The beautiful Blue River came from the jagged depths of the mountains, full of light and liveliness. It had scarcely run six miles from its source before it touched our mill-wheel; but in that space and time it had gathered strong and copious1 volume. The lovely blue of the water (like the inner tint2 of a glacier) was partly due to its origin, perhaps, and partly to the rich, soft tone of the granite3 sand spread under it. Whatever the cause may have been, the river well deserved its title.
It was so bright and pure a blue, so limpid4 and pellucid5, that it even seemed to out-vie the tint of the sky which it reflected, and the myriad6 sparks of sunshine on it twinkled like a crystal rain. Plodding7 through the parched8 and scorching9 dust of the mountain-foot, through the stifling10 vapor11 and the blinding, ochreous glare, the traveler suddenly came upon this cool and calm delight. It was not to be descried12 afar, for it lay below the level, and the oaks and other trees of shelter scarcely topped the narrow comb. There was no canyon13, such as are — and some of them known over all the world — both to the north and south of it. The Blue River did not owe its birth to any fierce convulsion, but sparkled on its cheerful way without impending14 horrors. Standing15 here as a child, and thinking, from the manner of my father, that strong men never wept nor owned the conquest of emotion, I felt sometimes a fool’s contempt for the gushing16 transport of brave men. For instance, I have seen a miner, or a tamer of horses, or a rough fur-hunter, or (perhaps the bravest of all) a man of science and topography, jaded17, worn, and nearly dead with drought and dearth18 and choking, suddenly, and beyond all hope, strike on this buried Eden. And then he dropped on his knees and spread his starved hands upward, if he could, and thanked the God who made him, till his head went round, and who knows what remembrance of loved ones came to him? And then, if he had any moisture left, he fell to a passion of weeping.
In childish ignorance I thought that this man weakly degraded himself, and should have been born a woman. But since that time I have truly learned that the bravest of men are those who feel their Maker’s Land most softly, and are not ashamed to pay the tribute of their weakness to Him.
Living, as we did, in a lonely place, and yet not far from a track along the crest19 of the great Californian plain from Sacramento southward, there was scarcely a week which did not bring us some traveler needing comfort. Mr. Gundry used to be told that if he would set up a rough hotel, or house of call for cattle-drovers, miners, loafers, and so on, he might turn twice the money he could ever make by his thriving saw-mill. But he only used to laugh, and say that nature had made him too honest for that; and he never thought of charging any thing for his hospitality, though if a rich man left a gold piece, or even a nugget, upon a shelf, as happened very often, Sawyer Gundry did not disdain20 to set it aside for a rainy day. And one of his richest or most lavish21 guests arrived on my account, perhaps.
It happened when daylight was growing shorter, and the red heat of the earth was gone, and the snow-line of distant granite peaks had crept already lower, and the chattering22 birds that spent their summer in our band of oak-trees were beginning to find their food get short, and to prime swift wings for the lowland; and I, having never felt bitter cold, was trembling at what I heard of it. For now it was clear that I had no choice but to stay where I was for the present, and be truly thankful to God and man for having the chance of doing so. For the little relics23 of my affairs — so far as I had any — had taken much time in arrangement, perhaps because it was so hard to find them. I knew nothing, except about my own little common wardrobe, and could give no information about the contents of my father’s packages. But these, by dint24 of perseverance25 on the part of Ephraim (who was very keen about all rights), had mainly been recovered, and Mr. Gundry had done the best that could be done concerning them. Whatever seemed of a private nature, or likely to prove important, had been brought home to Blue River Mills; the rest had been sold, and had fetched large prices, unless Mr. Gundry enlarged them.
He more than enlarged, he multiplied them, as I found out long afterward26, to make me think myself rich and grand, while a beggar upon his bounty27. I had never been accustomed to think of money, and felt some little contempt for it — not, indeed, a lofty hatred28, but a careless wonder why it seemed to be always thought of. It was one of the last things I ever thought of; and those who were waiting for it were — until I got used to them — obliged in self-duty to remind me.
This, however, was not my fault. I never dreamed of wronging them. But I had earned no practical knowledge of the great world any where, much though I had wandered about, according to vague recollections. The duty of paying had never been mine; that important part had been done for me. And my father had such a horror always of any growth of avarice29 that he never gave me sixpence.
And now, when I heard upon every side continual talk of money, from Suan Isco upward, I thought at first that the New World must be different from the Old one, and that the gold mines in the neighborhood must have made them full of it; and once or twice I asked Uncle Sam; but he only nodded his head, and said that it was the practice every where. And before very long I began to perceive that he did not exaggerate.
Nothing could prove this point more clearly than the circumstance above referred to — the arrival of a stranger, for the purpose of bribing30 even Uncle Sam himself. This happened in the month of November, when the passes were beginning to be blocked with snow, and those of the higher mountain tracts31 had long been overwhelmed with it. On this particular day the air was laden32 with gray, oppressive clouds, threatening a heavy downfall, and instead of faring forth33, as usual, to my beloved river, I was kept indoors, and even up stairs, by a violent snow-headache. This is a crushing weight of pain, which all new-comers, or almost all, are obliged to endure, sometimes for as much as eight-and-forty hours, when the first great snow of the winter is breeding, as they express it, overhead. But I was more lucky than most people are; for after about twelve hours of almost intolerable throbbing34, during which the sweetest sound was odious35, and the idea of food quite loathsome36, the agony left me, and a great desire for something to eat succeeded. Suan Isco, the kindest of the kind, was gone down stairs at last, for which I felt ungrateful gratitude37 — because she had been doing her best to charm away my pain by low, monotonous38 Indian ditties, which made it ten times worse; and yet I could not find heart to tell her so.
Now it must have been past six o’clock in the evening of the November day when the avalanche39 slid off my head, and I was able to lift it. The light of the west had been faint, and was dead; though often it used to prolong our day by the backward glance of the ocean. With pangs40 of youthful hunger, but a head still weak and dazy, I groped my way in the dark through the passage and down the stairs of redwood.
At the bottom, where a railed landing was, and the door opened into the house-room, I was surprised to find that, instead of the usual cheerful company enjoying themselves by the fire-light, there were only two people present. The Sawyer sat stiffly in his chair of state, delaying even the indulgence of his pipe, and having his face set sternly, as I had never before beheld41 it. In the visitor’s corner, as we called it, where people sat to dry themselves, there was a man, and only one.
Something told me that I had better keep back and not disturb them. The room was not in its usual state of comfort and hospitality. Some kind of meal had been made at the table, as always must be in these parts; but not of the genial42, reckless sort which random43 travelers carried on without any check from the Sawyer. For he of all men ever born in a civilized44 age was the finest host, and a guest beneath his roof was sacred as a lady to a knight45. Hence it happened that I was much surprised. Proper conduct almost compelled me to withdraw; but curiosity made me take just one more little peep, perhaps. Looking back at these things now, I can not be sure of every thing; and indeed if I could, I must have an almost supernatural memory. But I remember many things; and the headache may have cleared my mind.
The stranger who had brought Mr. Gundry’s humor into such stiff condition was sitting in the corner, a nook where light and shadow made an eddy46. He seemed to be perfectly47 unconcerned about all the tricks of the hearth48 flame, presenting as he did a most solid face for any light to play upon. To me it seemed to be a weather-beaten face of a bluff49 and resolute50 man, the like of which we attribute to John Bull. At any rate, he was like John Bull in one respect: he was sturdy and square, and fit to hold his own with any man.
Strangers of this sort had come (as Englishmen rove every where), and been kindly51 welcomed by Uncle Sam, who, being of recent English blood, had a kind of hankering after it, and would almost rather have such at his board than even a true-born American; and infinitely52 more welcome were they than Frenchman, Spaniard, or German, or any man not to be distinguished53, as was the case with some of them. Even now it was clear that the Sawyer had not grudged54 any tokens of honor, for the tall, square, brazen55 candlesticks, of Boston make, were on the table, and very little light they gave. The fire, however, was grandly roaring of stub-oak and pine antlers, and the black grill56 of the chimney bricks was fringed with lifting filaments57. It was a rich, ripe light, affording breadth and play for shadow; and the faces of the two men glistened58, and darkened in their creases59.
I was dressed in black, and could not be seen, though I could see them so clearly; and I doubted whether to pass through, upon my way to the larder60, or return to my room and starve a little longer; for I did not wish to interrupt, and had no idea of listening. But suddenly I was compelled to stop; and to listen became an honest thing, when I knew what was spoken of — or, at any rate, I did it.
“Castlewood, Master Colonist62; Castlewood is the name of the man that I have come to ask about. And you will find it worth your while to tell me all you know of him.” Thus spoke61 the Englishman sitting in the corner; and he seemed to be certain of producing his effect.
“Wal,” said Uncle Sam, assuming what all true Britons believe to be the universal Yankee tone, while I knew that he was laughing in his sleeve, “Squire63, I guess that you may be right. Considerations of that ’ere kind desarves to be considered of.”
“Just so. I knew that you must see it,” the stranger continued, bravely. “A stiff upper lip, as you call it here, is all very well to begin with. But all you enlightened members of the great republic know what is what. It will bring you more than ten years’ income of your saw-mill, and farm, and so on, to deal honestly with me for ten minutes. No more beating about the bush and fencing with me, as you have done. Now can you see your own interest?”
“I never were reckoned a fool at that. Squire, make tracks, and be done with it.”
“Then, Master Colonist, or Colonel — for I believe you are all colonels here — your task is very simple. We want clear proof, sworn properly and attested64 duly, of the death of a villain65 — George Castlewood, otherwise the Honorable George Castlewood, otherwise Lord Castlewood: a man who murdered his own father ten years ago this November: a man committed for trial for the crime, but who bribed66 his jailers and escaped, and wandered all over the Continent. What is that noise? Have you got rats?”
“Plenty of foreign rats, and native ‘coons, and skunks67, and other varmint. Wal, Squire, go on with it.”
The voice of Uncle Sam was stern, and his face full of rising fury, as I, who had made that noise in my horror, tried to hush68 my heart with patience.
“The story is well known,” continued the stranger: “we need make no bones of it. George Castlewood went about under a curse —”
“Not quite so loud, Squire, if you please. My household is not altogether seasoned.”
“And perhaps you have got the young lady somewhere. I heard a report to that effect. But here you think nothing of a dozen murders. Now, Gundry, let us have no squeamishness. We only want justice, and we can pay for it. Ten thousand dollars I am authorized69 to offer for a mere70 act of duty on your part. We have an extradition71 treaty. If the man had been alive, we must have had him. But as he has cheated the hangman by dying, we can only see his grave and have evidence. And all well-disposed people must rejoice to have such a quiet end of it. For the family is so well known, you see.”
“I see,” Mr. Gundry answered, quietly, laying a finger on his lips. “Guess you want something more than that, though, Squire. Is there nothing more than the grave to oblige a noble Britisher with?”
“Yes, Colonel; we want the girl as well. We know that she was with him in that caravan72, or wagon73 train, or whatever you please to call it. We know that you have made oath of his death, produced his child, and obtained his trunks, and drawn74 his share in the insurance job. Your laws must be queer to let you do such things. In England it would have taken at least three years, and cost a deal more than the things were worth, even without a Chancery suit. However, of his papers I shall take possession; they can be of no earthly use to you.”
“To be sure. And possession of his darter too, without so much as a Chancery suit. But what is to satisfy me, Squire, agin goin’ wrong in this little transaction?”
“I can very soon satisfy you,” said the stranger, “as to their identity. Here is their full, particular, and correct description — names, weights, and colors of the parties.”
With a broad grin at his own exquisite75 wit, the bluff man drew forth his pocket-book, and took out a paper, which he began to smooth on his knee quite leisurely76. Meanwhile, in my hiding-place, I was trembling with terror and indignation. The sense of eavesdropping77 was wholly lost, in that of my own jeopardy78. I must know what was arranged about me; for I felt such a hatred and fear of that stranger that sooner than be surrendered to him I would rush back to my room and jump out of the window, and trust myself to the trackless forest and the snowy night. I was very nearly doing so, but just had sense enough to wait and hear what would be said of me. So I lurked79 in the darkness, behind the rails, while the stranger read slowly and pompously80.
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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canyon
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| n.峡谷，溪谷 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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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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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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bribing
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| 贿赂 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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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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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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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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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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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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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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creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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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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colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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skunks
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| n.臭鼬( skunk的名词复数 )；臭鼬毛皮；卑鄙的人；可恶的人 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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extradition
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| n.引渡（逃犯） | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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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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74
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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