of his coat, threw the bundle of general correspondence upon his desk, went up to the floor above, and paused at his own door to listen. Deep breathing from across the hall indicated that Mr. Gray's soul was still encased in slumber7, and great was its need, as Tom had found his partner, that morning at five, stretched upon the horsehair sofa in the office, lamenting8 the emptiness of a bottle which had been filled with fiery9 Bourbon in the afternoon.
Vanrevel went to his own room, locked the door, and took the letter from his pocket. He held it between his fingers carefully, as though it were alive and very fragile, and he looked at it a long time, holding it first in one hand, then in the other, before he opened it. At last, however, after examining all the blades of his pocketknife, he selected one brighter than the others, and loosened the flap of the envelope as gently and carefully as if it had been the petal10 of a rose-bud that he was opening.
“Dear Mr. Vanrevel:
“I believed you last night, though I did not understand. But I understand, now—everything—and, bitter to me as the truth is, I must show you plainly that I know all of it, nor can I rest until I do show you. I want you to answer this letter—though I must not see you again for a long time—and in your answer you must set me right if I am anywhere mistaken in what I have learned.
“At first, and until after the second time we met, I did not believe in your heart, though I did in your mind and humor. Even since then, there have come strange, small, inexplicable11 mistrustings of you, but now I throw them all away and trust you wholly, Monsieur Citizen Georges Meilbac!—I shall always think of you in those impossible garnishments of my poor great-uncle, and I persuade myself that he must have been a little like you.
“I trust you because I have heard the story of your profound goodness. The first reason for my father's dislike was your belief in freedom as the right of all men. Ah, it is not your pretty exaggerations and flatteries (I laugh at them!) that speak for you, but your career, itself, and the brave things you have done. My father's dislike flared12 into hatred13 because you worsted him when he discovered that he could not successfully defend the wrong against you and fell back upon sheer insult.
“He is a man whom I do not know—strange as that seems as I write it. It is only to you, who have taught me so much, that I could write it. I have tried to know him and to realize that I am his daughter, but we are the coldest acquaintances, that is all; and I cannot see how a change could come. I do not understand him; least of all do I understand why he is a gambler. It has been explained to me that it is his great passion, but all I comprehend in these words is that they are full of shame for his daughter.
“This is what was told me: he has always played heavily and skillfully—adding much to his estate in that way—and in Rouen always with a certain coterie14, which was joined, several years ago, by the man you came to save last night.
“Your devotion to Mr. Gray has been the most beautiful thing in your life. I know all that the town knows of that, except the thousand hidden sacrifices you have made for him, those things which no one will ever know. (And yet, you see, I know them after all!) For your sake, because you love him, I will not even call him unworthy.
“I have heard—from one who told unwillingly—the story of the night two years ago, when the play ran so terribly high; and how, in the morning when they went away, all were poorer except one, their host!—how Mr. Gray had nothing left in the world, and owed my father a great sum which was to be paid in twenty-four hours; how you took everything you had saved in the years of hard work at your profession, and borrowed the rest on your word, and brought it to my father that afternoon; how, when you had paid your friend's debt, you asked my father not to play with Mr. Gray again; and my father made that his excuse to send you a challenge. You laughed at the challenge—and you could afford to laugh at it.
“But this is all shame, shame for Robert Carewe's daughter. It seems to me that I should hide and not lift my head; that I, being of my father's blood, could never look you in the face again. It is so unspeakably painful and ugly. I think of my father's stiff pride and his look of the eagle,—and he still plays with your friend, almost always 'successfully!' And your friend still comes to play!—but I will not speak of that side of it.
“Mr. Gray has made you poor, but I know it was not that which made you come seeking him last night, when I found you there in the hail. It was for his sake you came—and you went away for mine. Now that I know, at last—now that I have heard what your life has been (and oh I heard so much more than I have written!)—now that my eyes have been opened to see you as you are, I am proud, and glad and humble15 that I can believe that you felt a friendship for me strong enough to have made you go 'for my sake.' You will write to me just once, won't you? and tell me if there was any error in what I listened to; but you must not come to the garden. Now that I know you, I cannot meet you clandestinely16 again. It would hurt the dignity which I feel in you now, and my own poor dignity—such as it is! I have been earnestly warned of the danger to you. Besides, you must let me test myself. I am all fluttering and frightened and excited. You will obey me, won't you?—do not come until I send for you. Elizabeth Carewe.”
Mr. Gray, occupied with his toilet about noon, heard his partner descending17 to the office with a heavy step, and issued from his room to call a hearty18 greeting. Tom looked back over his shoulder and replied cheerily, though with a certain embarrassment19; but Crailey, catching20 sight of his face, uttered a sharp ejaculation and came down to him.
“Why, what's the matter, Tom? You're not going to be sick? You look like the devil and all!”
“I'm all right, never fear!” Tom laughed, evading21 the other's eye. “I'm going out in the country on some business, and I dare say I shall not be back for a couple of days; it will be all up and down the county.” He set down a travelling-bag he was carrying, and offered the other his hand. “Good-by.”
“Can't I go for you? You don't look able.”
“No, no. It's something I'll have to attend to myself.”
“Ah, I suppose,” said Crailey, gently, “I suppose it's important, and you couldn't trust me to handle it. Well—God knows you're right! I've shown you often enough how incompetent22 I am to do anything but write jingles23!”
“You do some more of them—without the whiskey, Crailey. They're worth more than all the lawing Gray and Vanrevel have ever done or ever will do. Good-by—-and be kind to yourself.”
He descended24 to the first landing, and then, “Oh, Crailey,” he called, with the air of having forgotten something he had meant to say.
“Yes, Tom?”
“This morning at the post-office I found a letter addressed to me. I opened it and—” He hesitated, and uneasily shifted his weight from one foot to the other, with a feeble, deprecatory laugh.
“Yes, what of it?”
“Well—there seemed to be a mistake. I think it must have been meant for you. Somehow, she—she's picked up a good many wrong impressions, and, Lord knows how, but she's mixed our names up and—and I've left the letter for you. It's on my table.”
He turned and calling a final good-by over his shoulder, went clattering25 noisily down to the street and vanished from Crailey's sight.
Noon found Tom far out on the National Road, creaking along over the yellow dust in a light wagon26, between bordering forests that smelt27 spicily28 of wet underbrush and May-apples; and, here and there, when they would emerge from the woods to cleared fields, liberally outlined by long snake-fences of black walnut29, the steady, jog-trotting old horse lifted his head and looked interested in the world, but Tom never did either. Habitually30 upright, walking or sitting, straight, keen, and alert, that day's sun saw him drearily31 hunched32 over, mile after mile, his forehead laced with lines of pain. He stopped at every farm-house and cabin, and, where the young men worked in the fields, hailed them from the road, or hitched33 his horse to the fence and crossed the soft furrows34 to talk with them. At such times he stood erect35 again, and spoke36 stirringly, finding eager listeners. There was one question they asked him over and over:
“But are you sure the call will come?”
“As sure as that we stand here; and it will come before the week is out. We must be ready!”
Often, when he left them, they would turn from the work in hand, leaving it as it was, to lie unfinished in the fields, and make their way slowly and thoughtfully to their homes, while Tom climbed into his creaking little wagon once more, only to fall into the same dull, hunched-over attitude. He had many things to think out before he faced Rouen and Crailey Gray again, and more to fight through to the end with himself. Three days he took for it, three days driving through the soft May weather behind the kind, old jog-trotting horse; three days on the road, from farm-house to farm-house and from field to field, from cabin of the woods to cabin in the clearing. Tossing unhappily at night, he lay sleepless37 till dawn, though not because of the hard beds; and when daylight came, journeyed steadily38 on again, over the vagabond little hills that had gypsied it so far into the prairie-land in their wanderings from their range on the Ohio, and, passing the hills, went on through the flat forest-land, always hunched over dismally39 in the creaking wagon.
But on the evening of the third day he drove into town, with the stoop out of his shoulders and the lustre40 back in his eyes. He was haggard, gray, dusty, but he had solved his puzzle, and one thing was clear in his mind as the thing that he would do. He patted the old horse a hearty farewell as he left him with the liveryman from whom he had hired him, and strode up Main Street with the air of a man who is going somewhere. It was late, but there were more lights than usual in the windows and more people on the streets. Boys ran shouting, while, here and there, knots of men argued loudly, and in front of the little corner drug-store a noisily talkative, widely gesticulative crowd of fifty or more had gathered. An old man, a cobbler, who had left a leg at Tippecanoe and replaced it with a wooden one, chastely41 decorated with designs of his own carving42, came stumping43 excitedly down the middle of the street, where he walked for fear of the cracks in the wooden pavement, which were dangerous to his art-leg when he came from the Rouen House bar, as on the present occasion. He hailed Tom by name.
“You're the lad, Tom Vanrevel,” he shouted. “You're the man to lead the boys out for the glory of the State! You git the whole blame Fire De-partment out and enlist44 'em before morning! Take 'em down to the Rio Grande, you hear me?
“And you needn't be afraid of their puttin' it out, if it ketches afire, neither!”
Tom waved his hand and passed on; but at the open doors of the Catholic Church he stopped and looked up and down the street, and then, unnoticed, entered to the dim interior, where the few candles showed only a bent45 old woman in black kneeling at the altar. Tom knew where Elizabeth Carewe knelt each morning; he stepped softly through the shadowy silence to her place, knelt, and rested his head upon the rail of the bench before him.
The figure at the altar raised itself after a time, and the old woman limped slowly up a side aisle46, mumbling47 her formulas, courtesying to the painted saints, on her way out. The very thinnest lingerings of incense48 hung on the air, seeming to Tom like the faint odor that might exhale49 from a heavy wreath of marguerites, worn in dark-brown hair. Yet, the place held nothing but peace and good-will. And he found nothing else in his own heart. The street was quiet when he emerged from that lorn vigil; the corner groups had dissolved; shouting youths no longer patrolled the sidewalks. Only one quarter showed signs of life: the little clubhouse, where the windows still shown brightly, and whence came the sound of many voices settling the destinies of the United States of America. Thither50 Tom bent his steps, thoughtfully, and with a quiet mind. There was a small veranda51 at the side of the house; here he stood unobserved to look in upon his noisy and agitated52 friends.
They were all there, from the old General and Mr. Bareaud, to the latter's son, Jefferson, and young Frank Chenoweth. They were gathered about a big table upon which stood a punch-bowl and Trumble, his brow as angry red as the liquor in the cup he held, was proposing a health to the President in a voice of fury.
Crailey emerged instantaneously from the general throng55 and mounted a chair, tossing his light hair back from his forehead, his eyes sparkling and happy. “You find your own friends already occupying the place you mentioned, do you, General?” he asked.
General Trumble stamped and shook his fist.
“You're a spawn56 of Aaron Burr!” he vociferated. “There's not a man here to stand by your infernal doctrines57. You sneer58 at your own State, you sneer at your own country, you defile59 the sacred ground! What are you, by the Almighty60, who attack your native land in this, her hour of peril61!”
“Peril to my native land!” laughed Crailey. “From Santa Anna?”
“The General's right, sir,” exclaimed the elder Chenoweth indignantly, and most of the listeners appeared to agree with him. “It's a poor time to abuse the President when he's called for volunteers and our country is in danger, sir!”
“Who is in danger?” answered Crailey, lifting his hand to still the clamor of approbation62 that arose. “Is Polk in danger? Or Congress? But that would be too much to hope! Do you expect to see the Greasers in Washington? No, you idiots, you don't! Yet there'll be plenty of men to suffer and die; and the first should be those who thrust this war on us and poor little Mexico; but it won't be they; the men who'll do the fighting and dying will be the country boys and the like of us from the towns, while Mr. Polk sits planning at the White House how he can get elected again. I wish Tom were here, confound you! You listen to him because he always has the facts and I'm just an embroiderer63, you think. What's become of the gaudy64 campaign cry you were all wearing your lungs out with a few months ago? 'Fifty-four-forty or fight!' Bah! Polk twisted the lion's tail with that until after election. Then he saw he had to make you forget it, or fight England and be ruined, so he forces war on Mexico, and the country does forget it. That's it: he asks three regiments65 of volunteers from this State to die of fevers and get shot, so that he can steal another country and make his own elect him again. And you ask me to drink the health of the politician who sits at home and sends his fellowmen to die to fix his rotten jobs for him?” Crailey had persuaded himself into such earnestness, that the depth of his own feeling almost choked him, but he finished roundly in his beautiful, strong voice: “I'll drink for the good punch's sake—but that health?—I'll see General Trumble in heaven before I'll drink it!”
There rose at once a roar of anger and disapproval66, and Crailey became a mere67 storm centre amid the upraised hands gestulating madly at him as he stood, smiling again, upon his chair.
“This comes of living with Tom Vanrevel!” shouted the General furiously. “This is his damned Abolition68 teaching! You're only his echo; you spend half your life playing at being Vanrevel!”
“Ay, where is he!” raged Trumble, hammering the table till the glasses rang. “Let him come and answer for his own teaching; it's wasted time to talk to this one; he's only the pupil. Where is the traitor53?”
“Here,” answered a voice from the doorway70; and though the word was spoken quietly it was nevertheless, at that juncture71, silencing. Everyone turned toward the door as Vanrevel entered. But the apoplectic72 General, whom Crailey's speech had stirred to a fury beyond control, almost leaped at Tom's throat.
“Here's the tea-sipping old Granny,” he bellowed73 hoarsely74. (He was ordinarily very fond of Tom.) “Here's the master! Here's the man whose example teaches Crailey Gray to throw mud at the flag. He'll stay here at home with Crailey, of course, and throw more, while the others boys march out to die under it.”
“On the contrary,” answered Tom, raising his voice, “I think you'll find Crailey Gray the first to enlist, and as for myself, I've raised sixty men in the country, and I want forty more from Rouen, in order to offer the Governor a full company. So it's come to 'the King, not the man'; Polk is a pitiful trickster, but the country needs her sons; that's enough for us to know; and while I won't drink to James Polk “—he plunged75 a cup in the bowl and drew it out brimming—“I'll empty this to the President!”
It was then that from fifty throats the long, wild shout went up that stirred Rouen, and woke the people from their midnight beds for half a mile around.
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收听单词发音
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1
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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3
analyst
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| n.分析家，化验员；心理分析学家 | |
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analysts
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| 分析家，化验员( analyst的名词复数 ) | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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6
savors
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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7
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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8
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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10
petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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12
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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13
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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14
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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15
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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16
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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jingles
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| 叮当声( jingle的名词复数 )； 节拍十分规则的简单诗歌 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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27
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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spicily
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| adv.香地；讽刺地；痛快地；下流地 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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32
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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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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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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40
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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43
stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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44
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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47
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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48
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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49
exhale
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| v.呼气，散出，吐出，蒸发 | |
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50
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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51
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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52
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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53
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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54
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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55
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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56
spawn
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| n.卵，产物，后代，结果；vt.产卵，种菌丝于，产生，造成；vi.产卵，大量生产 | |
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57
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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58
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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59
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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60
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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62
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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63
embroiderer
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| 刺绣工 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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65
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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68
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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72
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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73
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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