I half expected that Abner Beech5 would crumple6 up in some such distressing7 way, all of a sudden, when I told him that his son Jeff was in open rebellion, and intended to go off and enlist8. It was incredible to the senses that any member of the household should set at defiance9 the patriarchal will of its head. But that the offence should come from placid10, slow-witted, good-natured Jeff, and that it should involve the appearance of a Beech in a blue uniform—these things staggered the imagination. It was clear that something prodigious11 must happen.
As it turned out, nothing happened at all. The farmer and his wife sat out on the veranda12, as was their wont13 of a summer evening, rarely exchanging a word, but getting a restful sort of satisfaction in together surveying their barns and haystacks and the yellow-brown stretch of fields beyond.
“Jeff says he’s goin’ to-night to Tecumseh, an’ he’s goin’ to enlist, an’ if you want him to run over to say good-by you’re to let him know there.”
I leant upon my newly-acquired fish-pole for support, as I unburdened myself of these sinister14 tidings. The old pair looked at me in calm-eyed silence, as if I had related the most trivial of village occurrences. Neither moved a muscle nor uttered a sound, but just gazed, till it felt as if their eyes were burning holes into me.
“That’s what he said,” I repeated, after a pause, to mitigate15 the embarrassment16 of that dumb steadfast17 stare.
The mother it was who spoke18 at last. “You’d better go round and get your supper,” she said, quietly.
The table was spread, as usual, in the big, low-ceilinged room which during the winter was used as a kitchen. What was unusual was to discover a strange man seated alone in his shirt-sleeves at this table, eating his supper. As I took my chair, however, I saw that he was not altogether a stranger. I recognized in him the little old Irishman who had farmed at Ezra Tracy’s beaver-meadow the previous year on shares, and done badly, and had since been hiring out for odd jobs at hoeing and haying. He had lately lost his wife, I recalled now, and lived alone in a tumble-down old shanty19 beyond Parker’s saw-mill. He had come to us in the spring, I remembered, when the brindled20 calf21 was born, to beg a pail of what he called “basteings,” and I speculated in my mind whether it was this repellent mess that had killed his wife. Above all these thoughts rose the impression that Abner must have decided22 to do a heap of ditching and wall-building, to have hired a new hand in this otherwise slack season—and at this my back began to ache prophetically.
“How are yeh!” the new-comer remarked, affably, as I sat down and reached for the bread. “An’ did yeh see the boys march away? An’ had they a drum wid ’em?”
“What boys?” I asked, in blank ignorance as to what he was at.
“I’m told there’s a baker’s dozen of’em gone, more or less,” he replied. “Well, glory be to the Lord, ’tis an ill wind blows nobody good. Here am I aitin’ butter on my bread, an’ cheese on top o’ that.”
I should still have been in the dark, had not one of the hired girls, Janey Wilcox, come in from the butter-room, to ask me in turn much the same thing, and to add the explanation that a whole lot of the young men of the neighborhood had privately23 arranged among themselves to enlist together as soon as the harvesting was over, and had this day gone off in a body. Among them, I learned now, were our two hired men, Warner Pitts and Ray Watkins. This, then, accounted for the presence of the Irishman.
As a matter of fact, there had been no secrecy24 about the thing save with the contingent25 which our household furnished, and that was only because of the fear which Abner Beech inspired. His son and his servants alike preferred to hook it, rather than explain their patriotic26 impulses to him. But naturally enough, our farm-girls took it for granted that all the others had gone in the same surreptitious fashion, and this threw an air of fascinating mystery about the whole occurrence. They were deeply surprised that I should have been down past the Corners, and even beyond the cheese-factory, and seen nothing of these extraordinary martial27 preparations; and I myself was ashamed of it.
Opinions differed, I remember, as to the behavior of our two hired men. “Till” Babcock and the Underwood girl defended them, but Janey took the other side, not without various unpleasant personal insinuations, and the Irishman and I were outspoken28 in their condemnation29. But nobody said a word about Jeff, though it was plain enough that every one knew.
Dusk fell while we still talked of these astounding30 events—my thoughts meantime dividing themselves between efforts to realize these neighbors of ours as soldiers on the tented field, and uneasy speculation31 as to whether I should at last get a bed to myself or be expected to sleep with the Irishman.
Janey Wilcox had taken the lamp into the living-room. She returned now, with an uplifted hand and a face covered over with lines of surprise.
“You’re to all of you come in,” she whispered, impressively. “Abner’s got the Bible down. We’re goin’ to have fam’ly prayers, or somethin’.”
With one accord we looked at the Irishman. The question had never before arisen on our farm, but we all knew about other cases, in which Catholic hands held aloof32 from the household’s devotions. There were even stories of their refusal to eat meat on some one day of the week, but this we hardly brought ourselves to credit. Our surprise at the fact that domestic religious observances were to be resumed under the Beech roof-tree—where they had completely lapsed33 ever since the trouble at the church—was as nothing compared with our curiosity to see what the new-comer would do.
What he did was to get up and come along with the rest of us, quite as a matter of course. I felt sure that he could not have understood what was going on.
We filed into the living-room. The Beeches34 had come in and shut the veranda door, and “M’rye” was seated in her rocking-chair, in the darkness beyond the bookcase. Her husband had the big book open before him on the table; the lamp-light threw the shadow of his long nose down into the gray of his beard with a strange effect of fierceness. His lips were tight-set and his shaggy brows drawn35 into a commanding frown, as he bent36 over the pages.
Abner did not look up till we had taken our seats. Then he raised his eyes toward the Irishman.
“I don’t know, Hurley,” he said, in a grave, deep-booming voice, “whether you feel it right for you to join us—we bein’ Protestants—”
“Ah, it’s all right, sir,” replied Hurley, reassuringly37, “I’ll take no harm by it.”
A minute’s silence followed upon this magnanimous declaration. Then Abner, clearing his throat, began solemnly to read the story of Absalom’s revolt. He had the knack38, not uncommon39 in those primitive40 class-meeting days, of making his strong, low-pitched voice quaver and wail41 in the most tear-compelling fashion when he read from the Old Testament42. You could hardly listen to him going through even the genealogical tables of Chronicles dry-eyed. His Jeremiah and Ezekiel were equal to the funeral of a well-beloved relation.
This night he read as I had never heard him read before. The whole grim story of the son’s treason and final misadventure, of the ferocious43 battle in the wood of Ephraim, of Joab’s savagery44, and of the rival runners, made the air vibrate about us, and took possession of our minds and kneaded them like dough45, as we sat in the mute circle in the old living-room. From my chair I could see Hurley without turning my head, and the spectacle of excitement he presented—bending forward with dropped jaw46 and wild, glistening47 gray eyes, a hand behind his ear to miss no syllable48 of this strange new tale—only added to the effect it produced on me.
Then there came the terrible picture of the King’s despair. I had trembled as we neared this part, foreseeing what heart-wringing anguish49 Abner, in his present mood, would give to that cry of the stricken father—“O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!” To my great surprise, he made very little of it. The words came coldly, almost contemptuously, so that the listener could not but feel that David’s lamentations were out of place, and might better have been left unuttered.
But now the farmer, leaping over into the next chapter, brought swart, stalwart, blood-stained Joab on the scene before us, and in an instant we saw why the King’s outburst of mourning had fallen so flat upon our ears. Abner Beech’s voice rose and filled the room with its passionate51 fervor52 as he read out Joab’s speech—wherein the King is roundly told that his son was a worthless fellow, and was killed not a bit too soon, and that for the father to thus publicly lament50 him is to put to shame all his household and his loyal friends and servants.
While these sonorous53 words of protest against paternal54 weakness still rang in the air, Abner abruptly55 closed the book with a snap. We looked at him and at one another for a bewildered moment, and then “Till” Babcock stooped as if to kneel by her chair, but Janey nudged her, and we all rose and made our way silently out again into the kitchen. It had been apparent enough that no spirit of prayer abode56 in the farmer’s breast.
“‘Twas a fine bold sinsible man, that Job!” remarked Hurley to me, when the door was closed behind us, and the women had gone off to talk the scene over among themselves in the butter-room. “Would it be him that had thim lean turkeys?”
With some difficulty I made out his meaning.
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “the man Abner read about was Jo-ab, not Job. They were quite different people.”
“I thought as much,” replied the Irishman. “‘Twould not be in so grand a man’s nature to let his fowls57 go hungry. And do we be hearing such tales every night?”
“Maybe Abner ’ll keep on, now he’s started again,” I said. “We ain’t had any Bible-reading before since he had his row down at the church, and we left off going.”
Hurley displayed such a lively interest in this matter that I went over it pretty fully58, setting forth59 Abner’s position and the intolerable provocations60 which had been forced upon him. It took him a long time to grasp the idea that in Protestant gatherings61 not only the pastor62 spoke, but the class-leaders and all others who were conscious of a call might have their word as well, and that in this way even the lowliest and meanest of the farmer’s neighbors had been able to affront63 him in the church itself.
“Too many cooks spoil the broth,” was his comment upon this. “’Tis far better to hearken to one man only. If he’s right, you’re right. If he’s wrong, why, thin, there ye have him in front of ye for protection.”
Bedtime came soon after, and Mrs. Beech appeared in her nightly round of the house to see that the doors were all fastened. The candle she bore threw up a flaring64 yellow light upon her chin, but made the face above it by contrast still darker and more saturnine65. She moved about in erect66 impassiveness, trying the bolts and the window-catches, and went away again, having said never a word. I had planned to ask her if I might now have a bed to myself, but somehow my courage failed me, so stern and majestic67 was her aspect.
I took the desired boon68 without asking, and dreamed of her as a darkling and relentless69 Joab in petticoats, slaying70 her own son Jeff as he hung by his hay-colored hair in one of the apple-trees of our orchard71.
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1
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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crumple
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| v.把...弄皱，满是皱痕，压碎，崩溃 | |
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7
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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8
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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10
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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15
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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17
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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18
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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19
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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brindled
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| adj.有斑纹的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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22
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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23
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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32
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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33
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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34
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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35
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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38
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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40
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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41
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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42
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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43
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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44
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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45
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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46
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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47
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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48
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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49
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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50
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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51
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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52
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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53
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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54
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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55
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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56
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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57
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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58
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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61
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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64
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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67
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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68
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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69
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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70
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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71
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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