“I don’t see that it makes much difference—her refusing. What good would it have done, if she had gone to Annie? She could only tell her that she had abandoned such and such ideas. That isn’t what counts. The fact of importance is that she ever entertained them, that they ever existed. To my notion, there’s nothing to do but to wait and see what comes of Beekman’s suspicions. What do you think of them, anyway? I have been trying to imagine what he is aiming at, but it puzzles me? What do you think?”
“To tell the truth, I haven’t been thinking of that. My mind has been occupied with the female aspects of the thing. I’m not impatient. Evidently Beekman and Ansdell think they have got hold of something. They are not the men to go off on a wild-goose chase. Very good: I can wait until they are ready to explain. But what I can’t wait for—or bear to think about—is poor Annie, suffering as she must be suffering to have written that letter.”
“Yes, I’ve thought of that, too, but I’m helpless. I can’t think of anything: I can’t do anything.”
“You don’t seem to be of much use, for a fact,” mused4 the brother. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, if you think best. To-morrow afternoon, after I’ve seen Ansdell, or before that if he doesn’t come, I will go over and see Annie myself. I can go over to the school-house by the back road, and walk home with her. Perhaps by that time, too, I shall have something tangible5 to explain to her. Until then, I suppose she must continue in suspense6. It is the penance7 she ought to do, I dare say—” the brother added this in mildly sarcastic8 rebuke—“for the luxury of being in love with such a transcendant genius as you are.”
Something like an hour before this, Annie had dismissed her classes and locked up the school-house for the night. As she did so, she mentally wondered if she should ever have the strength to walk home.
The day had been one long-drawn out torture from its first waking moments—indeed there seemed to have been nothing but anguish10 since her interview with Isabel the previous day, not even the oblivion of sleep. Her impulse, and her grandmother’s advice, had been to remain at home; but she had already left the school unopened on the fatal Tuesday, in the shock of the news of Albert’s death: to absent herself a second day might prejudice the trustees against her. Besides, the occupation might serve to divert her thoughts.
Perhaps the trustees were satisfied, she said to herself now, locking the door, but there certainly had been no relief in the day’s labor11. The little children had been unwontedly stupid and trying; the older boys, some of them almost of her own age, had never before seemed so unruly and loutishly12 impertinent. Even these experiences alone would have availed to discourage her; as it was they added the stinging of insects to her great heartache. With some organizations, the lesser13 pain nullifies the other. She seemed to have a capacity for suffering, now, which took in, and made the most of, every element of agony, great and small. She turned from the rusty14, squat15 little old building and began her journey homeward, with hanging head and a deadly sense of weakness, physical and spiritual, crushing her whole being.
Milton Squires16 had been watching for her appearance for some time, from a sheltering ridge17 of berry-bushes and wall beyond the school, and he hurried now to overtake her, clumsily professing18 surprise at the meeting.
“I jes happened up this way,” he said, “Dunnao when I be’n up here on this road b’fore. Never dreampt o’ seein’ yeou.”
She made answer of some sort, as unintelligible19 and meaningless to herself as to him. She did not know whether it was a relief or otherwise that he was evidently going to walk home with her. Perhaps, if she let him do all the talking, the companionship would help her to get over the ordeal20 of the return less miserably21. But she could not, and she would not, talk.
“I kind o’ thought mebbe you’d shet up schewl fer a week ’r sao,” he proceeded, ingratiatingly, “but then agin I said to m’self ‘no siree, she ain’t thet kine of a gal22. Ef she’s got any work to dew, she jes’ does it, rain ’r shine’. Thet’s what I said. Pooty bad business, wa’n’t it, this death of yer cousin?”
“Dreadful!” she murmured, wishing he would talk of something else.
“Yes, sir, it’s about’s bad’s they make ’em. Some queer things ’baout it tew. I s’pose yeh ain’t heerd no gossup ’baout it, hev yeh?”
“No,” she whispered with a sinking heart; a real effort was needed to speak the other words: “What gossip? Is there gossip?”
“Dunnao’s yeh kin3 call it real gossup. P’raps nobuddy else won’t ’spicion nothin’. But to me they’s some things ’baout it thet looks darned cur’ous. Of caourse, it ain’t none o’ my business to blab ’baout the thing.”
“No, of course.”
These little words, spoken falteringly23, confirmed all that Milton had wished to learn the truth about. Over night a stupendous scheme had budded, unfolded, blossomed in his mind. Originally his primitive24 intellect had gone no further than the simple idea of committing homicide under circumstances which would inevitably25 point to an accident. The plan was clever in its very nakedness. But through some row among the women, probably out of jealousy26, the hint of murder had been raised, and coupled with Seth’s name. If this hint ripened27 into a suspicion and an inquiry28, a new situation would be created, but Milton could not see any peril29 in it for him, for Seth would obviously be involved. But it would be better if no questions of murder were raised at all, and matters were allowed to stand. This would not only place Milton’s security beyond peradventure, but it would give him a tremendous grip upon Annie. It was in this direction that his mind had been working steadily30 since he heard of Annie’s suspicions. The opportunity seemed to have come for placing the cap-stone of acquisition upon the edifice31 of desire he had so long and patiently been rearing.
As for the poor girl, she had reasoned herself out of the suspicion of Seth’s guilt32 a thousand times, only to find herself hopelessly relapsing into the quagmire33. Milton’s hints came with cruel force to drag her back now, this time lower than ever. Even he seemed to know of it, but he proposed to maintain silence. Of course, he must be induced to keep silent. Oh! the agony of her thoughts!
“You’n’ Seth was allus kine o’ frenly,” he proceeded. “Way back f’m th’ time yeh was boys ’n’ gals34.”
“Yes, we always were.”
“’N’ they used to say, daown to th’ corners, that yeou two was baoun’ to make a match of it.”
“There wasn’t anything in that at all!” She spoke decisively, almost peremptorily35.
“Oh, they wa’n’t, ay?” There was evident jubilation36 in his tone. “Never was nothin’ in that talk, ay?”
“No, nothing.”
The pair walked along on the side of the descending37 road silently for some moments. A farmer passed them, hauling a load of pumpkins38 up the hill, and exchanged a nod of salutation with Milton. This farmer remarked at his supper-table an hour later, to his wife: “I’d bet a yoke39 o’ oxen thet Milton Squires is a’makin’ up to the schewl-teacher. I seed ’em walkin’ togither daown th’ hill to-night, ’n’ he was a lookin’ at her like a bear at a sap-trough. It fairly made me grit40 my teeth to see him, with his broadcloth cloze, ’n’ his watch-chain, ’n’ his on-gainly ways.” To which his helpmeet acidulously responded: “Well, I dunnao’s she c’d dew much better. She’s gittin’ pooty well along, ’n’ fer all his ongainly ways, I don’t see but what he comes on, ‘baout’s well’s some o’ them thet runs him daown. A gal can’t jedge much by a man’s ways haow he’ll turn aout afterwards. I thought I’d got a prize.” Whereupon the honest yeoman chose silence as the better part.
The red sun was hanging in a purplish haze42 over the edge of the hill as the two descended43, and the leaves from Farmer Perkins’s maples44 rustled45 softly under their feet. Milton drew near his subject:
“I’ve be’n gittin’ on in th’ world sence yeou fust knew me, hain’t I?”
“Yes, everybody says so.”
“’N’ yit everybody don’t knaow half of it. I ain’t no han’ to tell all I knaow. Ef some folks c’d guess th’ speckle-ations I be’n in, ‘n’ th’ cash I’ve got aout in mor’giges ’n’ sao on, it’d make ’em open their eyes. It’s th’ still saow thet gits th’ swill46, as my mother use’ to say, ’n’ I’ve be’n still enough abaout it, I guess.”
His coarse chuckle47 jarred on the girl’s nerves, but the importance of placating48 him was uppermost in her mind, and she answered, as pleasantly as she could:
“I’m sure I’m glad, Milton. You have worked hard all your life, and you deserve it.”
“Yeh air glad, reely naow?”
“Why yes! Why shouldn’t I be? It always pleases me to hear of people’s prosperity.”
“But me purtic’ly?” he persisted, earnestly.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, absent-mindedly. Then the odd nature of the question occurred to her, but she was too distrait49 to think consecutively50, and she added no comment to her answer.
“Well, it eases me to hear yeh say thet,” he went on, with awkward deliberation, “fer they’s somethin’ I’ve be’n wantin’ to say to yeh fer a long time. I don’t s’paose you reelize haow well off I am?” She did not answer. Her mind seemed to refuse to act, and she heard only the sound of his words. He took her reply for granted and continued:
“I c’d eena’most buy up thet farm there”—pointing over to the Fairchild acres on the slope, now within sight—“’n’ I ain’t so all-fired sure yit thet I won’t, nuther! But what’s th’ good o’ money, on-less yeh kin git what yeh want with it, ay?”
The impulse of her soul-weariness was to let this aimless question pass like the other, without reply. But she was reminded of the importance of being pleasant to this tedious man, and so answered, entirely51 at random52:
“What is it you want, Milton?”
“I dunnao—I’m kind o’ feared o’ puttin’ my foot in it; yeh won’t be mad ef I tell yeh?”
“Why no, of course not. What is it?”
“Well, then,” he blurted53 out, “I want yeou!” The girl looked dumbly at him, at first not realizing at all the meaning of his words, then held as in a vise between the disposition54 to reply to him as he deserved and the danger, the terrible danger, of angering him. There fluttered through her senses, too, a mad kind of yearning55 to shriek56 with laughter—born of the hysterical57 state of her long-oppressed nerves. She eventually neither rebuked58 nor laughed, but said vacuously59:
“Want me?”
“Ef yeou’ll marry me, I’ll make one o’ th’ fust ladies o’ Dearb’rn Caounty aout o’ yeh. Yeh need never lay yer finger to a stitch o’ work agin, no more’n Is’bel did, daown yander.” He spoke eagerly, with more emotion in his strident voice than she had ever heard there before.
The difficulty of her position crushed her courage. Of course she must say no, but how do it without affronting60 him? The idea of reasoning him gently out of the preposterous61 wish came to her.
“This is some flying notion in your head, Milton,” she said, civilly. “You will have forgotten it by next week.”
“Forgott’n it, ay! Yeh think sao? What ’f I told yeh I hain’t thought o’ nothin’ else fur nigh onto ten year?”
His tone was too earnest and excited to render further trifling62 safe. He pulled out of an inner pocket and held up before her a little, irregularly squared tin-type—which she recognized as having been made in whimsical burlesque63 of her lineaments by an itinerant64 photographer years before.
“How did you come by that?” she asked, to gain time.
“I got it fr’m th’ man thet made it, ’n’ I paid a dollar bill fer it, tew,” he answered triumphantly65, “’n’ I’ve kep it by me ever sence!”
After a pause she said, as calmly as she could: “I never dreamed that such a thought had entered your head. Of course, it—it can’t be.”
“Why not, I’d like to knaow?” he demanded. “Don’t yeh b’lieve what I’ve told yeh ’baout my bein’ well off?”
“That hasn’t anything to do with it. There are other reasons—a good many other reasons.”
“What air they?” His tone was peremptory66.
“I don’t know that I can explain them to you. But truly there are so many of them—and your words took me so wholly by surprise, that—that——”
“Yeh needn’t mince67 matters! I knaow! Yeh hev sot yer idees on Seth! Yeh needn’t tell me yeh hain’t!”
“I won’t talk with you at all if you shout at me in that way, and contradict me flat when I assure you to the contrary.”
Milton paused for a moment, to consider the situation. They were approaching the poplars now, along the lonely turnpike, and the conversation could not be much protracted68. What he had to say must be said without delay. But what was it that he wished to say? A dozen inchoate69 plans rose amorphously70 to the surface of his mind—to cajole her, to strive further to impress her with his wealth, to entreat71 her, to attempt to bully72 her. This last resource ran best with his mood, but there were difficulties. Annie was the reverse of a cowardly girl; there was nothing timid or tremulous about her; if he attempted to intimidate73 her, the enterprise would most probably be a ridiculous failure, for he stood too much in awe74 of her self-reliance and intelligence to have confidence in his own mastery.
But stay—she was fearful about Seth. Whether it was true or not that she had no idea of marrying her cousin, she was evidently solicitous75 for his safety. An idea born of this conclusion swiftly engrafted itself upon the hired man’s general strategy. He lifted his light, shifty eyes from the grass of the roadside path to her face, once more, and said:
“Well, ef you’re a mine to be mean, I kin be mean tew—meaner ’n’ pussly. Ef yeh think I’m goin’ to stan’ still, ’n’ let yeou ’n’ Seth hev it all yer aown way, yer mistaken. I’ve only got to open my maouth to th’ Cor’ner, ’n’ whair’d he be, ’n’ yeou tew?”
There was a certain indefinable suggestion of bravado76 in his tone which caught Annie’s attention. It was the barest, most meagre of shadows, but she grasped at the chance of substance behind it.
“I don’t believe you could say anything, or do anything, which would injure him,” she said, with more confidence in her words than she felt in her heart.
“Oh, yeh daon’t, ay!” he growled77. “Ef yeh knaowed what I knaow, p’raps yeh’d change yer teune.”
“What do you know, then? Come now, let us hear it!” She grew defiant78, with an instinctive79 sense that the inferior being beside her was ready to retreat, if only she could keep up her boldness of front.
“Never yeou mind what I knaow!” he answered, evasively. “It’ll be enough, I guess, to cook his geuse, when th’ time comes.”
“Ah, I thought so!” she exclaimed. “You were simply talking to hear yourself talk—to scare me. Well, you see now that you wasted your breath.”
“Oh, did I! Well, I won’t waste any more of it, then, till I talk to th’ Cor’ner. I kin tell him some things ’baout who rid th’ black mare80 aout thet night, after Albert’d gone. Guess thet’ll kind ’o’ fix things!”
His slow imagination, working clumsily in the mazes81 of falsehood, had carried Milton a step too far; his simple plan of substituting Seth for himself in the events of the fatal night miscarried in a way he could not suspect.
Annie did not answer. An exclamation82 had risen to her lips, but something akin9 to presence of mind checked it there. Her brain seemed to be working with lightning flashes. The black mare had played a part in the tragedy, then; Seth had certainly not had the animal out that evening; the rushing, almost noiseless apparition83 which had startled them in the moonlight must have been the mare; it was coming from the direction of Tallman’s; it had a rider; who could that rider have been? and how did Milton know about it?—so the swift thoughts ran, in a chain which seemed luminous84 in the relief it brought to her. These two questions she could not answer—in her joy at the apparent exculpation85 of Seth it did not seem specially86 important that they should be answered—and she had self-possession enough to ask nothing about them.
It was a nice question what she should say to her companion, who was now, without any distinct suspicions on her part, growing luridly87 loathsome88 and repugnant in her eyes. The fear of angering him had died away, but a vague sense that mischief89 might be done by arousing his curiosity or apprehensions90 had come to take its place. She spoke cautiously:
“I hope you won’t do anything rash, that you would regret afterwards.”
“They ain’t nao need o’ my doin’ nothin’, ef yeou’d only hev some sense. But if yeou’re goin’ to be agin me, ther’s nao tellin’ what I won’t dew,” he answered with sullen91 terseness92.
They had come to the poplars, and Annie stopped at the stile under the thorns.
“I shall have to leave you here,” she said.
“Then yeh won’t hev me, ay? Yeh better think twice ’fore yeh say nao! Yeh won’t git another sich a chance—to live like a lady, ’n’ hev ev’rything yeh want. ’N’ ef yeh dew say nao, yeh kin rest ’sured yeh ain’t heerd th’ last of it, ner him nuther.” Milton’s little green-gray eyes watched her face intently, and he fingered his flaring93 plated watch-chain with nervous preoccupation. “What d’yeh say, yes’ ’r nao?”
“I can’t say anything more than I have said—now,” she answered, and, stepping over the stile, left him.
For a long time afterward41 Annie’s conscience debated the justification94 of that final word, the last one she ever addressed to Milton, and which was obviously intended to keep alive a hope that she knew to be absurdly without ground or reason. Sometimes even now she has momentary95 doubts about it—but she silences cavil96 by whispering to herself in unanswerable defence: “I thought then that possibly it might be needed to help Seth—perhaps even to save him.”
She had little leisure just then, however, to devote to moral introspection, for Samantha met her, half-way down the thorn-walk, to excitedly tell her that her grandmother, Mrs. Warren, was very much worse than usual.
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1
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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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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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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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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loutishly
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| 笨拙的，粗野的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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inevitably
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jealousy
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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steadily
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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gals
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| abbr.gallons （复数）加仑（液量单位）n.女孩，少女( gal的名词复数 ) | |
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peremptorily
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jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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pumpkins
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| n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 )；南瓜的果肉，南瓜囊 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
swill
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| v.冲洗；痛饮；n.泔脚饲料；猪食；（谈话或写作中的）无意义的话 | |
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47
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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48
placating
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的现在分词 ) | |
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distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vacuously
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| adv.无意义地，茫然若失地，无所事事地 | |
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affronting
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| v.勇敢地面对( affront的现在分词 )；相遇 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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amorphously
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| adj.无组织的；模糊的；无固定形状的；非结晶的 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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intimidate
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| vt.恐吓，威胁 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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exculpation
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| n.使无罪，辩解 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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luridly
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| adv. 青灰色的(苍白的, 深浓色的, 火焰等火红的) | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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terseness
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| 简洁，精练 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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