George Doughty1 lay propped2 up in bed; standing3 beside him, and clasping his hand tightly, was his wife; near him were his two oldest children, seemingly as ignorant of what was transpiring4 as they were uncomfortable on account of the peculiar5 influence which pervaded6 the room. On the other side of the bed, and holding one of the dying man’s hands, knelt Parson Wedgewell; beside him stood the doctor; while behind them both, near the door, and as nearly invisible as a man of his size could be, was Squire7 Tomple. The Squire’s face and figure seemed embodiments of a trembling, abject8 apology; he occasionally looked toward the door, as if to question that inanimate object whether behind its broad front he, the Squire, might not be safe from his own fears. It was very evident that the Squire’s conscience was making a coward of him; but it was also evident, and not for the first time in the world’s history, that cowardice9 is mightily10 influential11 in[74] holding a coward to the ground that he hates. Had any one spoken to him, or paid him the slightest attention, the Squire would have felt better; nothing turns cowards into soldiers so quickly as the receipt of a volley; but no such relief seemed at all likely to reach him. The doctor, like a true man, having done all things, could only stand, and stand he did; Parson Wedgewell, feeling that upon his own efforts with the Great Physician depended the sick man’s future well-being13, prayed silently and earnestly, raising his head only to search, through his tears, the face of the patient for signs of the desired answer to prayer. Mrs. Doughty was interested only in looking into the eyes too soon to close forever, and the faces of the two children were more than a man could intentionally14 look upon a second time. So when Doughty’s baby, who had been creeping about the floor, suddenly beholding15 the glories of the great seal which depended from the Squire’s fob-chain, tried to climb the leg of the storekeeper’s trousers, the Squire smiled, as a saint in extremity16 might smile at the sudden appearance of an angel, and he stooped—no easy operation for a man of Squire Tomple’s bulk—and, lifting the little fellow in his arms, put kisses all over the tiny face, which, in view[75] of the relations of cleanliness to attractiveness, was not especially bewitching. A moment later, however, a muffled17 but approaching step brought back to the Squire his own sense of propriety18, and he dropped the baby just in time to be able to give a hand to Fred Macdonald, as that young man softly pushed open the door. The Squire’s face again became apologetic.
“How did it happen?” whispered Fred.
“Why,” replied the Squire, “the doctor says it’s a galloping19 consumption; I never knew a thing about it. Doctor says it’s the quickest case he ever knew; he never imagined anything was the matter with George. If I’d known anything about it, I’d have had the doctor attending him long ago; but George isn’t of the complaining kind. The idea of a fellow being at work for me, and dying right straight along. Why, it’s awful! He says he never knew anything about it himself, so I don’t see how I could. He was at the store up to four or five days ago, then his wife came around one morning and told me that he didn’t feel fit to work that day, but she didn’t say what the matter was. I’ve been thinking, for two or three weeks, about giving him some help in the store; but you know how business drives everything[76] out of a man’s head. First I thought I’d stay around the store myself evenings, and let George rest; but I’ve had to go to lodge20 meetings and prayer meetings, and my wife’s wanted me to go out with her, and so my time’s been taken up. Then I thought I’d get a boy, and—well, I didn’t know exactly which to do; but if I’d known——”
“But can’t something be done to brace21 him up for a day or two?” interrupted Fred; “then I’ll take him out driving every day, and perhaps he’ll pick up.”
The Squire looked twenty years older for a moment or two as he replied,
“The doctor says he hasn’t any physique to rally upon; he’s all gone, muscle, blood, and everything. It’s the queerest thing I ever knew; he hasn’t had anything to do, these past few years, but just what I did when I was a young man.”
The dying man turned his eyes inquiringly, and asked in a very thin voice,
“Isn’t Fred here?”
Fred started from the Squire’s side, but the storekeeper arrested his progress with both hands, and fixing his eyes on Fred’s necktie, whispered,
“You don’t think I’m to blame, do you?”
[77]
“Why—no—I don’t see how, exactly,” said Fred, endeavoring to escape.
“Fred,” whispered the Squire, tightening22 his hold on the lapels of Fred’s coat, “tell him so, won’t you? I’ll be your best friend forever if you will; it’s dreadful to think of a man going up to God with such an idea on his mind, even if it is a mistake. Of course, when he gets there he’ll find out he’s wrong, if he is, as——”
Fred broke away from the storekeeper, and wedged himself between the doctor and pastor23. Doughty withdrew his wrist from the doctor’s fingers, extended a thin hand, and smiled.
“Fred,” said he, “we used to be chums when we were boys. I never took an advantage of you, did I?”
“Never,” said Fred; “and we’ll have lots of good times again, old fellow. I’ve just bought the best spring wagon24 in the State, and I’ll drive you all over the country when you get well enough.”
George’s smile became slightly grim as he replied,
“I guess Barker’s hearse is the only spring wagon I’ll ever ride in again, my boy.”
“Nonsense, George!” exclaimed Fred heartily25. “How many times have I seen you almost dead,[78] and then put yourself together again? Don’t you remember the time when you gave out in the middle of the river, and then picked yourself up, and swam the rest of the way? Don’t you remember the time we got snowed in on Raccoon Mountain, and we both gave up and got ready to die, and how you not only came to, but dragged me home besides? The idea of you ever dying! I wish you’d sent for me when you first took the silly notion into your head.”
Doughty was silent for a moment; his eyes brightened a little and a faint flush came to his cheeks; he looked fondly at his wife, and then at his children; he tried to raise himself in his bed; but in a minute his smile departed, his pallor returned, and he said, in the thinnest of voices,
“It’s no use, Fred; in those days there was something in me to call upon at a pinch; now there isn’t a thing. I haven’t any time to spare, Fred; what I want to ask is, keep an eye on my boys, for old acquaintance’ sake. Their mother will be almost everything to them, but she can’t be expected to know about their ways among men. I want somebody to care enough for them to see that they don’t make the mistakes I’ve made.”
[79]
“I’ll do that!”
“Thank you, Squire,” said George feebly; “but you’re not the right man to do it.”
“George,” said the Squire, raising his voice, and unconsciously raising his hand, “I’ll give them the best business chances that can be had; I can do it, for I’m the richest man in this town.”
“You gave me the best chance in town, Squire, and this is what has come of it,” said Doughty.
The Squire precipitately27 fell back and against his old place by the wall. Doughty continued,
“Fred, persuade them—tell them that I said so—that a business that makes them drink to keep up, isn’t business at all—it’s suicide. Tell them that their father, who was never drunk in his life, got whisky to help him use more of himself, until there wasn’t anything left to use. Tell them that drinking for strength means discounting the future, and that discounting the future always means getting ready for bankruptcy28.”
“I’ll do it, old fellow,” said Fred, who had been growing very solemn of visage.
[80]
“They shan’t ask you for any money, Fred, explained Doughty, when the Squire’s voice was again heard saying,
“And they shan’t refuse it from me.”
“Thank you, Squire,” said George. “I do think you owe it to them, but I guess they’ve good enough stuff in them to refuse it.”
“George,” said the Squire, again approaching the bedside, “I’m going to continue your salary to your wife until your boys grow big enough to help her. You know I’ve got plenty of money—’twon’t hurt me; for God’s sake make her promise to take it.”
“She won’t need it,” said Doughty. “My life’s insured.”
“Then what can I do for her—for them—for you?” asked the Squire. “George, you’re holding your—sickness—against me, and I want to make it right. I can’t say I believe I’ve done wrong by you, but you think I have, and that’s enough to make me want to restore good feeling between us before—in case anything should happen. Anything that money can do, it shall do.”
“Offer it to God Almighty29, Squire, and buy my life back again,” said Doughty. “If you can’t do[81] that, your money isn’t good for anything in this house.”
The doctor whispered to his patient that he must not exert himself so much; the Squire whispered to the doctor to know what else a man in his own position could do?
Fred Macdonald could think of no appropriate expression with which to break the silence that threatened. Suddenly Parson Wedgewell raised his head, and said,
“My dear young friend, this is a solemn moment. There are others who know and esteem30 you, beside those here present; have you no message to leave for them? Thousands of people rightly regard you as a young man of high character, and your influence for good may be powerful among them. I should esteem it an especial privilege to announce, in my official capacity, such testimony31 as you may be moved to make, and as your pastor, I feel like claiming this mournful pleasure as a right. What may I say?”
“Say,” replied the sick man, with an earnestness which was almost terrible in its intensity32; “say that whisky was the best business friend I ever found, and that when it began to abuse me, no one thought[82] enough of me to step in between us. And tell them that this story is as true as it is ugly.”
As Doughty spoke12, he had raised himself upon one elbow; as he uttered his last word, he dropped upon his pillow, and passed into a land to which no one but his wife manifested any willingness to follow him.
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1
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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2
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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transpiring
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的现在分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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5
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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6
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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8
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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9
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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10
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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11
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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12
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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13
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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14
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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15
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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16
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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17
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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18
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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19
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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21
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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22
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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23
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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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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25
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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26
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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27
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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28
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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29
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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30
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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31
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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32
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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