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O. Henry(1862-1910),原名William Sydney Porter,是美国最著名的短篇小说家之一。他善于描写美国社会尤其是纽约百姓的生活,善于捕捉生活中令人啼笑皆非而富有哲理的戏剧性场景,用漫画般的笔触勾勒出人物的特点。他的作品构思新颖,语言诙谐,结局常常出人意外。他一共创作了300多篇短篇小说,代表作有小说集《白菜与国王》、《四百万》、《命运之路》等。
大多数人最早接触的O. Henry的短篇小说应该是中学课本上的《警察与赞美诗》吧,那出人意料的结局一定给你留下了深刻的印象。其实除了这篇小说外,O. Henry还写过不少很棒的短篇小说,比如小编我非常喜爱的《麦琪的礼物》和《最后一片叶子》。这期带给大家他的《一位忙碌经纪人的浪漫史》,文中的人物描写、场景氛围的营造,以及那令人感觉很窝心的结尾都证明了它是一篇让人叫好的文章。现在就让我们一起开始这段阅读之旅吧!——Lavender
Pitcher, 2)confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless 3)countenance when his employer 4)briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady5)stenographer. With a 6)snappy “Good-morning, Pitcher,” Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
The young lady had been Maxwell’s stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was 7)decidedly unstenographic. She 8)forwent the 9)pomp of the alluring 10)pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or 11)lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with 12)fidelity and discretion. In her neat black 13)turban hat was the gold-green wing of a 14)macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine 15)peachblow, her expression a happy one, 16)tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell’s desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and 17)uncoiling springs.
“Well—what is it? Anything?” asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and 18)brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
“Nothing,” answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
“Mr. Pitcher,” she said to the confidential clerk, “did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?”
“He did,” answered Pitcher. “He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It’s 9:45 o’clock, and not a single 19)picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.”
“I will do the work as usual, then,” said the young lady, “until someone comes to fill the place.” And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell’s busy day. The 20)ticker began to 21)reel out 22)jerkily its 23)fitful 24)coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a 25)toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to phone, from desk to door with the trained 26)agility of a 27)harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress, the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled 28)fringe of golden hair under a nodding 29)canopy of velvet and 30)ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin 31)sacque and a string of beads as large as 32)hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a 33)self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
“Lady from the Stenographer’s Agency to see about the position,” said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape. “What position?” he asked, with a frown.
“Position of stenographer,” said Pitcher. “You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.”
“You are losing your mind, Pitcher,” said Maxwell. “Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There’s no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don’t bring any more of ’em in here.”
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the “34)old man” seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell’s customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were 35)imperiled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine—strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act, ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities—here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight 36)lull in the 37)uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and 38)memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. And through the window came a wandering—perhaps a lost—odour—a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only. The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a 39)speck. And she was in the next room—twenty steps away.
“40)By George, I’ll do it now,” said Maxwell, half aloud. “I’ll ask her now. I wonder why I didn’t do it long ago.” He dashed into the inner office. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
“Miss Leslie,” he began hurriedly, “I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven’t had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please—those fellows are 41)clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific.”
“Oh, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
“Don’t you understand?” said Maxwell, 42)restively. “I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had 43)slackened up a bit. They’re calling me for the phone now. Tell ’em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won’t you, Miss Leslie?”
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker’s neck.
“I know now,” she said, softly. “It’s this old business that has driven everything else out of your head. I was frightened at first. Don’t you remember, Harvey? We were married yesterday evening at 8 o’clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.”
九点半时,股票经纪人哈维·麦克斯韦尔在年轻女速记员的陪同下精神抖擞地走进办公室。他事务所里的机要秘书皮彻那通常毫无表情的脸上不禁露出一丝好奇和诧异。麦克斯韦尔精力充沛地喊了声“早啊,皮彻”,就朝他的办公桌冲去,仿佛要跳过它似的。接着,他就一头扎进一大堆等着他处理的信件和电报里。
那位年轻姑娘给麦克斯韦尔当速记员已经有一年了。她的美绝非速记员草草几笔所能简单描述。她不梳那种华丽诱人的庞帕杜高卷式发型,也不戴项链、手镯或盒式小坠子。她脸上没有那种受邀准备参加午宴的神气。她的灰色裙子素净,但相当合身,显身材又不失大方庄重。她那顶简洁的黑色无边帽上插了根金绿色的金刚鹦鹉毛。这个上午,她身上焕发出一种温柔而羞怯的光彩,双眼流波闪烁,脸颊直泛桃红,脸上带着幸福的神色和丝丝怀想。
皮彻仍旧有点好奇,他注意到她这个上午的举止有些异样。她不像往常那样径直走进麦克斯韦尔办公室隔壁那房间(她办公桌在那儿),而是在办公室外间略带迟疑地徘徊。她还一度走近麦克斯韦尔的办公桌,近得足以让他意识到她的存在。
坐在办公桌前的不再是个常人,简直成了台机器。那是忙碌的纽约股票经纪人,一台上满发条运作起来齿轮吱吱响的机器。
“噢——怎么?有事吗?”麦克斯韦尔径直问道。他那些拆开了的信件躺在那张堆满东西的办公桌上,好像舞台上的一层人造雪。他那双锐利的灰色眼睛半带厌烦地扫了她一眼,显得不近人情且粗暴无礼。
“没什么,”速记员回答说,然后笑了笑走开了。
“皮彻先生,” 她对机要秘书说,“麦克斯韦尔先生昨天有没提过另外雇一名速记员的事?”
“提过。”皮彻答道,“他吩咐我另外找一个。昨天下午,我已通知速记员介绍所,让他们今天上午介绍几个来面试。现在已经九点四十五了,还没见着哪个戴阔边帽的或嚼菠萝口香糖的人呢。”
“那我还是照常工作好啦,” 那年轻女子说道,“直到有人来顶替我这工作。” 她立刻走到自己的办公桌前,把那顶插着金绿色金刚鹦鹉毛的黑色无边帽挂在老地方。
今天是哈维·麦克斯韦尔的一个大忙天。股票行情自动收录器开始像犯痉挛似地断断续续地吐出卷卷纸带,桌上的电话像害了慢性病似的不时作响。人们开始涌入办公室,隔着扶手栏杆朝他大喊大叫,有的欣喜若狂,有的尖声厉词,有的满怀敌意,有的激动不已。信童跑进跑出传信传电报。办公室里的职员们忙得跳来跳去,活像风暴来临时船上的水手。麦克斯韦尔把椅子猛推到墙边,如芭蕾舞者踮着脚尖跳舞般敏捷地处理业务,一下从股票行情自动收录器跳到电话机旁,一下又从办公桌边跳到门口,其灵活度不亚于受过专门训练的滑稽丑角。
就在这个愈发紧张和重要的时刻,经纪人突然注意到一顶带鸵鸟毛羽饰、微微抖动的丝绒帽下那高高卷起的金发刘海,一件宽大的人造海豹皮上衣,一串用大如山核桃的珠子穿成,吊着个心形银坠,几乎垂到地板上的珠链。穿戴这些衣饰的是一个沉着镇定的年轻女子。皮彻正准备介绍她。
“这位小姐是速记员介绍所介绍过来的,应聘速记员一职。”皮彻说道。
麦克斯韦尔半转过身,双手满是纸张和写着股票行情的纸带。“什么职位?”他皱着眉头问道。
“速记员。”皮彻说,“昨天你吩咐我给他们打电话,叫他们今天上午介绍一个人过来。”
“皮彻,你犯糊涂了吧?”麦克斯韦尔说,“我怎么会叫你这样做呢?莱丝丽小姐在这儿工作的一年里令人十分满意。只要她愿意干下去,这个职位永远是她的。小姐,这儿没有职位空缺。皮彻,通知介绍所取消招聘,叫他们别再介绍人过来。”
那心形银坠离开了办公室,一路上愤愤不平,自个儿晃晃悠悠地撞上了办公室里的家具,撞得乒乓作响。皮彻忙中偷闲对簿记员说,“头儿”似乎一天比一天心不在焉,且越发健忘。
业务处理越来越忙,节奏越来越快。麦克斯韦尔的顾客投资很大的股票中有六个遭到重创。下单买进卖出,来去疾如燕飞。麦克斯韦尔本人持有的一部分股票也危如累卵。他就像一台高速运转、精密而强大的机器那样工作着——精神绷紧到最大限度,开足马力,准确精密,从不犹豫,言语、决策和行动都像发条装置那般,准备充分,反应迅速。股票、债券、贷款、抵押、交易保证金和有价证券——这是一个金融世界,里头没有容纳人类世界或是自然界的丝毫空隙。
午餐时间逐渐临近,喧嚣之中出现了片刻安静。
麦克斯韦尔站在办公桌边,手里满是电报和备忘便条,右耳上夹着一支钢笔,一缕缕的头发凌乱地垂在前额上。窗口飘进了一股四处徘徊的气息——或许是一种失落的气息—— 一股优雅的丁香花香气,刹那间,麦克斯韦尔给怔住了。因为这气息来自莱丝丽小姐。是她的气息,她独有的气息。芳香在他心中唤出了她的容貌,栩栩如生,几乎伸手可及。金融世界转瞬间缩成一小斑点。而她就在隔壁房间,仅二十步之遥。
“真的,我现在就得去,”麦克斯韦尔几乎喊了出来,“我现在就去问她。我怎么没早点儿想起呢?”他箭步冲进里间办公室,向速记员的办公桌冲过去。
她抬起头,微笑地看着他,脸颊泛出淡淡红晕,眼里流露出温柔和坦诚。麦克斯韦尔一只胳膊撑在她桌上,手上依然握着晃动着的文件纸张,耳朵上还夹着那支钢笔。
“莱丝丽小姐,”他匆匆开口说,“我只能抽出这么点时间。趁这个机会跟你说几句话。你愿意做我的妻子吗?我没有时间以常人的方式跟你谈情说爱,但是我确实爱你。请快回答我——那帮人正在设法打垮联合太平洋铁路公司呢。”
“喔,你在说什么呀?” 年轻女人嚷道。她站起来,直愣愣地盯着他,眼睛睁得圆圆的。
“你不明白吗?”麦克斯韦尔倔头倔脑地说,“我想要你嫁给我。我爱你,莱丝丽小姐。我早就想对你说了,所以工作没那么紧张时就抽空跑来。他们现在又打电话找我了。皮彻,让他们等一会儿。莱丝丽小姐,你愿意吗?”
速记员的举动很奇怪。起先,她似乎惊愕万分;接着,泪水从她那充满诧异的眼睛里流了下来;之后,透过晶莹的泪花,她展露出阳光般灿烂的笑容,一条胳膊温柔地搂住经纪人的脖子。
“现在我懂了,”她柔声说道,“是这破买卖让你啥都忘了。起初我还很害怕呢。难道你不记得了吗?哈维,我们昨晚八点钟在‘街角的小教堂’里举行过婚礼了。”
大多数人最早接触的O. Henry的短篇小说应该是中学课本上的《警察与赞美诗》吧,那出人意料的结局一定给你留下了深刻的印象。其实除了这篇小说外,O. Henry还写过不少很棒的短篇小说,比如小编我非常喜爱的《麦琪的礼物》和《最后一片叶子》。这期带给大家他的《一位忙碌经纪人的浪漫史》,文中的人物描写、场景氛围的营造,以及那令人感觉很窝心的结尾都证明了它是一篇让人叫好的文章。现在就让我们一起开始这段阅读之旅吧!——Lavender
Pitcher, 2)confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless 3)countenance when his employer 4)briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady5)stenographer. With a 6)snappy “Good-morning, Pitcher,” Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.
The young lady had been Maxwell’s stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was 7)decidedly unstenographic. She 8)forwent the 9)pomp of the alluring 10)pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or 11)lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with 12)fidelity and discretion. In her neat black 13)turban hat was the gold-green wing of a 14)macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine 15)peachblow, her expression a happy one, 16)tinged with reminiscence.
Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell’s desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.
The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and 17)uncoiling springs.
“Well—what is it? Anything?” asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and 18)brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
“Nothing,” answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
“Mr. Pitcher,” she said to the confidential clerk, “did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?”
“He did,” answered Pitcher. “He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It’s 9:45 o’clock, and not a single 19)picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.”
“I will do the work as usual, then,” said the young lady, “until someone comes to fill the place.” And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell’s busy day. The 20)ticker began to 21)reel out 22)jerkily its 23)fitful 24)coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a 25)toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to phone, from desk to door with the trained 26)agility of a 27)harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress, the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled 28)fringe of golden hair under a nodding 29)canopy of velvet and 30)ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin 31)sacque and a string of beads as large as 32)hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a 33)self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
“Lady from the Stenographer’s Agency to see about the position,” said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape. “What position?” he asked, with a frown.
“Position of stenographer,” said Pitcher. “You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.”
“You are losing your mind, Pitcher,” said Maxwell. “Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There’s no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don’t bring any more of ’em in here.”
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the “34)old man” seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.
The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell’s customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were 35)imperiled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine—strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act, ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities—here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.
When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight 36)lull in the 37)uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and 38)memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. And through the window came a wandering—perhaps a lost—odour—a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only. The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a 39)speck. And she was in the next room—twenty steps away.
“40)By George, I’ll do it now,” said Maxwell, half aloud. “I’ll ask her now. I wonder why I didn’t do it long ago.” He dashed into the inner office. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
“Miss Leslie,” he began hurriedly, “I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven’t had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please—those fellows are 41)clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific.”
“Oh, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
“Don’t you understand?” said Maxwell, 42)restively. “I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had 43)slackened up a bit. They’re calling me for the phone now. Tell ’em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won’t you, Miss Leslie?”
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker’s neck.
“I know now,” she said, softly. “It’s this old business that has driven everything else out of your head. I was frightened at first. Don’t you remember, Harvey? We were married yesterday evening at 8 o’clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.”
九点半时,股票经纪人哈维·麦克斯韦尔在年轻女速记员的陪同下精神抖擞地走进办公室。他事务所里的机要秘书皮彻那通常毫无表情的脸上不禁露出一丝好奇和诧异。麦克斯韦尔精力充沛地喊了声“早啊,皮彻”,就朝他的办公桌冲去,仿佛要跳过它似的。接着,他就一头扎进一大堆等着他处理的信件和电报里。
那位年轻姑娘给麦克斯韦尔当速记员已经有一年了。她的美绝非速记员草草几笔所能简单描述。她不梳那种华丽诱人的庞帕杜高卷式发型,也不戴项链、手镯或盒式小坠子。她脸上没有那种受邀准备参加午宴的神气。她的灰色裙子素净,但相当合身,显身材又不失大方庄重。她那顶简洁的黑色无边帽上插了根金绿色的金刚鹦鹉毛。这个上午,她身上焕发出一种温柔而羞怯的光彩,双眼流波闪烁,脸颊直泛桃红,脸上带着幸福的神色和丝丝怀想。
皮彻仍旧有点好奇,他注意到她这个上午的举止有些异样。她不像往常那样径直走进麦克斯韦尔办公室隔壁那房间(她办公桌在那儿),而是在办公室外间略带迟疑地徘徊。她还一度走近麦克斯韦尔的办公桌,近得足以让他意识到她的存在。
坐在办公桌前的不再是个常人,简直成了台机器。那是忙碌的纽约股票经纪人,一台上满发条运作起来齿轮吱吱响的机器。
“噢——怎么?有事吗?”麦克斯韦尔径直问道。他那些拆开了的信件躺在那张堆满东西的办公桌上,好像舞台上的一层人造雪。他那双锐利的灰色眼睛半带厌烦地扫了她一眼,显得不近人情且粗暴无礼。
“没什么,”速记员回答说,然后笑了笑走开了。
“皮彻先生,” 她对机要秘书说,“麦克斯韦尔先生昨天有没提过另外雇一名速记员的事?”
“提过。”皮彻答道,“他吩咐我另外找一个。昨天下午,我已通知速记员介绍所,让他们今天上午介绍几个来面试。现在已经九点四十五了,还没见着哪个戴阔边帽的或嚼菠萝口香糖的人呢。”
“那我还是照常工作好啦,” 那年轻女子说道,“直到有人来顶替我这工作。” 她立刻走到自己的办公桌前,把那顶插着金绿色金刚鹦鹉毛的黑色无边帽挂在老地方。
今天是哈维·麦克斯韦尔的一个大忙天。股票行情自动收录器开始像犯痉挛似地断断续续地吐出卷卷纸带,桌上的电话像害了慢性病似的不时作响。人们开始涌入办公室,隔着扶手栏杆朝他大喊大叫,有的欣喜若狂,有的尖声厉词,有的满怀敌意,有的激动不已。信童跑进跑出传信传电报。办公室里的职员们忙得跳来跳去,活像风暴来临时船上的水手。麦克斯韦尔把椅子猛推到墙边,如芭蕾舞者踮着脚尖跳舞般敏捷地处理业务,一下从股票行情自动收录器跳到电话机旁,一下又从办公桌边跳到门口,其灵活度不亚于受过专门训练的滑稽丑角。
就在这个愈发紧张和重要的时刻,经纪人突然注意到一顶带鸵鸟毛羽饰、微微抖动的丝绒帽下那高高卷起的金发刘海,一件宽大的人造海豹皮上衣,一串用大如山核桃的珠子穿成,吊着个心形银坠,几乎垂到地板上的珠链。穿戴这些衣饰的是一个沉着镇定的年轻女子。皮彻正准备介绍她。
“这位小姐是速记员介绍所介绍过来的,应聘速记员一职。”皮彻说道。
麦克斯韦尔半转过身,双手满是纸张和写着股票行情的纸带。“什么职位?”他皱着眉头问道。
“速记员。”皮彻说,“昨天你吩咐我给他们打电话,叫他们今天上午介绍一个人过来。”
“皮彻,你犯糊涂了吧?”麦克斯韦尔说,“我怎么会叫你这样做呢?莱丝丽小姐在这儿工作的一年里令人十分满意。只要她愿意干下去,这个职位永远是她的。小姐,这儿没有职位空缺。皮彻,通知介绍所取消招聘,叫他们别再介绍人过来。”
那心形银坠离开了办公室,一路上愤愤不平,自个儿晃晃悠悠地撞上了办公室里的家具,撞得乒乓作响。皮彻忙中偷闲对簿记员说,“头儿”似乎一天比一天心不在焉,且越发健忘。
业务处理越来越忙,节奏越来越快。麦克斯韦尔的顾客投资很大的股票中有六个遭到重创。下单买进卖出,来去疾如燕飞。麦克斯韦尔本人持有的一部分股票也危如累卵。他就像一台高速运转、精密而强大的机器那样工作着——精神绷紧到最大限度,开足马力,准确精密,从不犹豫,言语、决策和行动都像发条装置那般,准备充分,反应迅速。股票、债券、贷款、抵押、交易保证金和有价证券——这是一个金融世界,里头没有容纳人类世界或是自然界的丝毫空隙。
午餐时间逐渐临近,喧嚣之中出现了片刻安静。
麦克斯韦尔站在办公桌边,手里满是电报和备忘便条,右耳上夹着一支钢笔,一缕缕的头发凌乱地垂在前额上。窗口飘进了一股四处徘徊的气息——或许是一种失落的气息—— 一股优雅的丁香花香气,刹那间,麦克斯韦尔给怔住了。因为这气息来自莱丝丽小姐。是她的气息,她独有的气息。芳香在他心中唤出了她的容貌,栩栩如生,几乎伸手可及。金融世界转瞬间缩成一小斑点。而她就在隔壁房间,仅二十步之遥。
“真的,我现在就得去,”麦克斯韦尔几乎喊了出来,“我现在就去问她。我怎么没早点儿想起呢?”他箭步冲进里间办公室,向速记员的办公桌冲过去。
她抬起头,微笑地看着他,脸颊泛出淡淡红晕,眼里流露出温柔和坦诚。麦克斯韦尔一只胳膊撑在她桌上,手上依然握着晃动着的文件纸张,耳朵上还夹着那支钢笔。
“莱丝丽小姐,”他匆匆开口说,“我只能抽出这么点时间。趁这个机会跟你说几句话。你愿意做我的妻子吗?我没有时间以常人的方式跟你谈情说爱,但是我确实爱你。请快回答我——那帮人正在设法打垮联合太平洋铁路公司呢。”
“喔,你在说什么呀?” 年轻女人嚷道。她站起来,直愣愣地盯着他,眼睛睁得圆圆的。
“你不明白吗?”麦克斯韦尔倔头倔脑地说,“我想要你嫁给我。我爱你,莱丝丽小姐。我早就想对你说了,所以工作没那么紧张时就抽空跑来。他们现在又打电话找我了。皮彻,让他们等一会儿。莱丝丽小姐,你愿意吗?”
速记员的举动很奇怪。起先,她似乎惊愕万分;接着,泪水从她那充满诧异的眼睛里流了下来;之后,透过晶莹的泪花,她展露出阳光般灿烂的笑容,一条胳膊温柔地搂住经纪人的脖子。
“现在我懂了,”她柔声说道,“是这破买卖让你啥都忘了。起初我还很害怕呢。难道你不记得了吗?哈维,我们昨晚八点钟在‘街角的小教堂’里举行过婚礼了。”