Beside the River-sea?
They bring the human heart wherein
No nightly calm can be;
That droppeth never with the wind,
Nor drieth with the dew;
O calm it, God; thy calm is broad
To cover spirits too.
The river floweth on.
MRS. BROWNING.
Carlisle Street runs westward1 from the centre of Johnstown, across a great black bridge, down a hill and up again, by little shops and meat-markets, past single-storied homes, until suddenly it stops against a wide green lawn. It is a broad, restful place, with two large buildings outlined against the west. When at evening the winds come swelling2 from the east, and the great pall3 of the city's smoke hangs wearily above the valley, then the red west glows like a dreamland down Carlisle Street, and, at the tolling4 of the supper-bell, throws the passing forms of students in dark silhouette5 against the sky. Tall and black, they move slowly by, and seem in the sinister6 light to flit before the city like dim warning ghosts. Perhaps they are; for this is Wells Institute, and these black students have few dealings with the white city below.
And if you will notice, night after night, there is one dark form that ever hurries last and late toward the twinkling lights of Swain Hall,—for Jones is never on time. A long, straggling fellow he is, brown and hard-haired, who seems to be growing straight out of his clothes, and walks with a half-apologetic roll. He used perpetually to set the quiet dining-room into waves of merriment, as he stole to his place after the bell had tapped for prayers; he seemed so perfectly7 awkward. And yet one glance at his face made one forgive him much,—that broad, good-natured smile in which lay no bit of art or artifice8, but seemed just bubbling good-nature and genuine satisfaction with the world.
He came to us from Altamaha, away down there beneath the gnarled oaks of Southeastern Georgia, where the sea croons to the sands and the sands listen till they sink half drowned beneath the waters, rising only here and there in long, low islands. The white folk of Altamaha voted John a good boy,—fine plough-hand, good in the rice-fields, handy everywhere, and always good-natured and respectful. But they shook their heads when his mother wanted to send him off to school. "It'll spoil him,—ruin him," they said; and they talked as though they knew. But full half the black folk followed him proudly to the station, and carried his queer little trunk and many bundles. And there they shook and shook hands, and the girls kissed him shyly and the boys clapped him on the back. So the train came, and he pinched his little sister lovingly, and put his great arms about his mother's neck, and then was away with a puff9 and a roar into the great yellow world that flamed and flared10 about the doubtful pilgrim. Up the coast they hurried, past the squares and palmettos of Savannah, through the cotton-fields and through the weary night, to Millville, and came with the morning to the noise and bustle11 of Johnstown.
And they that stood behind, that morning in Altamaha, and watched the train as it noisily bore playmate and brother and son away to the world, had thereafter one ever-recurring word,—"When John comes." Then what parties were to be, and what speakings in the churches; what new furniture in the front room,—perhaps even a new front room; and there would be a new schoolhouse, with John as teacher; and then perhaps a big wedding; all this and more—when John comes. But the white people shook their heads.
At first he was coming at Christmas-time,—but the vacation proved too short; and then, the next summer,—but times were hard and schooling12 costly13, and so, instead, he worked in Johnstown. And so it drifted to the next summer, and the next,—till playmates scattered14, and mother grew gray, and sister went up to the Judge's kitchen to work. And still the legend lingered,—"When John comes."
Up at the Judge's they rather liked this refrain; for they too had a John—a fair-haired, smooth-faced boy, who had played many a long summer's day to its close with his darker namesake. "Yes, sir! John is at Princeton, sir," said the broad-shouldered gray-haired Judge every morning as he marched down to the post-office. "Showing the Yankees what a Southern gentleman can do," he added; and strode home again with his letters and papers. Up at the great pillared house they lingered long over the Princeton letter,—the Judge and his frail15 wife, his sister and growing daughters. "It'll make a man of him," said the Judge, "college is the place." And then he asked the shy little waitress, "Well, Jennie, how's your John?" and added reflectively, "Too bad, too bad your mother sent him off—it will spoil him." And the waitress wondered.
Thus in the far-away Southern village the world lay waiting, half consciously, the coming of two young men, and dreamed in an inarticulate way of new things that would be done and new thoughts that all would think. And yet it was singular that few thought of two Johns,—for the black folk thought of one John, and he was black; and the white folk thought of another John, and he was white. And neither world thought the other world's thought, save with a vague unrest.
Up in Johnstown, at the Institute, we were long puzzled at the case of John Jones. For a long time the clay seemed unfit for any sort of moulding. He was loud and boisterous16, always laughing and singing, and never able to work consecutively17 at anything. He did not know how to study; he had no idea of thoroughness; and with his tardiness18, carelessness, and appalling19 good-humor, we were sore perplexed20. One night we sat in faculty-meeting, worried and serious; for Jones was in trouble again. This last escapade was too much, and so we solemnly voted "that Jones, on account of repeated disorder21 and inattention to work, be suspended for the rest of the term."
It seemed to us that the first time life ever struck Jones as a really serious thing was when the Dean told him he must leave school. He stared at the gray-haired man blankly, with great eyes. "Why,—why," he faltered22, "but—I haven't graduated!" Then the Dean slowly and clearly explained, reminding him of the tardiness and the carelessness, of the poor lessons and neglected work, of the noise and disorder, until the fellow hung his head in confusion. Then he said quickly, "But you won't tell mammy and sister,—you won't write mammy, now will you? For if you won't I'll go out into the city and work, and come back next term and show you something." So the Dean promised faithfully, and John shouldered his little trunk, giving neither word nor look to the giggling24 boys, and walked down Carlisle Street to the great city, with sober eyes and a set and serious face.
Perhaps we imagined it, but someway it seemed to us that the serious look that crept over his boyish face that afternoon never left it again. When he came back to us he went to work with all his rugged25 strength. It was a hard struggle, for things did not come easily to him,—few crowding memories of early life and teaching came to help him on his new way; but all the world toward which he strove was of his own building, and he builded slow and hard. As the light dawned lingeringly on his new creations, he sat rapt and silent before the vision, or wandered alone over the green campus peering through and beyond the world of men into a world of thought. And the thoughts at times puzzled him sorely; he could not see just why the circle was not square, and carried it out fifty-six decimal places one midnight,—would have gone further, indeed, had not the matron rapped for lights out. He caught terrible colds lying on his back in the meadows of nights, trying to think out the solar system; he had grave doubts as to the ethics26 of the Fall of Rome, and strongly suspected the Germans of being thieves and rascals27, despite his textbooks; he pondered long over every new Greek word, and wondered why this meant that and why it couldn't mean something else, and how it must have felt to think all things in Greek. So he thought and puzzled along for himself,—pausing perplexed where others skipped merrily, and walking steadily28 through the difficulties where the rest stopped and surrendered.
Thus he grew in body and soul, and with him his clothes seemed to grow and arrange themselves; coat sleeves got longer, cuffs29 appeared, and collars got less soiled. Now and then his boots shone, and a new dignity crept into his walk. And we who saw daily a new thoughtfulness growing in his eyes began to expect something of this plodding30 boy. Thus he passed out of the preparatory school into college, and we who watched him felt four more years of change, which almost transformed the tall, grave man who bowed to us commencement morning. He had left his queer thought-world and come back to a world of motion and of men. He looked now for the first time sharply about him, and wondered he had seen so little before. He grew slowly to feel almost for the first time the Veil that lay between him and the white world; he first noticed now the oppression that had not seemed oppression before, differences that erstwhile seemed natural, restraints and slights that in his boyhood days had gone unnoticed or been greeted with a laugh. He felt angry now when men did not call him "Mister," he clenched31 his hands at the "Jim Crow" cars, and chafed32 at the color-line that hemmed33 in him and his. A tinge34 of sarcasm35 crept into his speech, and a vague bitterness into his life; and he sat long hours wondering and planning a way around these crooked36 things. Daily he found himself shrinking from the choked and narrow life of his native town. And yet he always planned to go back to Altamaha,—always planned to work there. Still, more and more as the day approached he hesitated with a nameless dread37; and even the day after graduation he seized with eagerness the offer of the Dean to send him North with the quartette during the summer vacation, to sing for the Institute. A breath of air before the plunge38, he said to himself in half apology.
It was a bright September afternoon, and the streets of New York were brilliant with moving men. They reminded John of the sea, as he sat in the square and watched them, so changelessly changing, so bright and dark, so grave and gay. He scanned their rich and faultless clothes, the way they carried their hands, the shape of their hats; he peered into the hurrying carriages. Then, leaning back with a sigh, he said, "This is the World." The notion suddenly seized him to see where the world was going; since many of the richer and brighter seemed hurrying all one way. So when a tall, light-haired young man and a little talkative lady came by, he rose half hesitatingly and followed them. Up the street they went, past stores and gay shops, across a broad square, until with a hundred others they entered the high portal of a great building.
He was pushed toward the ticket-office with the others, and felt in his pocket for the new five-dollar bill he had hoarded39. There seemed really no time for hesitation40, so he drew it bravely out, passed it to the busy clerk, and received simply a ticket but no change. When at last he realized that he had paid five dollars to enter he knew not what, he stood stockstill amazed. "Be careful," said a low voice behind him; "you must not lynch the colored gentleman simply because he's in your way," and a girl looked up roguishly into the eyes of her fair-haired escort. A shade of annoyance41 passed over the escort's face. "You WILL not understand us at the South," he said half impatiently, as if continuing an argument. "With all your professions, one never sees in the North so cordial and intimate relations between white and black as are everyday occurrences with us. Why, I remember my closest playfellow in boyhood was a little Negro named after me, and surely no two,—WELL!" The man stopped short and flushed to the roots of his hair, for there directly beside his reserved orchestra chairs sat the Negro he had stumbled over in the hallway. He hesitated and grew pale with anger, called the usher42 and gave him his card, with a few peremptory43 words, and slowly sat down. The lady deftly44 changed the subject.
All this John did not see, for he sat in a half-daze minding the scene about him; the delicate beauty of the hall, the faint perfume, the moving myriad45 of men, the rich clothing and low hum of talking seemed all a part of a world so different from his, so strangely more beautiful than anything he had known, that he sat in dreamland, and started when, after a hush46, rose high and clear the music of Lohengrin's swan. The infinite beauty of the wail47 lingered and swept through every muscle of his frame, and put it all a-tune. He closed his eyes and grasped the elbows of the chair, touching48 unwittingly the lady's arm. And the lady drew away. A deep longing49 swelled50 in all his heart to rise with that clear music out of the dirt and dust of that low life that held him prisoned and befouled. If he could only live up in the free air where birds sang and setting suns had no touch of blood! Who had called him to be the slave and butt51 of all? And if he had called, what right had he to call when a world like this lay open before men?
Then the movement changed, and fuller, mightier52 harmony swelled away. He looked thoughtfully across the hall, and wondered why the beautiful gray-haired woman looked so listless, and what the little man could be whispering about. He would not like to be listless and idle, he thought, for he felt with the music the movement of power within him. If he but had some master-work, some life-service, hard,—aye, bitter hard, but without the cringing53 and sickening servility, without the cruel hurt that hardened his heart and soul. When at last a soft sorrow crept across the violins, there came to him the vision of a far-off home, the great eyes of his sister, and the dark drawn54 face of his mother. And his heart sank below the waters, even as the sea-sand sinks by the shores of Altamaha, only to be lifted aloft again with that last ethereal wail of the swan that quivered and faded away into the sky.
It left John sitting so silent and rapt that he did not for some time notice the usher tapping him lightly on the shoulder and saying politely, "Will you step this way, please, sir?" A little surprised, he arose quickly at the last tap, and, turning to leave his seat, looked full into the face of the fair-haired young man. For the first time the young man recognized his dark boyhood playmate, and John knew that it was the Judge's son. The White John started, lifted his hand, and then froze into his chair; the black John smiled lightly, then grimly, and followed the usher down the aisle55. The manager was sorry, very, very sorry,—but he explained that some mistake had been made in selling the gentleman a seat already disposed of; he would refund56 the money, of course,—and indeed felt the matter keenly, and so forth57, and—before he had finished John was gone, walking hurriedly across the square and down the broad streets, and as he passed the park he buttoned his coat and said, "John Jones, you're a natural-born fool." Then he went to his lodgings58 and wrote a letter, and tore it up; he wrote another, and threw it in the fire. Then he seized a scrap59 of paper and wrote: "Dear Mother and Sister—I am coming—John."
"Perhaps," said John, as he settled himself on the train, "perhaps I am to blame myself in struggling against my manifest destiny simply because it looks hard and unpleasant. Here is my duty to Altamaha plain before me; perhaps they'll let me help settle the Negro problems there,—perhaps they won't. 'I will go in to the King, which is not according to the law; and if I perish, I perish.'" And then he mused60 and dreamed, and planned a life-work; and the train flew south.
Down in Altamaha, after seven long years, all the world knew John was coming. The homes were scrubbed and scoured,—above all, one; the gardens and yards had an unwonted trimness, and Jennie bought a new gingham. With some finesse61 and negotiation62, all the dark Methodists and Presbyterians were induced to join in a monster welcome at the Baptist Church; and as the day drew near, warm discussions arose on every corner as to the exact extent and nature of John's accomplishments63. It was noontide on a gray and cloudy day when he came. The black town flocked to the depot64, with a little of the white at the edges,—a happy throng65, with "Good-mawnings" and "Howdys" and laughing and joking and jostling. Mother sat yonder in the window watching; but sister Jennie stood on the platform, nervously66 fingering her dress, tall and lithe67, with soft brown skin and loving eyes peering from out a tangled68 wilderness69 of hair. John rose gloomily as the train stopped, for he was thinking of the "Jim Crow" car; he stepped to the platform, and paused: a little dingy70 station, a black crowd gaudy71 and dirty, a half-mile of dilapidated shanties72 along a straggling ditch of mud. An overwhelming sense of the sordidness73 and narrowness of it all seized him; he looked in vain for his mother, kissed coldly the tall, strange girl who called him brother, spoke74 a short, dry word here and there; then, lingering neither for handshaking nor gossip, started silently up the street, raising his hat merely to the last eager old aunty, to her open-mouthed astonishment75. The people were distinctly bewildered. This silent, cold man,—was this John? Where was his smile and hearty76 hand-grasp? "'Peared kind o' down in the mouf," said the Methodist preacher thoughtfully. "Seemed monstus stuck up," complained a Baptist sister. But the white postmaster from the edge of the crowd expressed the opinion of his folks plainly. "That damn Nigger," said he, as he shouldered the mail and arranged his tobacco, "has gone North and got plum full o' fool notions; but they won't work in Altamaha." And the crowd melted away.
The meeting of welcome at the Baptist Church was a failure. Rain spoiled the barbecue, and thunder turned the milk in the ice-cream. When the speaking came at night, the house was crowded to overflowing77. The three preachers had especially prepared themselves, but somehow John's manner seemed to throw a blanket over everything,—he seemed so cold and preoccupied78, and had so strange an air of restraint that the Methodist brother could not warm up to his theme and elicited79 not a single "Amen"; the Presbyterian prayer was but feebly responded to, and even the Baptist preacher, though he wakened faint enthusiasm, got so mixed up in his favorite sentence that he had to close it by stopping fully23 fifteen minutes sooner than he meant. The people moved uneasily in their seats as John rose to reply. He spoke slowly and methodically. The age, he said, demanded new ideas; we were far different from those men of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,—with broader ideas of human brotherhood80 and destiny. Then he spoke of the rise of charity and popular education, and particularly of the spread of wealth and work. The question was, then, he added reflectively, looking at the low discolored ceiling, what part the Negroes of this land would take in the striving of the new century. He sketched81 in vague outline the new Industrial School that might rise among these pines, he spoke in detail of the charitable and philanthropic work that might be organized, of money that might be saved for banks and business. Finally he urged unity82, and deprecated especially religious and denominational bickering83. "To-day," he said, with a smile, "the world cares little whether a man be Baptist or Methodist, or indeed a churchman at all, so long as he is good and true. What difference does it make whether a man be baptized in river or washbowl, or not at all? Let's leave all that littleness, and look higher." Then, thinking of nothing else, he slowly sat down. A painful hush seized that crowded mass. Little had they understood of what he said, for he spoke an unknown tongue, save the last word about baptism; that they knew, and they sat very still while the clock ticked. Then at last a low suppressed snarl84 came from the Amen corner, and an old bent85 man arose, walked over the seats, and climbed straight up into the pulpit. He was wrinkled and black, with scant86 gray and tufted hair; his voice and hands shook as with palsy; but on his face lay the intense rapt look of the religious fanatic87. He seized the Bible with his rough, huge hands; twice he raised it inarticulate, and then fairly burst into words, with rude and awful eloquence88. He quivered, swayed, and bent; then rose aloft in perfect majesty89, till the people moaned and wept, wailed90 and shouted, and a wild shrieking91 arose from the corners where all the pent-up feeling of the hour gathered itself and rushed into the air. John never knew clearly what the old man said; he only felt himself held up to scorn and scathing92 denunciation for trampling93 on the true Religion, and he realized with amazement94 that all unknowingly he had put rough, rude hands on something this little world held sacred. He arose silently, and passed out into the night. Down toward the sea he went, in the fitful starlight, half conscious of the girl who followed timidly after him. When at last he stood upon the bluff95, he turned to his little sister and looked upon her sorrowfully, remembering with sudden pain how little thought he had given her. He put his arm about her and let her passion of tears spend itself on his shoulder.
Long they stood together, peering over the gray unresting water.
"John," she said, "does it make every one—unhappy when they study and learn lots of things?"
He paused and smiled. "I am afraid it does," he said.
"And, John, are you glad you studied?"
"Yes," came the answer, slowly but positively96.
She watched the flickering97 lights upon the sea, and said thoughtfully, "I wish I was unhappy,—and—and," putting both arms about his neck, "I think I am, a little, John."
It was several days later that John walked up to the Judge's house to ask for the privilege of teaching the Negro school. The Judge himself met him at the front door, stared a little hard at him, and said brusquely, "Go 'round to the kitchen door, John, and wait." Sitting on the kitchen steps, John stared at the corn, thoroughly98 perplexed. What on earth had come over him? Every step he made offended some one. He had come to save his people, and before he left the depot he had hurt them. He sought to teach them at the church, and had outraged99 their deepest feelings. He had schooled himself to be respectful to the Judge, and then blundered into his front door. And all the time he had meant right,—and yet, and yet, somehow he found it so hard and strange to fit his old surroundings again, to find his place in the world about him. He could not remember that he used to have any difficulty in the past, when life was glad and gay. The world seemed smooth and easy then. Perhaps,—but his sister came to the kitchen door just then and said the Judge awaited him.
The Judge sat in the dining-room amid his morning's mail, and he did not ask John to sit down. He plunged100 squarely into the business. "You've come for the school, I suppose. Well John, I want to speak to you plainly. You know I'm a friend to your people. I've helped you and your family, and would have done more if you hadn't got the notion of going off. Now I like the colored people, and sympathize with all their reasonable aspirations101; but you and I both know, John, that in this country the Negro must remain subordinate, and can never expect to be the equal of white men. In their place, your people can be honest and respectful; and God knows, I'll do what I can to help them. But when they want to reverse nature, and rule white men, and marry white women, and sit in my parlor102, then, by God! we'll hold them under if we have to lynch every Nigger in the land. Now, John, the question is, are you, with your education and Northern notions, going to accept the situation and teach the darkies to be faithful servants and laborers103 as your fathers were,—I knew your father, John, he belonged to my brother, and he was a good Nigger. Well—well, are you going to be like him, or are you going to try to put fool ideas of rising and equality into these folks' heads, and make them discontented and unhappy?"
"I am going to accept the situation, Judge Henderson," answered John, with a brevity that did not escape the keen old man. He hesitated a moment, and then said shortly, "Very well,—we'll try you awhile. Good-morning."
It was a full month after the opening of the Negro school that the other John came home, tall, gay, and headstrong. The mother wept, the sisters sang. The whole white town was glad. A proud man was the Judge, and it was a goodly sight to see the two swinging down Main Street together. And yet all did not go smoothly104 between them, for the younger man could not and did not veil his contempt for the little town, and plainly had his heart set on New York. Now the one cherished ambition of the Judge was to see his son mayor of Altamaha, representative to the legislature, and—who could say?—governor of Georgia. So the argument often waxed hot between them. "Good heavens, father," the younger man would say after dinner, as he lighted a cigar and stood by the fireplace, "you surely don't expect a young fellow like me to settle down permanently105 in this—this God-forgotten town with nothing but mud and Negroes?" "I did," the Judge would answer laconically106; and on this particular day it seemed from the gathering107 scowl108 that he was about to add something more emphatic109, but neighbors had already begun to drop in to admire his son, and the conversation drifted.
"Heah that John is livenin' things up at the darky school," volunteered the postmaster, after a pause.
"What now?" asked the Judge, sharply.
"Oh, nothin' in particulah,—just his almighty110 air and uppish ways. B'lieve I did heah somethin' about his givin' talks on the French Revolution, equality, and such like. He's what I call a dangerous Nigger."
"Have you heard him say anything out of the way?"
"Why, no,—but Sally, our girl, told my wife a lot of rot. Then, too, I don't need to heah: a Nigger what won't say 'sir' to a white man, or—"
"Who is this John?" interrupted the son.
"Why, it's little black John, Peggy's son,—your old playfellow."
The young man's face flushed angrily, and then he laughed.
"Oh," said he, "it's the darky that tried to force himself into a seat beside the lady I was escorting—"
But Judge Henderson waited to hear no more. He had been nettled112 all day, and now at this he rose with a half-smothered oath, took his hat and cane113, and walked straight to the schoolhouse.
For John, it had been a long, hard pull to get things started in the rickety old shanty114 that sheltered his school. The Negroes were rent into factions115 for and against him, the parents were careless, the children irregular and dirty, and books, pencils, and slates116 largely missing. Nevertheless, he struggled hopefully on, and seemed to see at last some glimmering117 of dawn. The attendance was larger and the children were a shade cleaner this week. Even the booby class in reading showed a little comforting progress. So John settled himself with renewed patience this afternoon.
"Now, Mandy," he said cheerfully, "that's better; but you mustn't chop your words up so: 'If—the-man—goes.' Why, your little brother even wouldn't tell a story that way, now would he?"
"Naw, suh, he cain't talk."
"All right; now let's try again: 'If the man—'
"John!"
The whole school started in surprise, and the teacher half arose, as the red, angry face of the Judge appeared in the open doorway118.
"John, this school is closed. You children can go home and get to work. The white people of Altamaha are not spending their money on black folks to have their heads crammed119 with impudence120 and lies. Clear out! I'll lock the door myself."
Up at the great pillared house the tall young son wandered aimlessly about after his father's abrupt121 departure. In the house there was little to interest him; the books were old and stale, the local newspaper flat, and the women had retired122 with headaches and sewing. He tried a nap, but it was too warm. So he sauntered out into the fields, complaining disconsolately123, "Good Lord! how long will this imprisonment124 last!" He was not a bad fellow,—just a little spoiled and self-indulgent, and as headstrong as his proud father. He seemed a young man pleasant to look upon, as he sat on the great black stump125 at the edge of the pines idly swinging his legs and smoking. "Why, there isn't even a girl worth getting up a respectable flirtation126 with," he growled127. Just then his eye caught a tall, willowy figure hurrying toward him on the narrow path. He looked with interest at first, and then burst into a laugh as he said, "Well, I declare, if it isn't Jennie, the little brown kitchen-maid! Why, I never noticed before what a trim little body she is. Hello, Jennie! Why, you haven't kissed me since I came home," he said gaily128. The young girl stared at him in surprise and confusion,—faltered something inarticulate, and attempted to pass. But a wilful129 mood had seized the young idler, and he caught at her arm. Frightened, she slipped by; and half mischievously130 he turned and ran after her through the tall pines.
Yonder, toward the sea, at the end of the path, came John slowly, with his head down. He had turned wearily homeward from the schoolhouse; then, thinking to shield his mother from the blow, started to meet his sister as she came from work and break the news of his dismissal to her. "I'll go away," he said slowly; "I'll go away and find work, and send for them. I cannot live here longer." And then the fierce, buried anger surged up into his throat. He waved his arms and hurried wildly up the path.
The great brown sea lay silent. The air scarce breathed. The dying day bathed the twisted oaks and mighty111 pines in black and gold. There came from the wind no warning, not a whisper from the cloudless sky. There was only a black man hurrying on with an ache in his heart, seeing neither sun nor sea, but starting as from a dream at the frightened cry that woke the pines, to see his dark sister struggling in the arms of a tall and fair-haired man.
He said not a word, but, seizing a fallen limb, struck him with all the pent-up hatred131 of his great black arm, and the body lay white and still beneath the pines, all bathed in sunshine and in blood. John looked at it dreamily, then walked back to the house briskly, and said in a soft voice, "Mammy, I'm going away—I'm going to be free."
She gazed at him dimly and faltered, "No'th, honey, is yo' gwine No'th agin?"
He looked out where the North Star glistened132 pale above the waters, and said, "Yes, mammy, I'm going—North."
Then, without another word, he went out into the narrow lane, up by the straight pines, to the same winding133 path, and seated himself on the great black stump, looking at the blood where the body had lain. Yonder in the gray past he had played with that dead boy, romping134 together under the solemn trees. The night deepened; he thought of the boys at Johnstown. He wondered how Brown had turned out, and Carey? And Jones,—Jones? Why, he was Jones, and he wondered what they would all say when they knew, when they knew, in that great long dining-room with its hundreds of merry eyes. Then as the sheen of the starlight stole over him, he thought of the gilded135 ceiling of that vast concert hall, heard stealing toward him the faint sweet music of the swan. Hark! was it music, or the hurry and shouting of men? Yes, surely! Clear and high the faint sweet melody rose and fluttered like a living thing, so that the very earth trembled as with the tramp of horses and murmur136 of angry men.
He leaned back and smiled toward the sea, whence rose the strange melody, away from the dark shadows where lay the noise of horses galloping137, galloping on. With an effort he roused himself, bent forward, and looked steadily down the pathway, softly humming the "Song of the Bride,"—
"Freudig gefuhrt, ziehet dahin."
Amid the trees in the dim morning twilight138 he watched their shadows dancing and heard their horses thundering toward him, until at last they came sweeping139 like a storm, and he saw in front that haggard white-haired man, whose eyes flashed red with fury. Oh, how he pitied him,—pitied him,—and wondered if he had the coiling twisted rope. Then, as the storm burst round him, he rose slowly to his feet and turned his closed eyes toward the Sea.
And the world whistled in his ears.
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1
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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4
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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6
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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7
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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8
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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9
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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10
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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11
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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12
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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13
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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14
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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15
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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16
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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17
consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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18
tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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19
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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20
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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21
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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22
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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23
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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24
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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25
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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26
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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27
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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28
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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29
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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31
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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32
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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33
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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34
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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35
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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36
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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37
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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38
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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39
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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41
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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42
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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43
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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44
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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45
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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46
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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47
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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48
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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49
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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50
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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51
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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52
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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53
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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54
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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55
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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56
refund
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| v.退还，偿还；n.归还，偿还额，退款 | |
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57
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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59
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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60
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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61
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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62
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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63
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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64
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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65
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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66
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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67
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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68
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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69
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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70
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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71
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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72
shanties
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| n.简陋的小木屋( shanty的名词复数 )；铁皮棚屋；船工号子；船歌 | |
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73
sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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74
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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75
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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76
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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77
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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78
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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79
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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81
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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83
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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84
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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85
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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86
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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87
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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88
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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89
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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90
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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92
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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93
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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94
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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95
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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96
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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97
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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98
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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99
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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100
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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101
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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102
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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103
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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104
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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105
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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106
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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107
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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108
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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109
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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110
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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111
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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112
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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113
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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114
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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115
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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116
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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117
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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118
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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119
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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120
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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121
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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122
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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123
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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124
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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125
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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126
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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127
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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128
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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129
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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130
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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131
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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132
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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134
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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135
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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136
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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137
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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138
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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139
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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