He stopped with mammy and the boy at a brown-stone boarding house on Stuyvesant Square kept by a Southern woman to whom he had a letter of introduction.
Mrs. Beam was not an ideal landlady3, but her good-natured helplessness appealed to him. She was a large woman of ample hips4 and bust5, and though very tall seemed always in her own way. She moved slowly and laughed with a final sort of surrender to fate when anything went wrong. And it was generally going wrong. She was still comparatively young—perhaps thirty-two—but was built on so large and unwieldy a pattern that it was not easy to guess her age, especially as she had a silly tendency to harmless kittenish ways at times.
The poor thing was pitifully at sea in her new world and its work. She had been reared in a typically extravagant6 home of the old South where slaves had waited her call from childhood. She had not learned to sew, or cook or keep house—in fact, she had never learned to do anything useful or important. So naturally she took boarders. Her husband, on whose shoulders she had placed every burden of life the day[Pg 175] of her marriage, lay somewhere in an unmarked trench7 on a Virginia battlefield.
She couldn't conceive of any human being enduring a servant that wasn't black and so had turned her house over to a lazy and worthless crew of Northern negro help. The house was never clean, the waste in her kitchen was appalling8, but so long as she could find money to pay her rent and grocery bills, she was happy. Her only child, a daughter of sixteen, never dreamed of lifting her hand to work, and it hadn't yet occurred to the mother to insult her with such a suggestion.
Norton was not comfortable but he was lonely, and Mrs. Beam's easy ways, genial9 smile and Southern weaknesses somehow gave him a sense of being at home and he stayed. Mammy complained bitterly of the insolence10 and low manners of the kitchen. But he only laughed and told her she'd get used to it.
He was astonished to find that so many Southern people had drifted to New York—exiles of all sorts, with one universal trait, poverty and politeness.
And they quickly made friends. As he began to realize it, his heart went out to the great city with a throb11 of gratitude12.
When the novelty of the new world had gradually worn off a feeling of loneliness set in. He couldn't get used to the crowds on every street, these roaring rivers of strange faces rushing by like the waters of a swollen13 stream after a freshet, hurrying and swirling14 out of its banks.
At first he had found himself trying to bow to every man he met and take off his hat to every woman. It took a long time to break himself of this Southern instinct. The thing that cured him completely was when[Pg 176] he tipped his hat unconsciously to a lady on Fifth Avenue. She blushed furiously, hurried to the corner and had him arrested.
His apology was so abject15, so evidently sincere, his grief so absurd over her mistake that when she caught his Southern drawl, it was her turn to blush and ask his pardon.
A feeling of utter depression and pitiful homesickness gradually crushed his spirit. His soul began to cry for the sunlit fields and the perfumed nights of the South. There didn't seem to be any moon or stars here, and the only birds he ever saw were the chattering16 drab little sparrows in the parks.
The first day of autumn, as he walked through Central Park, a magnificent Irish setter lifted his fine head and spied him. Some subtle instinct told the dog that the man was a hunter and a lover of his kind. The setter wagged his tail and introduced himself. Norton dropped to a seat, drew the shaggy face into his lap, and stroked his head.
He was back home again. Don, with his fine nose high in the air, was circling a field and Andy was shouting:
"He's got 'em! He's got 'em sho, Marse Dan!"
He could see Don's slim white and black figure stepping slowly through the high grass on velvet17 feet, glancing back to see if his master were coming—the muscles suddenly stiffened18, his tail became rigid19, and the whole covey of quail20 were under his nose!
He was a boy again and felt the elemental thrill of man's first work as hunter and fisherman. He looked about him at the bald coldness of the artificial park and a desperate longing21 surged through his heart to[Pg 177] be among his own people again, to live their life and feel their joys and sorrows as his own.
And then the memory of the great tragedy slowly surged back, he pushed the dog aside, rose and hurried on in his search for a new world.
He tried the theatres—saw Booth in his own house on 23d Street play "Hamlet" and Lawrence Barrett "Othello," listened with rapture22 to the new Italian Grand Opera Company in the Academy of Music—saw a burlesque23 in the Tammany Theatre on 14th Street, Lester Wallack in "The School for Scandal" at Wallack's Theatre on Broadway at 13th Street, and Tony Pastor24 in his variety show at his Opera House on the Bowery, and yet returned each night with a dull ache in his heart.
Other men who loved home less perhaps could adjust themselves to new surroundings, but somehow in him this home instinct, this feeling of personal friendliness25 for neighbor and people, this passion for house and lawn, flowers and trees and shrubs26, for fields and rivers and hills, seemed of the very fibre of his inmost life. This vast rushing, roaring, impersonal27 world, driven by invisible titanic28 forces, somehow didn't appeal to him. It merely stunned29 and appalled30 and confused his mind.
And then without warning the blow fell.
He told himself afterwards that he must have been waiting for it, that some mysterious power of mental telepathy had wired its message without words across the thousand miles that separated him from the old life, and yet the surprise was complete and overwhelming.
He had tried that morning to write. A story was shaping itself in his mind and he felt the impulse to express it. But he was too depressed31. He threw his[Pg 178] pencil down in disgust and walked to his window facing the little park.
It was a bleak32, miserable33 day in November—the first freezing weather had come during the night and turned a drizzling34 rain into sleet35. The streets were covered with a thin, hard, glistening36 coat of ice. A coal wagon37 had stalled in front of the house, a magnificent draught38 horse had fallen and a brutal39 driver began to beat him unmercifully.
Henry Berg's Society had not yet been organized.
Norton rushed from the door and faced the astonished driver:
"Don't you dare to strike that horse again!"
The workman turned his half-drunken face on the intruder with a vicious leer:
"Well, what t'ell——"
"I mean it!"
With an oath the driver lunged at him:
"Get out of my way!"
The big fist shot at Norton's head. He parried the attack and knocked the man down. The driver scrambled40 to his feet and plunged41 forward again. A second blow sent him flat on his back on the ice and his body slipped three feet and struck the curb42.
"Have you got enough?" Norton asked, towering over the sprawling43 figure.
"Yes."
"Well, get up now, and I'll help you with the horse."
He helped the sullen44 fellow unhitch the fallen horse, lift him to his feet and readjust the harness. He put shoulder to the wheel and started the wagon again on its way.[Pg 179]
He returned to his room feeling better. It was the first fight he had started for months and it stirred his blood to healthy reaction.
He watched the bare limbs swaying in the bitter wind in front of St. George's Church and his eye rested on the steeples the architects said were unsafe and might fall some day with a crash, and his depression slowly returned. He had waked that morning with a vague sense of dread45.
"I guess it was that fight!" he muttered. "The scoundrel will be back in an hour with a warrant for my arrest and I'll spend a few days in jail——"
The postman's whistle blew at the basement window. He knew that fellow by the way he started the first notes of his call—always low, swelling46 into a peculiar47 shrill48 crescendo49 and dying away in a weird50 cry of pain.
The call this morning was one of startling effects. It was his high nerve tension, of course, that made the difference—perhaps, too, the bitter cold and swirling gusts51 of wind outside. But the shock was none the less vivid. The whistle began so low it seemed at first the moaning of the wind, the high note rang higher and higher, until it became the shout of a fiend, and died away with a wail52 of agony wrung53 from a lost soul.
He shivered at the sound. He would not have been surprised to receive a letter from the dead after that.
He heard some one coming slowly up stairs. It was mammy and the boy. The lazy maid had handed his mail to her, of course.
His door was pushed open and the child ran in holding a letter in his red, chubby54 hand:
"A letter, daddy!" he cried.
He took it mechanically, staring at the inscription55.[Pg 180] He knew now the meaning of his horrible depression! She was writing that letter when it began yesterday. He recognized Cleo's handwriting at a glance, though this was unusually blurred56 and crooked57. The postmark was Baltimore, another striking fact.
He laid the letter down on his table unopened and turned to mammy:
"Take him to your room. I'm trying to do some writing."
The old woman took the child's hand grumbling58:
"Come on, mammy's darlin', nobody wants us!"
He closed the door, locked it, glanced savagely59 at the unopened letter, drew his chair before the open fire and gazed into the glowing coals.
He feared to break the seal—feared with a dull, sickening dread. He glanced at it again as though he were looking at a toad61 that had suddenly intruded62 into his room.
Six months had passed without a sign, and he had ceased to wonder at the strange calm with which she received her dismissal and his flight from the scene after his wife's death. He had begun to believe that her shadow would never again fall across his life.
It had come at last. He picked the letter up, and tried to guess its meaning. She was going to make demands on him, of course. He had expected this months ago. But why should she be in Baltimore? He thought of a hundred foolish reasons without once the faintest suspicion of the truth entering his mind.
He broke the seal and read its contents. A look of vague incredulity overspread his face, followed by a sudden pallor. The one frightful63 thing he had dreaded64 and forgotten was true![Pg 181]
He crushed the letter in his powerful hand with a savage60 groan65:
"God in Heaven!"
He spread it out again and read and re-read its message, until each word burned its way into his soul:
"Our baby was born here yesterday. I was on my way to New York to you, but was taken sick on the train at Baltimore and had to stop. I'm alone and have no money, but I'm proud and happy. I know that you will help me.
"Cleo."
For hours he sat in a stupor66 of pain, holding this crumpled67 letter in his hand, staring into the fire.
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1
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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2
engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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8
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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12
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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14
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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15
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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16
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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17
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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18
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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19
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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21
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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22
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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23
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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24
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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25
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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26
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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27
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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28
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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29
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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30
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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31
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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32
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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33
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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34
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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35
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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36
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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37
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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38
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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39
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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40
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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41
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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42
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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43
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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44
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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45
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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46
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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47
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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48
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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49
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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50
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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51
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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52
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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53
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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54
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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55
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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56
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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57
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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58
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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59
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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60
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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61
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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62
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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63
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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64
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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65
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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66
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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67
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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