“That’s great!” he said. “That’s great.”
Mr. Round motioned him to sit down again.
“It isn’t altogether on high moral grounds I’m deciding this way,” he said. “It’s because I don’t think a strike, starting from such a fool cause, will hurt us. I think it will help us. We need public sympathy and public confidence. The public has been weaned away from us by a lot of muck-rakers. Here’s a chance to get it back. And now, Ed,” he added, “you’ve got to make a grand-stand play.”
“All right,” agreed Mr. Schofield. “What is it?”
“Bribe Nixon?”
“And show him up.”
A light broke over Mr. Schofield’s face.
“Oh!” he said. “I see.”
“You and I will talk it over,” said Mr. Round. “But it’s lunch time,” he added, looking at his watch. “Of course you’re coming with me.”
So the three went out to lunch together, and for a time forgot the cares of railroading. Only once was the road referred to.
“I’ve got to see Mr. Heywood before I go back,” Mr. Schofield remarked. “There’s one or two little matters I want to take up with him.”
Mr. Round’s face darkened.
“You won’t see him to-day,” he said.
“Why not?” questioned Mr. Schofield.
“The fact of the matter is,” said Mr. Round, after a moment’s hesitation2, “Heywood hasn’t been at his office for three days.”
“Hum!” said Mr. Schofield, his face darkening too. “Has it got that bad? I’d heard stories, of course, but I’d hoped they were exaggerated.”
“He’s been getting worse and worse, and I don’t believe he’ll hold his job much longer. He may be let down easy, because he’s been a good man—and he’d be a good man yet if he could let drink alone. But it’s getting more and more hold on him all the time. He knows it and is ashamed of it, but he don’t seem to have strength enough to break away from it. It’s too bad.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Mr. Schofield. “What I hate about it most is the humiliation3 his daughter must suffer. I don’t know whether you knew her or not—Betty Heywood—but she was a mighty4 nice girl.”
“No, I didn’t know her,” said Mr. Round. “But she seems to have saved herself. I heard the other day that she was going to get married.”
Allan’s heart bounded suddenly, and his face reddened, but neither of his companions noticed his agitation5.
“That’s a good thing,” said Mr. Schofield. “Who’s the man?”
“I don’t remember his name,” answered Mr. Round. “I heard some of the boys talking about it the other day—of course there may be nothing in it.”
“Well, I hope it’s so,” remarked the other. “It would solve a mighty unpleasant situation. Now, I’m going to turn you loose for the afternoon, Allan,” he added. “Meet me in time to catch Number Two and we’ll have dinner together on the diner.”
“Very well, sir,” said Allan, welcoming the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. “I’ll be there.”
He walked slowly up the street, seeing nothing of the busy life about him, turning over and over in his mind the bit of gossip which Mr. Round had repeated. Could it be true, he wondered. Suppose it were, what would it mean to him? It had been years since he had seen Betty Heywood; it was very probable that the girl whose image lived in his heart was very different from the reality. At any rate, it was absurd to suppose that she would have anything more than the faintest of remembrances of the boy she had befriended in years gone by.
Shaking such thoughts away, at last, he considered for a moment where he should spend the afternoon. He decided6 in favour of the Art Museum, and boarding a car, started on the long, beautiful ride to Eden Park. The route carried him up one of the long inclines, which are a unique feature of Cincinnati’s street railway system. The city proper is built in the valley along the river, and is surrounded by hills two or three hundred feet in height, where the most exclusive residence sections are. These are reached by inclines, where the cars are hoisted7 and lowered by means of massive wire cables.
As the car rose slowly up the incline, Cincinnati lay spread below him, a charming city, marred8 only by the haze9 of coal smoke which a too-indulgent city government made little effort to suppress. Half an hour later, he was at his destination and entered the museum, whose collection of paintings, statuary and other works of art is one of the most famous in the middle west. He spent a most enjoyable hour wandering from room to room, and was about ready to go, when, in one of the far galleries, he noticed a woman at work before an easel, and, strolling nearer, saw that she was making a copy of one of the larger paintings. He was about to turn away, fearing that he was intruding10, when she glanced up and saw him.
“Why, Allan West,” she cried, and started up, hand outstretched, and he saw that it was Betty
Heywood. “It is Allan West, isn’t it?” she asked, as he stood for an instant chained to the spot.
“It certainly is,” he answered, clasping the welcoming hand. “But I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Nor I to see you,” she broke in. “What has a train dispatcher to do with picture galleries?”
“Mighty little, I’m sorry to say. I didn’t know you were an artist!”
“I’m not,” she said, laughing merrily. “I’m only a copyist. What do you think of it?” she added, with a gesture toward the picture on the easel.
Allan gazed at it with unfeigned admiration11, though to a more critical eye, its shortcomings would have been evident enough.
“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s splendid! Where did you learn how?”
Again she laughed, though her cheeks flushed a little at his praise.
“I’ve been working at it for a long time,” she said. “But don’t deceive yourself—it isn’t a work of art—it’s merely a pot-boiler.”
“A what?”
“A pot-boiler—designed, in other words, not for fame, but to furnish food and raiment. But, come,” she added, “I’ve worked enough for one day and I need some fresh air. Will you come along?”
“I certainly will!” he said, his face lighting12, and he watched her while she stowed her paints away in a box, giving them, together with the easel and the unfinished painting, into the care of one of the attendants.
“Now wait till I get my hat and coat,” she said, “and off we go.”
She was back in a few moments, her piquant13 face set off by a most becoming toque, and her painting apron14 replaced by a long wrap.
“All right,” she said, and a moment later they were walking down the steps together.
Not till then did he have an opportunity to look at her, and he was struck with a sudden sense of strangeness. This was not the Betty Heywood he had known, but a woman brighter, more dashing, more self-assured. He was surprised, in a way, to find that there was no shadow of her father’s failure on her. He had expected to find her labouring with that sorrow, or at least showing visible traces of it, and he wondered how she had escaped so completely.
She glanced at him once or twice, as they turned together along one of the paths of the park, and opened her lips to speak, but closed them again, as though hesitating how to begin.
“You’re still at Wadsworth?” she asked, at last.
“Oh, yes.”
“In the dispatchers’ office?”
“Chief dispatcher now,” he said.
“Are you?” she said. “Isn’t that fine! But I knew you’d work your way right up. Do you know, you’ve developed into just the sort of man that you were a boy.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Oh, no indeed. Very few people do. Most of us grow crooked15—there’s always something in the path that throws us out of line. Sometimes it throws us up and sometimes it throws us down, but you’ve grown right straight ahead. Now I can tell by the way you look at me that I’m not at all the kind of woman you expected I would be.”
He was a little disconcerted at this frankness.
“No,” he said, at last, “you’re right there. I can’t quite make you out.”
“I’ve had obstacles, you see,” she said, her face clouding for an instant. “I’ve grown crooked.”
“I heard of your mother’s death,” he said, gently. “I shall never forget her, though I met her only once.”
“Yes—dear mother. She thought a great deal of you. So did father.”
“Your father was very kind to me,” he said.
She looked quickly into his face.
“Things have not been well with us,” she said, with a little catch in her voice. “I had to go to work. I found I had some little artistic16 talent, and I turned it to account. And I’ve made a lot of good friends here.”
She looked at him again.
“You’ve heard that I’m going to be married?” she asked, suddenly.
“Yes,” he answered, as evenly as he could. “Mr. Round said something about it to-day.”
“It’s going to be next month. His name’s Knowlton—Robert Underwood Knowlton—he’s a lawyer, and the dearest fellow that ever was. I wish you could meet him. I know you’d like him,” she went on, rapidly. Then she stopped suddenly and looked at him.
“See here, Allan,” she said, her hand on his arm. “Don’t look like that. It’s not I you’re in love with—you’re not in love with anybody. You never have been with me. You happened to meet me when you were lonely, and you gave me a little niche17 in your heart. But you don’t love me—that’s not what love is. I’m not at all the kind of woman you imagined—you’ve seen that already. Now you mustn’t be foolish—shake hands, like a brother.”
He looked down into her face, and suddenly it seemed as though a veil were swept away, and he saw that she was right. It wasn’t love he felt for her—it was only affection. Her eyes, watching him anxiously, brightened as she saw the change in his face.
“You’re the dearest girl that ever was,” he said, clasping her hand, “and the bravest. I’m not sure that I’m not falling in love with you now.”
“No, you’re not!” she cried, patting him on the arm. “I knew I was right!” she added, her face beaming. “You’ve made me so happy—for I couldn’t help worrying a little, sometimes. Will you come to the wedding, if I ask you?”
“Ask me and see,” he retorted, laughing.
“Miss Elizabeth Heywood requests the favour of Mr. Allan West’s attendance at her wedding, February 16th, at two o’clock P. M. R. S. V. P.”
“Mr. Allan West acknowledges the receipt of Miss Heywood’s kind invitation and accepts with pleasure.”
“Good!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Then you’ll meet Bob and you’ll see what a lucky girl I am.”
“I think I’ll be more apt to see what a lucky fellow he is.”
“Well, we’re both lucky, and we’re going to be very, very happy.”
“Thank you, Allan; I know you do. And now here comes my car. Stop it for me. Good-bye,” she added, as the car came to a stop opposite them. “And I can’t tell you how glad I am I met you this afternoon. Good-bye!”
She waved her hand to him from the platform, and was gone.
He stood for a moment, watching the car, then turned slowly back toward the museum. He, also, was glad that he had met Betty Heywood—glad that she had been brave enough and clear-sighted enough to set him right with her and with the world.
And yet he realized dimly that there was suddenly a place vacant in his heart.
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收听单词发音
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1
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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15
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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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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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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