It was this note, scrawled1 in a hand very unlike Miss Annie’s customary prim2, school-teacher’s writing, which Samantha had borne over from the Warren house. Seth had studied it, perplexedly, for a long time on the evening of its arrival. He ruminated4 now again upon it, as he walked along the road toward Thessaly, the following forenoon. The temptation to confide5 the thing to John, who had stayed over night with him at the homestead, and now was walking silently by his side toward the village, wavered in his mind. Perhaps John could assist him to comprehend it; but then, it would be necessary to explain so much to him first. Finally the arguments in favor of confession8 triumphed, and with a “Here, old man; this is a letter from Annie. I want you to help me guess what it means,” he made the plunge9.
John read the note carefully. “What was it you talked about on this occasion she refers to, and when was it?” he asked.
“It was night before last, the night, and I asked her to marry me.”
“And what was her answer?—I’ll tell you afterward11 how glad I am to hear what you’ve just told me.”
“Well, it wasn’t decisive—but she admitted that it made her very happy.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
“No—or yes! I did. I met her just for a moment yesterday forenoon, as I was starting out from the house after hearing—the news. We only exchanged a word or two, though.”
“Did she seem angry with you then?”
“Not at all!”
“Well, what can have happened since? Try and think! She has reasons, she says, which she thinks you will understand. When a woman says she has ‘reasons’ she means that some mischief-maker has told her something disagreeable. Now——”
“Oh, my God! I see it now!” Seth stopped short in the road, and clenched12 his fists.
“Well, what is it?”
“She went into the house, and saw Isabel!” Seth continued, as if talking to himself.
“What has that got to do with it?”
Seth looked up at his brother with a blanching13 face, in which fright and amazement14 blended. “What is that line of Congreve’s about Hell having no fury like a woman scorned?” he asked mechanically.
It was John’s turn to stare. Gradually a light began to spread in his mind, and make things visible whose existence he had not suspected before. “Well, you are a simpleton!” he said.
“Don’t I know it?” was the pained, contrite15 response.
The brothers walked on a few yards in silence. Then John said “Of course, you needn’t tell me any more of this than you want to—but at least I can ask you—how much of a fool have you made of yourself up at the farm?”
“That’s hard to say. Just now I’m inclined to think that I am the champion ass7 of the world.”
“Well, you’re displaying some sense now, anyway. What have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything. That’s the foolish part of it all.”
John stopped in turn, and looked his brother’s face attentively16 over. “Go on, now,” he said, “and tell me what there is of it. There’s no use in my butting17 my brains out against a stone wall, guessing at such an inscrutable mess as this seems to be.”
“It’s hard to tell—there isn’t anything specially18 to tell. I simply got sort of sentimental19 about Isabel, you know—she was lonely and disappointed in life, and my coming to the farm was about the only chance for company she got, and all that—and then I found the thing might go too far and so I stopped it—and to clinch20 the thing, asked Annie to marry me. That’s what there is of it.”
“That’s good as far as it goes. Go on, youngster; out with the rest of it!”
“I tell you that is all.”
“Humbug! Annie never wrote this letter on the strength of such philandering21 nonsense as that. You say Isabel must have told her something. What was that something? Do you know?”
“Yes!” The answer was so full of despondent22 pain, that John’s sympathy rose above his fraternal censariousness.
“Come, my boy,” he said, “you’d better make a clean breast of it. It won’t seem half so bad, once you’ve told me. And if I can help you, you know I will.”
“Well, I will tell you, John. Night before last, Monday night, I had hard words with Albert, up at the house. You know how he sent for me, insisted on my coming, and what he wanted. Of course I could only say no, and we quarreled. Toward the end we raised our voices, and Isabel, who was upstairs, overheard us. Just then he began about me and her—it seems he had noticed or heard something—and she, hearing her name, took it for granted the whole quarrel was about her. I went upstairs, and presently he drove out of the yard with the grays. I couldn’t sleep, I was so agitated23 by the idea of our rupture24, and I went out to walk it off. It was while I was out that I met Annie and had the talk I have told you about. Then I came home, went to bed, and slept till after ten—long after everybody else had heard the news. I heard of it first from Isabel, and she—she——”
He came to an abrupt25 halt. The duty of saying nothing which should incriminate the woman rose before him, and fettered26 his tongue.
“And she—what?” asked John.
“Well, she somehow got the idea that I had followed Albert out and—and—was responsible for his death! Now. you have it all!”
There was a long silence. They were nearing the four corners, and walking slowly. Finally John, with his eyes on the ground, said: “And so that’s what she has told Annie, you think?”
“That’s the only way I can explain the note.”
“But Annie couldn’t possibly believe such a thing as that!”
“No—but there’s an explanation for that too. Come to think of it, I must have said a lot of things to her, that night, which seem now to her to fit in with this awful theory. Poor girl! I don’t blame her.”
John answered, after a pause, “There’s no use of my saying anything to show you what a situation you are in, or to scold you for it. I suppose you realize it fully10 enough. What’s more to the purpose, we must consider what is to be done. It is safe enough to assume that if Isabel thinks this and has said it to one person, either some one else will think it, or she will hint about it to another. The thing is too terrible to have even one person, even if she were silent as the grave, think about it. The obvious thing, I should think, would be to have a postmortem examination.”
“I thought they always had them at inquests.”
“No, the Coroner can dispense27 with one if he and the jury agree that it isn’t necessary. Timms sent me word that he had decided28 to dispense with one, in this case, ‘out of consideration for the feelings of the family.’ That means, of course, that he wants the Banner to help re-elect him next year. But now out of ‘consideration for the family’ we’ll have to have one. Don’t be so down in the mouth about it, boy; it will all come right, never fear!”
The brothers had reached the solitary29 building at the corners—a low, dingy30 store, with its sloping roof turned to the road, and a broad platform and steps stretching along its entire front. A horse and vacant buggy stood at the hitching-post. John proposed to go in and get some cigars, if Turner had any fit to smoke.
Their surprise was great at meeting on the steps Mr. Beekman of Jay County, who was coming out. After terse31 salutations had been exchanged, Beekman said:
“Lucky you fellows come daown jest ez yeh did. I come over this mornin’ a-purpose to see yeh, ’n’ yit I didn’t quite like to go up to th’ farm. I’ve got ever so many things I want to ask yeh, ’n’ say to yeh.” He led the way over to the farther end of the steps, and, following his example of sitting down on the platform, they waited curiously32 for him to proceed:
“Fust of all, I was daown to Tecumsy last night, ’n’ saw Workman. He said you”—turning to Seth—“needn’t worry yerself ’baout comin’ back till yeh was ready. They kin6 keep th’ paper runnin’ for a week or sao, while you stay up here ’n’ dew yer duty like a Christian33.”
Seth said he was much obliged, and then asked how it happened that Beekman had posted off to Tecumseh—over seventy miles—and returned so soon.
“Well, there was some things I wanted to see abaout daown there, ’n’ more thet I’m interested in keepin’ an eye on up here. So I kind o’ humped myself.”
“I’m glad to see you taking such an interest in Ansdell’s campaign,” said John.
Mr. Beekman’s gaunt visage relaxed for a second: “So yeh calc’late thet’s what I’m buzzin’ ’raoun’ th’ State fur, do yeh? Yeh never’s more mistaken in yer life. I’ve heerd reports circ’latin’ ’raoun’ thet ther’d be an election a fortni’t or so from naow, ’n’ thet Ansdell ’n’ I was concerned in it, but yeh can’t prove it by us. We ain’t s’ much as give a thought to politics sence th’ Convention ended. We’ve got somethin’ else to occupy aour minds with b’sides politics. I got a telegraph dispatch from him, sent from New York this mornin’, thet I want to talk to yeh ’baout presently, but fust——”
“Ansdell in New York?” asked Seth, all curiosity-now.
“Yes, he went on daown, while I got off at Te-cumsy, ’n’ I sh’d jedge from his telegraph thet he’d be’n on the go some sence he got there. But what I want to ask yeh ’baout is this: Do yeh knaow haow much money yer brother hed on him night ‘fore last, when he was—when he met his death?”
The brothers looked at each other, then at, the speaker, “No,” answered Seth, finally. “We haven’t the least idea. Why do you ask?”
“I’ll come to that bimeby. Naow next, do you knaow where he was th’ day b’fore th’ Convention?—thet is, Monday.”
“Yes, I can tell you that. He was in New York. He only got back Monday evening.”
“Pre-cisely. Well, naow, do yeh knaow what he went there for?”
“No. Something connected with politics, I suppose, but I can’t say for certain. He had business there very often, you know.”
“Yes, I knaow. But he hed very special business this last time. Naow look at this telegram.”
The two took the oblong sheet, and read:
“New York—Oct. 21. 942 A.M. Unexpectedly easy sailing. Found clue to money almost without looking. Fancy now must been sixteen instead ten. Hope return to-night. Ansdell.”
“Well, still I am in the dark,” John said, after reading and re-reading the dispatch. “What is it all about? I suppose you understand it.”
“I’m beginnin’ to see a leetle ways threw th’ millstone, I think, myself,” replied Beekman. “But it’s all so uncert’n yit, I don’t want to say nothin’ thet I can’t back up later on.”
Seth too had been busily pondering the dispatch, and he said now, with a flushing face: “I know what you think! You and Ansdell have got an idea there was foul34 play!”
“Well, yes, it ain’t much more’n an idee, yit;” assented35 Beekman.
“What do you base your idea on?” demanded John, full of a nameless, growing fright lest there might be something further which Seth’s confession had not revealed.
“Jest you wait one day more,” said the Boss of Jay County, grimly, “one day more ’ll dew. Then I miss my guess ef we ain’t in shape to tell yeh. Fust of all, there’s got to be a post-mortem.”
John’s impulse was to say that he and Seth had already agreed upon this, but a second thought checked his tongue.
“’N’ it’ll hev to be on th’ quiet. Everything depends on thet—on keepin’ it dark. There’s some folks might get skeered, ’n’ complicate36 things, ef it ain’t kep’ mum. ’N’ thet’s what I wanted to ask yeh ’baout. I’ve thought of Dr. Bacon, over at Thessaly, ’n’ Dr. Pierce daown at the Springs. They’re both good men, ’n’ got level heads on ’em. What d’yeh say to them?”
“I’ve no objection to them in the world, but the Coroner——”
“Oh, I know ’bout him. He’s th’ blamedest fool in th’ caounty. Over in Jay we wouldn’t elect sech a dumb-head to be hog-reeve. But you ’n’ Ansdell kin fix it with him to-morrow, ’n’ I’ll drive to-day ’n’ see both doctors, ’n’ put ’em straight. ’N’ naow yeh must prommus me, both of yeh, thet yeh won’t breathe a word of this to any livin’ soul.”
They promised, and he climbed into his buggy, and gathered up the reins37. “Oh, there’s one thing more,” he said, on reflection. “P’raps you wonder why I’m takin’ so much on myself. I’ll tell yeh bimeby. I’ve got my reasons. I’m mixed up in it, more’n you’d think.”
He turned about, and drove off briskly toward Thessaly. The brothers stood in perplexed3 silence by the roadside for some minutes. There was surely enough to think about.
At last, with a frank gesture, John stretched his hand out to Seth:
“Old boy,” he said, “I don’t know how this thing is coming out, but we’ll see it through together. You go down to the office and wait for me. You might do some things to fill up the paper this week if you’ve got nerve enough. I’m going back to the farm.”
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1
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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3
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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5
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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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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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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12
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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13
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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14
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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16
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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17
butting
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| 用头撞人（犯规动作） | |
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18
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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20
clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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21
philandering
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| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的现在分词 ) | |
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22
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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24
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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26
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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28
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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29
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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30
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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31
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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32
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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33
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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34
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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35
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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37
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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