But 'Zeki'l Morgan's ambition seemed satisfied when he came into possession of the house, the unproductive clearing around it, and the narrow strip of woodland bounding the richer farm beyond. From the cabin door could be seen the broken, picturesque4 hills marking the course of the Etowah River, with the Blue Ridge6 Mountains far beyond, and the Long Swamp range rising in the foreground.
Very little of 'Zeki'l's past history was known in Zion Hill settlement. He had walked into Mr. Davy Tanner's store one spring day, a dusty, penniless tramp, his clothes hanging loosely from his stooping shoulders, a small bundle in one hand, a rough walking-stick in the other. Mr. Davy Tanner was a soft-hearted old man, and the forlorn, friendless stranger appealed strangely to his sympathy, in spite of his candid7 statement that he had just finished a five-years' term in the penitentiary8 for horse-stealing.
"I tell you this, not because I think it's anything to boast of, but because I don't want to 'pear like I'm deceivin' folks," he said in a dejected, melancholy9 tone, his face twitching10, his eyes cast down. It was a haggard face, bleached11 to a dull pallor by prison life, every feature worn into deep lines. Evidently he had suffered beyond the punishment of the law, though how far it had eaten into his soul no man would ever learn, for after that simple statement of his crime and his servitude as a convict, he did not again, even remotely, touch upon his past, nor the inner history of his life. No palliative explanations were offered, no attempts made to soften13 the bare, disgraceful truth.
Mr. Davy Tanner was postmaster as well as merchant, and his store was the general rendezvous14 for the settlement. The women came to buy snuff, and thread, and such cheap, simple materials as they needed for Sunday clothes; the men to get newspapers and the occasional letters coming for them, besides buying sugar and coffee, and talking over the affairs of the county and of Zion Hill church.
They looked on 'Zeki'l Morgan with distrust and contempt, and held coldly aloof15 from him. But at last a farmer, sorely in need of help, ventured to hire him, after talking it over with Mr. Davy Tanner.
"I tell you there ain't a mite16 o' harm in him."
"S'pose he runs away with my horse, Mr. Tanner?"
"I'll stand for him ef he does," said Mr. Davy Tanner, firmly. "I don't know any more th'n you about him, but I'm willin' to trust him."
"That's the way you treat most o' the folks that come about you," said his neighbor, smiling.
"Well, I ain't lost anything by it. It puts a man on his mettle17 to trust him—gives him self-respect, if there's any good in him."
All the year 'Zeki'l filled a hireling's place, working faithfully; but the next year he bought a steer18, a few sticks of furniture, and, renting the cabin and rocky hillside from Mr. Davy Tanner, set up housekeeping, a yellow cur and an old violin his companions. Then he managed to buy the place, and settled down. On one side he had the Biggers place, a fine, rich farm, and on the other Mr. Davy Tanner's store and Zion Hill church. He attended the church regularly, but always sat quietly, unobtrusively in a corner, an alien, a man forever set apart from other men.
As the years passed, openly expressed distrust and prejudice died out, though he was never admitted to the inner life of the settlement. He did not seem to expect it, going his way quietly, and ever maintaining an impenetrable reserve about his own private history. Not even Mr. Davy Tanner could win him from that reticence19, much as he desired to learn all about those long years of penal20 servitude and the life concealed21 behind them. He seemed to be without any ties of kindred or friendship, for the mail never brought anything to him, not even a newspaper.
"A DUSTY, PENNILESS TRAMP."
"A DUSTY, PENNILESS TRAMP."
But he seemed a kindly22 natured man, with a vein23 of irrepressible sociability24 running through him, in spite of his solitary25 ways of life. There were glimpses of humor occasionally, and had it not been for that cloud of shame hanging forbiddingly over him, he would have become a favorite with his neighbors.
Across the road, opposite his house, he set up a small blacksmith shop, and much of his idle time he spent in there, mending broken tools, sharpening dull plows27, hammering patiently on the ringing red-hot iron. The smallest, simplest piece of work received the most careful attention, and the farmers recognized and appreciated his conscientiousness28.
One summer afternoon, as he was plowing29 in his cotton-field, a neighbor came along the road and, stopping at the fence, hailed him. He plowed30 to the end of the row, and halted.
"Good evenin', 'Zeki'l," said the man, mounting to the top of the fence, and sitting with his heels thrust through a crack in the lower rails.
"Howdy you do, Marshall? What's the news down your way?" 'Zeki'l inquired, drawing his shirt-sleeve across his face, and leaning on the plow26-handles.
"I don't know as there's much to tell. Billy Hutchins an' Sary Ann McNally run away an' got married last night, an' old Mis' Gillis is mighty31 nigh dead with the ja'nders. A punkin couldn't look yallerer." He opened his knife, and ran his fingers along the rail in search of a splinter to whittle32. "Old man Biggers has sold his place at last."
"Has he?"
"Yes; I met him down at the store, an' he said the trade had been made."
"He's bound to go to Texas."
"Yes; so he 'lows."
"Well, old Georgy is good enough for me," 'Zeki'l remarked, with a pleased glance at his sterile fields.
"An' for me," said Marshall, heartily33. "Wanderin' 'round don't make folks rich. Biggers owns the best place in this settlement, an' he'd better stay on it. It won't do to believe all the tales they tell about these new States. I had a brother go to Louisiany before the war. Folks said, 'Don't take anything with you; why, money mighty nigh grows on bushes out there.' His wife took the greatest pride in her feather beds, but what would be the use o' haulin' them beds all the way across the Mississippi, when you could rake up feathers by the bushel anywheres? Well, they went, an' for the whole endurin' time they stayed they had to sleep on moss34 mattresses35, an' my brother 'lowed it was about the meanest stuff to kill he ever struck. If you didn't bile it, an' bury it, an' do the Lord only knows what to it, it would grow an' burst out of the beds when you was sleepin' on 'em." 'Zeki'l's attention did not follow those reminiscent remarks. "Who bought the Biggers place?" he inquired, as soon as Marshall ceased speaking.
"A man he met in Atlanta when he went down the last time, a man from one of the lower counties, an' his name—why, yes, to be sure, it's Morgan, same as yours—'Lijy Morgan. May be you know him?" with a sharp, questioning glance.
But the momentary37 flush of emotion that the stranger's name had called to 'Zeki'l's face was gone.
"I don't know as I do," he slowly replied, staring at a scrubby cotton-stalk the muzzled38 ox was making ineffectual attempts to eat.
"I 'lowed may be he might be some kin5 to you," said Marshall, in a baffled tone.
"I don't know as he is," said 'Zeki'l, still in that slow, dry, non-committal tone, his eyes leaving the cotton-stalk to follow the swift, noiseless flight of a cloud-shadow across a distant hillside. "Morgan isn't an uncommon39 name, you know."
"That's so," reluctantly admitted Marshall.
"When does Mr. Biggers think o' goin' to Texas?"
"Oh, not until after crops are gathered."
"The other family, isn't to come, then, right away?"
"No; not till fall."
After Marshall had whittled40, and gossiped, and gone his way, 'Zeki'l stood a long time with his hands resting on the plow-handles, his brows drawn41 together in deep thought. Some painful struggle seemed to be going on. The crickets shrilled42 loudly in the brown sedge bordering a dry ditch, and a vulture sailed majestically43 round and round above the field, his broad black wings outspread on the quivering air. The cloud-shadows on the river-hills assumed new form, shifted, swept away, and others came in their places, and the vulture had become a mere44 speck45, a floating mote12 in the upper sunlight, before he turned the patient ox into another furrow46, murmuring aloud:
"I didn't go to them, an' if they come to me, I can't help it. I am not to blame; the Almighty48 knows I'm not to blame;" and his overcast49 face cleared somewhat.
That night when Mr. Davy Tanner closed his store and went home, he said to his wife:
"'Zeki'l Morgan must be lonesome, or pestered50 about somethin'. You'd think that old fiddle51 o' his could talk an' cry too, from the way he's playin'."
The season advanced; crops were gathered, and the shorn fields looked brown and bare. A sere52, withering53 frost touched the forests, and the leaves fell in drifts, while the partridge called to his mate from fence and sedgy covert54. A light snowfall lay on the distant mountains when the Biggerses started to the West and the new family of Morgans moved into Zion Hill settlement.
It was the third day after their arrival. 'Zeki'l leaned over the front gate with an armful of corn, feeding two fat pigs, when 'Lijy Morgan passed along the road on his way to Mr. Davy Tanner's store. He was a strong-looking, well-built man, with rugged55 features and hair partly gray. He looked curiously56 at the solitary, stooping figure inside the gate, his steps slackened, then he stopped altogether, a grayish pallor overspreading the healthy, ruddy hue57 of his face.
"'Zeki'l!"
'Zeki'l dropped the corn, and thrust open the gate.
"Howdy you do, 'Lijy?"
"HOWDY YOU DO, 'LIJY?"
"HOWDY YOU DO, 'LIJY?"
Their hands met in a quick, close grip, then fell apart.
"I like not to have known you, 'Zeki'l, it was so unexpected seein' you here," said 'Lijy, huskily, scanning the worn, deeply lined face before him with glad yet shrinking gaze.
"An' twelve years make a great difference in our looks sometimes, though you are not so much changed," said 'Zeki'l quietly. He had been prepared for the meeting, and years of self-mastery had given him the power of concealing58 emotion.
"Twelve years? Yes; but it has seemed like twenty to me since—since it all happened. Why didn't you come home, 'Zeki'l, when your time was out?"
"I 'lowed the sight o' me wouldn't be good for you, 'Lijy; an'—an' the old folks were gone."
"Yes; it killed them, 'Zeki'l, it killed them," in a choked voice.
"I know," said 'Zeki'l, hastily, his face blanching59; "an' I thought it would be best to make a new start in a new settlement."
"Do the folks here know?"
"That I served my time? Yes; but that's all. When I heard that you had bought the Biggers place I studied hard about movin' away, but I like it here. It's beginnin' to seem like home."
'Lijy stared at the poor cabin, the stunted, naked peach-trees, so cold and dreary-looking in the wintry dusk.
"Is it yours, 'Zeki'l?"
"Yes; it's mine, all mine. Come in and sit awhile with me, an' warm. It's goin' to be a nippin' cold night."
He turned, and 'Lijy silently followed him across the bare yard and into the house. A flickering60 fire sent its warm glow throughout the room, touching61 its meagre furnishing with softening62 grace, but a chill struck to 'Lijy Morgan's heart as he crossed the threshold—a chill of desolation.
"Do you live here alone?"
"Yes; all alone, except Rover and the fiddle."
The cur rose up from the hearth63 with a wag of his stumpy tail, and gave the visitor a glance of welcome from his mild, friendly eyes.
There were only two chairs in the room, and 'Zeki'l placed the best one before the fire for his guest, then threw on some fresh pieces of wood. Outside the dusky twilight64 deepened to night, the orange glow fading from the west, and the stars shining brilliantly through the clear atmosphere. The chill wind whistled around the chimney-corners and through the chinks in the log walls.
Between the men a constrained65 silence fell. The meeting had been painful beyond the open acknowledgment of either. The dog crept to his master's side and thrust his nose into his hand. The touch roused 'Zeki'l. From the jamb he took a cob pipe and a twist of tobacco.
"Will you smoke, 'Lijy?"
"I believe not; but I'll take a chew."
He cut off a liberal mouthful, and then 'Zeki'l filled and lighted his pipe. It seemed to loosen his tongue somewhat.
"Is Marthy Ann well enough?"
"She's tolerable."
"How many children have you?"
"Three; the girls, Cynthy an' Mary—"
"I remember them."
"An' little Zeke."
'Zeki'l's face flushed.
"Named him for me, 'Lijy?"
"Yes; for you. Cynthy's about grown now, an' a likely girl, I can tell you."
His face softened66; his eyes grew bright with pride and tenderness as he spoke67 of his children. 'Zeki'l watched him, noting the change in his countenance68, and perhaps feeling some pain and regret that he had missed such pleasure. 'Lijy reached out his hand and laid it on his knee. "'Zeki'l, you must come live with us now. I'll tell these folks we are brothers, an'—"
"I don't know as I would," said 'Zeki'l, gently. "It would only make talk, an' I'm settled here, you know."
His unimpassioned tone had its effect on his brother. He protested, but rather faintly, finally saying:
"Well, if you'd rather not—"
"That's just it. I'd rather not."
They both rose, and 'Lijy groped uncertainly for his hat.
"Your life ain't worth much to you, 'Zeki'l, I know it ain't," with uncontrollable emotion.
"It's worth more 'n you think, 'Lijy, more 'n you think."
He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and cleared his throat as though to speak again, but his brother had reached the door before he called to him.
"'Lijy."
"Well?"
"What became o' 'Lizabeth?"
"She's still livin' with us."
He peered into the bowl of the pipe.
"She's never married?"
"No. She had a fall about ten years ago which left her a cripple, an' she's grayer than I am. You 're not comin' to see us, 'Zeki'l?"
"I reckon not, 'Lijy." And while 'Lijy stumbled through the darkness home—his errand to the store forgotten—'Zeki'l stood before the fire, one arm resting against the black, cobwebby mantel. "Crippled an' gray! O 'Lizabeth, 'Lizabeth!" he groaned69, and put his head down on his arm, the twelve years rolling backward upon him.
"Where have you been, 'Lijy?" exclaimed Mrs. Morgan when her husband returned. "We waited an' waited for you, till the supper was spoiled."
"I met a man I used to know," he said, evasively, casting a wistful, troubled glance toward the corner where 'Lizabeth, his wife's sister, sat knitting, a crutch70 lying at her side.
Cynthia, a rosy71, merry-eyed girl, laughed.
"Pa is always meetin' a man he knows."
Mrs. Morgan began hastily removing the covered dishes from the hearth to the table.
"Well, where is the sugar you went over to the store to get?" she demanded with some irritation72.
"I forgot it, Marthy. I'll go for it in the mornin'," in a confused, propitiatory73 tone.
She stared at him.
"I never! Forgot what you went after! You beat all, 'Lijy Morgan; you certainly do beat all."
"The man must 'a' sent your wits wool-gatherin', pa," cried Cynthia, jocosely74.
'Lizabeth leaned forward. Her face was long, thin, and pale, and the smooth hair framing it glinted like silver in the firelight; but her dark eyes were wonderfully soft and beautiful, and her mouth had chastened, tender lines about it.
"Are you sick, 'Lijy?" she inquired, in a gentle, subdued75 voice, a voice with much underlying76, patient sweetness in it.
Morgan gave her a grateful look. "N—no; but I don't think I care for any supper," he said slowly. "I'll step out an' see if the stock has all been fed."
When he returned Mrs. Morgan sat by the fire alone. He looked hastily about the room.
"Where is Cynthy?"
"Gone to bed."
"An' 'Lizabeth?"
"She's off, too."
He drew a sigh of relief, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze.
"Marthy Ann, it was 'Zeki'l I saw this evenin'."
She dropped the coarse garment she was mending.
"'Zeki'l!"
"Hush77! Yes; he lives up on the hill between here an' the store;" and then he went on to tell her about their meeting and conversation. Her hard, sharp-featured face softened a little when he came to 'Zeki'l's refusal to live with them or to have their kinship acknowledged.
"I'm glad to see he's got that much consideration. We left the old place because folks couldn't forget how he'd disgraced himself; an' to come right where he is! I never heard of anything like it. Why didn't he leave the State if he wanted to save us more trouble?" wiping tears of vexation from her eyes. "You spent nearly all you had to get him out of prison, an' when he had to go to the penitentiary it killed his pa an' ma, an'—"
"Be silent, woman! you don't know what you are talkin' about!" he said sternly, writhing78 in his chair like a creature in bodily pain. "God A'mighty forgive me!" He paused, smote79 his knee with his open palm, and turned his face away.
"Well, if I don't know what I'm talkin' about, I'd like to know the reason!" she cried, with the same angry excitement. "You ain't been like the same man you were before that happened, you know you ain't. I'll never be willin' to claim kin with 'Zeki'l Morgan again, never! Folks may find out for themselves; an' they'll do it soon enough—don't you be pestered—soon enough."
But not a suspicion of the truth seemed to occur to Zion Hill settlement. The Morgans were welcomed with great friendliness80, and 'Zeki'l alone failed to visit them. Children sat around his brother's fireside, a wife ministered to him; but he had forfeited81 all claim to such homely82 joys. The girls had evidently been informed of his relationship to them, for they looked askance at him as they passed along the road, pity and curiosity in their eyes. Once he came out of the blacksmith shop, and, meeting his sister-in-law in the roadway, stopped her, or she would have passed with averted83 head.
"You needn't be so careful, Marthy Ann," he said, without the slightest touch of bitterness in his calm tone.
"It is for the children's sake, 'Zeki'l," she said, her sallow face flushing with a feeling akin36 to shame. "I must think o' them."
He gave her a strange glance, then looked to the ground.
"I know; I thought o' them years ago."
"It's a pity you didn't think before—"
"Yes, so it is; but some deeds aren't to be accounted for, nor recalled either, no matter how deeply we repent84."
"We sold out for the children's sake, but, Lord! I'm pestered now more than ever."
"Because I'm here?"
"Well, it ain't reasonable to think we can all go right on livin' here, an' folks not find out you an' 'Lijy are brothers."
"What would you like for me to do, Marthy Ann?"
She hesitated a moment, then drew a little nearer to him.
"Couldn't you go away? You've got nobody but yourself to think about, an' I know in reason 'Lijy would be glad to buy your place," with a careless, half-contemptuous glance at the cabin.
A dull flush passed over his face; his mouth twitched85.
"Does 'Lijy want me to go?"
"He ain't said so; but—"
"I'll think about it," he said slowly, turning back to the smithy, where a red-hot tool awaited his hammer.
But thinking about it only seemed to bind86 his heart more closely than ever to the arid87 spot he called home. He had looked forward to spending all the remaining years of his broken, ruined life there, far from the world and from those who had known him in the past. Then a great desire had risen within him to remain near 'Lizabeth. He shrank from the thought of meeting her, speaking to her, and felt rather glad that she did not appear at church. A few times in passing he had caught a glimpse of her walking about the yard or garden in the winter sunshine, leaning on her crutch, and the sight had sent him on his way with downcast face. He had just sat down before the fire to smoke one evening when there came a timid knock on the door. It was just between daylight and darkness, and he supposed it to be some neighbor on his way to or from the store who wished to drop in to warm himself and gossip a little.
"Come in," he said hospitably88, and, reaching out, drew the other chair nearer the fire.
The latch89 was slowly lifted, the door swung open, and then he started to his feet, pipe and tobacco falling to the floor, while his face flushed and paled, and his breath came in a sharp sigh. It was 'Lizabeth, her bonnet90 pushed back, her shawl hanging loosely around her shoulders.
"I've be'n to the store for Marthy Ann, I wanted to go to get out away from the house a little while, and I thought I'd step in for a minute, 'Zeki'l, to see you."
"You are tired; come an' sit down," he said huskily, and led her to the chair.
"DO YOU THINK YOUR LAMENESS91 WOULD MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE?"
"DO YOU THINK YOUR LAMENESS WOULD MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE?"
What emotion those simple, commonplace words covered! They looked at each other, silently noting the changes time and sorrow had wrought92. They had never been openly declared lovers, but words were not needed for them to understand each other, and they knew that they would marry when she had finished her term as teacher in the county school, and he had built a house on the lot of land his father had given him. But that shameful93, undenied accusation94 of horse-stealing, followed swiftly by trial and conviction, had put an end to all hopes, all plans.
"You see I'm a cripple now, 'Zeki'l," she said, to break the silence.
"An' I've grown old," he replied, and their eyes met again in a long, eloquent95, steadfast96 gaze, and they knew that neither age, nor affliction, nor shame, nor separation had wrought any change in their love. It had only grown stronger and deeper. Her thin face flushed, her trembling fingers gathered up a fold of her gown.
"Why don't you come to see us, 'Zeki'l?"
"I can't, 'Lizabeth; I can't. It wouldn't be right. Don't you know I've been longin' to come, an' hungerin' an' hungerin' to see you?" He flung himself on the floor at her feet, his face hidden against her knees. "You don't know all! you don't know all!" The words were wrung97 from him by an almost uncontrollable desire to tell her the story of his sufferings. She had not turned against him nor forgotten him. It was almost more than he could bear, to read in her eyes her faith and her pardon. He felt the touch of her hand on his bared head, and tears gushed98 from his eyes.
"Can't you tell me?" she whispered, her face, her eyes, illumined by a pity and tenderness divine in their beauty.
"No, honey; it's somethin' I must bear alone, I must bear alone."
He rose to his feet again, brushing his sleeve across his eyes, and she stood up also, leaning on her crutch, the transient glow of color fading from her face.
"You shouldn't bear it alone if I didn't have this lameness. You—"
"Hush!" he said, and, taking her hand, pressed it against his breast. "Do you think your lameness would make any difference? Wouldn't I love you all the more, take care o' you all the better, for it? It's the disgrace, the shame, standin' between us. I'll never outlive it—get rid of it—an' I'll never ask any woman to share it. I couldn't."
Her physical infirmity held her silent. She would be a care and a burden to him rather than a help. She drew up her shawl.
"The Almighty comfort you, 'Zeki'l."
"An' take care o' you, 'Lizabeth."
He took her hand in a grasp painful in its closeness, then he turned and leaned against the mantel, and she went softly out of the room.
Winter passed. The frost-bound earth sent up faint scents99 and sounds of spring in fresh-plowed fields and swelling100 buds. 'Zeki'l wandered about his fields in idleness, striving to make up his mind to go away. It would be best, yet the sacrifice seemed cruel.
"It is more than I can bear," he cried aloud one night, and strained one of the violin-strings until it snapped asunder101. He laid the instrument across his knees and leaned his head upon it. The candle burned dimly, and a bat flew in through the open door, circled around the room, at last extinguishing the feeble light with one of its outspread wings. But the unhappy man did not heed102 the gloom. Why should he care to have a light for his eyes when his soul was in such darkness? He groped his way to the bed, and fell down upon it. Rover came back from a nightly prowl, barked to let his master know of his presence, then lay down on the doorstep.
The sound of music vibrated through the air, and 'Zeki'l remembered that the young people of the settlement were to have a "singing" at his brother's that evening. He raised his head and listened. They were singing hymns103, and many of them were associated with recollections of his own youth. A line of Tom Moore's "Come, ye disconsolate," once a special favorite when sorrow seemed far from him, was borne to his ears:
Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
He lay down and slept.
At dusk the next evening, as he was heating a piece of iron in the blacksmith shop, a man stopped at the wide-open door.
"Will you give me a night's lodging105? I have walked far to-day, and I'm a stranger in this part of the country."
'Zeki'l wheeled, the light from the forge shining across his face. It brought out the stranger's face and form in bold relief also. "Why, it's Zeke Morgan!" he cried, walking into the shop.
"Yes: I thought I recognized your voice, Miller106," said 'Zeki'l, slowly, and without much pleasure at the recognition.
They had been in prison together, and 'Zeki'l had left Miller there. He had never felt any liking107 for the man, and less now than ever, as he looked at his ragged108 clothing and dissipated face. He had evidently been steadily109 sinking in vice110, and its repulsiveness111 was impressed upon his outward being. But a certain pity stirred 'Zeki'l's heart. He remembered his own friendlessness when he entered that settlement. Could he show less mercy than had been shown to him?
"Sit down, won't you?" he said kindly, blowing up the coals in the forge to a glowing heat.
"That I will. I'm footsore, and hungry as a bear. I'm in luck to meet with you, comrade," chuckling112.
'Zeki'l winced113. The man's familiarity grated upon him.
"Where are you goin'?" he inquired.
"Oh, nowhere in particular. I'm jest out."
"Why, I thought your time would be up in two years after I left."
Miller shrugged114 his shoulders. "Yes; but I made so many attempts to escape that they kept adding extra time to my term."
He sat down while 'Zeki'l finished his work.
"You seem to be getting on pretty well," he continued, his restless eyes scanning the surroundings.
"Only tolerable."
Two or three of the neighbors dropped in, one to leave a broken plow, another to tell a bit of gossip. They stared curiously at 'Zeki'l's disreputable companion, who jocosely informed them that Morgan had once been his chum.
'Zeki'l felt annoyed, and, closing up the shop, invited his guest into the house. They had supper, then sat down and smoked. Miller talked a good deal, and asked many questions about the neighborhood and the store; but at last he fell asleep, huddled115 up on the bed, and 'Zeki'l lay down on a bench, recollections of his prison life keeping him awake far into the night. When he awoke the next morning his guest was gone. He was glad of it. The man's presence oppressed him—brought a sense of degradation116. But what were his feelings when he heard that Mr. Davy Tanner's store had been robbed, the mail-box rifled, letters torn open, and various articles of wearing apparel taken!
He grew so pale, seemed so agitated117 and confused, that the man who had come up to tell the news stared wonderingly, half-suspiciously at him. He had brought the plow to the shop the evening before, and he now looked around for the stranger.
"Where is your friend?" he inquired.
"He is no friend of mine."
"But he 'lowed that he knew you."
"Yes."
"Where?"
"In prison," said 'Zeki'l, quietly, though he flushed with shame.
"Aha! I lowed so, I jest 'lowed so, last night."
'Zeki'l tingled118 all over. He had never felt the degradation of being a convict more keenly than at that moment. He suspected Miller of the theft: this man's tone implied that he suspected them both. It showed how slight a hold he had upon the trust of his neighbors if they could so readily believe that he would rob the best friend he had in the settlement. He went into the house, and sat down by the hearth, his head leaned between his hands.
News of the robbery spread, and men left their work to go over to the store—stirred up, pleasantly excited. It was not often that Zion Hill settlement could boast of having anything so important as this robbery take place within its limits, and it must be made the most of.
'Zeki'l held aloof from the store, where he knew a large crowd had collected, but later in the day a small delegation119 came up to interview him. He read suspicion in every face, indignation in every eye. His quiet, honest life among them had been forgotten; they remembered only that he had been a convict.
"Once a thief, always a thief, I say!" one man cried loudly.
'Zeki'l clenched120 his hands, but what could he say in self-defense? He made a clear, straight-forward statement of all he knew about Miller, earnestly denying all knowledge of the robbery, but he felt the slight impression it made on their doubting minds. They did not openly accuse him, but they asked many questions, they exchanged knowing glances, and when they went away he felt that he had been tried and condemned121. The sheriff had gone in pursuit of Miller, and all day groups of men sat or stood about the store whittling122 sticks, chewing tobacco, and talking. It was a most enjoyable day to them. It afforded excitement, and gave an opportunity to air opinions—to bring forth123 old prejudices. There was almost universal condemnation124 of 'Zeki'l. He had entertained the thief, had given him all the information necessary, and the more bitter ones wagged their heads and said that no doubt he had shared in the spoils. Even Mr. Davy Tanner looked sad and doubtful, though he defended the unfortunate man.
"We've no right ever to accuse a person without evidence o' guilt125. We don't know even that this other man had anything to do with it—though circumstances do all p'int that way—let alone 'Zeki'l Morgan. It's best to hold our peace till we find out the truth."
"But it looks mighty suspicious ag'in' 'Zeki'l."
"Because he's been in the penitentiary, an' we think he's got a bad name by it."
"Well, ain't that enough to set honest men ag'in' him?"
"Yes; but it ain't best to always judge a man by his misdeeds in the past, but rather by his good deeds in the present, an' what they promise for the future."
"Why not, when it's accordin' to scriptur'?"
So the talk went on, while 'Zeki'l sat by his fireless hearth or walked aimlessly up and down the yard. At dusk his brother called, looking almost as haggard as he did.
"It's a bad thing, 'Zeki'l."
"Yes," said 'Zeki'l, listlessly.
"They are fools to think you had anything to do with it, plumb126 fools."
"It's natural they should, 'Lijy."
"I can't stand it, 'Zeki'l! Lord! I can't stand it!"
He fell into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
"Chut, man! what does it matter?" said 'Zeki'l, bracing127 himself up and forcing a smile. "Don't let 'Lizabeth believe it, that's all I ask."
"She'll never believe it."
"It's all right, then; I'll not care what the rest o' the world thinks."
"But I do," cried 'Lijy, starting up, "an' I'll put an end to it by—"
"You'll not do anything rash, 'Lijy," said 'Zeki'l, firmly, quietly, and laid his hand on the other's shoulder. "Recollect104 your family."
He looked slight and insignificant128 by the side of his brother, but his face had a strength and calmness which seemed to give it a power the other lacked. 'Lijy groaned, and turned tremblingly away.
A week passed, but Zion Hill settlement could not go back to its every-day vocations129 until somebody had been arrested for the robbery. The man Miller seemed to be wary130 prey131, eluding132 his pursuers with the crafty133 skill of an old offender134. It was a solitary week to 'Zeki'l. He had been completely ostracized135 by his neighbors. They openly shunned136 him, and no more work came to his forge. He stood in the empty shop one day, wondering what he should do next, where he should go, when 'Lizabeth walked slowly, quietly in.
He flushed painfully.
"You see I'm idle," he said, pointing to the dead coals in the forge. "They don't think I'm worthy137 o' doin' their work any longer."
"I wouldn't mind," she said, tenderly, laying her hand on his arm. "They'll see they are mistaken after a while, and be glad enough to come back to you."
"THE SHERIFF, TWO DEPUTIES, AND MILLER.
"THE SHERIFF, TWO DEPUTIES, AND MILLER."
"I don't know," with a heavy sigh. "It's the injustice138 that hurts me, an' the lack o' faith in my honesty. The years I've lived here count for nothin' with them."
"I have faith in you, 'Zeki'l."
He laid his hand over hers.
"If I had you, 'Lizabeth, if I only had you to help me bear it!"
"That's what I've come for, 'Zeki'l. I'm crippled. It may be that I'll turn out to be more of a burden than a comfort to you, but I can't sit down there any longer, knowin' you are here slighted and sufferin' all alone. 'Zeki'l, have pity on me, if you've none on yourself, and let me bear this trouble with you."
He trembled before the future her words conjured139 up.
"Could you, would you, be willin' to bear my disgrace, share it, be shunned like a plague, have no company, no friend, but me?"
"What are friends to the one we love, or company? I'd give up all the world, 'Zeki'l, willin'ly, willin'ly, for you."
He looked into her deep, earnest eyes, realized the full truth of her words, and drew her closer to him.
"It's a great sacrifice, 'Lizabeth, an' I'm wrong to let you make it; but—the Lord forgive me! I can't hold out alone any longer. My will an' my courage are all broke down. I need help; I need you."
After a momentary silence he dusted a bench, and they sat down to talk over their plans for the future. The shop, black with charcoal140 and iron dust, was a queer place for such a conversation; but they paid little heed to their surroundings.
"Marthy Ann will never get over your marryin' me," said 'Zeki'l.
"Then she can make the best of it."
The next day was Saturday, and the beginning of the regular monthly "meetin'" at Zion Hill church. Everybody in the settlement who could, attended services that day. The Morgans were all there, even 'Lizabeth, and 'Zeki'l sat in his accustomed place, apparently141 unmindful of the cold, hostile glances and whispers around him. Through open doors and windows shone golden sunlight, floated spicy142 odors from the woods surrounding all but the front of the church, which faced the public road; and vagrant143 bees mingled144 their lazy hum with the champing of bits and the stamping of iron-shod hoofs145 in the thickets146, where the mules147 and the horses were tied.
It was a quiet but alert congregation. A kind of expectancy—of suspense—filled the air. No telling what might happen before the day was over. The preacher made the robbery the theme of his discourse148, and there were nods and approving looks when he referred to the punishment laid up for those who persisted in doing evil. It was a fitting finale that just before the benediction149 was pronounced a small cavalcade150 rode up to the church door—the sheriff, two deputies, and Miller. A thrill ran through the church, a rustle151, a whisper, and the preacher cried aloud to the sheriff:
"What do you want, Brother Mangum?"
"'Zeki'l Morgan."
"Here he is! here he is!" cried more than one voice, and men rose to their feet and laid eager hands on the unresisting 'Zeki'l.
"What do you want him for?" cried 'Lijy Morgan, rising from his seat in the deacons' corner. "What's he done?"
"Helped to rob the store."
"We've said so, we've said so, ever since it happened!" a chorus of stern but triumphant152 voices exclaimed.
"Bring up the witness ag'in' him, the man that says he did it," said 'Lijy, advancing to the open space before the pulpit.
"No man has said out an' out that he helped to do it, but Miller—"
"It's a lie," cried 'Lijy, loud enough to be heard beyond the church door.
'Zeki'l's eyes were fixed153 anxiously, warningly, on his brother, and once he tried to throw off the hands holding him.
"Prove it, then!" a taunting154 voice cried out.
"I will," said 'Lijy, though he grew pale, and trembled strangely. "A more honest man than 'Zeki'l Morgan never lived."
"What do you know of him?"
Again 'Zeki'l strove to free himself, but failed.
"'Lijy!" he called imploringly155, "'Lijy, 'Lijy, mind what you say!"
'Lijy looked across at him.
"I will mind the truth, 'Zeki'l." He turned to the congregation.
"I come here with good recommendations, brethren; I am a deacon o' the church; you have faith in my integrity, my honor." An approving murmur47 went up. "If a dozen thieves were to stop at my house there'd be no suspicion against me." He paused, passed his hand over his face, then looked up again. "Years ago there were two brothers in this State who grew up together happy and contented156. The elder one was always a little wild, and would get drunk sometimes, even after he'd married and had a family to look after, but the younger was the steadiest, best boy in the settlement. One night the elder brother, in a fit of drunken recklessness, stole a horse from the camp of a Kentucky drover, an' nobody found it out but his brother, who undertook to return the horse, an' was arrested. He took the guilt, he stood the trial, an' went to the penitentiary. He lost his good name, the girl he loved, his home, everything in the world an honest man values. He served his time, an' instead o' comin' home to be a reproach to his cowardly brother, he, when free, went away into a strange settlement to live. An' by an' by his brother moved there too, an' his conscience hurt him more an' more as he saw what a sad, lonesome life the convict lived. He was prosperous, he enjoyed the confidence of his fellow-men, while the other was shunned, and regarded with distrust." Emotion checked his utterance157 for a moment; then he turned and pointed158 to 'Zeki'l. "Brethren, look at that man; look without prejudice or suspicion, an' you'll not see guilt in his face nor on his conscience. There never lived a truer hero than 'Zeki'l Morgan. Nobody should know it better than I, for I am the brother whose crime he suffered for."
Then he walked across the floor to 'Zeki'l's side in the midst of the deepest silence which had ever fallen upon a congregation in Zion Hill church.
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收听单词发音
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1
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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2
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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3
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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5
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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6
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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7
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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8
penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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9
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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10
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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11
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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12
mote
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| n.微粒；斑点 | |
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13
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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14
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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15
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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16
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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17
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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18
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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19
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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20
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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21
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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22
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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23
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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24
sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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25
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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26
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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27
plows
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| n.犁( plow的名词复数 )；犁型铲雪机v.耕( plow的第三人称单数 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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28
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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29
plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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30
plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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31
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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32
whittle
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| v.削（木头），削减；n.屠刀 | |
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33
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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34
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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35
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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36
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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37
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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38
muzzled
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| 给（狗等）戴口套( muzzle的过去式和过去分词 )； 使缄默，钳制…言论 | |
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39
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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40
whittled
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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44
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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45
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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46
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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47
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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48
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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49
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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50
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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52
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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53
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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54
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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55
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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56
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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57
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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58
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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59
blanching
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| adj.漂白的n.热烫v.使变白( blanch的现在分词 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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60
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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61
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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62
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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63
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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64
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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65
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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66
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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67
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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68
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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69
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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70
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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71
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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72
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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73
propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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74
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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75
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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76
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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77
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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78
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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79
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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80
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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81
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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83
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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84
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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85
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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86
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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87
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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88
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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89
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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90
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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91
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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92
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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93
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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94
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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95
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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96
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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97
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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98
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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99
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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100
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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101
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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102
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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103
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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104
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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105
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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106
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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107
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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108
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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109
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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110
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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111
repulsiveness
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112
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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113
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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115
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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117
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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118
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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120
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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122
whittling
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的现在分词 ) | |
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123
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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124
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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125
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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126
plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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127
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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128
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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129
vocations
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| n.（认为特别适合自己的）职业( vocation的名词复数 )；使命；神召；（认为某种工作或生活方式特别适合自己的）信心 | |
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130
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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131
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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132
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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133
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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134
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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135
ostracized
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| v.放逐( ostracize的过去式和过去分词 )；流放；摈弃；排斥 | |
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136
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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138
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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139
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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140
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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141
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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142
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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143
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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144
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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145
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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146
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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147
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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148
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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149
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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150
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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151
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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152
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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153
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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154
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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155
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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156
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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157
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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158
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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