“I jist stopped for a minute, Miz’ Blake. I’m a-goin’ up to the Double S. Miss Sapphy’s sent me to pick some laurel for her.” She spoke1 wanderingly and rather mournfully, Mrs. Blake noted2.
“Is Mother not feeling well? She always likes to drive up the road and see the laurel herself.”
“Yes, mam. Maybe she don’t feel right well. You’re jist puttin’ your bread in, ain’t you.” There was no question in her voice, but sorrowful comment.
“The oven’s not hot yet, but it soon will be.” Mrs. Blake lifted the stove lid to put in another stick.
Nancy gasped3 and put out her hand beseechingly4. “Oh, Miz’ Blake, wait a minute, please mam do! I don’t hardly know what to say, but I’m afraid to go up the holler road this mornin’.”
“Afraid? What of? Blacksnakes?”
“No’m, I ain’t afraid of no snakes.”
Mrs. Blake dropped the stick back into the wood-box. The girl was afraid of something, sure enough. One could see it in her face, and in the shivering, irresolute5 way she stood there.
After covering her loaves with a white cloth, Mrs. Blake took her seat by the kitchen table. “Now sit down, Nancy, and tell me what’s ailing6 you. Don’t stand there cowerin’, but sit down and speak out.”
“Yes’m,” meekly7. “It ain’t I minds goin’ up there; it’s jist a nice walk. Only Miss Sapphy told me to go right before Mr. Martin.”
“Well, what’s that got to do with it?”
“She knowed he was goin’ ridin’ this mornin’. He had his leggin’s on.”
She stopped, and Mrs. Blake waited. In a moment Nancy burst out: “Oh, Miz’ Blake, he’ll shorely ride up there an’ overtake me in the woods!” She hid her face in her hands and began to cry. “You don’t know how it is, mam. He’s always a-pesterin’ me, ‘deed he is. I has to do his room for him, an’ he’s always after me. I’m ‘shamed to tell you. He’ll be shore to overtake me up in the woods. I lost heart when I seen you was about to bake. I thought maybe you’d walk along up with me.”
“The baking can wait. I’ll just check the damper and go along with you. I’d like to see that laurel myself. Now you quit crying. I’ll go upstairs and slip on another dress.”
Once in her own chamber8, Mrs. Blake sat down to think. Her face was flushed, and her eyes blazed with indignation. She could not remember when Mrs. Colbert had not driven daily up the Hollow road to the “Double S” while the laurel was in bloom. Of course she would take her usual drive up there tomorrow, as she had done yesterday. But today she was sending Nancy. Why?
Mrs. Colbert had turned on Nancy; that was well known. Now she had the worst rake in the country staying in her house, and she was sending the girl up into the woods alone, after giving him fair warning. Did her mother really want to ruin Nancy? Could her spite go so far as that?
Rachel Blake closed her eyes and leaned her head and arms forward on her dresser top. She had known her mother to show great kindness to her servants, and, sometimes, cold cruelty. But she had never known her to do anything quite so ugly as this, if Nancy’s tale were true. But there was no time to puzzle it out now. She must meet the present occasion. She quickly changed her dress and came downstairs with a basket on her arm.
“Now step along, Nancy, and brighten up. We’ll go flower-picking to please ourselves.”
It was still early morning; a little too warm in the sun, but wonderfully soft and pleasant in the shade. The winding10 country road which climbed from the post office to Timber Ridge11 was then, and for sixty years afterward12, the most beautiful stretch in the northwestern turnpike. It was cut against gravelly hillsides bright with mica14 and thinly overgrown with spikes15 of pennyroyal, patches of rue9, and small shrubs16. But on the left side of the road, going west, the hillsides fell abruptly17 down to a mountain stream flowing clear at the bottom of a winding ravine. The country people called this the Hollow, or “Holler,” road. On the far side of the creek18 the hills were shaded by forest trees, tall and not too thickly set: hickory and chestnut19 and white oak, here and there hemlocks20 of great height. The ground beneath them was covered with bright green moss21 and flat mats of wintergreen full of red berries. Out of the damp moss between the exposed tree roots, where the shade was deep, the maidenhair fern grew delicately.
The road followed the ravine, climbing all the way, until at the “Double S” it swung out in four great loops round hills of solid rock; rock which the destroying armament of modern road-building has not yet succeeded in blasting away. The four loops are now denuded22 and ugly, but motorists, however unwillingly23, must swing round them if they go on that road at all.
In the old times, when Nancy and Mrs. Blake were alive, and for sixty years afterward, those now-naked hills were rich in verdure, the winding ravine was deep and green, the stream at the bottom flowed bright and soothingly24 vocal25. A tramp pedlar from town, or a poor farmer, coming down on foot from his stony26 acres to sell a coonskin, stopped to rest here, or walked lingeringly. When the countrymen mentioned the place in speech, if it were but to say: “I’d jist got as fur as the Double e-S-S,” their voices took on something slow and dreamy, as if recalling the place itself; the shade, the unstained loveliness, the pleasant feeling one had there.
Mrs. Blake and Nancy reached the curve of the first “S,” and sat down on a log to rest, looking across the creek at the forest trees, which seemed even taller than they were, rising one above another on the steep hillside. There was no underbrush, except such as was prized in kings’ gardens: the laurel itself. Even in those days of slow and comfortless travel, people came across the Atlantic to see the Kalmia in bloom; the wayward wild laurel which in June covered the wooded slopes of our mountains with drifts of rose and peach and flesh colour. And in winter, when the tall trees above were grey and leafless, the laurel thickets27 beneath them spread green and brilliant through the frosty woods.
“Well, Nancy,” said Mrs. Blake after they had been sitting silent for a while, “we can’t do better than this. The creek’s narrow here, and we can easy get across on the stones.”
They had not been long among the flowering bushes when Mrs. Blake heard the sharp click of horseshoes on the higher loops of the “Double S.” She held up a warning finger. The hoofbeats came closer, and finally stopped. Presently there was a scraping sound of gravel13 and pebbles28 falling; the rider had found a gully where he could tie his horse.
The laurel-gatherers went on steadily29 about their work, bending down high branches and letting them fly back again. In a few moments young Martin crossed the creek. He must have seen two sunbonnets over there in the dark green bushes, but he doubtless thought Nancy had brought one of the coloured girls along with her.
Mrs. Blake pushed back her bonnet30 and confronted him with that square brow so like the miller’s. Martin met the surprise admirably. His face brightened; he seemed delighted. Dropping his riding whip, he snatched off his cap.
“Why, Cousin Rachel! Have I caught you at last! Here I’ve been at the mill nearly two weeks, and you’ve never once sent word you’d like to see me. Is that the way to treat kin-folks?”
She gave him her hand, which he held longer than she liked.
“You do come to the Mill House, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. But I’ve been occupied. At this time of year I’m canning cherries.”
“You’ll let me come over and see you some night after supper? I have messages for you. I had to go to Alexandria some time back” (she knew why), “and I went on to Washington. The House was in session, and I met some of Cousin Michael’s old friends. They hadn’t enough good to say of him, really.”
“You’d hear naught31 else of him,” said Mrs. Blake dryly.
“Certainly not. But a man may be a fine fellow, and still not leave friends who will ask nothing better than to sit and talk about him six years after his death. Not many of us will leave friends who’ll be missing us after six or seven years.”
“Not many,” assented32 Mrs. Blake. “And how did the gentlemen come to know you were related to Mr. Blake by marriage?”
“I looked up his friends, naturally. You see, they were all so glad to have any news of you and how you were doing. They asked after you every time I saw them, and sent you a great many messages.”
“Thank you. Nancy and me have got our baskets full now, and your horse is pawing on the rocks over there. We’d better be going.”
“Can’t I carry you home behind me? You can ride without a pillion.”
“No, thank you. I partly came for the walk.”
“Miss Nancy, maybe, would like to get home before her flowers wilt33?” He had the brass34 to make this suggestion as he stooped to pick up his riding whip. “No? Then let me carry the basket to Aunt Sapphy while the flowers are fresh.”
Nancy reluctantly handed him the basket. Mrs. Blake frowned, wondering why she gave in to him.
“That’s a good girl!” Martin smiled at her, ran down the ravine, and crossed the creek with the basket in his hand. In a few moments they heard his horse trotting35 down the road.
During the homeward walk Mrs. Blake said little, but her face was flushed and grim. You could put nothing past a Colbert, she told herself bitterly. The effrontery36 of this scapegrace, to go to Washington and use Michael’s name to introduce himself! Been to Alexandria lately! Of course he had, and everyone knew why! It was to get that blue tooth put in, to replace the one the girl’s brothers had knocked out of his head on the Blue Ridge road. A doctor in Alexandria was known the country round for successful pivot37 work. With this ignominious38 brand showing every time he opened his mouth, Mart Colbert had gone to Washington and nosed about the Capitol until he found some of Michael’s friends and claimed kinship. She had half a mind to tell Nancy the whole story, as a warning. But the girl was already frightened; and when she was distracted and fidgety she was likely to break things, forget orders, and exasperate39 her mistress.
As they parted at her gate, Mrs. Blake did say this much:
“Nancy girl, if I was you I wouldn’t go into the woods or any lonesome place while Mr. Martin is here. If you have to go off somewhere, come by, and I’ll go along. If I happen to be away, take Mary and Betty with you. I’ll give them leave.”
“Yes mam, Miz’ Blake. I won’t. Thank you, mam.” Nancy drew her slender shoulders together as if she were cold. Some dark apprehension40 in her voice told more than she could say in words.
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1
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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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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6
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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8
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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12
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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14
mica
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| n.云母 | |
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15
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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16
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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17
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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18
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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19
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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20
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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21
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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22
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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23
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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26
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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27
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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28
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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29
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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30
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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31
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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32
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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34
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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35
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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36
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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37
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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38
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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39
exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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40
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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