sunshine sketches of a little town-第18部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


long　and　that　he　had　detained　him　too　long　already　and　that　Mullins
must　be　weary　from　his　train　journey　and　that　in　cases　of　extreme
weariness　nothing　but　a　sound　sleep　was　of　any　avail；　he　himself；
unfortunately；　would　not　be　able　to　avail　himself　of　the　priceless
boon　of　slumber　until　he　had　first　retired　to　his　study　to　write　some
letters；　so　that　Mullins；　who　had　a　certain　kind　of　social　quickness
of　intuition；　saw　that　it　was　time　to　leave；　and　went　away。

It　was　midnight　as　he　went　down　the　street；　and　a　dark；　still　night。
That　can　be　stated　positively　because　it　came　out　in　court
afterwards。　Mullins　swore　that　it　was　a　dark　night；　he　admitted；
under　examination；　that　there　may　have　been　the　stars；　or　at　least
some　of　the　less　important　of　them；　though　he　had　made　no　attempt；　as
brought　out　on　cross…examination；　to　count　them：　there　may　have　been；
too；　the　electric　lights；　and　Mullins　was　not　willing　to　deny　that　it
was　quite　possible　that　there　was　more　or　less　moonlight。　But　that
there　was　no　light　that　night　in　the　form　of　sunlight；　Mullins　was
absolutely　certain。　All　that；　I　say；　came　out　in　court。

But　meanwhile　the　rector　had　gone　upstairs　to　his　study　and　had
seated　himself　in　front　of　his　table　to　write　his　letters。　It　was
here　always　that　he　wrote　his　sermons。　From　the　window　of　the　room
you　looked　through　the　bare　white　maple　trees　to　the　sweeping　outline
of　the　church　shadowed　against　the　night　sky；　and　beyond　that；　though
far　off；　was　the　new　cemetery　where　the　rector　walked　of　a　Sunday　（I
think　I　told　you　why）：　beyond　that　again；　for　the　window　faced　the
east；　there　lay；　at　no　very　great　distance；　the　New　Jerusalem。　There
were　no　better　things　that　a　man　might　look　towards　from　his　study
window；　nor　anything　that　could　serve　as　a　better　aid　to　writing。

But　this　night　the　Dean's　letters　must　have　been　difficult　indeed　to
write。　For　he　sat　beside　the　table　holding　his　pen　and　with　his　head
bent　upon　his　other　hand；　and　though　he　sometimes　put　a　line　or　two
on　the　paper；　for　the　most　part　he　sat　motionless。　The　fact　is　that
Dean　Drone　was　not　trying　to　write　letters；　but　only　one　letter。　He
was　writing　a　letter　of　resignation。　If　you　have　not　done　that　for
forty　years　it　is　extremely　difficult　to　get　the　words。

So　at　least　the　Dean　found　it。　First　he　wrote　one　set　of　words　and
then　he　sat　and　thought　and　wrote　something　else。　But　nothing　seemed
to　suit。

The　real　truth　was　that　Dean　Drone；　perhaps　more　than　he　knew
himself；　had　a　fine　taste　for　words　and　effects；　and　when　you　feel
that　a　situation　is　entirely　out　of　the　common；　you　naturally　try；　if
you　have　that　instinct；　to　give　it　the　right　sort　of　expression。

I　believe　that　at　the　time　when　Rupert　Drone　had　taken　the　medal　in
Greek　over　fifty　years　ago；　it　was　only　a　twist　of　fate　that　had
prevented　him　from　becoming　a　great　writer。　There　was　a　buried　author
in　him　just　as　there　was　a　buried　financier　in　Jefferson　Thorpe。　In
fact；　there　were　many　people　in　Mariposa　like　that；　and　for　all　I
know　you　may　yourself　have　seen　such　elsewhere。　For　instance；　I　am
certain　that　Billy　Rawson；　the　telegraph　operator　at　Mariposa；　could
easily　have　invented　radium。　In　the　same　way　one　has　only　to　read
the　advertisements　of　Mr。　Gingham；　the　undertaker；　to　know　that　there
is　still　in　him　a　poet；　who　could　have　written　on　death　far　more
attractive　verses　than　the　Thanatopsis　of　Cullen　Bryant；　and　under　a
title　less　likely　to　offend　the　public　and　drive　away　custom。　He　has
told　me　this　himself。

So　the　Dean　tried　first　this　and　then　that　and　nothing　would　seem　to
suit。　First　of　all　he　wrote：

〃It　is　now　forty　years　since　I　came　among　you；　a　youth　full　of　life
and　hope　and　ardent　in　the　work　before　me〃　Then　he　paused；　doubtful
of　the　accuracy　and　clearness　of　the　expression；　read　it　over　again
and　again　in　deep　thought　and　then　began　again：

〃It　is　now　forty　years　since　I　came　among　you；　a　broken　and
melancholy　boy；　without　life　or　hope；　desiring　only　to　devote　to　the
service　of　this　parish　such　few　years　as　might　remain　of　an　existence
blighted　before　it　had　truly　begun〃　And　then　again　the　Dean
stopped。　He　read　what　he　had　written；　he　frowned；　he　crossed　it
through　with　his　pen。　This　was　no　way　to　write；　this　thin　egotistical
strain　of　complaint。　Once　more　he　started：

〃It　is　now　forty　years　since　I　came　among　you；　a　man　already
tempered　and　trained；　except　possibly　in　mathematics〃　And　then
again　the　rector　paused　and　his　mind　drifted　away　to　the　memory　of
the　Anglican　professor　that　I　spoke　of；　who　had　had　so　little　sense
of　his　higher　mission　as　to　omit　the　teaching　of　logarithms。　And　the
rector　mused　so　long　that　when　he　began　again　it　seemed　to　him　that
it　was　simpler　and　better　to　discard　the　personal　note　altogether；
and　he　wrote：

〃There　are　times；　gentlemen；　in　the　life　of　a　parish；　when　it　comes
to　an　epoch　which　brings　it　to　a　moment　when　it　reaches　a　point〃

The　Dean　stuck　fast　again；　but　refusing　this　time　to　be　beaten　went
resolutely　on：

〃reaches　a　point　where　the　circumstances　of　the　moment　make　the
epoch　such　as　to　focus　the　life　of　the　parish　in　that　time。〃

Then　the　Dean　saw　that　he　was　beaten；　and　he　knew　that　he　not　only
couldn't　manage　the　parish　but　couldn't　say　so　in　proper　English；　and
of　the　two　the　last　was　the　bitterer　discovery。

He　raised　his　head；　and　looked　for　a　moment　through　the　window　at　the
shadow　of　the　church　against　the　night；　so　outlined　that　you　could
almost　fancy　that　the　light　of　the　New　Jerusalem　was　beyond　it。　Then
he　wrote；　and　this　time　not　to　the　world　at　large　but　only　to
Mullins：

〃My　dear　Harry；　I　want　to　resign　my　charge。　Will　you　come　over　and
help　me？〃

When　the　Dean　at　last　rose　from　writing　that；　I　think　it　was　far　on
in　the　night。　As　he　rose　he　looked　again　through　the　window；　looked
once　and　then　once　more；　and　so　stood　with　widening　eyes；　and　his
face　set　towards　what　he　saw。

What　was　that？　That　light　in　the　sky　there；　eastward？near　or　far
he　could　not　say。　Was　it　already　the　dawn　of　the　New　Jerusalem
brightening　in　the　east；　or　was　itlookin　the　church
itself；what　is　that？that　dull　red　glow　that　shines　behind　the
stained…glass　windows；　turning　them　to　crimson？　that　fork　of　flame
that　breaks　now　from　the　casement　and　flashes　upward；　along　the
woodand　seethat　sudden　sheet　of　fire　that　springs　the　windows　of
the　church　with　the　roar　of　splintered　glass　and　surges　upward　into
the　sky；　till　the　dark　night　and　the　bare　trees　and　sleeping　street
of　Mariposa　are　all　illumined　with　its　glow！

Fire！　Fire！　and　the　sudden　sound　of　the　bell　now；　breaking　upon　the
night。

So　stood　the　Dean　erect；　with　one　hand　pressed　against　the　table　for
support；　while　the　Mariposa　fire　bell　struck　out　its　warning　to　the
sleeping　town；stood　there　while　the　street　grew　loud　with　the
tumult　of　voices；with　the　roaring　gallop　of　the　fire　brigade；with
the　harsh　note　of　the　gongand　over　all　other　sounds；　the　great
seething　of　the　flames　that　tore　their　way　into　the　beams　and　rafters
of　the　pointed　church　and　flared　above　it　like　a　torch　into　the
midnight　sky。

So　stood　the　Dean；　and　as　the　church　broke　thus　into　a　very　beacon
kindled　upon　a　hill；sank　forward　without　a　sign；　his　face　against
the　table；　stricken。

You　need　to　see　a　fire　in　a　place　such　as　Mariposa；　a　town　still　half
of　wood；　to　know　what　fire　means。　In　the　city　it　is　all　different。　To
the　onlooker；　at　any　rate；　a　fire　is　only　a　spectacle；　nothing　more。
Everything　is　arranged；　organized；　certain。　It　is　only　once　perhaps
in　a　century　that　fire　comes　to　a　large　city　as　it　comes　to　the
little　wooden　town　like　Mariposa　as　a　great　Terror　of　the　Night。

That；　at　any　rate；　is　what　it　meant　in　Mariposa　that　night　in　April；
the　night　the　Church　of　England　Church　burnt　down。　Had　the　fire
gained　but　a　hundred　feet；　or　less；　it　could　have　reached　from　the
driving　shed　behind　the　church　to　the　backs　of　the　wooden　shops　of
the　Main　Street；　and　once　there　not　all　the　waters　of　Lake　Wissanotti
could　stay　the　course　of　its　destruction。　It　was　for　that　hundred
feet　that　they　fought；　the　men　of　Mariposa；　from　the　midnight　call　of
the　bell　till　the　slow　coming　of　the　day。　They　fought　the　fire；　not
to　save　the　church；　for　that　was　doomed　from　the　first　outbreak　of
the　flames；　but　to　stop　the　spread　of　it　and　save　the　town。　They
fought　it　at　the　windows；　and　at　the　blazing　doors；　and　through　the
yawning　furnace　of　the　open　belfry；　fought　it；　with　the　Mariposa
engine　thumping　and　panting　in　the　street；　itself　aglow　with　fire
like　a　servant　demon　fighting　its　own　kind；　with　tall　ladders
reaching　to　the　very　roof；　and　with　hose　that　poured　their　streams　of
tossing　water　foaming　into　the　flames。

Most　of　all　they　fought　to　save　the　wooden　driving　shed　behind　the
church　from　which　the　fire　could　leap　into　the　heart　of　Mariposa。
That　was　where　the　real　fight　was；　for　the　life　of　the　town。　I　wish
you　could　have　seen　how　they　turned　the　hose　against　the　shingles；
ripping　and　tearing　them　from　their　places　with　the　force　of　the
driven　water：　how　they　mounted　on　the　roof；　axe　in　hand；　and　cut
madly　at　the　rafters　to　bring　the　building　down；　while　the　black
clouds　of　smoke　rolled　in　volumes　about　the　men　as　they　worked。　You
could　see　the　fire　horses　harnessed　with　logging　chains　to　the
uprights　of　the　shed　to　tear　the　building　from　its　place。

Most　of　all　I　wish　you　could　have　seen　Mr。　Smith；　proprietor；　as　I
think　you　know；　of　Smith's　Hotel；　there　on　the　roof　with　a　fireman's
helmet　on；　cutting　through　the　main　beam　of　solid　cedar；　twelve　by
twelve；　that　held　tight　still　when　the　rafters　and　the　roof　tree　were
down　already；　the　shed　on　fire　in　a　dozen　places；　and　the　other　men
driven　from　the　work　by　the　flaming　sparks；　and　by　the　strangle　of
the　smoke。　Not　so　Mr。　Smith！　See　him　there　as　he　plants　himself　firm
at　the　angle　of　the　beams；　and　with　the　full　impact　of　his　two
hundred　and　eighty　pounds　drives　his　axe　into　the　wood！　I　tell　you　it
takes　a　man　from　the　pine　country　of　the　north　to　handle　an　axe！
Right；　left；　left；　right；　down　it　comes；　with　never　a　pause　or　stay；
never　missing　by　a　fraction　of　an　inch　the　line　of　the　stroke！　At　it；
Smith