寻找菲比：英汉对照版（短篇小说大师系列）

著者：[美]西奥多·德莱塞

译者：陆路 林莉 孙小琪 罗爽 孙超

文本整理：徐佳蓉

编辑：王瑜玲

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版本：电子书

版次：2015年10月第一版

字数：324千字

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寻找菲比：英汉对照版

（短篇小说大师系列）

[美] 西奥多·德莱塞 著

陆路 林莉 孙小琪 罗爽 孙超 译

中信出版社

阿拉伯茶[1]

“啊！你受了神的祝福，包藏的不是恶魔而是仙女！我跟随着你，你带我俯瞰整个天堂。我的痛苦化为乌有。我的破衣烂衫变成丝绸长袍。我的双脚有了鞋子，不再破溃流血，我抬起头，那是天堂之花！噢，天堂之花！”——阿拉伯传统歌谣。

“欧洲人在疲倦时靠酒精恢复自我，在快乐时也想用美酒助兴。同样地，中国人崇尚罂粟花为‘白美人’，印度人咀嚼大麻，西非人从可拉果中获得满足。然而跟阿拉伯茶在也门阿拉伯人心中的地位相比，以上这些又都不算什么了，它就是穷人的幸福所在，就是‘天堂之花’。它是一种生长在山上潮湿地带的绿色灌木，没有麻醉和催眠功效，而是像酒精一样的兴奋剂。在通往阿拉伯半岛几个城市的道路上和那些城市里，都可以看到这种灌木，那鲜嫩欲滴的灌木叶子由骆驼背负着赶往集市或者婚宴。穷人和富人都追崇它、渴求它，称它为‘给弱者以力量’、‘低落时的强心剂’、‘悲伤和牵挂的驱逐者’。“只要还买得起就会买来嚼，穷人论安那币来买，富人论卢比来买。只要有机会，乞丐也会通过乞讨或者偷窃入手——就连乞丐也感到幸福。”这是来自美国领事（馆）的报道。

荷台达的穆加山早已迎来了早晨，整个谷底和山坡都被炙热烤得无精打采。城市中央遍布着座座房屋，就像许许多多底朝天的黄色茶杯和包裹着绿边的黄色盒子，它们都面朝着大海，条条街道从其间穿过，大街小巷上的店主们正开始一天的生意。厨师阿尔·哈查吉的铺子位于公共广场中央，边上就是清真寺，他早已把各种锅具架在火上，洗净了茶碟，擦亮了秤盘，又洒扫了一番店面。铺子里的油脂清亮，香料也散发出迷人的香味，他本人已经站在炊锅后面做好接待客人的准备了。那些卖面包、饰品和衣服的商人也已经把待售的货品陈列了出来。一些信徒走进了清真寺祷告。尘土飞扬的大街上还残留着前一天没有清理完的垃圾，有钱人家的马车在街上费力前行，驶向各自的目的地。服饰或光鲜或灰暗的本地人在街上零星地走着，有些人因为遇到商机而精神饱满，而另一些人则已经由于无所回馈的生活而感到麻木。

伊本·阿布杜拉住在用板条搭成的破烂小棚屋里，与其说是棚屋，还不如说是城市边缘的废弃驴棚。他是个一穷二白的闲汉，在清真寺门口以乞讨为生，他从前在麦加和麦地那当过送水工、卖过烟草，好多年前因为敲诈勒索和掺杂假货被驱逐了。他疲倦地翻了翻身，虽然现在时候已经不早了，但是他并不急于起床。这样一个又老又累，还衣衫褴褛的人，起了床又能做什么呢？何况现在生活能给予他的充其量只是少许食物和睡眠——或许还不如说是一点阿拉伯茶和一点睡眠，（世间一切珍奇中最美好、最受人喜爱的）它可是穷人的好伙伴。这是他比食物更渴望的东西。怎样能搞到手还是个未知数。他连半个能购买阿拉伯茶的安那币都没有——哪怕连一枚铜币都没有！

伊本·阿布杜拉的境遇，在他自己看来，已经山穷水尽了。他的生计完全是一场失败，从前如此，现在也如此。他出生在荷台达后边的山区的小村庄萨巴尔，那里出产最优质的阿拉伯茶。他的父亲在世时是个种植阿拉伯茶的农民，他的母亲是父亲的帮手，而他自己则背井离乡，在阿拉伯境内境外四处游荡，他尽其所能地混口饭吃：通常是靠诈骗为生。他曾经短暂地在贝都因的族群中当过牧马人，还和族人的女儿结了婚，但是天性中不安分和渴求新鲜的念头占了上风，他最终抛下了妻子再次启程。在那之后他来到吉达。吉达是个港口，从埃及和中非到麦加和麦地那的朝圣者都在那儿下船，同时也是先知[2]的出生地（麦加）和埋葬地（麦地那）。起先他在那儿卖小饰品和圣物，还卖烟草、水果和食物，不过很快他就深陷诈骗和盗窃中不能自拔，最后麦加和麦地那两地的民事法官逮捕了他，让手下杖笞他的后背和双脚——想起来让人伤心！——并勒令他离开，永远不得回来。他再次冒险跟着商队进入荒漠，所到之处有塔伊夫、塔拉巴和马科瓦，但是他发觉这些小地方的生活非常单调，最后还是沿着红海海岸向南漂流，来到了富裕的荷台达，迄今为止他已在那里生活了十几年，通过说书、卖烟草（如果他能拿到货）或者偶尔向信徒出售圣人遗物勉强维持着可怜巴巴的生活。同一份工作越做越久，他的故事变成了老生常谈，而他不诚实不守信的名声也已经传播开来，他现在疲惫又无助，真是不光彩的结局。

在这一天早上，他回想起那些生活滋润身体又好的日子，那时他能饱享阿拉伯茶，食物也很充足。唉!说真的，过去有些日子真的很美妙！就连耽于阿拉伯茶癖的老拉希德和厨师阿尔·哈查吉拥有的阿拉伯茶和食物也没有他的多。厨师下午晚些时候常常会出现在自家店门口，拿着枕头、毯子和水壶，点上水烟筒，身边放着一捆阿拉伯茶，他的妻女呆在楼上，从窗边听着他和朋友边聊边抽烟或者嚼阿拉伯茶。主啊，那时和现在是多么的不同！那时他也有他的姑娘，在最好的集会所里有他熟悉的座位，那儿灯火辉煌，歌声悠扬，还有适时的舞蹈表演。那时他和他的姑娘们一起唱歌，一起欢呼，和他们分享自己的传奇经历。唉!

但后来他的境遇每况愈下，几乎可以说是大不如前。他现在已经很老很老了，这就是原因。他的骨头在发痛，甚至咯咯作响。而且他过去干过的那些坏事传得沸沸扬扬，天哪，做过他这样事情的人可不得成千上万！不管他到哪里，他的臭名声都如影随形。不幸的是，在荷台达这边和在麦加和麦地那一样，人们一直记得他，让他的舌头烂掉最好！他在麦加认识的搬运工塔尔布鲁这么说过——那个人说谎！人们记得他在麦加和麦地那因为掺卖假烟被棒打，记得他把风干洗净后的羊粪和骆驼粪掺进烟里——只不过是一点干的羊粪骆驼粪，风干过一点都不脏！他离开麦加后去了塔伊夫，那里有个名为菲拉斯的退休商队警卫认识他，把他称为畜生，让各色人等都记住了他在麦加的事迹——真恨不得把他的骨头放在太阳底下烤烂！他曾用坑里的雨水冒充耶色的圣水来卖，或许是这样吧，他在当时走投无路，无处可去，他的生意非常惨淡，而对阿拉伯茶的渴望却很急切。

但从那以后他的年纪上去了，身体也变差了，他努力想老老实实地过日子，却无果而终。他对阿拉伯茶的渴求日渐增长，但是获得阿拉伯茶的能力却一日不如一日，哪怕是去乞讨也很少成功！他在荷台达这边太出名了，哎呀，实在是太出名了！那他还能去哪里呢？乘船到亚丁有三百英里，据说亚丁是个慷慨的地方，但这种境况下的他怎样才能到达那里呢？没有一个船长肯载他。他会像老鼠一样被丢进海里。他不是哀求过，结果只招来一顿痛骂吗？或者回到北边五百里地的吉达？有成百上千的人取道吉达到麦加去。可是他不敢去。他如果去那边肯定会好过点，（从远方来麦加朝拜的）虔诚的信徒也很慷慨大方……但是万一他在谢里夫[3]的辖区被捕——不行，荷台达也是有优点的。

片刻之后他起床了。他没有行净礼，而是无力地拜倒在面朝麦加的方向。他整了整破烂的腰间和肩上围着的布条，准备开始一天的活动。尽管又饿又累，但他想要的却不是食物，而是阿拉伯茶，那几片绿叶，那多汁又提神的植物，能滋润他的心灵，唤醒他全身的活力。如果主能怜悯他，哪怕给他一点点，他活着的信念就会更强。他甚至会扯着破嗓子讲一两个故事给闲人听，挣上一枚清清白白的安那币。否则他就要有更多的勇气去乞讨、去撒谎，在诚实的人们面前博取同情。这不是他经常干的吗？有了阿拉伯茶，他便和任何人一样善良，变得年轻又充满希望；没有阿拉伯茶，他还是现在这个虚弱无力的自己。

他最后走向了那条通往城里、市集和清真寺的炙热又尘土飞扬的道路。道路两侧是穷人住的低矮的单层泥巴房，墙上没有窗户，房子门前的道路依旧布满垃圾。他急于找到卖阿拉伯茶的集市，这东西没法在公共集市搞到，他能看到平房远处清真寺的菠萝型拱顶高耸入云。大约上午十一点时，用来运输阿拉伯茶的骆驼就会驮着多汁的货物，沿着蜿蜒的狭路走来。他现在都能看到它们了，能听到它们的铃声，看到大步前进的骆驼，听到骆驼手的吆喝声，看到堆在骆驼背上那湿润甘甜的新鲜绿色植物！他太清楚它们的运送过程了，吉达城门后面的巨石投下大片的阴影，两名矮小的黑人警察准备向每一批货物收取关税，再给出收据，茅草屋顶的低矮客栈门口停着高大的骆驼，它们咀嚼着几捆青草，而它们的主人则进了门歇脚，悠闲地抽着水烟、喝一杯咖啡果粒茶，或者再来一碗凝乳。与此同时，一群被市内集市的商人收买的精明年轻人会在载着货物的骆驼身边转来转去，想要偷一两片叶子或者朝包裹着的货物投去估量的目光，以便向商人回禀货物的清新和甘甜。

“今天的阿拉伯茶品质怎么样？哪匹骆驼身上的最好？运货人一路上是否为了保持枝叶鲜嫩而不停地洒水呀？”

为了得到真实答案，集市的商人们给这些淘气鬼塞了点钱。但是赤脚警察会把他们赶跑，得到充分休息后的运货人也会出来，对着这群小鬼的祖先一顿乱骂指责，然后这支小小的商队会再次上坡下坡地朝市场前进。

不过今天他实在是疲惫不堪，没法走那么远了。虽然可怜巴巴地苦苦哀求的话，他或许能从安逸的运货人那里讨到一两片叶子，但是他却独自慢慢地走回了市场。一路上但凡看到马车，尤其是在城中富人区，他总是毫不吝啬地吆喝着“以真主之名！”或者“祝您永远幸福安康！”，但没人扔给他一分钱。反之令人悲伤的是，他的样子跟勤劳幸福一点都不搭界，那些认出他身影的有钱人要么转身就走，要么就喊：“滚开！懒货！一边去，你这畜生！”

待他到达市场，临近的集市已经听说驮运那绿色货物的商队快要到来了，途中他还念念不忘地瞥了一眼阿尔·哈查吉闪亮的锅子和调味料，那些黑压压的商店此前一直沉寂着，现在店里传来了此起彼伏的欢呼声。街上充满了歌声，一排消瘦的身影都朝着一个方向走去。和他一样，他们都是要去阿拉伯茶市场的，只是他们都准备了大把的卢比和安那币，只为等待今天这个场合。这种植物实在是太美味太不可缺了。马车从他身边呼啸而过，驾车人飞舞着鞭子，头巾也歪了，有钱人穿着绚丽多彩的褂子一掠而过，飞奔过去挑选上乘的佳品，穿着羚羊凉鞋和打着印度手鼓的人们也潮水般涌向街道。骆驼队伍靠近时，市场里充斥着不安的情绪，暴躁的人群纷纷叫嚣着。疯人院的大门敞开了，不过这是个愉悦、和谐的疯人院。一旦拥有阿拉伯茶，所有的不快和忧愁都会烟消云散。

尽管连一根杆子都买不起，伊本还是抵挡不了走近那儿的诱惑。什么，没有信徒肯发发慈悲？不会的！谁知道呢，偶然也会有个陌生人，有个外国人会回应他渴求的眼神、他伸出的双手和他长久以来扮演熟练的绝望，会给他一个安那币，甚至是一卢比（以前有过！），或者还有别人看到他双手空空地离去，或者看到他凄惨地卧倒在门外乞讨，会给他一片可口的叶子，或者一根包含至高喜悦的茎叶。

但是并非如他所想，这一天和前天以及大前天一样，他完全没能得逞。这算什么，这就是命吗？真主最后还是抛弃他了吗？在欢乐嘈杂的市场里，而且就在他的眼前，这些极乐的兴奋剂被摆上了政府的官秤，再次交纳税收——总督（埃米尔）也要吃饭！然后它们被分成诱人的小捆，和男人的小臂差不多厚度，接着便开始出售了。啊，这些迷人的小捆，这其中蕴含的快乐——让时间停止吧！自豪的小贩们扎着头巾，穿着衬衫，站到小桌子上或是空地前开始叫卖，每一捆的售价都各不相同。“出多少？”杜斗的儿子哈吉正在吆喝——伊本观察他在这里卖货，已经很多天了，他在一群高举的手臂上方挥舞着一小捆阿拉伯茶。“你们要出多少钱？出多少钱来买这束天堂之花？这是快乐之源，终结一切痛苦！这是少女的眼睛，它的芳香好比蜜蜂的气息，这是——”

“要是我能买多好！”伊本重重地叹了口气，“我想要买！谁给我一根就可以了！”

“一安那币（两分钱）”，一个愉快又轻蔑的声音叫着说，他完全清楚自己的出价不太合理。

“你这渣滓！你这病骆驼身上的可怜虱子！”小贩怒气冲冲地回答他，“如果这点值不到最少两卢比，我的鼻子上就长胡子！”

“真主啊！你整个一货仓的破烂都不值两卢比，你这流氓。”

“你这卑鄙小人！你这个诽谤者！但是谁会注意那种想花一安那币买个舒服都买不起的人？那些有大把卢比的人啊——看呀，多么翠绿，多么新鲜！”

厨师阿尔·哈查吉和织毯子的艾哈迈德走上前，各自花一卢比买了一捆，而伊本·阿布杜拉则在人群边缘被无情地挤来挤去，只能眼巴巴地看着。其他小贩手中的一捆捆茶也很快被拿起并找到了主人——面包师傅丘季、理发师阿扎德·巴克特、布料商伊扎尔丁等等，不到一小时就全卖完了，市场里一片狼藉。地上只有被挑剩下的残枝烂叶，清洁工、拾荒者和乞丐一哄而上，他也是其中之一，他只要一点点就好，一安那币那么多就好，可他就连一根茎也买不到，因为这么多天来他实在是穷困潦倒。混乱之中有不少人认得他，也深知他的渴望，但没人给他一枝一叶。他和往常一样悲惨，只是饥渴更甚于往常。

最后地上的东西终于被席卷一空，一根茎一片叶都没留下，他缓慢地拖着疲惫的身子回到他常待的地方，那就是环绕在清真寺入口处的那六根柱子之一下面的阴影地（乞丐们的聚集地），他躺在那儿，向所有进出寺庙的人乞讨，期望他们还没有忘记先知的警言——“公正对待你的同胞、穷人和乞丐。”到了中午他和其他人一同进寺祈祷，至少在那儿他还是受欢迎的，但他的心思根本不在每日五次祷告和早晚的沐浴礼上面，就连食物也不能吸引他，他的脑子里只有阿拉伯茶，怎样才能搞到阿拉伯茶呢！哪怕一片叶子、一根茎都可以！

他现在不由自主地回想起自己少年时期的日子，当时他还是个生活在塔伊兹和耶里姆的山间陡峭的梯田坡上的小男孩，习惯呆在繁茂的小茶园里，里面栽满了茶农精心种植的阿拉伯茶。事实上在他记事以前，他父亲就曾经有过一个茶园，而在他出生以前，塔伊兹地区两个仅有一山之隔的小村庄萨巴尔和希尔瓦就已经因出产阿拉伯茶而闻名全阿拉伯半岛。旁边就是波卡里，他的故乡萨巴尔出产的阿拉伯茶一直都是整个也门最好的。与之相比，就连希尔瓦出产的阿拉伯茶也显得粗糙、稀疏又干涩，他不止一次听他那采茶工的母亲说过，凡是在希尔瓦种植的萨巴尔作物都会很快变得粗劣，然而把希尔瓦的作物种在萨巴尔却能长得甘甜可口。

像他这样帮母亲摘茶采茶的孩子，现在却连一片予人生命的阿拉伯茶叶子都得不到！阿拉伯茶构成了当地的作物，有许许多多骆驼来运茶。在他的记忆中，每当天气转凉，要开始耕种新地的时候，新茶地里的茶是从埋在浅坑里的插条长起来的，每排间隔四到六英寸，方便摘茶人通过。人们还得防着那些总是永不餍足的也门奶牛和满眼忧伤的骆驼，因为他们太爱吃枝条了，所以人们不得不在嫩芽上面盖满带刺的树枝和尖尖的仙人掌以防它们偷吃。

到了年末，幼小的灌木长到了两英尺高，蔓延的深绿色枝叶直径有十八英寸。茶农每天清晨都会在晨曦的沐浴下注视着农田和天空，希望能看到收获季节开始的征兆。等到某一个早晨，天空中会飞满吵吵嚷嚷的夜莺、麻雀和织布鸟，它们在作物上空飞上飞下，啄食最鲜嫩的叶片。

“感谢真主！”茶农会喜悦地大叫，“成熟甘甜的叶子可以拿去集市卖钱了！”然后他会叫来自己和邻居的妻子一同采茶。开满茉莉花的凉亭下，在某种植物香味的缭绕中，茶农和他的友人会聚在一起喝上几杯小酒，抽点小烟，女人们则给他们带来一捧刚刚采下的新鲜阿拉伯茶叶。这是整个村庄最快乐的时间，茶农每次都会以真主之名把第一批收成毫无保留地分给邻里们，这样真主才会保佑接下来的收作一切顺利。他要是能再一次回到萨巴尔或者希尔瓦该有多好啊！

但所有这一切都于事无补。拖着老弱病体的他既没有钱也没有力气回去。而且就算他回去了，他的臭名声也将如影随形。荷台达和阿拉伯半岛的其他地方一样，尤其在城镇和村庄里，嚼阿拉伯茶不光是为了满足食欲，而是已经成为了一种习惯，甚至是社会习俗，对很多人而言，每年要花大量卢比满足自我。有人可能会说，在和阿拉伯茶所有千丝万缕的联系之中，有一点非常重要，就像进食或饮茶在有些国家发展成了一个行业，围绕着阿拉伯茶发展出了一个周边产业，嚼阿拉伯茶也已经成为一种社交仪式。今天在荷台达的正午时分，他正因为悲惨的命运而在寺庙门前乞讨，而一小时前那些高高兴兴地离开集市的人已经回到了属于自己舒舒服服的家里。那些人离开时都是愉悦和满足，他们的腮帮子嚼着阿拉伯茶，胳膊底下还夹着一捆珍贵的叶子，现在一定在会客室或者集会所里咀嚼享受着阿拉伯茶，不到一小时后的下午他们是不会出现的。他们都在全身心地享受这份愉悦！

在这段时间你去任何成功的商人家里（只有该死的犹太人和外国人不嚼阿拉伯茶），无论是告诉他们你有紧急消息，还是说你要买价值十万卢比的东西……他的仆人（这些走狗，他太了解他们，太了解他们的装腔作势了）都会迎候你到长廊上，向你表达最真挚的歉意，说主人现在病得很严重（说到这儿他便开始流泪），或者他的姐夫的阿姨的母亲等等的今天早上突然去世了，他现在沉浸在巨大的悲痛中不想做生意；或者干脆说他去塔瓦希了，但三点肯定会回来，问访客方不方便等他？而这时那有钱的畜生正在他屋顶上的小天地里抽着大烟嚼着茶叶呢——就是他，今天早上还连一片叶子都不肯给伊本哟。就让他像豺狼的尸体一样烂掉吧！

那些略微次一等的有钱人呢？去看看那个集会所吧，只有以流浪说书人的身份，伊本才敢往那里面看，他只能远远地眺望。因为这群有钱的肥猪会在一天中最热的时候去那里放松，在一排相似的格子窗户后面纳凉，或者他们晚上时会在柔和的灯光和飘渺的歌声中虚度光阴，昏暗的影子醉醺醺的摇摆着，吟唱着《古兰经》或先知行状中的祝福。他以前没给这群无情的畜生讲过故事吗？就连现在这样的正午时分，人们也能看到坐在通风奢华的公共房间里的这群常客，他们公然地享受着自己最爱的消遣方式，把阿拉伯茶包裹在颜色鲜艳的披肩里，放在非常显眼的地方——给谁看呢？可不就是给伊本吗，既贫穷又卑微的他连一点点也买不起——他们迫不及待地想让全世界都知道他们是怎么享乐的。集会所里有为每个人准备好的地毯和枕头，他们可以躺下，占据属于自己的一席之地。他的身边会放着高高的水烟筒或者大烟、铜架子上会摆着两只水壶或者陶罐，还有一碗甜品。主啊，他可不是乞丐啊！等集会所里聚满了舒舒服服的客人时，一名仆人会过来点上烟管，有人就会吟诵起《古兰经》或者讲个故事给大家听，下午的娱乐便拉开了序幕，说书的人再也不可能是他了，因为没人听他的故事。偶然也有人会弹奏塔拉巴[4]，或者一位颇受欢迎的歌手会登场表演。接着人们会高呼“棒极了!”或者“再来一首!再来一首!”，还会听到有人称赞“噢，朋友，实在是太精彩了！”。他多么清晰地记得过去他也是其中一员，而这样的记忆现在完全无法抚慰他，完全不能！啊，回忆往事是多么悲伤！一个面对欢声笑语的老乞丐又是多么悲惨！

他在阴暗处沉思，看到一两个虔诚的信徒进出寺庙时，他会不时叨念着“看在真主的份上，行行好吧！”，这时在吉达城门口传来了尖叫声，那是驮茶骆驼队伍常走的线路。他抬头望去，看到一群男孩争先恐后地朝镇上奔去，边跑边喊：“阿拉伯茶来啦！”，看来是有什么不同寻常的事情发生了，是婚礼或者是某种特殊的盛宴，否则在这么晚的时候还有什么原因运阿拉伯茶来呢？市场已经关门了，嚼着阿拉伯茶的人们也已经进了他们的“集会室”。从某个地方传来微弱的手鼓拍打声，可能是从新郎的房间传来的，这喜悦的声音仿佛在召唤参加婚礼的宾客。

“主啊!这是在干嘛？”这个老乞丐自言自语道，他努力睁大双眼朝人群的方向看去，然后把自己的破布折叠起来，跛着脚向嘈杂的方向前进。在一条通往广场的狭窄街道的拐角处，他着实惊喜地看到了一匹运送阿拉伯茶的骆驼，这些人几乎可以确定是来蹭吃玩乐的“见证人”，他很清楚在这种情况下有“见者有份”的风俗，一大群蹭吃蹭喝的常客云集而来，等着即将举办的婚礼。骆驼的肚子上和背着的翠绿欲滴的叶子上包着一条华美的丝绸布料，闪耀着金色光芒，还有茉莉花枝的香味，尽管周围都是鼓声和尖锐的横笛声，这只背着货物的骆驼依然庄严得仿佛国王一般。

“真主啊，”老乞丐有气无力地说，但是看着鲜绿的阿拉伯茶的眼神中却神采奕奕，“这儿的欢乐何其多哟，可我却连一枚铜币都没有，更不用说一枚安那币了！要是我能拿到一根枝条就好了！”

“朋友啊，”过了片刻他准备大着胆子、对身边和他差不多穷困却比他勤快的运水工说道，“这是要干嘛呢？斋月还没过，墨哈拉姆节还没到呢？”

“你是在跟我说话吗？你这瘦猴。”运水工说道，这个还不如自己的人来套近乎有点惹恼他。

"阁下,"伊本毕恭毕敬地对他说道，他用了一个讨好运水工的称呼，效果不亚于用“先生”来指代他自己，“别那样叫我，我只是生活很困难，身子有些虚弱。话说这里是要举行婚礼还是开舞会？”

“我听他们说，”运水工暴躁地回答，“在集市里卖锡的老波尔，他的女儿泽拉要嫁给阿卜杜勒了，对方的爹可是布拉大宅的邮政长官哟。”

关于婚礼的寥寥数语令伊本脑中浮现出的是荷台达普通婚礼的整套流程，他以前可不也参加过婚礼吗，就算没这次的婚礼隆重，毕竟也是婚礼。从中午开始所有的亲朋好友都会三三两两地出席，一切为客人们准备的娱乐节目都已打点完毕。在这种富人家的场合（这或许只是他听说的一些关于富人家的谣言），供他们就坐的都是铺满华丽毯子和靠垫的石头或者柚木长凳——他得到允许去参加的那些婚礼中，这些东西都是从亲朋好友那儿借来的。）婚礼现场会预备下很多旱烟管或者水烟管，不过那些来参加婚礼的有钱人更喜欢带自己的来，让仆人拿着。现场还有许多用来搁烟管的小瓦罐，以及不少火盆，火盆旁会围着十几个手拿扇子的男孩，随时准备为每位客人重新在烟管里填满烟草，并且在听到喊第一声“点烟”时点燃烟草。他记得清清楚楚，在变成流浪汉以前，少年时期的他也在这种场合当过点烟人，早些年顺风顺水的他作为宾客、亲戚或者朋友出席婚礼是多么令人愉快，甚至有一次作为宾客参加婚礼，他的烟管还被填满了。噢，那音乐！那些碗装的甜品！热气腾腾的咖啡果粒茶、一大捆美味的阿拉伯茶，前后还有小麦做的蛋糕，上面浇了黄油和凝乳！等参加婚礼的人都到齐了，新娘的父亲和她未来的丈夫便隆重地问候所有的来宾并且分发阿拉伯茶，咀嚼阿拉伯茶的愉悦时光由此开始。啊！没错，婚礼太美妙了，只要能从婚礼中得到点好处。

唉，就像在集市买卖一样，他参与这样的场合能够从中获利的时光已经一去不返了。他没有钱，没有好名声，得不到尊重。事实上像他这样的乞丐，在这样的场合总是受到人们憎恨，被人们视为不祥之兆，特别是在富人遍地的荷台达。不光是婚礼中的客人，就连外面那些没那么富有的仰慕者，比如说现在这些跟在骆驼屁股后头的人，从老远的地方就把他当成一个邪恶的入侵者那样打量，好像他就是一条无法无天的穷狗，明知是喜庆的场合却跑来偷窥，给众人都蒙上一层阴影。

然而无论如何他都无法抗拒跟在队伍后面的欲望。众人簇拥下的阿拉伯茶看上去实在是太诱人了。主啊！在这种喜庆的场合一定会有人扔给他一片叶子的！他走走停停地缓慢来到了主人房子的大门口，骆驼的身影已经消失在了大门内。门口聚集着异常多的人群，都是比他好不了多少的人，他们都带有某种目的跑来庆贺，屋内传出手鼓声和一片欢声笑语。大门上和窗户外都挂着丝质地毯和茉莉花枝条，可以看出老波尔绝对不缺这样的财富。

虽然认出了几个能容忍他的人，但是伊本·阿布杜拉也痛苦地发现那些长期以来一直看到他在公共场合乞讨，对他较为友好的人屈指可数。

“哟！那个穷鬼！”其中一个认出他的人叫到，这人前几年见过他被公开棒打，那时他还比较年轻，身体也够健康，卖香烟的时候给那人掺过假货。“你也来这儿了？”然后他对另一个人喊道，“快看谁来了——伊本，富豪啊！好人波尔的朋友，肯定是作为亲戚来参加婚礼的，再不济也是他请来的客人之一吧！”

“哎呦，至少也应该是新郎的朋友嘛！”另一个人喊道。

“人家或许是新娘的表兄弟呢！”第三个人打趣道。

“是求爱失败的有钱前任吧！”第四个人吃吃地笑着。

“他带来了价值连城的礼物，大家看啊！”第五个人高呼。“但是现在看看他手里！”后来有很多人加入了他的哄笑。

“只带一根阿拉伯茶回去他就满足了？”第六个人问道。

“主啊，多么讲诚信的烟草商！主啊！深受法官喜爱啊！”第七个人喊道。

作为回应，伊本只是向他们投去庄重又渴望的目光，他满脑子只有阿拉伯茶。“老天保佑！愿和平与你们同在，好人们！”他说道，“不要欺负地位卑微的人。行行好吧！给我一点点阿拉伯茶就好，很快你们就会被赐予许许多多的阿拉伯茶！行行好吧！”

“走开，老强盗！”他们中有个人喊道，“如果你诚实守信点就不会落得这种可怜的下场。”

“哎呦，老豺狼，你讨饭讨到这里来了？是什么风把你从清真寺的台阶上吹来了？是不是去祷告的信徒都太吝啬了呀？主啊！看来他们是知道你的事情咯？”

“发发慈悲吧！愿你们永远也不会尝到我的痛苦！我三天没吃东西了！我连骨头都在咯咯作响，渴望着一片阿拉伯茶叶子。求你们慷慨些，等你们拿到属于自己的部分后分我一片叶子就行！”

“法官来抓你咯！”

“卑鄙小人！”

“乞丐！”

“滚远点，你这衰星！”

于是在他们的威胁之下他不再靠近，继而和他们保持一段相对安全的距离，虎视眈眈地盯着他们，就像一只落单的豺狼看着共享美食的狮群。

他们以这种方式打发了这个讨厌的入侵者，但是阿拉伯茶却还没有出现，原因是时候未到。屋内的婚礼和盛宴——一系列缓慢有序的程序——在人们的细心安排下进行着。现在他们肯定喝上了咖啡果粒茶，许多人还要纷纷送上祝贺词。但一旦所有流程都走完后，那些在外面没被邀请的人群会把吃剩下的东西一抢而空，伊本却不属于他们之一。确切地说，佣人把他骂走了，他被完全关在门外，只能耐心地在不远处等那些人吃饱后心满意足地抹着嘴巴嚼着阿拉伯茶出来，也许心情好的话，他们就会走向他。如果他继续选择留下，而且他们也大发善心的话——

但是酒饱饭足的人群对待他的态度丝毫没有好转。一个多小时后，他们独自或成双成对地走出来，瞥见他就像看到一条臭虫那样，他要想从他们那里得到一点点他们也好不容易到手的东西。所以他们经过他身边时完全无视了他，要不就是嘲笑他一番。

现在已经是下午了，整个阿拉伯半岛上，阿拉伯茶在幸福的有茶阶级身上已经起了明显的作用。早上在烈日下傲慢、沉默的阿拉伯仆人，现在却嘴里嚼着让人神清气爽的茶叶，脸上挂着微笑步伐轻盈的忙着差事。早上海边的苦工举都举不起来的包袱，如今在他背上却轻如羽毛。早上尖酸刻薄斤斤计较的咖啡商人，现在会高高兴兴地接下你的订单，甚至还有讨价还价的余地。丝绸商人阿布杜拉正在能看到清真寺的地方接待客人，他不停地赞美客人并送给他们礼物。主啊，他会用买大象的价钱买下你的马匹，而且会再乐意不过地为你做事。船运工优素福正背着三英担重的山羊皮再次从清真寺边上的伊本面前经过，优素福对他的好伙伴，同样也背着三英担重的山羊皮的阿里说道，“要是砍断我有力的手，我还能去做‘哈吉’（既清洁工，一个受鄙视的阶级），但要是拿走我的阿拉伯茶，我就活不下去了！”无论到何处，早上那种让人避之不及的冷漠氛围都早已一扫而空，取而代之的是一种有情有义的生活。嚼着那生命之叶，每个人都相信自己能诠释出充满活力的景象，生活真是美妙得不可方物，那些年深日久的麻烦根本不值一提。

看着所有的这一切，而自己手里却什么也没有，他心情低落、步履沉重地回到了清真寺门前自己的位置，伊本实在是伤透了心，变得一蹶不振。整个世界都不对了。老人和穷人应该更受尊重才对。没错，他年轻时是做了点错事，但是其他人难道就没犯过一丁点儿错吗？人们不是都各有各的弱点吗？主啊，他们也不是什么好家伙，他了解得很清楚！那个卖水的瓦迪？其实是个小偷，跟他半斤八两，只是大家都不知道而已。柴火贩子侯赛因、烟草旅行商海法——这群可怜兮兮的人，从腰上和肩上的破烂布条就能看出，他们住的地方也比他现在的好不到哪去；尽管如此，他们也和有钱人一样拥有自己的阿拉伯茶，他们今晚能去咖啡屋用几个安那币买来享用。就连他们都能这样！而他自己呢！

在荷台达还有另外一个阶层，严格来说是只做生意的阶层。不像那些有钱人或者小店主，他们会在下午四点的时候关门歇业，回到家中向世人显摆着阿拉伯茶带给他们的愉悦，一直持续到傍晚祷告时分。他们把吊床、烟管和甜品搬去门前的阴凉处。屋主和男性友人们纷纷平躺在吊床上，手边就放着增进感情的阿拉伯茶。一两位老人坐在他们中间吟诵着圣书，或者他们靠交谈自娱。然后那些年纪大的、瘫痪的、甚至家中垂死之人都被家属从屋顶的床上带来参加这场理性与智慧的盛宴。女人们则坐在格子窗户后面，大嚼着次等的叶子，听着楼下传来的睿智名言。

这个点开始是伊本感到最难熬的时候。看着周围的世界那么快活，他却在饿着肚子煎熬。挨饿的他拖着疲惫的身子漫无目的地在街道上晃悠，集市的道路一直从清真寺蜿蜒到湖滨，那儿的海边有几栋低劣的咖啡屋，是穷苦劳力和朝觐过麦加的教徒常常光顾的地方。在这些地方，尽管手头一分钱都没有，他还是打算在夜幕降临前做最后的挣扎，这样他或许就能坐在里面，（如果幸运的话）还能买上一点点阿拉伯茶和一小杯咖啡果粒茶。

也许其中某个廉价集会所的顾主会慷慨地赏他一点点钱，或者让他用嘶哑的声音颤颤巍巍地说书。他的嗓子已经哑了。

然而他在去的路上途经了七福大街，他再次走到了厨师阿尔·哈查吉的门口，厨师正埋头忙碌于锅碗瓢盆之中，他停下手中的活，非常不快地看了看来者，厨师虽然认出了他，可是并不想理睬他。

“哈查吉，行行好吧！以先知之名，愿你每次往店里看都能看到顾客满堂、金银满钵！”他低声下气地求道。

“滚开！你无处可去了吗，非要来我家门口讨饭？”

“仁慈的哈查吉呀，我知道你一直都那么好心肠，我对你无以回报。但你可知我好几天没吃没喝了，也没有一片阿拉伯茶可嚼——不，甚至连一块小麦蛋糕、一碗凝乳乃至一小杯咖啡果粒茶都没有。我身体糟糕极了，我想自己熬不过明天了。”

“活该，你这个卑鄙小人，因为你没有好好把握自己的一生。其他人都有自己的事业和孩子，但你什么也没有。你这些年都干什么去了？你什么都拿不出来吗？你最清楚自己是怎么变成现在这样的。那些跟你一样穷的人都能在咖啡屋里唱歌或者说书。而你呢？除了乞讨你就想不到别的更好的事了吗？乞丐侯赛因不也是在唱歌吗？阿依比不也在说书吗。滚去那儿！”

“但你也不瞧瞧我！我哪有这力气？哪有这嗓子？哪有心唱歌？没错，我以前是唱过，但我讲的故事现在已经人尽皆知，我也没力气再去搜罗新故事了。还有谁会要听呐？”

饭馆主人斜眼瞅着他。“那我是不是就要管你每顿饭了？主啊，我才不干！这里是一铜币，拿去。快滚，别再来了！我不想在自家门前看到你。你在这里的话我的客人都不来光顾了！”

伊本迈着缓慢又沉重的步子离开了，但是这一点微薄之礼并没让他高兴多少。拿着面值最小的一铜币，几乎没有哪家店铺能让人花一铜币就买到东西，什么也买不到。毕竟用这点小钱又能买点啥呢？一杯咖啡果粒茶？不。一小碗凝乳？也不。阿拉伯茶的枝条？不不不。他的欲望太大，为此身心都饱受痛苦煎熬，他想要的至少得一大捆阿拉伯茶，可以大口咀嚼的阿拉伯茶，汁液能让他提神醒脑，让他重新焕发活力并得到休整。但是现在去哪里弄这么多呢？要怎样才行?

苦劳力、运水工以及像伊本这样的乞丐（对于惯常去其它集会所的人来说）常去的那些地方，对于伊本他们这些还不及脚底尘埃的常客来说，仍然很不错。是啊，被人看不起的他们坐在各自的吊床上，旁边放着一个小水罐，一个乞丐在圆圈中央用最大的声音唱着歌或者吟诵着故事，就连地位卑贱的伊本也可以像他们这样，在声音完全嘶哑前他就曾经在那个位置说书。然后他们大嚼着几个安那币换来的阿拉伯茶市场的残渣，喝着咖啡果粒茶，谈论着世界形势和各自的命运。和现在这种处境的伊本相比，他们都能堪称贵族了，甚至是王子。

但是，主啊，尽管他以前也当过搬运工和小贩，而且出身也比他们好，但现在还不是声音嘶哑，连一个值得别人去聆听的故事也讲不出了。别人觉得他现在甚至连站起来讲述神灵与恶魔，还有过去当朝的名王贤后的传奇都做不到了。他的地位一落千丈，甚至这些遭鄙视的人都对他不感兴趣。他现在唯一能做的只有倾听，或者表现出一副惨状，细数自己的悲惨之处。

甚至还有这样的时候，这个严苛的教师会强迫他拾起从前说书的本领。而他完全不适合再讲任何故事了，这一点他心里最清楚，他也知道他现在最好就是努力做出样子，以此让眼前人明白他的年纪和病体，这样他们就会省掉他当众出丑的麻烦，还会当场给他几个安那币让他找点乐子。在每一家集会所都会欢迎歌手和说书人的表演时，他则走去有许多集会所、乞丐云集的地方。他只是在第一家集会所的门口瞥了一眼就发现客人太少，没人愿意搭理他。他们看起来不太高兴，既不友善也不大方，看门人也很一定冷淡。第二家集会所很快响起了手鼓声，但一共只有七个客人，而且他们才刚刚起了兴致。等到透明的天空由白转灰，西边牛乳色的天空里缀满了启明星一样的星星，他便撩开珠子门帘走进了第三家集会所，因为这里有一群人靠着枕头和吊床休息，旁边放着瓦罐和烟管，但刚才他们面前还没有歌手、鼓手和说书人。

“噢，朋友们，”他心虚地开口说道，因为他很清楚一些生活在底层的人们脾气暴躁、愤世嫉俗，“慷慨地倾听我讲故事吧，我的生活冗长又充满着各种不幸的经历，尽管你们可能认识我是谁——”

“什么！”侯赛因惊叫起来，这个柴火小贩悠闲地躺在属于他的角落里，手里握着一簇阿拉伯茶，不过都已经枯萎了。

“这不是伊本·阿布杜拉吗？他又开始说书啦？主啊，他在这方面是个行家，他的声音如此罕见！如果伊本·阿布杜拉都能说书，等明天，骆驼和豺狼都要来荷台达唱歌了！”

“要是我没看错，”同样也在休息放松的送水工瓦迪喊道，他手里也拿着一小碗咖啡果粒茶，“这不是伊本·阿布杜拉，这是刚刚航海回来的辛巴达啊！”

“或者是阿里巴巴本人出现了！”运货工优素福嘶哑地喊道。

“你在哪里藏了一袋宝贝？这回我们可有故事听了！”

“多么出色的声音！”烟草旅行商海法听到伊本那沙哑又老生常谈的开场白不由补充道。

“这太难得了。我们现在可以坐下来围观眼前发生的奇迹。是麦加和吉达的伊本啊，就连在荷台达也很了不起的伊本，他现在要给我们说书了。来一杯咖啡果粒茶！太值得一听了！”

但是现在矮胖又笨拙的看门人巴巴尔·阿曼从库房里走了出来，用半是吃惊的眼光盯着伊本直打量，他多少有些不愉快，因为他不习惯让从前的顾客进来乞讨，至于歌者和说书人，这么多年来他也从没想到要把落得这般光景的伊本当作歌手或说书人。他看上去那么苍老，手无缚鸡之力，但他唯一能做的就是用沙哑的声音开始讲话了。

“听着，”他说着走过来把一只手搭在他身上，听众们都盯着他咧嘴而笑，“你有安那币或者卢比来满足你的要求吗？还是说你点阿拉伯茶或者咖啡果粒茶的话有钱付账吗？”老头儿的破烂衣衫和僵尸一般苍白的脸色让他看不顺眼。

“让他讲，”小贩侯赛因喜滋滋地坚持道，“或者让他唱歌，”因为他已经得到了放松，阿拉伯茶给人带来的恢复力不容小瞧。

“对，讲故事，”瓦迪喊道，“或者就讲讲塔伊兹的‘好法官’和耶色的‘圣水’好了！”

“要不就讲讲麦加的法官的故事好了！或者讲讲没掺假的烟呗！”

伊本听得一清二楚，知道自己出了洋相。他们影射的事情太明显了。可是年龄、欲望以及这几天来日益严重的虚弱让他忘记了，或者确切的说让他抑制了自己油然而生的愤怒和反击。这群可恶的敌人，比他地位还要低下的小人，他们从来都不曾原谅他出身高他们一等，更不曾原谅他有如此出身却堕落到和他们一起干活、乞讨的地步，至少现在是一样的，他迫使自己沉溺于乞讨的工作里，问他们乞求。但现在他年纪那么大，身体又那么虚弱，他已经累得无力争辩了。

“噢，最慷慨大方的阿曼呀，你是集会所里最好的看门人了——还有你们这些尊贵的宾客，”他气喘吁吁地坚持说道，“我只有一枚铜币，这是我辛苦一整天的唯一收获。没错，我是讨饭的，我的衣衫褴褛，但你们要想一想，我那么大年纪了，又那么虚弱。今天、昨天、还有前天我都——”

“过来，过来！”阿曼不安地说道，他感觉集会所里的风俗和生意都被搅浑了，“滚出去！你既不能唱也不能说书，你心里最清楚。你只有一个铜币就想到这里来啊？滚出去多讨些再来！讨上半个卢比，你就可以来好好享受了！”

“但是我有一个铜币啊，求你别把我赶出去！噢，先知的好子民们，给我一根阿拉伯茶、一杯咖啡果粒茶吧——别把我赶出去！上帝的子民，帮帮我吧，看在先知的份上！”

“出去，出去！”阿曼的语气客气但很坚决，“你能付上十个安那币，我就留你在这里休息，不然你就出去。”

他被推入了夜色中。

现在，虚弱的伊本在原地站了片刻，他在思索还有哪里能去。他是如此虚弱，以至于最后连寻求自我满足的那点热情也烟消云散了。霎时之间，他往常的愤怒和勇气又回来了，他扔掉了那枚施舍给他的铜币转身离去，不过他却没有沿着街市的方向离开。他感到心不在焉、惆怅万分。相反，他沿着一条非常熟悉的小径绕道了小镇南面，途径贝特尔·法钦的城门抵达了城墙后面的沙漠。从和贝都因人一起当佣人的时候开始，他就想在这个时候要去那个地方。头顶是苍穹中绚丽的星辰，它的亮光从未洒在其他的土壤或者海面上。傍晚的启明星已经消失不见，但是月亮高高地挂在西面的天空，就好像一片纤细的羽毛，给沙滩上朴实无华的一切蒙上了魔幻般的柔美光彩。这一带的美景他与贝都因人一道放牧的时候曾经有所体验，骆驼和山羊奶的气味、低矮的黑色羊毛帐篷、狮黄色的沙滩和褐金色的砾石，上面还带有人们趟过的温暖印记，营火则像萤火虫一样点亮了村庄的中心。此时此刻仿佛身处梦境，沙漠里的男孩和女孩唱着神秘的荒野之歌回来了，他们的绵羊和山羊在暮色中发出咩咩的叫声。枪兵们喊着整齐的口号跟着他们要看守的目标，脾气不好的骆驼声和他们的歌声交织在了一起。

“结束了，”远离城市去到沙漠中时，他说，“我再也没有供自己生存下去的技能或者力量。而且谁也无法忍受没有阿拉伯茶的生活。就让它顺其自然吧，而且我也那么老了。就让他们这样子找到我，我就在这里不动。这是最好的选择。”

然后他躺倒在干燥温热的沙地上，他把头朝向麦加，蝙蝠在他头顶盘旋鸣叫，它们细小的叫声宣告着对生命的热爱，一匹豺狼的咆哮声响彻阴暗的天空，同样表达了它对生活的渴望。梨树的沙沙声回应着轻抚而过的夜风，温和的潺潺流水声交织其中，这些是最悦耳动听的声音。

“好了，”伊本·阿布杜拉叹了口气，疲倦地躺倒下来休息，“我一穷二白地来，一清二白地去。这样就足够了。”

[1] 阿拉伯茶是一种产于东非和阿拉伯半岛地区的植物，又名恰特草、埃塞俄比亚茶、巧茶，东非常青灌木，是一种产于东非和阿拉伯半岛地区的植物，其茎叶含有天然安非他明，咀嚼时其中含有的令人兴奋的成分对人体中枢神经具有刺激作用，使人上瘾，是一种软性毒品。因此，芬兰政府早已禁止进口阿拉伯茶。

[2] “先知”特指穆罕默德。

[3] 麦加的行政长官，这里指在麦加被捕。

[4] 一种三弦琴。

自由

建筑师鲁弗斯·海梅克那间宽敞又相当舒适的公寓位于中央公园西面，天还没有亮，公寓内显得静悄悄的。透过雅致的前窗往外眺望，能看到公园尽头那排庄严的白杨被灰色的晨雾笼罩着。大厅那头的卧室里也能瞥到公园的景色。在这清早时分，海梅克先生走出卧室，坐在其中一扇宽大的窗户旁边凝视着那排杨树和远方的小湖。他非常喜欢大自然多种多样的艺术表现形式——实际上这颇具诗意。

年约六十的他身形高瘦，略微的驼背并没有影响到他的体态。浓密的眉毛和头发、精心修剪过的灰色短须都给人一种庄重而又不失和蔼的感觉。此刻他全身包裹在浅蓝色的睡袍里，腰间的束带是银色的。他双手苍白消瘦，手指纤长，手背上布满皱纹，关节微微突起，这些都显示出这是一双艺术家的手，至少也拥有艺术家的气质。他的眼神中透露着厌倦却又焦躁不安的神情。

因为就在昨天，家庭医生斯托姆刚刚来为他的妻子做过诊断。她得了心力衰竭、肾中毒和神经炎，已经卧于病榻三个星期了。医生把他叫到一边，仿佛是为了抚慰他的情绪，斯托姆的语气极其柔和而亲切，“海梅克先生，如果你妻子明天还没好转，我就叫上我的朋友格兰杰医生来会诊。你认识他的，他在心脏病方面是专家。”——心脏，海梅克先生苦笑着留意到这个词——“他比我要在行。我们会一起做一次彻底的检查，然后才好说她康复的可能性到底有多少。我恐怕得说她的病很棘手，非常难对付。不过综合考虑来看，她的生命力十分顽强，病情也控制在预料当中。不过话又说回来，尽管我也不想给你不必要的警告，何况现在也没到万不得已的时候，不过出于职责，我还是得告诉你她的病情很严重。我不是说她一定就没救了，她康复的可能性挺大的，说不定还能再活上二十几年。”——海梅克先生在心底深叹了一口气——“在我来看，她的恢复能力很强，不过她心脏不是很好，肾脏的毛病更是雪上加霜。眼下正是她的心脏最不该承受压力的时候，可事实却正好相反。”

“要我说的话，她正好在悬而未决的当口。再过一两天，最多三四天，应该就能看出病情的走向了。但是正如我前面说过的，我不想令你受到不必要的惊吓。我们还没到穷途末路的地步。我们还没试过输血和别的一些法子。另外，药物在她身上的疗效可能比之前明显——特别是对她的肾脏。那样的话情况就会大为好转。”

“不过，出于义务我还是得让你做好心理准备。因为她罕见地同时患了几种疾病，所以最坏的事情随时都有可能发生，这点我们无法预料。我和你们两夫妻都是老朋友了，很清楚你们夫妻的感情有多深。”——海梅克先生只是茫然地看着他——“我有义务让你做好心理准备。我们大家都得面对这类事情。你也知道就在去年我失去了最小的孩子玛蒂尔达。我觉得海梅克夫人不会有事的，而且我和格兰杰也会一起帮她渡过难关，真的。”

斯托姆医生似乎满怀歉意地看着海梅克先生，这位老人一直以来都习惯了妻子的陪伴，妻子的过早离世可能会给他带来巨大的悲伤。然而海梅克先生的眼神虽然如同雕像一样呆滞，但他心里却正在想着这是怎样的一场闹剧啊，这一切又是多么悲哀地混合着错误和假象啊。六十岁的他厌倦了这一切，厌倦了生活——自从结婚后他就没有真正幸福过，可是他的妻子却死板地觉得他过得很幸福，或者说应该过得很幸福，所以她也沉浸在了幸福当中，或者说近乎沉浸在了幸福当中。连斯托姆医生也自以为他年老体弱，所以需要这位贤良温柔的妻子的关怀、同情和理解！他下意识地举起了手表示反对。

孩子们也觉得他很依赖她，觉得他和她生活得很幸福，他的佣人和他俩的朋友也都这么认为。其实不然，这一切都是假象。他一点儿也不幸福，结婚三十一年来他似乎一直都不幸福。这三十一年来他甚至没有一天干过别的，而是在渴望，虽然是朦胧而压抑的渴望，但一直在渴望——他几乎连想都不敢想——渴望自己离了婚，渴望自己重获自由，渴望做回遇见海梅克夫人前的那个自己。

然而他的性格和所接受的教育都十分保守，而且时间以及一些他似乎无法控制的因素（如自然、习俗、舆论等）完全将他同化了，所以他一直顺其自然，从未采取过极端措施。没错，他只是顺其自然而已，想着时间的流逝、生活的变故等会不会改变他的生活轨迹，但什么都没发生。现在年老力衰，或者说正在日益衰老的他责备自己的无所作为。为什么前几年不采取些行动呢？为什么不在为时已晚之前就打破这种关系呢？为什么不进行自我救赎，重拾对多彩生活的渴望呢？但是他没有；那现在又为什么来苦苦抱怨呢？

一整天都是医生在讲话，他还没来得及挤出一丝扭曲、冷漠、嘲讽的微笑。事实上他并不希望海梅克夫人活下去，或者说至少在那一瞬间他是这么想的。他对这一切都已经心力交瘁了。不久前他坐在窗边，望着不远处在迷雾笼罩下若隐若现的大楼，闷闷不乐地思索了几乎一天一夜，现在他把手指插进头发里长叹了一口气。

在这令人疲倦的几个月里，甚至在和妻子住在这里的前后这些年里，他常常在她熟睡时来到这些窗户或者相似的窗户边坐着幻想。他们甚至已经有些年头没睡在同一个房间了，彼此的关系变得冷漠不已，不过她似乎认为这并不重要。生活对她而言多多少少是个现实问题，一个关乎职位、地位和名誉的问题。他常常回顾自己的一生，他多么希望自己的生活像梦境里一样甜美，多么希望自己的梦想已经成为了现实啊。

在这清晨时分，天色依然灰蒙蒙的，东方的天空中露出了一抹极淡的粉色，他严肃而沉痛地摇了摇头，起身沿着客厅往妻子的卧室走去。他在卧室门口停了下来，看见了正缠绵病榻的妻子，她身边的扶手椅上一名经过培训的护士正在酣睡，她应该是遵循医生的安排彻夜看护着病患，现在无疑也是筋疲力尽了。他的妻子也在熟睡中——现在的她面色惨白、骨瘦如柴，整个人非常虚弱。尽管他有些厌倦，但有时也会觉得自己有愧于她，就比如说现在。他为什么要在那么多年前犯下这么无可救药的错误呢？也许错在他自己年轻时不够明智。然后他静静地回到了自己的房间，躺下来开始沉思。

这些天来她的病情已经十分严重了，她是否能活下来才是关键。悄然降临的黎明唤起了他的思绪。他被搅得心神不宁，似乎再也无法安然入睡。他的身体远没有精神上那么疲惫不堪。生活待他如此不公，他一遍又一遍地回想着。他从未得到那个他真正想要的女人，虽然结婚这么多年来他一直忠贞不渝，为人正派，而且她也用她的方式爱着他。“用她的方式。”他躺在那儿自言自语。

如果妻子的病情没有恶化的话，现在这个点他会像往常一样起床穿衣，然后下楼去办公室。但是，他问自己，她的病情会恶化吗？他们俩的年纪差不多，她年老体迈的虚弱身体会被这次来势汹汹的疾病击倒吗？她如果被疾病击倒，那他就能愉快地恢复自由之身了，而且也不会遭到任何指责或者非议。那样他就可以去想去的地方，做想做的事情，不会有任何阻碍！想想看吧！她终于病了，还病得很严重，这是他们结婚以来她第一次生重病。她已经那副样子躺了好几个星期了，在死亡线上挣扎，病情时好转时坏，但是她没有死，也不一定会死，可是又不见康复的迹象。斯托姆医生坚持认为她心脏上突然产生的裂缝才是问题的关键所在，不过他显然对此无从下手。

在这段时间里，海梅克先生和平时一样表现出极大的同情心。他总是对她体贴入微、温柔有加。只要是他能承担得起的，他对她从来都是毫不吝啬。看到她和孩子们过得开心，他也就觉得高兴——虽然他觉得在很大程度上是由于妻子的缘故，孩子们也令他颇为扫兴——因为他总是同情她刻板、节俭、不幸福的青年时代；他自己也从未幸福过，结婚以后也是如此。他在最不开心的时候不断告诉自己，如果她承受的很多，那么自己承受的也不少，只是要女人承受太多或许更为困难（这一点他倒是乐于承认），她拥有或者自认为拥有他的爱，拥有他从未拥有的宁静心灵。她知道自己有一个忠诚的丈夫，而他觉得自己从未真正有过妻子，从未有过一个他可以像丈夫爱妻子一样爱的人。他做梦都想要那样！

这天晚些时候海梅克去了曼迪森广场对面的办公室。他顺道看了看中央公园西侧的树木，然后又抬头望了一眼公园对面阳光灿烂的公寓外墙，随后陷入了沉思。人行道上挤满了保姆和正在玩耍的孩子们，当然，他们中间偶然也有几个正在闲逛或者出来办事的市民。天气如此晴朗，万物生机勃勃，就仿佛春天里有时会见到的那样。看着那些孩子，看着那些穿着春装快步赶往办公室的年轻男子，他叹了口气，他真希望自己能够再年轻一回。他们是多么活力四射又充满希望啊！生活的一切都还未展开，他们还有适时选择的机会，没有年龄或者条条框框阻碍他们。他问了自己无数次，他们当中是不是也有人像自己当年那样？他们拥有一位年轻迷人的妻子吗？一位他们深爱着的妻子？

他思考着走到了办公室。他的办公室位于某栋超高层大楼的最顶层，能纵览整个城市的风貌。他疲惫地俯瞰着这座城市。从这里望去能看到城中的两条大河、城里的塔楼和楼房的尖顶，还有延伸到远方的城墙。这些景象有时能让他有耐心继续生活、继续怀抱希望。他年轻的时候，这一切景象——或者说那时是另外一个城市的景象——都曾激励着他。虽然家中气氛还算愉悦，但是他仍然觉得在办公室里要比在家里心境平和许多。他在办公室里能纵览城市的壮观景象，还能沉浸在幻想里，或者他也会埋头于工作中，忘掉自己彻底失败的爱情生活。这座宏伟的城市、他能规划和监督建设的楼房，所及之处都离不开他的协力——出力的是他，而不是她——他被从思绪里拉了回来，内心满是痛楚和失落。

海梅克夫人生了病，而海梅克先生白天又不在，那时看护公寓的任务就交到了一个兢兢业业的中年妇女身上。这个妇女就是海梅克夫人在好几年前雇佣的埃尔夫里奇夫人，在她手下的是女佣海斯特，海斯特负责服务用餐、开门之类的工作。目前还有两名训练有素的护士日夜交替着看护海梅克夫人。这两个护士都是开朗健康的蓝眼睛姑娘，她们吸引了海梅克先生，让海梅克先生想起了他从未拥有过的年轻——不过这一切却没有真正打破他的平静，他似乎永远不可能再奢求更多了。

此外，儿子韦斯利和女儿埃塞贝妲当然也对他们非常关心。他们的名字都是海梅克太太自作主张取的，这对儿女都已经结婚很久了，有了自己的孩子，各自住在这座大城市的不同角落。母亲得病期间他俩每天都会过来探望，偶尔也会呆上一个下午或者一个晚上，或者一直从下午待到第二天早上。埃塞贝妲想要在母亲生病的这段时间过来打理整个公寓，但是海梅克夫人还能够管理家中事务，并且也喜欢干这些，所以没有答应女儿的要求。她还没病得那么严重，还能开口说话，因此询问和指挥都不成问题。此外，埃尔夫里奇夫人能和海梅克夫人一样把海梅克先生照顾得舒舒服服的，至少海梅克夫人自己是这么觉得的。

如果非要说实话——就像在许多可怜的例子中一样——海梅克先生渴求的是精神或情感上的慰藉，而不是身体上的照料。正如之前所说的，他从没爱过海梅克夫人，或者说从他们在密歇根州马斯基根县相遇以来他就没有爱过她。他们二人都在马斯基根县出生，而且在马斯基根相遇，相遇那年她十五岁，他十七岁。现在看来似乎很奇怪，可是他们当年一见面就擦出了爱的火花。她是当地一位药剂师的女儿，当时这个年纪和他相仿的女子显得十分甜美可人。后来他因为穷困所迫外出闯荡时写了很多信给她，想象着她和十五岁时的模样一样美好，更甚至于把她想象成美人中的美人。但是财富积累的速度太慢了，他的梦想总是可望不可即，因此他不得不在外面闯荡了好几年，没法和她结婚。在这段时间里，他的观点在不知不觉中改变了。他也无法解释这是怎么发生的，但是事实的确如此。身处大城市、更广的经历（她的经历仍然很有限）、新结识的朋友、更大的梦想，这些加在一起摧毁了他的观念，或者对她的爱，只不过在那时他并没有意识到。他觉得对于眼前之事的意义，自己认识的速度总是很慢。

正如他后来常说的那样，他那时就应该发现自己的错误并及时止步。到后来想要止步似乎越来越不可能了。那时尽管她会有些心碎，他自己也会有些苦恼，但无疑要比现在这样好得多。但是他涉世未深，太过天真无知，被他那个简单的西方世界的社会准则约束得死死的。他觉得无论以后会有多不满意，但是婚约就是婚约，就有义务履行。体面的男人是不会毁婚的——或者说他那些道德家们是这样认为的。

是啊，他当时就应该写信给她告诉她实情。但是他太过敏感和心软了，不忍提出悔婚的要求。后来就已经太晚了。他怕会伤害到她，会扰乱她的人生。但是现在瞧瞧他自己吧！他回想起婚前的好几次机会，如果他那时有胆有谋就能做个了结并重获自由了。但也并非如此，深深扎根他内心的责任感，还有作为美国人所拥有的信仰促使他履行了义务，这也正是她所期盼的一切，她也有权享有这一切。他没有提出悔婚。相反他继续和她维持着关系，还和她结了婚，他没有告诉她自己的动摇，也没有告诉她事情已经变得一塌糊涂。天哪，他怎么那么傻！他多少次这样反复地对自己说。

这个错误可能根本就是他自作自受，至少他现在是这么觉得的，他认为自己有义务遵守婚约，有义务尽力而为；协定就是协定，至少在婚姻中是；可是这样想并没有阻止他的不快乐，他无法快乐起来。这么多年来，由于世人看法的约束他才得以逼迫自己和她住在一块儿，被迫爱她，装出和她在一起很快乐的样子。“这也是另一种意义上的完美结合，”他时常这么告诉自己。事实上他一直很不快乐，严重地不快乐。就连她的面孔、她的外表、她的一举一动有时都令他倒胃口。这天早上他从斯托姆医生的说话方式中看出，医生觉得他很孤单，以为妻子如果突然离去，留下他孤身一人，他会痛不欲生，会没有人照料，这让他十分恼怒。谁来关心下他的感受？他的眼神似乎在诉说。他还巴不得在这一生中有段时间可以独自清静地考虑自己的事情，为自己而活，忘记这段把自己伪装成为另一个人的冗长而乏味的岁月。

他是不是就再也没法从腻味中摆脱出来了？是不是要一直这样到死为止？现在他扪心自问。不过很快他又会责备自己的这些想法，这些想法是不对的，是有违常理人情的，无疑会让他受到公众的谴责，受到那个能够造就一个人名誉和地位的公众的谴责。

他一直没有让她知道一丁半点自己所做的令人心碎的重大牺牲。他就像那个把狐狸藏在胸间，被狐狸撕咬心胸的斯巴达少年。他甚至都没有抱怨过。他的一切都符合传统，所以他在世人眼里实实在在是个模范丈夫。如果你不信，看看他的职位，看看他的孩子们，再看看他的妻子——她就连生病的时候也身心舒畅，而且一如既往地信赖着她的丈夫！这么多年来她似乎从来没有明显质疑过他给的爱，也从未觉得他十分不愉快，或者说如果不全然那样，如果不完全相信他的爱还像当初那么热烈，那么她也仍然相信他从她身上、从他们共同建立起来的家庭中、从他们抚育成人的儿女身上得到了快乐和幸福；她仍然相信，他会因为知道这一切能持续到最后而感到欣慰！持续到最后！这些年来她一直竭尽全力地按自己的意愿塑造着家人的生活——自己的、丈夫的和孩子们的；自始至终她都觉得自己所做的就是他想要的，至少也是对他和孩子们好的。

她是多么的崇尚传统啊！说到各种事情该是什么样，她可真是无所不知，她的观念主要是来自过去的家庭环境的熏陶，都是些老套的美国式观念。虽然他不十分认同，但是她关于交友、教育孩子等等的观念最终总是会获胜。她对愉悦、乐趣、夫妻关系等的追求也同样非常传统，而且最终也总是会获胜。他们几乎从来不吵架地过到现在，幸福的家庭怎么会从来不吵架呢？但是他差不多一直都在让步，而且也假装满足于自己的让步。

可是他现在为什么要抱怨？她是否曾想过他过得并不快乐？她从没想过。和他们从小长大的那个地方以及这里的亲戚朋友们一样——她极其小心地调节着与他们的关系，一个劲地讨好自己看得顺眼的人，对其他人则一概无视——她依然坚定地认为，只有她才懂得什么是最适合他的，只有她才真正理解他的想法和需求。这让他有时只能无奈地苦笑。

因为在她眼中婚姻是神圣不可侵犯的，绝不容许破裂——他发现她的这个观点并非一直针对别人，而是主要针对他。一个人一生只能爱一次。一旦一个男人结婚后，哪怕他是向一个女孩子求了婚，他就有责任遵守诺言。毁弃婚约、对妻子不忠乃至不好，在她眼里都是极其严重的罪过！那种人不配活在世上！他们没有资格活着，简直畜牲不如！

再瞧瞧他自己，他又怎么样呢？一个人犯过所有这些错又怎么样呢？他牺牲的宁静和幸福又该从哪里得到补偿呢？从这个人世间或者是那个她仍然信仰的陌生、幸福、神秘的天堂得到补偿？一派胡言！如果现在她离去了，他俩所有的友人都会觉得他十分可怜，或者应该十分可怜。那些愚昧的世俗信仰至今仍然主导着这个世界。想想吧！

不过那还不算是最糟糕的，最糟糕的还不止那些。这些年来他越发觉得自己娶了个天性狭隘的小女人，她根本无法理解他的观点，或者说无法理解梦想或情感对他的意义。因为最初订下的婚约（或者说犯下的错误），他不得不和她生活下去。他再怎么赋予她仁慈、活力、勤勉和坚定，她的狭隘天性都是无法改变的，永远不能。他很早就发现了，她根本就是个狭隘市侩的女人，而他则是个浑然天成的艺术家，与生俱来就做着不同寻常的梦，考虑着遥远的事情；他的这些梦想和思想，她从未理解也无法理解，而且没有任何共鸣，就算能产生共鸣和理解，也只是非常普通而遥远的那种。他设计技艺的精妙之处，还有他那些出色作品外观和角度上的微妙细节，她明白这些东西对他的重要性吗？更别说对她自己的重要性了。她不会明白的。她连起码的欣赏都做不到，永远做不到。建筑？艺术？这些对她而言到底算什么？她会有欣赏的欲望吗？他现在也没法去别处寻求共鸣。不，他从来没有想过要去别处寻求共鸣，因为公众和妻子会反对，而且他自己也觉得那样做会有些罪恶感。

然而他常常问自己，一个像他这样满怀着与世俗格格不入的激情和追求的人，上苍为什么会让他遇到并追求一位“欧内斯廷”[1]呢？她根本无法理解他，也不关心他的个人情感。难道正如老话所言，爱是盲目的吗？或者这是上苍的精心安排，用来磨砺艺术家的心灵，就像牡蛎用一粒沙子生产出珍珠一样，有些东西似乎会带来伤害，但是却可以产出美丽的事物？有时他就是这么想的。他能够规划设计出那些妙趣横生和美轮美奂的大楼（至少人们都这样评价），或许就是因为他在别处无法感受到的爱和美令他在建筑方面投入了慷慨的爱。残酷的上苍啊，几乎无视一个人的梦想，无视每一个男人和女人的梦想！

他和欧内斯廷结婚的时候实在是太过年轻了，连自己想干什么都不是很清楚，也不会预料到自己未来那些年的感受，何况也没人给他指点并劝阻他。当时的世俗都赞成这灾难般的婚姻。上苍本身似乎也想这样；孩子们就是一切，也是一切的终点。从理论上想想吧！后来，他清楚地认识到自己做了什么，尽管在世俗观念和条条框框的束缚下他变得心情烦躁、身心疲惫，不过却没有变得容易发怒，从来没有。

相反，他出于好意没有对她透露过这些心思，但是对她身上所没有的思想与肉体之美的渴求深深地折磨着他，最后几乎变得痛不可耐。他不停地幻想着一些截然不同的东西，到后来近乎着魔了。那些与众不同的东西难道就真的从未出现过吗？真是个悲剧！等他死了以后就更加不会出现了——再也不会了！他不得不承认，欧内斯廷很迷人，至少刚刚相遇的时候很迷人，但是时间证明了无论心灵还是肉体上他都没法被她吸引。不过现在又能怎么样呢？怎么会这样呢？他已经对她腻味了二十七年有余，而另一种梦想正在发芽、成长，直到……

但他现在也老了，她也正在或者说可能正在生死边缘挣扎。不管在他俩身上发生什么都不会有什么区别，因为他只渴求片刻的自由，只要在他离开这个世界以前能有片刻自由就好。

自由！自由！

海梅克夫人有一点让他一直很恼火，那就是虽然他决心不违背社会准则（他觉得无论从情感角度还是现实角度而言都不能冒险那么做），虽然他曾经被从别人眼神中和身体上展示出来的美丽所折磨，但是妻子或许心灵感应般地害怕他会改变，一直试图让他觉得或者相信（他觉得她这样做是有预谋的）他不是那种对女性有吸引力的男人，缺乏其他男人所拥有的身材，因此那些年轻貌美的女人们会远离他。想想吧！过去有多少女性带着疑惑的目光离他远去啊！

她嫁给他在很大程度上是因为觉得他可怜！他选择不拆穿她，因为他也觉得她可怜。因为不时有女人会诱惑着接近他，所以她就坚持说他连骑士风度都没有，更不用说去勾引其他女人了。在除妻子以外的其他女人眼里，他便成了一个毫不优雅、反应迟钝、没有趣味的男人。

他觉得她总是无理取闹地为此喋喋不休，和假想敌斗争，认为他将来有可能出轨，但是他从来没有真正地做过解释，也从来没有打算做任何对她不忠的事情，从来没有！她试图茶毒他对自身和艺术的看法——而且——而且还试图贬低其他女人的眼神，贬低她们撩人的美丽，贬低她们对他说的只言片语（这些只言片语给他带来了难以形容的极大愉悦）。他为什么会活得这么辛苦？

让他感到烦恼的是这一切让他明白了一个实实在在的真理：若不是以一种内在的激烈决心驱使一个人去行动和生活的话，上苍是不会在乎这个人，也不会在乎其他男人女人的。一个人如果不是信念坚定地为自己而活的话，他的心灵就可能会腐坏、消亡。上苍才不管这些。“溫柔的人有福了”，的确。但是强者更应该有福，因为他们靠自己开拓幸福。这些年来他一直保持着这个信念，他只是期待但是却没有行动，所以除了那些发生在自己身上的不满意的事情以外，其它什么事情也没有发生。至始至终他只是眼睁睁地看着发生在自己身上的事情，在传统的束缚下他一直没有采取行动，因为他并不足够强大。他还不够强大，这就是事实的真相，他甚至从来都不强大。他就像笼中的鸟儿，就像从铁笼里往外窥视的动物，目睹着充满思想和行动自由的世界。在许多画室里，在街道上，甚至在他自己家里，他都看不到任何人理解的目光，没人懂他，没人赞同他，当然她才不会理解他。出于义务和信仰、人们的舆论、欧内斯廷的地位、对她的关爱和信赖、他的事业和孩子们的前途，他就像宗教和道德上的隐士——他把一切都靠边放，什么也不去想，把一切都忘掉，尽可能地做到最好。有时候的确很痛苦，但他还是这么一路过来了。

看看现在的他吧，年老但还称不上体弱——是的，还没到体弱的地步！但是生活让他倍感乏味，几乎失去了热情。这些年来他一直渴望——渴望——一个能理解自己的人、一颗温柔的心、一个女人——这个女人一定存在——她能理解他的重要性、他的艺术、他的精神以及物质梦想。再瞧瞧他自己吧！海梅克夫人的精神和肉体一直如影随形地跟在他身边，所以……

虽然他不能说她长得不漂亮——他也不能说她没有漂亮过——但是就他所需要的东西而言，她的想法和他并不契合。……外在和心灵之美对他来说太重要了，比如说一个美丽女子的外在必须十分完美，思维和性格必须高雅精致，就像他自己有时表现出的一样。可是，他从来没有机会亲密结识这样一位女子。这样的女子从未出现，尽管他已经渴求多时。他也不敢私下对任何人说他的心思，就连想也不太敢想。这不光彩，和社会准则不符。在他的圈子里，这种念头会被社会大众所斥责，更确切来说应该是在她的圈子里，因为他的圈子不就是由她建立的吗？

让海梅克先生恼火的是他烦躁不安，自怨自艾，无法确定自己的念头是否有道德上的错误。不管过得快乐与否，夫妻双方不都应该忠诚吗？不是有道德准则管理着这个一生只能爱一个人的问题吗？这种道德准则让个人的思想、痛苦、苦难、困难看上去无足轻重。教堂说一生只能爱一个人，公众舆论和法律似乎也表示赞同。如果人们不遵守，那就会出现许多问题，社会秩序就会混乱，就会造成了太多痛苦，还会带来许多波及孩子们的棘手问题。从社会、道德和其它的重要方面来看，他坚守着一个糟糕的协议，而不是造成混乱和痛苦，这不正是最好、最神圣的做法吗？哪怕那样做会失去情感上的自我。他就是这么认为的——至少他的行为表现出他是这么认为的——可是他又反复对此感到疑惑。

说说别的方面吧。首先得承认，海梅克夫人在众人眼里具备了好妻子的条件，善良、真诚；而且他们才结婚时，她的身材和社交能力都还颇具魅力，所以虽然那时他仍然痛苦着，但是还没有到不能忍受的地步；不过新的事情伴随着几个孩子的降生接踵而来：第一个孩子埃尔维尔——是用她的一个表亲的名字命名的，而不是他的——刚出生两年后就过世了；接着出生的是韦斯利，再然后是埃塞贝妲。他一直很不喜欢埃塞贝妲这个名字。因为他本来想给她取自己最喜欢的名字奥蒂莉，或者沿用她母亲的名字珍妮特。

说来也怪，尽管他内心还是不安定，但是孩子们的降临，还有两岁就夭折的可怜小家伙埃尔维尔多多少少给他带来了婚姻的实感，这些小生命赋予了他责任感和愉悦；不过他不得不抱歉地说，他的责任感和愉悦完全与她无关。有时他告诉自己，要不是有孩子们，他是不会忍受下来的。幼儿期的孩子们非常与众不同，这些小家伙们很麻烦，却也很有趣——比方说小埃尔维尔吧，每当他装作要去咬他脖子的时候，他都会开心地皱起鼻子；他咯咯的甜美笑声无疑令他兴奋和着迷。尽管他对欧内斯廷有这样那样的想法——当时他总是觉得这些想法是不道德的，甚至是邪恶的，违背了社会准则、社会秩序和社会福利，所以每次都生硬地把它们压制了下去——但是他仍然对埃尔维尔有一种持久深厚的感情。埃尔维尔以一种微妙甚至近乎无意识的方式降临到了他身边，抚慰了他的伤痛，包扎了他扩大的伤口。是谁将他送来的？又是怎样送来的？埃尔维尔勾起了他的想象力，也扣紧了他的心弦——他着实从那个小婴孩那里感到了被理解，至少填补了爱的空缺，能去爱一个他真正喜爱的人。埃尔维尔最喜欢依偎在他而不是欧内斯廷的怀里，还喜欢靠在他的脖子上。他外出散步或者去别的什么地方时，埃尔维尔总是乐意举起双臂勾着他的脖子。奇怪的是比起母亲，他好像更喜欢他父亲，父亲不在他就高兴不起来。而海梅克则异常溺爱他——他那张特别的小脸有点像海梅克和海梅克的母亲，却不太像欧内斯廷，至少海梅克是那么想的，尽管他也不会反对埃尔维尔长得像欧内斯廷。绝对不会反对的。他没有那么心胸狭窄。第二年年底，埃尔维尔刚刚会含糊不清地吐出一两个单词，他就开始教他唱一首可笑的老歌谣，名叫“三只小猫”，等唱到“它们得不到……”时，他会停下来问埃尔维尔，“得不到什么？”埃尔维尔会咯咯地笑着“噗！”——当然说的是“派”。

唉，那些同小埃尔维尔一起度过的开心时光啊，那些他骑在他肩膀上，或者躲在他臂弯里一起散步的日子，那些他在夜晚抱着他哄他睡觉的日子！这些日子里欧内斯廷一直都在旁边，一想到丈夫深爱着小埃尔维尔和她，或许丈夫爱她胜过爱其他任何东西，她就十分开心。丈夫爱她胜过爱其他任何东西，这只是一个幻觉而已。他根本不关心她的感受，她的理解却相反。他爱的只有埃尔维尔，而她则将其视为他对自己的爱意日益加深的证据——这也恰好体现了她奇特的思考方式。他觉得吧，女人就是那样——尤其是某些女人。

后来因为感染上了某种医生无法查明或分离的病菌，有可能是小儿麻痹，埃尔维尔发了严重的高烧，最后夭折了，他被埋葬到了伍德朗附近那块凄凉难耐的墓地里。事情发生后他在内心呻吟着，在悲痛中无法自拔，对任何人都感到绝望！仿佛一瞬间所有的美景都黯然失色了，他对生活再也没有追求了。

“人为妇人所生，日子短少，多有患难，”海梅克夫人执意请到家里来的牧师在葬礼上念道，“他飞去如影，不能存留。”

是的，小埃尔维尔像影子一样消逝了。他陷入了巨大的痛苦之中，这也是他结婚以来第一次也是唯一一次对欧内斯廷感到同情和难过，因为她也承受了太多太多——葬礼过后她哭倒在了他怀中。她悲伤至极；她因为失去第一个孩子而悲伤至极！他那时心想，为什么自己一直无法把她想象成或者变成自己期望的那样呢？那时的欧内斯廷似乎比以前更好，更温柔善良，更聪明甜蜜了，也比他想象中的她更值得尊敬、更有趣了。在孩子生病期间她苦苦陪伴，整宿整宿地不合眼，竭尽所能充满关爱地照顾着他，也就是说，以一颗爱人之心做一切可以拯救她孩子的事情；不过即使这样他也无法真正爱上她。虽然说起来有些悲伤和残忍，但是他的的确确无法真正爱上她。他觉得她比以前更好，更值得尊敬，只是因为同情她而已。是怎样一个受诅咒的命运让人们的心灵和情绪混乱到这种地步？为什么人们的美德不能让你爱上他们？不能帮助你抵抗那些你不该爱上的诱惑？他决心把事情往好的方面去想，可是却怎么也做不到。

然而，他那时似乎更加深刻地认识到了她有条不紊、勤俭节约的品质和有限的审美能力，还有某种想做成某事或者成为某人的抱负，只是他无法赞同她的抱负，看不出来她除了无可救药的平庸和微不足道的观点外还有什么。她没有任何闪光点，没有卓越的思想和灵魂。不管他怎么说怎么做，她总是无可救药地把成就与金钱、舆论（基本上是邻里之间的舆论）以及社会地位混为一谈，然而他知道成功人士并非一定要拥有非凡的财富与地位，贫困和窘迫同样难以磨灭其斐然的成就。尽管他常常试图让她领会这一点，但是她却永远都没法理解，而这只会影响她的心情。

看看那些伟人艺术家的例子吧！这座城里或历史上一些最伟大的建筑师都有过奇特乃至不愉快的经历。但海梅克夫人却无法理解，确切的说是无法理解任何和历史有关的事情——她不相信历史中悲伤的部分，连读也不去读，根本不关心这些。至于艺术和艺术家们——她从不相信睿智、艺术理解力和真正的卓越能力可能会从那些必然低俗和邪恶的东西中产生——从不相信。

就拿小伙子辛格拉的例子来说吧。辛格拉也是一名建筑师，三十多年前他们在纽约这座城市相遇。辛格拉那时初来乍到，努力要成为一名伟大的建筑师，可是他却很穷，衣衫褴褛，举止邋遢。结婚前几年，海梅克在建筑师派恩与斯塔伯德的昏暗事务所里看到他时就被他深深吸引了。不过因为辛格拉整天抽烟，一副衣衫不整的模样，兜里又没钱，所以尽管海梅克认识辛格拉将近四年，但是婚后的海梅克夫人却完全不接受辛格拉。在她看来，辛格拉卑微又一事无成。有次她偶然经过一家廉价餐馆，瞥见辛格拉在餐馆里陪着一位土里土气的姑娘，随后她便完全否认了辛格拉。

“亲爱的，我希望你别再把他带来这儿了，”她坚持道。为了避免麻烦，他同意了——不过现在瞧瞧吧。辛格拉后来成为了伟大的建筑师，当然，由于海梅克夫人的缘故，他俩的关系疏远了。辛格拉后来设计了艾斯库累普俱乐部和外观华美的交响乐大厅，还有高耸入云、如诗如梦的威尔士大楼。然而海梅克在很久以前就知道，辛格拉和他一样是个恬静的隐士，喜欢独来独往，对人们的看法毫不在乎。

她不仅对于生活的微妙和意义感觉迟钝，而且还有一种由有限的理解能力所支撑的恼人进取心。这种进取心让她不停追求，想要去接近那些她心目中真正的成功人士——几乎总是一些二三流的物质上的成功人士，这让他十分恼怒。不知有多少次，他试着指出真正的成功和虚假的成功之间的区别——真正的成功很少与巨大的财富有联系。

但是她不听，她对于成功人士的定义就是喜欢颐指气使的有钱人，即使他们除了钱一无所有，或者几乎一无所有。

埃尔维尔夭折后，韦斯利和埃塞贝妲接连来到了世上，他们的抚养、教育和婚姻问题令他心力交瘁——埃尔维尔还不曾令他操心过这些。这两个孩子在婴儿时期都很可爱，而且也跟他非常亲近。但是随着他们逐渐长大，欧内斯廷仿佛介入了他们之间。首先，他们的一举一动都被教育得非常保守死板，这是她通过他所接触的几个新富阶层的翻版——虽然他提醒过她了，她还是很羡慕这类人。这对于建筑师这个职业来说就是一个讽刺——建筑师总会接触到那些颐指气使的有钱人；而且因为职业的关系，建筑师，特别是年轻的建筑师，有时候不得不对那些喜欢颐指气使的有钱人笑脸相迎。其次就是上哪种学校的问题。他起初考虑的是公立学校，因为他俩以前上的都是公立学校。但是不行！现在他们的生活富裕了，孩子们都得上私立学校！这所私立学校不是他选择的，也不是妻子实地考察后选择的，实际上这是由于巴罗和韦斯特维尔特这两家有钱人都把孩子送去了这所学校，所以现在与这两家人颇为亲密的欧内斯廷觉得这所学校一定错不了！

巴罗家很有钱，但是在他看来却俗气平庸。他们家在西部做成药生产赚了很大一笔钱，然后来纽约疯狂挥霍，欧内斯廷一直对巴罗家兴致勃勃，因为海梅克曾经给他家设计过一套联排式住宅，况且他们家现在的名声也颇为不错。而海梅克则自认为对巴罗家没有什么特别的兴趣，他们着实是木讷的一家子，非常不善于跟人打交道，无趣透顶，然而却不知怎么地跟欧内斯廷的价值观念很合得来。因为欧内斯廷说他们人又好又善良，很像她在西部老家的亲戚们，只不过他们不是真正的亲戚而已。她就是这么认为的。他们以自己的方式成了举足轻重的人物，但是没有品味可言。小弗雷德·巴罗被送去了莫里斯敦附近，在那儿昂贵的加亚尔男子学校就读，海梅克总觉得那儿除了培养些礼仪举止跟本学不到其他东西，而欧内斯廷则坚称孩子们还能接受到宗教教育。于是韦斯利还是去上那个学校了——不管怎样，当前看来这是最好的一所学校。

同样，因为愚蠢、自负的梅赛德斯·韦斯特维尔被送去了白原市附近的布瑞尔克利夫学校，所以埃塞贝妲也必须去那儿上学。想想吧！这是多么愚蠢而鲁莽的决定！海梅克还记得，妻子在送孩子去布瑞尔克利夫之前细心地游说了很久，用尽了逻辑和策略，讲述了去那儿上学对埃塞贝妲的重要社交意义，把眼泪和花言巧语都用上了。每当海梅克夫人有所诉求时她总能轻而易举地挤出眼泪，或者令眼泪在眼眶中打转，尽管他知道她为了达成目的而流下的眼泪无足轻重，但他仍然无从招架，这点她心知肚明。他总会不由自主地动摇，无力抵抗。尽管他讨厌她在争论中利用眼泪当做武器。海梅克夫人有时恰恰和马基雅弗利本身一样狡猾无情，她展露的那些温柔善良、自我牺牲、慷慨大方、高尚品德和其他一大堆优点只是为了达成自己的最终目的。也许从某些角度来看这很令人佩服，然而他对此并不待见。但是如果一个人看不到自己身上自相矛盾的地方，你又能怎么做呢？

而且他们结婚都那么久了，抛弃她是几乎不可能的，或者至少在当时是那样。他们达到了理应达到的地位，但实际上这只是他一个人努力的结果——而且还不是他应得的那种地位。他不坏恶意地想，欧内斯廷绝对无法吸引那种理想的男人。无论如何，他们之间只要有一点点不和、分居或者不忠的迹象——他从来没有考虑过这些事情——就会带来无休止的争吵，使他的声誉和经济受损，或者说他是这么想的。她那些经济实力强大的朋友们——从某种程度上来说也是他的朋友，以及那些原先的客户都将会离他而去。他们的妻子、他们社交方面的顾虑都会迫使他们远离他！他将变成臭名昭著的建筑师，背叛那么善良而忠贞的妻子真是禽兽不如。也许他将变成，算了不说了。他永远也说不清，一切太错综复杂了。

再说说儿子卫斯理与德高家联姻的事情吧。乔治·德高只不过是个退休的地产投机商，有点小钱而已，他的女儿厄玛·德高虽然亭亭玉立，但是为人粗俗，她无疑在外表上很有吸引力，而且也有经济基础，但还有什么其它的可言呢？简直就是一无是处；而他的儿子至少还有点思想。欧内斯廷和乔治·德高的夫人——在海梅克看来是一个可悲又狭隘的女人——开始了密切的往来，他觉得她这么做多数是为了儿子韦斯利。不管怎样，她们用尽办法鼓励韦斯利追求厄玛，也鼓励厄玛答应。现在再看看他们吧！后来德高夫妇破产了，什么也没给他们的女儿留下。厄玛对什么都感兴趣，就是对韦斯利的仕途不闻不问，她只追求新富阶层认为时髦的东西——比欧内斯廷迷恋的新富阶层更加时髦新潮。目前她满脑子都是喝茶、去俱乐部和剧院——还能有其它的什么呢？

韦斯利早就意识到了这一点。他现在已经是一名工程师了，受雇于一家非常大的建筑公司，也算是个成功人士了。就连极力撮合并看好这段姻缘的欧内斯廷也突然意识到了女方的这一点。其实从几年前厄玛开始无视她起，欧内斯廷就看清了她，只是以前欧内斯廷总是德高家长，德高家短而已。天哪，还能指望德高家什么呢——比如厄玛·德高？随后厄玛和韦斯利私下起了争执，海梅克太太坚持认为厄玛过去和现在都妨碍了韦斯利的发展。这种女人不适合韦斯利。她还一反自己的偏见希望韦斯利离开厄玛。哎，海梅克自己要是能这么干就好了！

不过考虑到德高一家在当时的地位，海梅克太太当初下定决心希望韦斯利娶厄玛为妻。韦斯利现在不得不为平庸的项目疲于奔命，这样才能挣足够的钱保证厄玛出入于二三流的所谓奢华社会。她甚至对他有不忠的行为——海梅克是这么想的。有许多奇怪的证据摆在那里，不过海梅克目前也不打算去干涉。他能做什么呢？厄玛已经对韦斯利感到厌倦了，这就是全部。他可以肯定她另有打算。

再举个埃塞贝妲的例子吧。多么令人厌恶的名字！尽管欧内斯廷下定决心要使埃塞贝妲成功，然后为她自己增光添彩，可是埃塞贝妲真的成功了吗？当然，埃塞贝妲的婚姻在经济上要比韦斯利的成功，不过在其他方面又能好得了多少？埃塞贝妲的丈夫叫约翰·凯尔索——“杰克，”她总是这么叫他。他举止轻浮，思想更是轻浮！他不就是个挥霍成性的家伙吗？他父母无疑是站在自己儿子那边的，但也就是那么回事，而且那样对他只会更坏。海梅克夫人当时同样说他是个不错的小伙子，正是埃塞贝妲要找的人，这纯粹是因为凯尔索一家子有钱。霍纳·凯尔索在芝加哥从事货币业，赚了点钱，然后搬来纽约挥霍，当时埃塞贝妲差不多十五岁。她在学校遇上了格蕾丝·凯尔索。

现在瞧瞧吧！她也不是没有魅力，而且她的举止虽然非常做作，但也讨人喜欢。她有钱，而且在帕克大街上还有一套舒适的公寓，但这又算得上什么呢？约翰·凯尔索啥都不干，整天无所事事。如果说他之前还有点脑子，但是父母的金钱和纵容，以及他少年时期受到的上流社会教育毁了他。他就是个白痴，一个享乐的空虚主义者，和厄玛·德高如出一辙。这两个人才应该凑成一对，只有他俩才不需要互相容忍。但海梅克太太迫切要向凯尔索家示好，还是带有策略的示好，她送给他们茶叶，招待他们去剧院舞会，但是海梅克和他们的交流却从没超过十句话，和约翰·凯尔索也一样。想想看吧！

而且在交往过程中，出于对方最初的好感和温柔，还有依然对她客客气气的态度，埃塞贝妲在某种程度上对他保持了一定距离，营造了一个传统保守的女孩形象，有几分像她母亲，而且更听她母亲的话，不过他倒无所谓。韦斯利在他母亲面前也一样。也许无论怎样，喜欢与否都应该是孩子自己说了算的。

他现在不断地问自己为什么要赞同这一切。为什么？得到了什么了不起的结果吗？孩子们过得特别好吗？如果没有欧内斯廷——他的孩子他妈是另外一个女人，她的孩子他爸又是另外一个男人的话——他自己的生活不是会更好吗？如果他把这一切全盘否定，会不会因此过得更好？当然他肯定会感觉到痛苦，也会有后续的麻烦事，但这样他就可以自由地离开，去做任何想做的事情，重新拨正他的生活轨迹。辛格拉就完全不趟婚姻这淌混水——多么明智的男人啊。但也不光是世俗的原因，海梅克总是能给自己列出一长串的理由和恐惧。他让自己被牵着鼻子走，天知道为什么，总之就是这样。如果你迈出那一步，你也许会退缩，会害怕世俗的眼光，害怕人们会怎么想怎么议论。

现在他一直纠结于循规蹈矩给他带来的痛苦结局，他一贯坚守道德规范，维护社会稳定，不做给她和孩子们丢脸的事。但这么做却毁了他自己的人生。他变得受人尊敬，然而这却导致了他在精神上的失败。但对他而言现在一切都已经结束了，海梅克太太病之将死，人们还觉得他会希望她好起来和他共度接下去的美好人生呢！快乐起来吧！不管道德准则要求他应该怎么想，他都勉强不了自己。他甚至不希望她康复。

这样的要求太高了。事实上一想到她现在可能会死，他就被满足的情绪缭绕着。虽然他的生活也不会有太大改变，但至少还是会有几年的自由时间。这重要极了。他还没有彻底老迈，他值得拥有自由。几年的平静生活以及对自己的满意交代，还有那个梦想，那个可能还无法实现的梦想，虽然真的可能没法实现，但他还是想要再一次自由自在地过自己的生活，做自己想做的事情，去旅行，去思考，去考虑他曾经没有拥有的东西！只不过每次望向她苍白病态的面容和绵软无力的双手时，他便不太敢想那些事情了，甚至连到了现在都还是不敢想。这太难了，太残忍了——他动摇了。

不，尽管她长期以来都拘泥于蠢事，尽管他觉得自己一直在受到煎熬，可他依然觉得她应当活下去，只是他的愿望不够坚定。是的，她如果能活着就活下去吧。她是死是活对他来说又能怎么样呢？每次看着她，他都会不由自主地想到，没有自己她该会多么无助，对她这个年纪的人来说又是多大的失败等等。而且至始至终他都反复挖苦自己：她已经觉得为他和孩子尽全力做到了最好！她的确是理想的妻子，把每分钱都用在刀刃上，令他们尽情享受所有乐趣，做的每一件事似乎都是为了大家好！没错，这是事实。应该是很值得同情的，不是吗？但实际结果呢？

和斯托姆医生交谈之后的第三天早上，他又坐在晨曦里的窗台前，一切又变得像从前一样。自己的人生就是一场失败，他总结到，就像在那些逝去的岁月里他几千次几万次总结过的那样。只要能有片刻的自由去独自思考就好了，或许还能发现人生能给自己带来什么。昨天下午海梅克太太的病情恶化了，格兰杰和斯托姆进行了会诊，今天他们会试试看输血，从强壮的退役骑兵身上抽取的血液，这是医生在面对棘手病情时最后采取的严峻办法，但愿结果是最好的，不过医生也无法保证。在这种情况下他的思绪和之前一样产生了动摇。如果输血也没法挽回她的生命呢？那时他又会怎么想自己呢？过了一会他回到房间，看了看依然在沉睡的她。她现在已经完全没有以前这么强壮了，护士说她的脉搏也不稳。他的情绪和往常一样因她产生了变化，但只有那么一小会儿。晚些时候她略微有些醒转，似乎看上去感觉好些了。

过了一会儿他来到餐厅，护士正在那儿吃着早餐，他在护士身边坐了下来，按照这些天的惯例问道：“你觉得她今天的情况如何？”

他和这位夜班护士一起共进早餐已经有好些天了。护士菲尔森小姐是个优雅亲切的女人，皮肤光滑、脸色红润、有着一头浅色的头发和一双蓝色的眼睛，她那种形状和颜色的眼睛让他回想起了早些年错过的恋爱时光和年轻岁月。

护士神色凝重，看来她真的很担心最坏的情况会发生，却还是不肯透露实情。

“我觉得还不算糟糕，她可能还会好转些，”她用同情的眼神看着他回答道。他可以看出对方把他当做了一个老人，并且还面临没人照料的危险，“她的脉搏变强了，几乎恢复正常了，现在正舒适地休息着。斯托姆医生和格兰杰医生十点钟会过来决定对策。我想如果她病情恶化的话他们会试试看输血。那个人已经同意了。斯托姆医生说等她今天醒过来就给她喝牛肉浓汤。埃尔夫里奇夫人正在烧汤。她的情况并不算太差，我想这本身就是个好兆头。”

海梅克只是用浓密花白的眉毛下的那双眼睛盯着她看。他太累太沮丧了，不光是因为他昨晚没怎么睡，而且也因为他的思绪来来回回地波动。难道自己从来不能决定自己想要什么吗？难道自己永远无法解决这个没有尽头的道德或思想问题？他为什么就不能下定决心站到道德秩序和同情心这面，从而得到内心的宁静呢？菲尔森小姐滔滔不绝地列举着其他的一些心脏病案例，说着诸如那么多差点死于心力衰竭的人又活了多少多少年之类的，他陷入了阴郁局促的沉思之中，思考着自己毫无意义的人生和摇摆不定的心境。他有时会变得特别古怪乃至邪恶，有时又会变得特别虚弱。昨晚他看着躺在床上的欧内斯廷，还有今天早上见到她之前，他都在想如果她死去就好了，那样他就可以重获自由，哪怕是在现在这个年纪重获自由也好。但是这天早上见到她时，以及现在菲尔森提及输血的事情时，他又感到了愧疚。现在这样对他能有什么好处呢？他又为什么想要她死呢？这种罪恶的想法在人间或者天堂能够得到宽恕吗？如果他的孩子们知道的话会怎么想！假如她现在真的死了（他就在今天早上还如此热切渴望着这个），他将会是什么样的心情？毕竟，欧内斯廷并没有这么糟。她已经尽力了，不是么？她只不过是没能把事情做成（从他的观点看来），而且他也没法让自己爱上她，就是这样而已。他再次因为自己冷酷而残忍的想法感到自责。

两位医生认为海梅克太太没有多大好转，必须采用第一种输血方式——通过管子直接注入，只要输入她心脏的血液不会太快被排斥，她的病情就可以在很大程度上得到缓解。然而在输血之前，这两位医生再次与过度自责中的海梅克先生谈了一次话，海梅克说他愿意不惜一切代价进行救治。如果她有生命危险，那么一定要用尽办法救治她。无论是对于海梅克和孩子们而言，还是对于她自己而言，她的生命都十分宝贵。海梅克是这么说的。他觉得自己能做的都已经做了，除了热诚地渴望她康复，这一点他即使是现在也无法做到。他已经厌烦那些责任与义务之类的传统枷锁了。但是如果她康复了——医生们认为输血后她就能康复——如果她重获健康了，那就意味着他必须带她去幽静的山林小屋度过夏天，在她漫长的康复期中无时无刻地陪伴她。好吧。他会这么做的。他当然会和平时一样感到厌烦，但如果能挽救她的生命却让她死去就太糟糕了。是的，那是实话。可他还是在妻子输血时又回到了自己的办公室。事实证明输血十分成功。她好多了，那天下午三点护士打来了电话，说她已经恢复了很多。五点半的时候海梅克先生回家了，在此期间没有传来什么不好的消息，她就躺在那儿，靠在一个可以支起的枕头上，看上去很轻松愉快，很像他从前有些时候看到的那个她。

他的心情立刻又变了。他的思绪变化令人惊异，几乎可以说是神秘，而并非能够由他自己所掌控，这对于一个应该洞悉自己内心的男人来说十分奇怪。可是一个人真的能够洞悉自己的内心吗？她现在不会死了。一切都和从前一样回到了正轨。他可以肯定。好吧，他也许会回归到从前的失败感里。他现在再无自由可言了。一切都将回到原有的位置，明天也是，后天也是。太糟心了！尽管他看起来很高兴，能看到她再次焕发生机，他在某种程度上真的是谢天谢地，但是挥之不去的失败和重新被束缚的感觉又包围了他。半夜他躺在自己的床上自言自语：“她现在真的好了。一切都将回到从前。我再也无法获得自由。我再也没有那一天了，哪怕一天的时间也不会有！”

但第二天早上她的病情又恶化了。他感到五味杂陈，心中充斥着惊讶和恐惧，同时又感到欣慰。他又一次因为负面的思绪而责备自己。他问自己，难道自己的想法——那些变化不定的思绪——真的会让她走向死亡？？他的邪恶愿望真的拥有力量吗？他这样做岂不是和杀人凶手没什么两样？想想看吧，如果他从今往后要一直生活在用意念杀死了她的负罪感中的话，那岂不是太糟糕了？他为什么会这样？他就不能有点人性，不能善良一些吗？

接到护士的电话后，斯托姆医生在九点半钟赶来了，他看上去神色凝重，解释着马血的效果可能会更好点，因为马血要比人血浓稠，将马血作为血清注入后不会那么容易引起排斥反应。海梅克因为自责以及满含悲伤不安的恐惧而激动不已。他敢肯定这一切都是由于他昨晚和这些天来的阴暗念头所造成的。自己骨子里是一个杀人犯吗？是一个害死了她的邪恶罪犯吗？可为什么要害死她呢？他昨晚为什么会想要她死呢？她的病情现在肯定十分危急。

“你一定要尽全力救他，”他现在这么对斯托姆医生说道，“不管怎样，她一定不能死，你一定要救救她。”

“不要担心，海梅克先生，”医生饱含同情地回答，“我们会竭尽全力的。你不必害怕。我想我们是因为昨天输的量还不够大，而且不管怎样人血还是不够粘稠。输血起了些疗效，但还不够强烈。我们今天会再想办法的。”

海梅克因为有工作在身，带着消沉悲伤的心情离开了。如今他再次决定不能再被这些负面的想法束缚了，无论顺不顺心，他必须摆脱这些邪恶的念头。这是罪恶的。他觉得这些邪念终将以某种方式报应到自己身上，也会影响到她。如果不是他这么抗拒的话，她肯定能康复的。无论要付出什么代价，他现在必须做出自我牺牲。这才是一个人应当做的。他现在为什么要抱怨，不管怎样，毕竟已经过了这么多年了！再多几年又有什么区别呢？傍晚时他怀揣着积极的想法回去了，而且从三点收到的电话留言中得知他妻子好多了。第二次输血产生的疗效显著多了。显然马血更适合她。她恢复了一些体力，又可以坐起来了。五点钟时他进了家门，看见躺在那儿的她依然苍白虚弱，但是眼神里流露出了更多的神采，脸颊也多了一些红润，或者说他是这么认为的。她朝他挤出了一丝微弱的笑容，病情明显好转了。斯托姆医生真是大善人！太神通广大了！要是她现在能康复就好了！要是包围着他的恐惧能减轻就好了！八点的时候斯托姆医生会再来一次。

“亲爱的，你还好吗？”她甜蜜又深情地望着他，握过他的手问道。

他俯身亲吻她的额头，他一直认为这是犹太之吻[2]，但今晚不是。今晚是他的真情流露，他激动地渴望她能活下去。

“我很好，亲爱的，真是太好了。你呢？外面的夜色真美。你应该快快康复，这样就能去享受春日美景了。”

“我会的，”她柔声回答，“我感觉好多了。你去哪了？工作还顺利吗？”

他点点头，微笑着说了点新鲜事给她听。埃塞贝妲打过电话说要带着紫罗兰来探望。韦斯利也说会和厄玛一起六点过来。大家都陆续来问候了她。他之前怎么可以产生那么罪恶的念头呢？他质问自己，难道自己希望她去死吗？她也没那么糟啊，她也有迷人的地方，是别人理想中的妻子，只是不是他理想中的而已。她也和他一样有活下去享受自己人生的权利，她毕竟是孩子们的母亲，这些年来一直和他生活在一起。而且天色如此之好，多么美妙的五月傍晚。清新的空气和湛蓝的天空都令人愉悦。淡紫色的薄雾笼罩在空中。响起的电话铃声带来了另一串对她身体状况的问候。女佣说这几天来都是这类问候电话，特别是今天，她给了海梅克先生一张名单。看，他觉得她的朋友比自己的还多，她善良、真诚、值得交往。为什么他要希望她生病呢？

埃塞贝妲和韦斯利到了以后，他坐下来与他们共进晚餐，他们非常融洽地聊着天，他比这几周以来都要乐观。那摇摆不定的思绪不再侵蚀着他，这一刻的他是快乐的。他们过得怎么样？孩子们都在干什么呢？八点半的时候斯托姆医生又来了，他说从各方面来看，海梅克夫人都恢复得非常理想。

“我得说她的情况相当乐观，”他说，“如果她再顺利度过一两晚病情不恶化的话，我想她此后就会恢复得很好。她的体力也在逐步恢复。不过我们也不能太过乐观。这类病例很不稳定。明天我们再看看她感觉如何，看看她是否还需要输血。”

他离开了，十点钟的时候埃塞贝妲和韦斯利也回家过夜了，说是如果病情恶化就打电话通知他们，现在又剩他独自一人。他坐着沉思。十一点了，在妻子身边小坐片刻后他独自上了床睡觉，因为这些天医生说要让她保持绝对安静。他累极了，他一直都很累，那些变化无端的念头（他称之为邪念）一直折磨着他，但今晚他觉得自己肯定能睡着。他自我感觉好多了，对生命的看法也明朗多了。他今天的表现不错，不应该再受那些负面想法的干扰了。而且，而且……

他躺在自己靠窗的床上朝外眺望，从那里能看到公园的小小一角，春日里的树木和往常一样在阳光下闪耀着银色光芒，远方是一小片湖泊。在城市里就算一星半点的森林景观也是极其难得而珍贵的。他年轻的时候非常喜欢水，任何小湖小溪或者小池塘都深得他心，他那时还喜欢月亮，喜欢行走在黑暗中。这些总是能令他想到爱与幸福，他一直渴求，却从未得到过的爱与幸福。有次他设计了一所游艇俱乐部，俱乐部的底部会让人联想到波浪。几年前他曾想过要设计一座心仪的小木屋或者小农舍给自己和那个美妙的新爱人，如果她会出现，而自己也是自由身的话。这一切该会是多么美妙啊。然而在现在这个时候想到这些，尤其是一切都已无可挽回的时候，真是太不应该了，太不道德了，应该遭到天谴。他把脸从月光下挪开，发出一声叹息。他决定睡觉，把这些陈旧、阴暗又甜蜜的思绪关在窗外，如果他能做到的话。他最终睡着了。

不久他便做起了梦，好像梦见了某个迷人的精灵——他一直以来追寻的美丽精灵——引领他走出了家门，沿着泛起涟漪的小溪和发出潺潺流水声的清澈河流，沿着一条宏伟的道路，道路上布满了白色大理石的寺庙和塔楼。他走啊走，似乎有人承诺过给他什么东西——一件他渴望的美妙事物，只是他走向的那个世界仍然黑暗或者阴暗，散发着一种悲伤和压抑的气氛，令人感到远处更加黑暗。他显然是在向美丽的事物走去，但是他仍然在苦苦搜寻，直到在黑暗中传来“海梅克先生！海梅克先生！”的呼唤声，那柔美的声音起初很神秘，接着越来越清晰，更多的是震撼人心，同时一只手搭在了他身上，“你能马上来吗？海梅克太太她……”

他立马站起来扯过挂在床头的蓝色丝质睡袍，一边匆忙走着一边穿上睡袍。埃尔夫里奇夫人和护士跟在他身后，脸色惨白，心慌意乱地绞着双手。他能看出最糟的情况发生了。他来到妻子的卧室，她躺在那儿，仿佛还活着，一动不动，神情安详平静，很柔弱无力，仿佛睡着一般。她那薄薄的，有时令他觉得冰冷的嘴唇微微张开，似乎浮现出一丝优雅的笑容。他有时也瞧见过她那样的笑容，真正安逸睿智的笑容，比她本人还要睿智。她纤细优雅的双手摊开着，手指微微分开，似乎在诉说她很累了，真的累了。她的眼皮沉重地覆盖在疲倦的眼眸上。她的身体和往常一样，透过纤薄的被单露出清楚的轮廓。夜班护士菲尔森小姐说自己只是打了一会儿瞌睡，醒来就已经发现她这样了。可能因为斯托姆医生的关系，她十分沮丧不安。

海梅克愣住了，仿佛一阵晴天霹雳，他被眼前的景象惊呆了。自从小埃尔维尔去世之后他还没有那么强烈地受到过打击。毕竟她也凭借自己的意志努力过了。但现在她死了，他们都一起生活那么久了！他走上前，怜悯的泪水涌上了他的眼眶，为了不沾湿她的右手，他转过了头，泪水洒落在了床边他的膝头。

“欧妮，亲爱的，”他温柔地说，“欧妮，你真的走了吗？”他的声音溢满了悲伤，但他自己听着既虚伪又不忠诚。

他举起手忧伤地放在唇边，然后把头靠在她身上，想起这么多天来那些冗长混乱的思绪，埃尔夫里奇夫人和护士也抹起了眼泪。她们为他深感难过，他都这么大年纪了！

过了一会，他站起身来——他们还是过来劝慰他——看上去悲痛到了极点，他让埃尔夫里奇夫人和护士先不要惊动孩子们。孩子们现在也爱莫能助，还是让他们休息到早上吧。然后他回到自己的房间，在床上坐了一会，凝视着先前吸引他的那片银白景色。这太糟了。所以说他的阴暗愿望最后还是实现了？致她于死地的也许就是他的负面想法。这有可能吗？他那无声的祷告以这种该死的方式得到了回应？她知道他的真正想法吗？那些阴暗的念头。她现在又在哪儿呢？如果她在天有灵会想些什么呢？她会不会恨他，缠上他？天还未破晓，现在刚刚凌晨两三点钟，月光依旧十分明亮。苍白冰凉的她躺在隔壁房间，她永远地从他的生命中离开了。

过了一会儿，他起身走到自己经常坐着的客厅，然后又回到妻子的房间看了一眼她的遗体。现在妻子已经离开了，因此他在妻子的遗体面前，比在其它任何地方都更能整理自己凌乱的思绪。她也许看得到，也许看不到，也许有知觉，也许又没有。一些都已经结束了。只不过他体会到了些许的罪恶感。就算没有别的，但是她至少也对他和孩子们那么的忠心和真诚。最后的这些日子里他本不应该对她产生这些阴暗的想法。他经常没法处理那些混乱的情感。但与此同时，在他能够得到平静前，那些过去的道德伦理，那些和她有关的负面情绪都必须得到调节。必须要得到调节，只是怎么做，该怎么做呢？他和埃尔夫里奇一致同意今晚不去叫醒斯托姆医生了。他们都决定要为了明天早晨而休息好。

又过了一会儿他再次来到客厅坐下，凝视着公园。也许在这里他才能解开心中的谜团，发现自己真正的感受。他对自己一直以来的想法和愿望抱有罪恶感。但是他也有自己的故事——他自己的人生。天空开始破晓，东方泛出一丝鱼肚白，微弱的光芒照进了房间。他在两扇窗户之间的壁挂镜里看到了自己的身影——瘦骨嶙峋、衣冠不整、须发蓬乱、神色疲惫。他的这副形象和他梦想中自由后的幸福生活相映衬，令他深感震撼。多么荒唐！多么失败！为什么就连自由了，他仍然继续妄想爱情中的幸福呢？看看镜子里的他吧。这是怎样的一副画面哟——苍老、灰白、精疲力竭！他一直以来都不知道吗？是不是太可笑了点？他为什么要容忍自己那些毫无意义的想法呢？他现在又能期待些什么呢？美丽的事物不再要他了，当然不再要他了。他年轻时的绚丽梦想一去不复返了。都是些海市蜃楼，风中幻影。他的妻子是死是活对他来说跟本没有区别。只是不管他的心情再怎么变化，他现在真的自由了。但他已经老了，精疲力竭了，成了一个丑陋的隐士。

现在他迅速感受到了生活内在的残酷，感受到了生活对他和其他许多人的冷漠。他得到过什么？又失去了什么？他凄凉地看着自己长满皱纹的暗沉皮肤，看着自己眼梢的鱼尾纹，看着自己前额上和双眼间的皱纹，看着自己暗沉、修长、满是皱纹的双手，看着自己已经瘦削僵硬的躯体。他想，自己那双手也曾经漂亮过啊；自己曾经也是个知名人物啊，曾经也引人注目、精力充沛、活力四射啊。可是现在呢！他转头眺望长着小树的公园，然后把视线转移到湖上，接着又转向淡红色的晨曦。这一抹晨曦本身在这个时刻多么意味深长啊！这抹新生的晨曦，对于年轻人来说多么崭新的晨曦。他的视线最后又回到了镜中的自己身上。他现在还能期盼什么呢？

这时他又回想起了那个梦境——那个奇怪的梦境，他在梦里寻找，在梦里被引导，他得到了承诺，可却一直被引导向一个更加昏暗的地方。那有什么含义呢？有真正的意义吗？一切只会更加黑暗吗？这象征了他的生活吗？他思索着。

“自由！”片刻后他说道，“自由！我现在知道什么是自由了！我现在自由了！终于自由了！……自由！没错……自由！自由地……去死！”

他站在那儿，捋着头发和胡须陷入了沉思。

[1] 这里指像他妻子这样的女人。

[2] 犹太之吻：指虚伪、肤浅的吻。

圣哥伦巴与大河

第一次在早晨看见大河自曙光消隐的天边一路向西奔流的时候，丹尼斯·迈格拉瑟瑞并未被这样的景象打动——或者不如说他虽有所触动，但并未发出赞叹。天空中正猛烈地下着雨夹雪，雨幕下的河流看上去灰暗阴沉。河面上各种大大小小的船只和渡轮在汹涌的波涛中穿梭，巨大的轮船和漫长的防洪堤壮观而神秘，成群的鸥鸟发出尖利的鸣叫，雾钟叮当作响……但他并不喜欢水。这只会令他想起从爱尔兰出发后在轮船上度过的那十一个痛苦的上吐下泻的日子。想当初他在逃离神秘的埃利斯岛的时候曾经踌躇满志，大步流星地走在巴特里干燥的陆地上，手里提着布袋大声宣告：“谢天谢地，跟它们玩儿完了。”

他觉得自己确实从骨子里就怕水。但是命运啊，唉，这命运可不要跟着他一辈子哟。事实是从某种意义上来说，水似乎一直阴魂不散地缠着他。他在爱尔兰克莱尔郡的时候就一直是个挖沟工人——一份和水搭边的工作。如今在美国，他一度在布鲁克林安定下来之后找到了一份远超预期的好工作，工作地点是一个正在排水的沼泽，到处都是湿泥和水塘——你看，又是和水有关。他还是得挖管道。有一次他和工程队的工友们正在一条挖开的下水道里干活，突然下起了骇人的倾盆大雨，汹涌的水流险些把他们全部淹死。大雨过后下水道成了一个蓄水池，他和另外三十个人忙着清理其中的两节被分隔墙隔开的区域，就在他们刚刚把其中一半清理干净，而另一半还有满满一池水的时候，分隔墙断裂了，他爬上陡峭的堤坝，又一次捡回了一条命。当时他脑子里的第一个念头就是水——各种各样的水，海水或者淡水——实在是和他命中相克。而在这个灰蒙蒙下着雨的11月的清晨，他站在这里面对着这条大河，按照商定的目标准备到一条隧道里去挖管道。

尽管他内心带着偏见和恐惧，却还是来了，说起这个事，完全是因为在过去三年里担任他的工头，同时还是他教会教友的托马斯·卡瓦诺偶然间给了迈格拉瑟瑞一个梦想，他告诉迈格拉瑟瑞，如果他能去隧道工作，并且坚持做下去，努力表现得足够勤奋勇敢，那么就极有可能晋升到一个级别高一点的工种——也就是仿水泥工艺的砖瓦工或者抹灰工，甚至更好的话还可以进入钢板连接行当，那是铁工的其中一门手艺，一天的工资至少能有12美元。想想看吧——一天12美元！在美国的隧道工程里从事这种行业和手艺的人很是稀缺，需求量很大。也就是这个卡瓦诺，就要到一条隧道里当工头了，以后也会是他的工头，会照顾他。当然这需要时间和耐心。人总是要从底层干起的——就像在75英尺以下的哈德逊河底，那可得小心翼翼地从非常”底层”的地方开始挖。迈格拉瑟瑞当初用犹疑而又热切的眼光审视过他的这位上司兼恩人。

“真是你说的那么回事吗？”有一次他这么问道。

“是啊，那当然了。你以为我说啥呢？”

“你能保证吗？”

“错不了。”

“好吧，看样子这是个好工作。大概吧。你说刚开始是一天5美元？”

“没错，一天5美元。”

“好吧，像我这样的家伙再也找不到比这更赚钱的差事了，是吧？这次不会再让我遭罪了吧，也可能还是会遭一点罪。”

“这回能让你堂堂正正做人。”

“行，我跟你去。对，我要跟你一块儿干。我上哪儿也赚不到一天5美元。你什么时候上那儿去接应我？”

这位老工头穿着黄色工装裤，齐及大腿根的长筒橡胶靴沾满了污泥，他带着亲切和蔼的笑意看着迈格拉瑟瑞，迈格拉瑟瑞同时也带着仰慕和敬畏的眼光打量他，他很少带着这种仰慕的目光去看待别人，除非这个人恰好是他的教区牧师，因为他本身是一个虔诚的天主教徒，又或者是他所在的选区里可以保障就业的政治候选人。他们都是多么了不起的人啊，诚然，他们都是他生命中的领路人。

就这样，在这个特别的早晨，工程刚刚开工不久，他必须去这条大河边一条新井道下方的某处向托马斯·卡瓦诺报到，然后才能开工。

“没错，这就不是娘儿们干的活儿，”他注意到井口有个工友，对方差不多同时也注意到了他，那人正准备顺着梯子沉降到下方的过渡平台，平台下方又是一段梯子和另一个平台，再往下，底下有一盏黄灯。”你是说卡瓦诺先生在下面吗？”

“对，”这位陌生人头也不抬地回答，”你会在底下的第二个闸口那里找到他。你是来这儿干活的？”

“是的。”

“那就一块儿来吧。”

迈格拉瑟瑞带上了自己的橡胶靴和一套旧工装等一大捆家伙，肩上扛着锄头和铲子跟着下去了。他到了井道底部，在由横梁架设起来的巨大橡木台面上站稳脚，还有其他的几个人在那儿等着调试气压，准备进入闸口。他震惊地看到一扇沉重的铁门，两边随着气压变化极其缓慢地开启，里面是一个比外面小一点但仍然可以说是十分宽阔的空间。只有一支汽油火把在里面闪烁摇曳。不知从什么地方传来一阵哨音。

“伙计，在空气高压下干过活儿吗？”一个体型魁梧的铁工问道，他用和善的目光打量着迈格拉瑟瑞。

“空气什么？”迈格拉瑟瑞反问道，他完全不得要领，但又嘴硬，”没有，没干过。”

“那好，你现在就在高气压下了，每平方英寸2千磅，感觉到了吗？”

丹尼斯感觉到了耳膜和喉咙的异样，其实他并不知道这种感觉和气压之间的关系，不过还是装着明白的样子。”是空气，对吧？”他问道，”我的感觉怪得很。”嘶嘶响的哨音消失了。

“新来的，你可得小心啊，”另一个美国人自告奋勇冒出来说道，”别急着冲进去，不然你会得’减压病’的。”

丹尼斯不知道什么是”减压病”，于是他没有回答。

“你知道什么是‘减压病’吗，新来的？”另一个人继续挑衅。

“不知道，”沉默了一会儿，丹尼斯尴尬地回答。他感觉到他们好奇的审视和挑唆的目光像团火苗一样包围着他。

“好吧，等你害了这个病你就知道了——咳！咳！”说这话的是另一个之前没有开过腔的砖瓦工，他做出滑稽的弯腰弓背的样子，闸道里有一大帮工人，”这是因为加压或者减压过快造成的，它会让你肌肉痉挛，神经抽痛，要是得过这个病你就明白了。”

“知道那个隧道工艾迪·斯劳德吗？”另一个人兴冲冲地接过话茬，”他就是在贝尔维尤得了这个病死的，就在他们从十四大街街尾开始动工的时候。天啊，你真该听听他的惨叫声！我跑过去亲眼看到的。”

这还真是个好消息！他就这样开始了对这条隧道的了解，这种危险卡瓦诺可从来没有提到过。他三言两语就打动了迈格拉瑟瑞。看吧，现在他来了，和大家一起在闸门的背面用力打开这扇门，气压没有伤到他，到目前为止他还活着，隧道里尽管散乱地堆满了横梁、板材、一包包水泥以及一堆堆砖头，但是墙面却非常干净，他穿过隧道进入另一个和刚才相同的闸道，然后从另一端出来——那里互相交叉的各种横梁和支架构成了一个错综复杂的网络，六盏巨大的汽油灯光芒耀眼，发出嘈杂的哨音，一团巨大的黑影在这片光明中赫然浮现，犹如大河之上的一块陆地，那是卡瓦诺，他穿着一件红色短毛衣，一双硕大的橡胶靴，棕黄色的呢帽调皮地下拉盖过两耳。他正在和另外两个工头，还有一个穿着考究的人谈话，那个人看上去气度不凡——毫无疑问是个工程师。

衣着光鲜的绅士对迈格拉瑟瑞来说是多么遥远啊！在他看来他们简直就是另外一个世界的生物。

在这段闸道的另一头还有一群上夜班的工人，他们从前一天晚上一直待到现在，才刚刚准备离开，带领这队人（包括挖沟工、链接工、挑土工、还有钢板铆接工）的是另一个工头，他们的工作是在河底安全地强行打开一条通道，这是项既粗重又处处惊险的工作。这地方拥挤不堪，又闷又脏，汽油灯散发着热量，黑乎乎的污泥沾满各处。卡瓦诺跨过一道道横梁找到了丹尼斯。

“你总算来了！这些人刚刚才出来！”他朝前方隧道的尽头挥了挥手，”过来，丹尼斯，到那根柱子那边去把那个角挖开。杰里会帮你的。你把泥巴铲到平台上，然后我们就运到这儿来。”

迈格拉瑟瑞照着他的话做了。他越过木头框架，在隧道尽头的最前方依稀看到了洞顶的泥土墙面，他在那里找到了自己的位置。凭借健壮的手臂、背肌、双脚和双腿，他把铁锹铲进了厚重的泥土里，铲不动的就用锄头先锄松，然后把土抛到上面的原木平台上，另一些人在那里把土铲到手推车里，沿着粗糙的木板台面运回闸道，然后再运出去。这是个慢活儿、脏活儿，但不算太麻烦，只要不去想头顶上那条沉重的大河，它汹涌的波涛和在雨中穿梭的船只，还有那些鸥鸟和雾钟。不知道为什么，迈格拉瑟瑞总是对在自己的头顶上方负荷着厚重的泥土和水流感到极度地不安，他对此深感恐惧。也许他是被丰厚的酬劳冲昏了头脑？万一发生塌方，万一他头顶上的泥土突然塌陷把他活埋了——洞顶上方黑乎乎的土和他手上正在用铁锹翻动的可是一样厚重的。

“嗨，丹尼斯，别站在那儿看洞顶了，它伤不着你的。你可不是来这儿照看洞顶的，这事儿归我，你只管在铁锹上使劲儿就行了。”

不远处传来卡瓦诺的声音。迈格拉瑟瑞不知不觉间竟停下来凝视上方了。一小块土掉了下来砸在他的背上。万一！万一！

啊，读者们得知道，隧道工程虽然有趣，但却是所有已知的劳工行业里最危险、最紧张刺激的工作之一。就拿目前的水下隧道来说，其关键就在于，至少在往后的日子里他们要下降到那些巨大的竖井里，这些竖井位于河流、湖泊、海峡的两端或一侧，探向水底深处（大约离海平面有100英尺深），他们要下降到，比如说水面以下30英尺吧，从河底的两个端点开始挖掘，直到在中间某处挖通。这些外部端点之间的准确连接和精确接合据说已经是一种纯熟的测绘工程。迈格拉瑟瑞对这些也只有非常模糊的理解，但即便如此也不能令他稍微振奋一些。

应该说干这活儿的人的安全以及安全的可能性首先取决于每一条隧道的入口，也就是竖井的井基，其次是在隧道推进的过程中，那些相隔一百多米的巨大圆柱形闸道，还有沉重的铁闸门——也就是气闸，每个闸口都有一扇大门，圆周至少有15英尺，这扇向内关闭的大门面向海岸，惊人而强大的气压不断地和来自洞外河岸上的发动机互相抵消，使得大门难以被冲开。正是靠着这套和水闸一样精妙的系统，这些大门才得以完全打开。也就是说，工人们下到竖井里并想要进入隧道，就必须先通过其中的一条闸道，闸道里会逐渐填充空气，直到气压和更深处的隧道主要部分所保持的气压相同。达到了气压值，他们就可以轻松地向内推开闸门，得以安全地进入隧道。就这样，倘若所有这些程序都完成了，他们就可以在里面走动、说话，然后在大概100英尺或者更远一点，他们将会遇到另一条闸道。

据使用过这种方法的人说，闸道是分工段的，一段通向河岸，远处的另一段通向河流中心。调控的方法先是铃绳，然后是电话，再往后是电信号——这意味着各扇闸门的开启需要根据闸道里的气压来决定。如果闸道里的气压和你所在的工段不同，你就无法打开闸门（怎么都打不开），那么你就可以拉铃绳，或不停地按按钮，根据你所在的位置，调试到和你所在工段相同的气压，然后你就可以把闸门打开了。这就像过去的水闸，它会根据你的信号增减气压，这样你就可以向外或者向内进入下一个工段。即使是在好多年前，所有这一切就已经被调控到非常精细的程度了。

挖这样一条隧道似乎挺安全的——至少对迈格拉瑟瑞来说，他已经开始在这儿工作了。进展顺利的时候工程能以每天两英尺甚至三英尺的速度推进，但是这些扛着凿子和铲子的汉子们不得不经常停工休息，因为要建支柱、木架、设置基面，更别提还会碰上意料不到的岩石，因此不得不把它们挖开搬走，或者比挖土好一点，他们转而去帮木工建横梁和支架来确保墙壁的安全，因此丹尼斯学到了很多木工组装的手艺，甚至学会了钻孔。

然而，尽管收入增加了，但在一条大河下工作的事实却始终是令他内心恐惧的一桩心事。他的工作环境吉凶难料。随着隧道在河床下越来越向深处下沉，总有一天他会身处硬黑泥、软泥、淤泥、还有沙子中。此外，有时候这些泥沙会大面积塌陷，虽然还不至于在洞顶形成漏洞，但已经足够砸断一个工人的背，或者把他半截埋在泥里，砸断工人脊背的通常是头顶的横梁。他在这里干了七个月之后，完全适应了工作的状态，并且技术提升飞快，以至于被公认为是他这个活计里最胜任的工人。但有一天意想不到的事发生了。

那一天早上八点，他和工友们下到竖井里，在两个刚刚立起的新地基支柱那里干活，当时他注意到，或者说他觉得自己注意到了，地面比平时要潮湿，黏糊糊湿嗒嗒的，很难处理。再也没有比碰到地下泉眼更糟的事了。此外，前方那里正好挂着一盏汽油灯，借着灯光，他注意到洞顶似乎有银白色的光，而且还冒着气泡。他把这个情况告诉了站在一旁的卡瓦诺。

“没错，”他的工头盯着上方，怀疑地说道，”是很潮湿，大概是气泵出了问题，我得去确认一下。”说完他打发人去告诉工程师。

井道监工亲自过来了。

“上面一切正常，”他说，”气压是每平方英寸2000磅。你要这么说的话，那我就再加大一点。”

“你最好这么做，”卡瓦诺回答，”洞顶情况不对劲，要是你看到亨德森先生，让他下来一趟，我想跟他商量一下。”

“好的。”监工说完就走了。

迈格拉瑟瑞和其他人起初很是焦虑，但现在稍稍安心了，于是继续干活儿。但他们脚下的地面越来越泥泞，洞顶开始有白霜落下来，甚至开始滴水，接着，一大片湿泥掉了下来。

“快后退，伙计们！”

不等卡瓦诺喊出声来，人们就早已四散惊逃了，他们常年在危险的环境下机敏地讨生活，对滴水和落土都格外警惕。同时一根横梁发出了不祥的吱嘎声，预示着一触即发的灾难。紧接着人们慌乱地冲向60英尺外的闸道。工具最先被弃之不顾，抛散一地。工人们在横梁间跌跌撞撞，互相推搡，在夺路而逃时摔在了水里和泥里，这其中，迈格拉瑟瑞一马当先。

“开门！开门！”他们跑到闸门那儿的时候有个声音在叫喊，有人已经从另一头进到了闸道里——是工程师。”求求你了，开门！”但这没法儿那么快，至少还要一段时间。”洞顶塌了！”有人恐慌地喊道，是个铁匠。

“上帝啊，漏水了！”这是一个泥瓦匠的声音，这时远处的三盏灯被湿泥浇灭了。迈格拉瑟瑞几乎要被吓死了，他出了一身的冷汗，这就是一天五美元的代价！他真该彻头彻尾地远离水。难道他还不知道吗？水总是带给他厄运。

“怎么回事？怎么回事？”已经疯掉了的工程师大喊大叫，他根本不知道外面出了什么问题，他把门推开了。

“快出去！”

“看在上帝的份儿上，让我们进去！”

“关上门！”六个已经跑到安全地带的人以为这门可以立刻关上。

“等等！卡瓦诺还在门外！”有人说——这肯定不是迈格拉瑟瑞，他此刻正蜷缩在角落里。他实在太恐惧了，完全顾不上他的工头的命运。

“就让卡瓦诺去死吧！把门关上！”另一个人尖叫道，这是个高大的铁工，恐惧令他丧失了良知。

“我命令让卡瓦诺进来！”工程师说。

此时迈格拉瑟瑞生平第一次意识到了责任感，但不是很强烈。他太恐惧了。这就是他来到这里以后得到的一切。他了解卡瓦诺——没错，卡瓦诺是他的朋友。他在这次或其它工作中没有保护过他吗？毫无疑问有的。但就是卡瓦诺说服他上这儿来工作的，而这次他错了，他本来不该这么做的。尽管如此恐惧，他还是有足够的哥们儿义气意识到如果把卡瓦诺关在门外是不对的。然而，他能怎么办——他孤立无援。就在他这么想着的时候，工人们正在一拥而上要把卡瓦诺关在门外，他们亟不可待地要确保自身的安全，但他们迎面碰上的是手持寒光闪闪的左轮手枪的工头

“谁敢把我和凯利关在门外我就毙了他。”大个子工头拽着和他一起站在泥水里的凯利怒吼着，一把把他扔进闸道里，自己随后一跃而入，转过身无声地关上了门。

迈格拉瑟瑞被这个英勇的场面震惊了。在如此危险的情形下力挽狂澜并拯救另外一个人！卡瓦诺比他原来以为的还要优秀和善良——真是个响当当的汉子——而不是像他这样的懦夫。但为什么卡瓦诺明知道他怕水却还是说服他到这儿来呢？如今却出了这样的事。门里的他们都蜷缩着——除了卡瓦诺——他们如此清晰地听见门外传来木材断裂和刺耳的砖块摩擦的声音，那里原本有横梁、钢铁和他们的求生通道，如今只有黑暗、水以及河流的威力，其实那里自始至终都只有这些东西。

迈格拉瑟瑞看着眼前的一切，意识到了他深信不疑的事实，首先他就是一个真正的懦夫，其次挖隧道不是他该干的差事。他告诉自己，他根本就不适合这种工作。”这是最后一次了，”在他和其他人一起安全地爬出来并绝望地在闸道下方等待了10分钟以后，他下了这个结论，”天呐，我以为我们都没命了，真是万幸。我再也不会下去了，我受够了。”他打了个小算盘——总共是600美元——这是他攒的钱，还有一个姑娘在布鲁克林等着嫁给他。”我再也不干了！”

但是就当时的情形，这份工作不能再发生这种近在眉睫的危险了。塌方花了承包商一大笔钱，另外也让他们明白了到目前为止单靠气压和支架不足以建好隧道，必须设计一套新的系统了。头尾两段隧道的工作都搁置了一年半，在此期间迈格拉瑟瑞结了婚，生了孩子，他的600美元储蓄也花得差不多了。一天2美元和一天5美元之间的差异是可想而知的。顺带一提的是，出于对自己的某种羞耻感，这段时间他没有和他的老工头来往，因为他当时的表现不是那么光彩。之前卡瓦诺差不多一直会给他活干，觉得他忠诚而努力，但现在因为他在一个新手团队里，有几周他和其他几个人根本没有活儿可干，他的工资少到了一天只有一块五。这不太如他的意。而且他私底下有一种想法，觉得自己如果当时能表现得更有勇气一点，在那之后或者当时就去和他的老工头谈一谈，那么现在的工资可能会高一点。唉，他当时没有这么做，如果现在去说，那么卡瓦诺肯定会问他为什么会那么彻底地没了音信。就这样，尽管他婚姻幸福，但贫困却开始压迫着他。第二个和第三个孩子出生了——是一对双胞胎。

就在这个时候，那位事故当天卡瓦诺要求找来咨询的工程师亨德森设计出了一套新的隧道系统，也就是后来闻名于世的导流隧洞。那是一段10英尺长15英尺宽的铁管——和隧道同宽，铁管与隧道在同一横截面上，以隧道线为轴在前方向地下铺设。当隧道在地下往前推进的同时，泥土也一起被移除了。这样清理出来的空间就像马车轮子的轮毂。横梁就像辐条一样从中心像四周辐射，周围的土方由坚实的铁板负重。有了这个设计后，原来的公司决定重新承包工程。

有一天晚上，他坐在自家门口翻着一份晚报，但是却心不在焉，他早就看过这份报纸了。报纸上说亨德森先生还像以前那样负责这项工程，顺带也提到了托马斯·卡瓦诺将作为两位领班工头的其中一位回到工程队里来，工程马上就要开工了。迈格拉瑟瑞不由地心头一震，要是卡瓦诺还愿意召他回去就好了。确实，正如他所认为的，他曾经差一点就送了命，然而毕竟还活着。事故既没有毁灭任何一个生命，也没有毁灭任何一个灵魂。假如卡瓦诺能够得到这样的机会并把握住，为什么他还如此恐惧呢？他还能上哪儿去赚一天5美元呢？但他仍然有一种挥之不去的感觉，他觉得迟早有一天，大海，还有大海周围的陆地和支流会带给他巨大的伤害——也许会要了他的命。他有一种反复出现的感觉，觉得自己在水里浮浮沉沉，他还有一种说不清道不明的预感，觉得自己会被软泥吞没，缓慢地窒息。这太可怕了。

但是相对于一天只有一块五或者2美元或者甚至一分钱都没有，一天5美元的收入，还有作为一个隧道工人的有保障的未来（即”隧道挖掘工“，他听说这是像他这样的工人的正式叫法），这一切对他来说既是一种诱惑，同时也令他颇费踌躇。毕竟，除了在卡瓦诺手下学着干活他没有其它出路。更糟的是他不是工会的人，而且他的积蓄也已经花光了，他还有妻子和三个孩子。他和妻子做了无数次毫无头绪的讨论。隧道无疑是危险的，但是！她同意他的看法，最好不干，但——毕竟是一天5美元，也许是7美元，反正不是2美元，他们都知道这个区别是很大的，这笔钱能让他们的生活得宽裕些。迈格拉瑟瑞明白这一点。他在经过了长时间的犹豫以后，决定自己也许最好还是回去。毕竟其它时候并没有发生什么事故，但也可能再次发生，是这样吗？他思忖着。

迈格拉瑟瑞的天性里极为突出的一个特点显然就是迷信。他相信自己命里和水相克，他也相信各种各样的男女神明的力量会帮助他、保佑他。迈格拉瑟瑞和他年轻的妻子是南布鲁克林的圣哥伦巴教堂的虔诚信徒，这座教堂里有一尊以这位圣徒的名字命名的石膏像，这位圣徒和圣帕特里克同样位列十二使徒[1]。在迈格拉瑟瑞位于香浓河河畔的家乡——克莱尔郡的基尔拉什镇上，有一位神明在过去的几个世纪里一直被膜拜着，至少可以说极度地尊崇着——那就是圣帕特里克，那里的居民认为这位神明庇护着海上或者危险水域中的人们。这大概是因为基尔拉什是河畔小镇，所以需要一位这样的圣人。不管怎么说，在迈格拉瑟瑞小的时候偶尔也会有人向这位圣人祈求其它一些事情的庇佑。比如说几年前出发前往美国的时候，他就听从母亲的建议向这位圣人做了九天的连祷，恳求他保佑自己安全渡海，以及到了美国以后马到成功。好吧，他是安全到了美国，也觉得自己确实够成功的了。至少没有死在哪一条隧道里。于是他双膝跪地，在面前的烛台上点起了两只祷告用的蜡烛，往贴着”圣哥伦巴孤儿院”签条的箱子里投进了半美元，最后他问这位圣人，他眼下身不由己，万一自己真的回去做地下隧道的工作，是否能慈悲为怀保佑他？他确信由于自己一向是卡瓦诺最中意的工人，因此一旦他向卡瓦诺提出申请，只要有空缺，卡瓦诺就一定不会吝惜给他一席之地的。事实上他知道卡瓦诺一向视他为得力助手。

在跪着念了七遍”我们天上的父”和七遍”万福玛利亚”，并额外地念了一连串的圣母，然后在胸前划了十字，重新振奋起了精神。他的脑海里浮现了一种愉快的信念，觉得自己再也不会被水的力量所伤害了。这是一个启示——也许是人神之间的直接对话。无论如何，某种东西告诉他赶在工程顺利开展之前立刻去找卡瓦诺，无需担忧，因为不会再有坏事发生在他身上了，另外，如果他再继续拖延下去的话，即便他如此渴望得到这份工作，最终也很可能错失良机。他匆匆忙忙地跑出教堂，赶到了海边，废弃的竖井依然屹立在那里，卡瓦诺的确就在那儿，正在和亨德森先生谈话。

“呦——你干啥来了？”他戏谑地问迈格拉瑟瑞，因为他猜到了他之所以离开的原因。

“我从报上看到你们又要开工挖隧道了。”

“没错，咋啦？”

“我在想没准儿你能给我个差事。我现在结婚了，还有了三个孩子。”

“你寻思这是给你差事的好理由，是吧？”老工头尖刻地问道，带着一丝嘲弄，”我以为你说过你和大海玩儿完了——彻彻底底拉倒了。”

“我是这么说过，但我改主意了。我现在需要这个差事。”

“那很好，”卡瓦诺说，”我们每天早上开工。你七点准点来，给我记着，别再慌慌张张东瞧西望的，我们现在是安全施工，今非昔比了，没啥危险了。”

迈格拉瑟瑞感激地看着他的老上司，然后就走了，第二天他来上工时还是有些疑虑，但是心甘情愿。圣哥伦巴明确地预示过他会一切顺利的——但作为一个凡人，即使是在最伟大的圣人的庇佑下，也还是有理由存有几分疑虑的。他和其他几个人一起下井并开始清理隧道里最近的工段，一开始都是水，然后露出了软泥和粘土块。他帮着安装了新的导流洞，和旧的那套系统相比，这个新系统明显有了巨大的改进。一切无疑是安全的。迈格拉瑟瑞试着向极其关心自己的妻子解释这种优越性，而且他每天早上出门和晚上下工回家时都会顺路进圣哥伦巴教堂去做一个短暂的默祷。尽管他作了九天连祷，也明白圣人的力量，但即便有圣哥伦巴，他还是对头顶上方那条可怕的河流以及可能发生的事感到担忧，善心的圣人也有可能因为一些迈格拉瑟瑞单方面犯的错误而改变他的主意。

当然了，一天又一天，一周又一周，几个月过去了，并没有事情发生。在卡瓦诺的指挥下，工程进展迅速，迈格拉瑟瑞和他适时地再次成为了朋友，迈格拉瑟瑞是一位基面行家和支架工，他是最优秀的工人之一，完全有资格拿一天7美元的工钱，然而他却没能拿到这样的价码。偶尔他们会从白班被调到夜班，从某种角度来说夜班更受重视。卡瓦诺和亨德森之间不时地有一些长时间的谈话，讨论关于这份工作的性质和危险，卡瓦诺和公司的其他前来视察的官员给了迈格拉瑟瑞相当多的指点。仍旧不变的是，头顶上依然是那条大河——他偶尔能感觉到河流的涌动，冲击着厚厚的泥层，在他们借着导流洞的掩护挖掘时，也冲击着他们头顶和脚下的软泥。

然而好几个月过去了，还是没有事情发生。他们畅通无阻地挖通了1000英尺。迈格拉瑟瑞开始感到非常放松了。这套新系统确实显得相当安全。他每天晚上下井，白天升井，一如往常地硬朗和健康，每两周的周二就会有一只信封交到他的手上，里面装着颇为可观的72美元，想想看吧，72美元！当然了，出于对圣哥伦巴的感激，他对圣哥伦巴孤儿院总是慷慨解囊的，每个月都捐一美元，还有每个周日早上大弥撒结束后，他都会在神龛前点上一支新蜡烛，他还在古斯格里克的河滨买了两块空地——到时——总有那么一天，上帝保佑，他准备盖一幢农舍样式的冬夏小别墅。但他后来又想——天啊，也有可能是由于他得到了原本不应得到的宽裕，他得意忘形了，或许他不应得到圣人如此精心的照拂。无论如何，也许在某个晚上，就算有圣哥伦巴的保佑——这条肮脏阴郁的河流还是会再次给他带来厄运，一个真正可怕的厄运——或许圣哥伦巴只是为了向迈格拉瑟瑞显示自己的神力才护持他成全他？

日子就这样过着。有一天，半夜里他们在导流洞内的新支架下干活儿，发生了可怕的事。他们日以继夜地挖通导流洞，一旦挖出足够的空间，就紧跟着在后方架设铁质平板，就目前而言，每平方英尺2000磅的压力足以支撑这些顶板，顶板架设以后水泥工跟着安装一个拱门，没有一条河能压垮这道拱门。而导流洞后方铁顶板和河底淤泥相接的地方，有个从工程一开始就存在的隐患。卡瓦诺总是在那个位置盘桓着，观察着，敦促大家要小心——就如同他说的，”大意不得啊！”。

“别磨蹭，伙计们！”他总是这么催促着，”快跟上！跟上！带上螺栓！快点儿，快，带上你们的铆钉枪——快！快！”

可怜的人们啊！他们在河底的工作如此艰难，一旦挖出相应的空间就立刻分段装钢板！这当然是因为每一处新挖出来的地方都极有可能发生塌方。他们在这黑暗的湿泥坑洞里点着几盏刺眼的电弧灯，就这样埋头苦干着，汗流浃背，气喘吁吁，还咒骂个不停——这就是所谓的隧道新技术！他们光着上身，裤子和长靴上沾满泥浆，胳膊和前胸后背全是泥，全身都湿透了，他们头发蓬乱，视线模糊——这是艺术家狂乱的梦境，这是地狱尽头般的苦役——他们就这么干着。而他们的头顶就是大河，大西洋的航轮在那里停靠，和他们相隔的土层只有30英尺或15英尺，或许有时候只有10英尺，试想一下，维持着他们和这薄薄的一层土之间的是每平方英寸2000磅的气压——他们只能靠着这个来避免河水倾泻，避免像一群老鼠一样被淹死！

“跟上！跟上！跟上！螺栓！还有铆钉枪！行了！进来，约翰尼！现在再挖一遍！”

卡瓦诺催促的声音对他们来说就像是音乐，赐予他们能量，是他们的劳动号子，他们的动力，他们的《伏尔加河船歌》[2]。

但也有几次，实际上是一连几个小时，导流洞进展缓慢，遇上了前方麻烦的土层，这种土层大面积接触头顶上方河床上的持续涡流，他们也只好放任不管。渗漏、湿泥气泡、落土层出不穷，这些都会引来卡瓦诺和亨德森到现场，同时引起巨大的恐慌，直到险情被排除。洞里的空气气流向上升腾，在洞顶淤泥间冲出孔隙。但这些孔隙总是能被粘土堵上，或者，如果情况越来越糟，就用装着刨花或垃圾的袋子堵上，从外面施加的气压足以撑住这些地方，只要这些缺口不是太大。即使当”所有人手”都直接去撑头顶上的平板，也会有一个人被勒令去”看着点儿”。

然而赶夜工还要考虑到一个问题，包括卡瓦诺和迈格拉瑟瑞在内的28个工人从傍晚六点进入隧道就持续工作到午夜，在坚持不懈地奋力苦干之后，会有七个人（他们用抽签的方法分派出这七个人）被允许去隧道口附近的一个通宵酒吧喝一杯，吃点儿东西。每一组的限定时间是半小时，时间一到就有另一组人离开工段。晚上十二点到凌晨两点之间，每隔半小时总是会有一个令人不安的过渡时间，在这段时间里有一组人离开，另一组返回，这很容易因一时的疏忽而导致险情发生，卡诺瓦总是预计轮替时间到了就跑过来，因此那儿总会有他盯着。

但是偏偏在这个晚上，当时负责监视缺口的挖沟工人约翰·道和刚从酒吧回来的里克·穆萨换了班，穆萨的脑子里还装着刚才的啤酒和吧台。他本来该牢牢盯着的，但他刚刚痛饮了四杯啤酒，只顾着回味啤酒的滋味，还有和啤酒一样销魂的熏肠，并且还忙着和几个准备去酒吧的人开玩笑，所以他竟忘记了。这会儿——没人管那个总是要有个人盯着的该死的地方！会发生什么事儿？能有什么事儿？理所当然没事儿。在过去的八个月里发生过什么事儿吗？

这是什么？传来一个类似蒸汽喷发的声音。与此同时，卡瓦诺正在导流洞外向迈格拉瑟瑞和另一个人交代某个支架应该安装在什么地方，以便导流洞能够继续推进几英尺来安装一块新的顶板，这时他听到了这个声音。他一跃而起穿过导洞中心跑回了洞里，他的脸因为恐惧和愤怒而涨得通红。是谁疏忽了观察缺口？

“快过来！该死的这是怎么回事？”他几乎是咆哮了起来，但同时他看到了一个大缺口瞬间豁开，一大股水流倾泻而下，他的精神崩溃了，恐惧击溃了他。

“伙计们快回来！快堵住漏水！”

这既是惊恐的呼喊，也是勇士的吼叫。这声音里不仅仅有恐惧，也有绝望。他当然希望能够防患于未然，但在发生险情之前，那个漏洞本该用一包木屑堵上（帕特里克·穆萨本该这么做的），现在却迅速地扩大成一条缝，肮脏的河水像小型尼亚加拉瀑布一样和泥沙一起倾泻而下。正当卡瓦诺跑过来抓起一个木屑包去堵豁口时，一大团淤泥掉了下来砸在了他和穆萨的身上，几乎把他们砸晕过去。穆萨为了逃生连滚带爬地逃走了。迈格拉瑟瑞本来和其他人待在这条要命的隧道的前方洞口，此刻他在极度的惊吓中犹犹豫豫地往回走，他被吓得不知道该怎么办了。

“快，丹尼斯！到闸道里去！”卡瓦诺一边自己勉力撑着，一边冲他喊道。”快啊！”丹尼斯意识到了一切都已经无济于事，而自己也身在险境，他想跑开，但是被倒灌的泥水拦住了去路。

“快！快！到闸道里去！看着上帝的份儿上，没看见出什么事儿了吗？快逃啊！”

迈格拉瑟瑞正在他工头的附近犹豫着，不敢轻举妄动唯恐丧命，他不确定这时候是否应该撇下工头，此时被卡瓦诺一语惊醒，赶忙听从指示丢下他逃跑了，其他人跟在他的身后，泥水模糊了他们的视线，让他们喘不过气，但他们还是在安全范围里。当最后一个人通过后，卡瓦诺自己也随后跃前，湿泥和河水已经及膝深了。

“快！快！快进闸道里去！”他喊道，接着就看见迈格拉瑟瑞在不远处等着他，他又喊了声：“进去！进去！”闸门附近兵荒马乱，漂浮的木板和木屑包碍手碍脚，然而就在人们眼看着到了安全地带时，头上的一块铁板却因为另一块断裂的铁板而松动了，铁板塌了下来，砸死了一个待在半开的闸门口的人，那人倒在了门口并卡在那里，闸门开也开不得，关也关不上。卡瓦诺和其他几个后面上来的人被拦在了门外。迈格拉瑟瑞刚刚进到闸道里，他看到了这个情形，但是却无计可施。然而在这千钧一发的时刻，他一反常态，和其他几个闸道里的人紧紧抓住死者并试图把他拽进去，同时大声询问卡瓦诺该怎么办。卡瓦诺惊慌失措，茫然无助。他清醒而悲哀地发现如果再不想点办法那么就没时间了。横跨在死者身上的铁板太重了，并且泥浆浇在他的身上涌进了闸道。同时闸道里的人们也意识到，尽管他们相对地安全了，但仍有可能因为恐慌的混乱状态而丧命。

事实上他们的哀嚎有如动物在嘶吼。此时迈格拉瑟瑞又一次意识到了水就是他的涅墨西斯[3]，对他紧追不放，最终将要置他于死地，他彻底被恐惧击垮了。圣哥伦巴无疑承诺过他，难道他承诺的就是眼前这种噩梦中的情景，就是这种被泥水窒息的可怕感觉？难道这次他就这么死了？他的守护神是不是真的抛弃他了？看样子确实是如此。

“圣母玛利亚！圣人哥伦巴！”他开始祷告，”我现在该怎么办？圣母啊！在天上的父啊！啊，此刻我身在险境！我从未脱离！象牙宝塔！黄金之殿！伙计们，我们不能把他拉进来吗？结约之柜！上天之门！”[4]

就在他絮絮叨叨念念有词的时候，其他人正在冲他大声地尖叫，有几个人在拽尸体，其他人则在拉另一扇门。卡瓦诺还在闸道外眼睁睁地看着，从水位看来他已经陷在齐腰深的泥里了。

“大家听我说！”他用浑厚低沉的喉音说道，”你，迈格拉瑟瑞！丹尼斯！你们都疯了！把衣服脱下来堵住门！这是你们唯一的机会！脱衣服，快！还有那边的那些木板——你们站上去！别管我们，先保全你们自己，也许待会儿你们能有办法救我们！”

正如他所说的，假如他们只需把门口的缝隙堵上，那么从外面河上施加进来的气压就可以填满整个闸道空间，那就有可能把另外一个工段通向河岸的闸门顶开，他们就可以跑到安全地带。

即使是在面对死亡的时候他的声音稍显虚弱，但依然居高临下，镇定自若。他身边和身后的一群人像绵羊一样瑟瑟发抖，在齐腰深的泥水里祈祷着，哭喊着。他们尽可能地靠近他，试着从他的勇气中汲取力量，但同时又悲鸣着、祈求着，眼巴巴地望着闸门。

“好的！好的！”迈格拉瑟瑞突然大喊起来，他终于如梦方醒地意识到一种责任感，意识到该去做点什么来扭转局面，他还想到了自己曾经反复对自己和圣人许诺他可以担起责任。他一度忘了应该这样做。而现在他似乎再次对他的上司犯下了大错，他再次采取了上次的态度，那就是——他没有帮助他，或者说除了他自己他没有帮助任何人。他是一个可怕的懦夫。但他应该怎么办？他问自己。他该怎么办？他按照卡瓦诺的命令扒开自己的衣服、背心，还有衬衫，开始把大家往通道上推，并且呼叫其他人也这么做。转瞬之间，漂浮在闸道里的包袋、木条、横梁全都堆积在了一起，就这样那道门缝被堵上了，如此一来有效地阻止了空气的泄露，但却把工头和他的手下们彻底关在了门外。

“太可怕了！我不想这么做！”迈格拉瑟瑞不停地朝他的工头大喊着，但工头却毫不动摇。

“没事的，孩子们，”他不停地说着，“难道你们已经失去勇气了吗？”然后他对其他那些和他一起站在门外的人说道，”你们再也不能坚持和等待了吗？气压也许能够恢复。坚持住。如果你们会祷告就祷告吧，别害怕。”

然而，尽管外部朝卡瓦诺方向施加的气压可以顶住相关位置的包袋，却还是不足以维持闸道内的空气，也无法阻止坑洞内的水。水流倾注在尸体上和缝隙间，他们的水位也抬高到腰部了。他们的生命又一次受到了威胁，现在他们唯一的希望就是推开通向河岸的门逃到上面的坑道里去，但这并不容易办到，除非可以完全堵住逃逸的气压，或者想出其它的办法。

闸道外卡瓦诺的心思仍然牢牢地系在那些他想帮忙援救的人们身上，他是唯一一个意识到应该怎么解决问题的人。在他正对面的闸门面板上，还有那扇他们试图砸开的门上，装有他们称之为”牛眼”的厚玻璃圆盘，透过这圆盘，门这一面的人可以看到卡瓦诺在另一面瞪视着。他一目了然地发现他们无法把门完全打开，于是他产生了一个新的想法。接着在一片喧嚣之上响起了他的声音，他大喊道：”把外面的‘牛眼’打破！听我的，丹尼斯！听我说，把外面的‘牛眼’打破！”丹尼斯在此后经常这样问自己，他为什么会冲着我喊？我又是怎么听得那样清楚？在一片混乱的叫喊声里，他听到了，但也意识到如果他或者他们打破另一扇门上的”牛眼”，那么气压就会通过破洞进入里面的坑洞，他们打开门的机会就会增加，但卡瓦诺和他那些无助的同伴们却毫无疑问地将遭受没顶之灾。河水将会灌满这个坑洞和卡瓦诺他们所在的位置。他该这么做吗？他犹豫了。

“敲破它！”从工头那里传来了他沉闷的声音，他站在那里镇定地看着他。”敲破他，丹尼斯！这是你唯一的机会！敲破它！”接着，在为他工作了这么多年以后，迈格拉瑟瑞第一次听到了他的长官微微踌躇的声音，”如果你能得救，”这个声音说道，”竭尽你的所能来救我们剩下的这些人。”

那一刻迈格拉瑟瑞在精神上重生了，尽管他也许哭了，有什么东西击中了他——是恐惧。但此刻他不是为自己而害怕。他停止了颤抖，几乎是立刻体会到了一种新的感觉，一种永恒而坚定的勇气。啊！卡瓦诺就在闸道外，他无所畏惧，而他，丹尼斯·迈格拉瑟瑞，为了自己的性命慌乱得像一只兔子！他想回导洞里去，去做点什么，但他还能做什么？回去是没用的。他没有回去，而是在这里承担起了部分的指挥工作。卡瓦诺的精神似乎转移到了他的身上，支配了他。他环顾左右，看到了一块大狭板，他抓住了它。

“过来，伙计们！”他用一种命令的语气喊道。”快帮忙打破它！”带着从恐惧和死亡里生出的意志，十几双强壮的手扛起了狭板。他们爆发出强大的能量撞击着厚玻璃板，一举将它撞破了。空气冲了进去，同时闸门在他们面前倒塌了，积水把他们像稻草一样卷了出去。他们争先恐后、手忙脚乱地跑进了下一个闸道，把闸门在他们身后关上了。一进入闸道，他们就如释重负地长长地吐出一口气，因为这一回他们总算是真的安全了——无论如何目前是安全了。被卡瓦诺灵魂附体的迈格拉瑟瑞甚至还回转身透过牛眼望了望他们刚刚逃出来的坑道。甚至他们在这里等着气压降低，以便将内侧的门打开时，他还是看着他们刚刚离开的最后一道坑道，在那里他的工头和十二个工友被埋葬了。但他能怎么办？也许只有上帝，只有圣哥伦巴能够告诉他，圣哥伦巴拯救了他——拯救他的是圣哥伦巴吗？——是他拯救了他和其他十三个人，却毁灭了卡瓦诺和其他十二个人！是圣哥伦巴安排了这一切——还是上帝——还是谁？

“这是上帝的意愿，”他喃喃自语——但上帝为什么要如此安排？

但是在某种程度上，河水似乎仍然不依不饶地跟随着他，令他身不由己。尽管他不断地祈祷托马斯·卡瓦诺和他的伙伴们能够安息，不断逃避着河水，但是甚至直到五年后他还是生活在那件事的阴影中。现在迈格拉瑟瑞已经是八个孩子的父亲了，他和所有的普通工人一样地贫穷。就像前面所提及的，因为卡瓦诺的死以及那场事故，他发誓远离大海——或者河水——以及所有一切相关的工作。普通的梁柱俱全的木屋对他来说就已经足够了，只是——只是——要筹到那么大一笔钱盖房实在是太难了。他从来不曾赚到他本该赚到的那些钱。后来在某一天，就在他的手头前所未有地紧，前所未有地窘迫的时候，他从某处风闻和以前那条隧道有关的一个新项目。

他从报纸上得知，从另一个国家——估计是英国，来了一个著名的工程师，他因为带来了新的设备而倍受关注。这个名叫格雷特海德的男人发明了一种以他的名字命名的设备，这套设备有很大的变化和革新，终于能够排除隧道工程的所有危险了。迈格拉瑟瑞坐在他的农舍门外，遥望着卑尔根湾，他仔细地读了《号角晚报》上的消息，怀疑这到底是不是真的。即使到现在他还是不太明白这种新型盾构的概念，但是不管怎样，从前对隧道工作的热情又一次回到了他的身上。那曾经是一种什么样的生活啊，即使活得像一条狗——而卡瓦诺——又是一个怎样的领导啊！他的尸体依然掩埋在那里——当他被抛下的时候，他依然挺立，这是毫无疑问的。他想着。只有把他挖出来，如果可能的话用一个体面的墓穴来纪念他才是公平的。他的妻子和孩子还生活在弗拉特布什。所有的记忆，曾有的恐惧、激情都被激发了出来，但唯独没有回去工作的渴望。如今他还活着，有妻子和八个孩子，一天挣3块钱，差不多3块——大部分时候不到3块。然而隧道工程给像他这样的人支付的工资是7块或8块，他们正在招募工人，他不断考虑着是否应该重新开始。为什么他就不该去呢？他的生命已经两次奇迹般地被拯救——但还会不会再有一次？——这才是最大的问题。每到周日，他几乎是无休止地在他的教堂里请示他的圣人这个问题，但还没有得到明确的指示，他始终没有做隧道方面的工作，他什么也没干。

但是在随后那个春季的某一天，报纸上通篇都是关于隧道真的很快就要重新开工的消息，迈格拉瑟瑞很快收到了当年卡瓦诺的上司亨德森先生的一张纸条，这令他大惊失色，亨德森要他打电话给他，并且和他见面。他确信这是河流在召唤他，于是他跑到圣哥伦巴教堂去在他的圣人面前祷告，他往孤儿院募捐箱里丢进1美元，在神龛里点了一支蜡烛，然后他振奋起了精神，消除了所有疑虑，在和自己的妻子商量过以后，就向着大河启程了，到了那里他发现他的老主顾像过去一样在站在一间小棚屋外面，考虑着这样那样的重要问题。

他考虑到迈格拉瑟瑞以前在这儿干过，了解很多情况等等诸如此类的原因，因此询问迈格拉瑟瑞愿不愿意担任一位负责日常工作的新工头的副手，工钱是一天7美元，新工头的名字叫迈克尔·莱弗蒂，是一个很能干的人。迈格拉瑟瑞吃惊得目瞪口呆。他，一个负责支架工作的副工头！而且工资是一天7美元！就凭他！

亨德森先生没有告诉他因为隧道工程出了那么大的乱子，这些难题被广为传说，因此起初非常难以招募到合适的工人，更何况迈格拉瑟瑞无论在任何时候都是足够优秀的。不过他称有了新型盾构后一切都会非常安全。这一次再也不会有灾难发生了。工程将以恰当的方式推进。亨德森先生甚至向他解释了一遍新型盾构的优势。

但是迈格拉瑟瑞满腹狐疑地听着，他其实并没有在想盾构到底是怎么回事，也没有在想他将得到的额外收入，尽管这笔收入在他的权衡中占有很大的分量，他心里想的是泥瓦匠工头托马斯·卡瓦诺和他的十二位手下，他们还埋在下方的淤泥里，他想着自己当时是如何抛下了他们，只要找到他和其他人的遗骨，——如果还能找得到的话——就应该给他们一个体面的天主教葬礼。如今他成了一名比过去更加虔诚的天主教徒，他亏欠卡瓦诺很多，因为卡瓦诺确实一向非常善待他——但不管怎么说，到目前为止，难道不是圣哥伦巴在保佑他吗？以他今日的处境，将来是不是有可能不再保佑他了呢？这难道不是一个召唤吗？是这样吗？他觉得是这样的。

同时他感到焦虑和不安，他回到家又和妻子商量了一次，他想到了河流，就跑到圣哥伦巴的神龛前去祷告。于是他又一次振作起精神，充满了力量，他回去告诉亨德森先生他愿意回来工作。是的，他愿意。

他真的再也不害怕了，就像是肩负使命，第二天他在迈克尔·莱弗蒂的协助下开始清理大量的淤泥，从第二道闸道的外面一直到隧道里全都填满了淤泥。清理工作进展缓慢，就在仲夏时节到来之前，以前挖好的那一部分隧道终于清理出来了，他们找到了卡瓦诺和他的手下们的遗骨。那是一个庄严肃穆的时刻——他们找到了卡瓦诺和他的伙伴们。他们可以通过他的大长靴、左轮手枪、手表和一大串钥匙认出他来，所有这些物品都在他的遗骸旁边。一切进展顺利，之后迈格拉瑟瑞和十二个工人一起恭恭敬敬地把这副骸骨和他的长靴抬到了布鲁克林的一处公墓。新型盾构无坚不摧，它在软泥里一天可以推进8英尺。虽说迈格拉瑟瑞重拾了勇气，可他还是对河流抱以深深的疑虑，尽管如此，他却再也不像过去那样害怕了。有某种东西不停地在告诉他，从今以后他一切都会好的——不要怕，河流再也不会伤害他了，真的。

但同样地，在几个月以后——确切地说是八个月以后——河流给了他最后一记耳光，尽管这一次是以一种非常独特的方式，但并不像表面上看来的那么致命，这是否出自圣哥伦巴的保佑或者授意，他始终没能弄明白，当时的情况是如此诡异。这锋利的新盾构其实是一个长13英尺直径20英尺的巨大的圆柱，前端是一个硬化钢切削刀，刀片长15英寸，而刀刃厚3英寸。刀片后面是有好几个开口的所谓”外横隔板”，用来容纳盾构推进时挖下来的泥沙。

在这些开口的后面是几条4英尺长的管子，每个开口都对应装着一条管子，泥沙就从这些管子里排出。这些管子依次各有一个铰链门来控制泥沙的流量，这些铰链门的密封性很好，也很容易关闭，一切都井然有序。另外在这些管子的后面有很多螺旋柱，根据盾的大小有15到30个，每平方5000磅的气压驱动着这些螺旋柱推动盾构前进。随之而来的是人们说的盾构末端，随后进入已完成的隧道，这样的设计可以保护那些从事安装新平板的人（这就是害死了卡瓦诺的那个危险环节），只要盾构向前推出充足的空间，就随时安装一圈平板上去。

在实际操作中，这一部分工作所涉及的唯一的危险就是在内层衬砌和末端之间，那里总是有一个一英寸半的空间是没有保护措施的。这样一个空隙在正常情况下是无关紧要的，但是在有些情况下，如果顶部覆盖的泥层很软不够稠密，那么在内部每平方英寸高达好几千磅的压缩空气的推动下，就会吹开泥土，使空隙暴露在上方水流的直接作用下，这当然是不可预料的，甚至不在考虑之列。盾构迅速推进，亨德森和莱弗蒂时不时地预言隧道肯定将会在一年之内打通。

不管怎样，接下来的那个冬季的一段时间里盾构干得非常漂亮，它遇到岩石就沿着边缘切断，另外还能强行把前方的岩石钻穿，一旦有大量的石头需要被切除，就需要建一个防水壁来修复那些边缘，准确说来这需要15天。同时盾牌的背面，在前文所说的缝隙上，每平方英寸2000磅的气压冲开外面的泥层，逐渐掏空成了一个杯子形状的85英尺长的凹面（亨德森先生随后进行了测量），这片洼凹面的范围随着隧道的推进向后扩大，深度也向着河岸方向加深。很快那里的泥层就会荡然无存，只剩下头顶的河水。

就在这时工程师倾听着河流的声音,由于空气源源不断地从下方刮擦，隧道顶部的砂砾和石块不断滚动，发出击鼓般的响声，工程师由此来了解情况。用填充袋可以很容易地暂时修补这些缝隙，但这些天来的某一天，盾构检修后要往前推进来插入新的平板，接着该怎么办？

迈格拉瑟瑞立刻嗅到了危险。又是恼人的河水（又是水），老把戏又找上他了，他真的烦透了，他向圣哥伦巴祷告过，而当时值班的正是他，他像只黄蜂一样围着那个特定的洞口团团转。一天之内他会每隔三分钟就想了解那个位置的情况，他把情况告诉了夜班工头，也告诉了莱弗蒂和亨德森先生。亨德森先生应莱弗蒂和迈格拉瑟瑞的要求下来查看，并且对此认真思忖着。

“推动盾构的时候，”他说，”你们一定要用大量的填充袋在洞口周围四处填塞，除了那些工人们正在安装平板的地方。到时我们会加大气压，我们能承受这气压，我想气压可以对付所有的问题。这里有很多工人来保证那些填充袋固定在位置上，但不要让他们知道有问题，这样我们都会没事的。你们准备好开工就告诉我，我会下来的。”

盾构终于修好了，按照命令只推进25英寸以便安装新的平板，亨德森先生，还有莱弗蒂和迈格拉瑟瑞都在场。确切地说，迈格拉瑟瑞负责的是监督那些用填充袋堵住水流的工人。假如你曾经看过一个激动而又果断、中等身材的红发爱尔兰男人，那么这就是迈格拉瑟瑞的真实写照。他似乎无处不在，他发号施令、谆谆告诫、苦口婆心，一刻也不放松——他很焦虑，是的，他很焦虑，尽管有圣哥伦巴庇佑。

盾构开动了。气压加大了，水开始透过缝隙倾泻，填充袋被塞到相应位置堵住了大部分的水流，只有在铁工铆装平板的地方会有大量水流，偶尔水流如此强大，以至于工人们开始害怕了。

“快干活儿啊！你们这是怎么啦！站在那儿干什么？你们怕什么？给我填充袋！快跟上！就这么干！你们想现在逃跑吗？”

这是迈格拉瑟瑞的声音，也可以说，是他在命令！——这就是经历了两次事故的迈格拉瑟瑞！而在这种时候他还是无法抑制地恐惧着河流。

接着出了什么事？几周以后，他因为”减压病”而在医院里痛得打滚，身体无法伸直。有四个装着木屑的填充袋炸裂了，木屑被吹得四散一地，他想起来了——使用木屑填充袋根本就是个错误。然后（他至今历历在目），他们要用其它东西来填塞的时候却发现填充袋不够用了，这时必须把这个地方牢牢堵上，因为河水像瀑布一样一泻而下，洪水般的没过了他们的脚踝，他，迈格拉瑟瑞，豁出去了，这一次他绝不再让河水打败，他决心要做一件了不起的事情。

“过来！”他冲身边三个目瞪口呆的人喊道，“你们三个跟我来！把我托上去！我怎么着都和木屑填充袋一样好用。快跟我来！”

在震惊、钦佩和鼓舞之下，三个工人冲过去抬起了他。他们顶着倾泻的河水，对准小缺口举起了他，同时其他人跑去拿更多的填充袋。亨德森和莱弗蒂还有铁工们站在一旁帮忙，他们对这一幕感到既吃惊又好笑，也让他们勇气倍增——他们着实地对这不折不扣的足智多谋充满了敬意。不过令人震惊的是，在他们举着他的时候，因为此时上方除了水流别无他物，所以盾构(也就是那个新发明的大铁块)的一端被下方巨大的气压推举了11、13或者14英寸——反正是你可以想象到的一个中等身材的人可以钻入的空间——迈格拉瑟瑞和那些填充袋就这样钻了过去，冲进了上面的河流里，这时河水倾盆而下，人们四散逃命。

可想而知，这是一个恐怖的时刻，整个过程并不长，但足以吞噬迈格拉瑟瑞，接着由于空气冲出了盾构，气压慢慢降低，盾构又像一个安全阀门一样关上了，大部分水流也止住了，隧道里恢复了常态。

但还有迈格拉瑟瑞！

是啊，他怎么样了呢？

读者们——这是一个奇迹！

那个晴朗的冬日下午三点钟的时候，有位船长坐着蒸汽拖船沿着哈德逊河顺流而下，突然他吃惊地看到距离船大约30英尺的地方冒出了一股小喷泉，在喷泉的顶端有一个黑色的物体，他一开始以为这个黑色物体是个包裹或者漂流木。但他很快恍然大悟，因为这个物体跌入了水里并且大叫了起来。

“慈悲的上帝！就没有人救我出去吗？快救我出去！噢！噢！噢！”

果然是迈格拉瑟瑞，他还活着，还在中气十足地大喊大叫，除了被气流喷出来而患上了“减压病”并且为此深受其苦，他没有得到更糟的结果，尽管他还能喊，还能试着游泳。但是过去那些挥之不去的感觉这一次无疑还是纠缠着他。他在隧道的顶端，也就是河流的底部被漩涡急速旋转了大概有30秒或者40秒，然后像一个软木塞一样被飞速的气流向上拔了出去，结结实实地被气流抛在了巨流之上，抛向空中。2000磅的气压瞬间消失，或者说是几乎消失了，于是他又落了下来，就此令他如今患上的严重的“减压病”。但圣哥伦巴从未完全遗忘他。尽管他痛不欲生，简直是生不如死，但这位好圣人还是安排了拖船出现在他附近，想到这一点他立刻感到十分欣慰。

“天呐，这是怎么搞的！”海勒姆·克诺斯船长失声惊叫，惊奇地看着他，发现他还活生生的，虽然情况不容乐观。“你是从哪儿冒出来的？”

“噢！噢！噢！”迈格拉瑟瑞痛哭失声，“我的胳膊！我的肋骨！噢！噢！噢！隧道！没错，下面的隧道！快！快！我得了减压病，我快死了！快送我去医院，快！”

船长结结实实地被他的呻吟声惊呆了，立刻照他说的办了。他在最近的码头靠了岸。不一会儿就叫来了救护车，又过了一会儿迈格拉瑟瑞就被送进了最近的医院。

那位内科医生在两年前见过一个相同的病例，在深思熟虑之后，他决定治标先治本。于是迈格拉瑟瑞被迅速地运送回了隧道里的其中一个闸道里，所有认识他的人都吓了一大跳（他的出现引起了广泛的轰动），大家盯着他就像盯着一个从坟墓里爬出来的人。但好在2000磅的气压使他很快康复了，并得以成为本书的主角，讲述自己的故事——这无疑是他的守护神的另一个小把戏——这相当大程度地满足了他的虚荣心，至少他现在没有死亡的危险了。

就算说不上是全国吧，至少无疑是全城都被这个事故震撼了，他的故事轰动一时，报纸上全都是关于这次历险的报道，配上了迈格拉瑟瑞被喷泉顶在半空中的照片，长篇累牍地科学解释事件的来龙去脉和原因。

但好处是，他在那家他一开始入住的医院里度过了人生中最快乐的四个星期，这一切全都和他这次神奇的历险有关，他接受了至少五名周报编辑和十一家城市日报的采访，所有人都热切地挖掘他是如何被冲出水面，以及如何被气体从河流这样庞大的物体里喷出来的，还有他在这个过程里感受如何。真是凯旋而归。

谢天谢地，河流也许很厉害，但圣人更加厉害。

他的右手和右胳膊有可能终生，至少是很长一段时间内残疾（医生也无法确定），而他却拒绝了各种贪婪的律师不请自来地怂恿他起诉巨额赔偿，因为这些原因，公司感激不尽，于是为他提供了一份数目可观的抚恤金，还有另一份价值相当的补偿，那就是他的余生都可以在公司工作，不但拥有优厚的报酬，另外还有一份红利，这给了他一个稳定的未来，大大缓解了他的生活压力。而这才是最棒的一个结果。不得不承认，这一次又是圣人的安排。

但是最后他意识到是由于自己尽了职责，所以圣人站在了自己这一边，随之产生了一种特殊的精神慰藉。假如所有的这一切还不能证明是圣哥伦巴在守护他，那么还能证明什么呢？可以肯定的是，河流曾经企图给他厄运，这让他感到恐惧和痛苦，也许圣哥伦巴并没有如愿地掌控河流，又或者——更有可能地——完全有可能是因为他（迈格拉瑟瑞）自始至终配不上圣人的护持。但是在最后的绝境里，假如他不施法相助会怎样呢？假如圣人无所作为，你又该如何解释当他在距离河岸2000英尺的地方被喷出水面时，那艘救星[5]拖船正巧就在那儿出现了？还有，如果圣人从未试图帮助他，那么医院的医生又怎么会见过这样的病例，因此能够当机立断地送他回到闸道里呢？他怎么会正巧在这之前确实见过这样的一例病例，所以才知道如何处理呢？事实是无可争议的，不是吗？——假如不是这样，又能怎么解释呢？

总之格拉瑟瑞就是这么想的，不管教堂里有没有重要的庆典，人们都会在星期天或者假期里看到他跪在自己钟爱的圣人面前，不时地用崇敬而赞美的眼神看一眼圣人。他经常大声陈述圣迹，“赞美神，我没有被卡在盾构和隧道之间，我本来有可能被卡住死在那里的，真的，我经常想这真是个奇迹，感谢上帝，当时没有流进那么多水淹死工友们。我像个软木塞一样被浮了起来而且抛了出去，我从上方飞出去了，赞美上帝，那个缺口又合上了。不过，赞美神，我活下来了，没有更倒霉的事，虽然有时候我的手痛得很。”

至于好圣人圣哥伦巴——

圣哥伦巴又如何呢？

[1] 爱尔兰十二使徒有别于耶稣十二门徒，是指十二位将基督教传入爱尔兰和苏格兰的先驱，其中圣帕特里克生于公元4世纪，他奠定了爱尔兰天主教会的信仰基础。圣哥伦巴生于公元6世纪，是当时最伟大的基督教学者之一，著名的修道院院长和宣教士。（译注）

[2] 原文为EiUchnam，相当于”哎呦嘿”，是伏尔加河上的船工号子，出自一首著名的俄罗斯民歌，这首歌曲最早由俄罗斯音乐家巴拉基列夫收集整理成乐谱并出版，西班牙作曲家曼努埃尔·德·法亚在1922年改编了这支曲子，将其命名为《伏尔加河船歌》，并将这首歌曲的所有版税捐赠国际联盟用以帮助一战后的俄罗斯难民。这首歌因俄罗斯男低音演唱家费奥多·夏里亚宾的演唱而广为流传，后经著名美国爵士乐手格伦·米勒改编并曾在1941年登上美国音乐排行榜的冠军。（译注）

[3] 复仇女神（译注）

[4] 此处迈格拉瑟瑞念的是天主教玫瑰经里的一段祈祷文。（译注）

[5] 原文为MaryBaker，玛丽贝克，美国女宗教领袖和基督教科学派创始人。（译注）

闪灵蓄奴蚁[1]麦克伊文

这是八月里炎热的一天。在夏季阳光炽热的光线下，曾经葱葱郁郁的绿树褪成了暗沉的灰色。背阴处的草地依然青翠，但是曝晒在阳光下的部分则大片地干枯了。积满厚厚尘土的道路被晒得发烫，每一条石板路都炙烤着身心俱疲的人们。

罗伯特·麦克伊文坐在一棵榉木树下，伸展的树枝洒下了一片怡人的阴凉，令他得以避开闹市中的辛劳，好好地喘息片刻。

他趁这段时间在空旷的公园里漫无目的地沉思着，听着偶尔经过的马车清脆的铃铛声。不一会儿他的沉思被裤子上的一只蚂蚁打断了，他用手指把蚂蚁弹开，从恍神中清醒了过来，想起还有很多事要做。于是他站了起来，活动活动身体，又拍了拍土。就在这时他看到一只蚂蚁在他前面的小路上爬着，便一脚踩了上去。

“反正你迟早会被踩死的。”他稍稍提高了声音说道，再次坐了下来。

直到现在他才真正注意到这条小路。路很宽，路面又硬又烫。很多蚂蚁急匆匆地爬着，眼下在他看来这些蚂蚁都是黑色的。最后他的视线锁定在了一只异常活跃的蚂蚁身上，一直看着它爬了二十英尺。

这只与众不同的蚂蚁迫不及待地往前赶路，一会儿向左，一会儿向右，还时不时地稍停一下，但不会超过一秒钟。它看上去活力充沛，曲曲折折地寻觅着，还时不时地停下来检查着什么东西，这幅模样引起了他的兴趣。他凝视着，小路在他的想象中不断延伸，延伸得无边无际。

突然间他精神一振，又看了一眼，然后跳起来揉了揉眼睛。他身处一个未知的世界，每一个细节都如此奇特，杈桠交错的树木消失了，数以万计长剑般的绿草叶在他的头顶随风摇曳，构成了一片广袤的森林。绿叶投影间地面没有了绿茵覆盖，到处都是巨大的土块。空气中散发着一股浓烈的气息，似乎如此陌生却又如此熟悉，只有西沉的红日和蔚蓝无云的天空还昭示着一个熟悉的世界。而对于自己，麦克伊文感到既奇异又熟悉，是什么使得周围所有的一切以及他自身都如此怪异却又寻常？他不得而知。他的三对足肢和有力的下颚似乎都再正常不过。事实上，这寻常却又怪异的一切，与其说是他双眼看到的，不如说是直觉感受到的。一种责任感和紧迫感，还有一份说不清道不明的种群义务推动着他刻不容缓地行动起来，开始寻找食物和猎物，很快他来到了一块宽阔的平地上，这一景象似乎是瞬间涌现在了他的眼前，令他目不暇接。他停了下来，如释重负地喘了一口气。这时一个声音吓了他一跳。

“这儿有吃的吗？”那位初来乍到的家伙听上去挺友好，但其实只是想讨点好处。

麦克伊文倒退了一步。

“我不知道，”他说，“我刚刚……”

“太可怕了。”那个陌生的家伙没等他说完就继续说道。

“看样子是闹饥荒了。你也知道，血红蚁发动战争了。”

“我不知道。”麦克伊文机械地回答道。

“他们发动战争了，”对方说，“他们昨天袭击了黑山蚁。下一个就轮到我们了。”

那只陌生的蚂蚁说完就溜走了。麦克伊文正要抗议他使用“我们”这个词，但此时对食物贪婪的渴望令他无暇他顾，于是他慌慌张张地跟了上去。

这时又过来了一个家伙，在经过麦克伊文身边时开了口。

“今天我一直走到了早熟禾那边，但是什么也没找到。没有同伴我不敢跑太远。那边的蚂蚁们也饿着，虽说他们刚刚发动了一次袭击。你听说血红蚁发动战争了吧？”

“是的，他告诉我了。”麦克伊文指着那只正在原路返回的陌生家伙说。

“哦，厄尔弥。没错，他之前去过他们的地盘。好了，我要走了。”

麦克伊文加快脚步紧紧跟上厄尔弥，很快就赶上了他。他站住了，厄尔弥正在把一块锯齿形的面包屑往嘴里塞，那块面包屑简直和他的身材一样大。

“喔！”麦克伊文饥饿地大喊道，“你从哪儿弄来的？”

“就从这儿。”厄尔弥说。

“能给我一点儿吗？”

“我不给，”对方说，眼里闪过一丝近乎邪恶的光芒。

“好吧，”麦克伊文说，饥饿令他的胆子大了不少，但还是有所顾忌，“你能不能告诉我上哪儿去弄点儿？”

“你想上哪儿就上哪儿，”厄尔弥说，“干嘛问我？你又不是没找过吃的。”说完就大步走开了。

“丛林里比这儿要好一点儿，”麦克伊文心想，“至少在那儿我不会热死，而且我也许还能找到吃的。这儿什么都没有。”于是他转身看了看自己来时的那片丛林。

在他的左后方是那些直立的长剑般的草叶。他凝视着，正考虑着是否应该回去，就在这时他看到另一个和他模样相似的家伙正从远处朝他匆匆忙忙地跑了过来。

不等那家伙走近，他就急切地招呼这位新来的。

“什么事？”对方问道，快速地跑了过来。

“你知道我上哪儿能弄到吃的吗？”

“你就是因为这个才叫我的吗？”他对麦克伊文怒目而视，“都闹饥荒了你还问我？我知道才怪。如果我能找到东西吃，就不用跑到这儿来了。像我们一样去找吃的，问我管啥用？”

“我一直在找，”麦克伊文怒气冲冲地大喊，“我一直在找，现在快饿死了。”

“你不比我们更惨吧？”那家伙说道，“看着我，你觉得我像是饱餐过了吗？”

麦克伊文目瞪口呆地看着他愤愤不平地走了。这种冷漠和傲慢一时间令他瞠目结舌，但又似曾相识。接着他发现由于饥饿和酷热，自己迅速陷入了浑身无力的疲惫状态，这时他听到一个痛苦的声音在招呼他。

“嗨！”那个声音喊道。

“嗨！”他回答。

“来啊，来！”传来微弱的回答。

麦克伊文立刻跑上前去。他大老远地就认出了那个声音，这正是刚才那位暴躁的朋友发出的，但令人悲哀的是现在他再也暴躁不起来了，他平躺在地上，无力地张着嘴。

“怎么回事？”麦克伊文关切地问道，“你出什么事了？这是怎么搞的？”

“我不知道，”那家伙说道，“我从这儿路过的时候那东西砸到了我，”他指着一块石头，“我已经没救了，既然你是我们这个部落的，这些吃的就给你吧。就算你不吃，蚁群中的其它蚂蚁也会把能吃的都吃掉的。”他叹了一口气。

“噢，别这么说！”麦克伊文热切地说，他查看着伤员的断肢和受伤的部位。“你会好起来的。干嘛要说死呢？告诉我该把你送到哪儿去，或者叫谁过来？”

“不，”对方说道，“没有用的。你看到情况了。他们帮不了我。我也不想要你的帮助。我只是想让你过来拿这些吃的，现在这些东西对我已经没用了。”

“别这么说，”麦克伊文又一次说道，“你不要再说那些晦气话了，肯定还有什么事是我能做的，告诉我吧，我不要你的食物。”

“不，你什么也做不了。你很清楚，我已经没救了。等你回去后告诉大家我是怎么死的。别管我了，把食物拿走吧。就算你不要，他们也需要的。”

麦克伊文默默地看着他，想到蚁群、族群和家园，似乎很多事都明朗了起来。现在他清晰地想起了来时的那条长路，地底下的蚁巢里无数的地道，他曾经进出蚁穴时所经过的那些道路，那强大而令人敬畏的蚁后，还有那么多养育着的幼虫和照看着的卵。没错，就是这样。他是这个庞大族群或者团队中的一员。他的感官刚才一定是被炎热影响了。他必须找到吃的，然后回到蚁穴，他必须杀死蜘蛛、甲虫、蛆虫，然后把食物带回给族群，就是这样。只不过明摆着这里已经找不到什么东西了。

那位伤员显然十分痛苦，他闭上了双眼不停地颤抖着，接着就倒地死了。

麦克伊文眼睁睁地看着迅速僵硬的尸体，千般滋味涌上心头，却唯独没有冷漠和怀疑。这样的场面似乎已经司空见惯了。显然他已经见过了太多这一类的死亡。难道他过去一段时间没有见证过数以百计的死亡吗？

“他死了吗？”他身边响起了一个声音。

“是的，”麦克伊文说，他依然沉浸在自己的思绪中，无暇观察这个不速之客。

“那好吧，我想他再也不需要这个了，”对方说道，夺过那块面包屑开始大嚼起来，但麦克伊文立刻警觉地露出了狰狞的神情，同样也紧紧咬住不松口。

“他死前说要给我的，”他大嚷，“这是我应得的。放开。”

“我不放，”对方中气十足地说，“我至少要拿到一点儿。”说完他用力地撕扯起来，这股力量令他和麦克伊文都四脚朝天的摔在地上，这个新家伙扯下一大块之后就跑了，他的腿脚很利索，在麦克伊文爬起来之前就跑出了老远。纵使麦克伊文怒气未消，却也只能放弃追赶，他实在是太饿了，立刻开始狼吞虎咽起来，以免再受到骚扰。吃完后他感到了一点儿满足，疲惫地瘫倒在地上休憩了片刻。过了一会儿，他从饱食之后的松懈中振作起来，匆忙地逃向远处的丛林，现在他意识到了，他的蚁群巢穴就在那里。

就在他走在最黑暗茂密的路段时，远处传来了一列队伍的脚步声，正在向他的方向走来，其中还伴随着低语声，他停下来倾听。这时声音越来越大，越来越清晰。现在他可以判断靠近他的是一支大部队。他走的那条狭窄小路有一段没有任何遮掩，一览无遗。因为不知道自己这回将会遇上什么样的生物，他跑进了路边的灌木丛里，躲在一块巨石后头。那些沉重的脚步声现在越加接近了，马上就能发现他，透过绿枝间的缝隙，他看见自己刚刚离开的路上出现了一支陌生的队伍。他们不是别的，正是那些红色战士——是像他一样的蓄奴蚁，只不过他们阵营不同，他们就是厄尔弥说的发起战争的血红蚁。

他们无疑刚刚打了一场仗，正要再次奔赴战场。几乎每个战士都带着满载而归的神情，全身上下杀气腾腾。好多战士嘴里衔着敌军的尸首，或者衔着从黑山蚁巢穴中虏获的幼虫。另一些则用大腿扛着那些可怜的黑山蚁的头颅，它们是在保卫家园的战斗中牺牲的，已经僵死的黑山蚁还在用下颌卡着他们的仇家。还有一些血红蚁拖拽着遇难者的尸体，一边走一边叫喊，漫长偏僻的小径上回荡着诡异的声音，他们在这叫喊声中渐行渐远。

过了一会儿，麦克伊文悄悄地爬了出来，望着他们的背影，这支长长的队伍已经把他远远地甩在了左后方，他正准备离开这一片灌木遮蔽的阴影，匆忙地跑向附近的石头，此时一个从暗处爬出来的东西吸引了他的视线，他立刻认出了那正是厄尔弥。后者似乎正在等待一个逃走的好时机，他很快开始跑了起来。麦克伊文跟了上去。远处有一群血红蚁，他们显然是因为有事而停了下来，正在群情激奋地忙活着，三三两两地聚在一起手舞足蹈、议论纷纷，有一些蚂蚁像是嗅到了危险的气味，要不就是还渴望着酣战一场，忙着用他们的下颌和上颚锯开石块。这时其中一只看到了远处的厄尔弥，向其他蚂蚁大喊了起来。

立刻有四个士兵冲过来围追厄尔弥。麦克伊文赶快追上他，去看看接下来会发生什么事。他小心翼翼地藏好自己，如今他已经能够泰然应对这一切了。当他靠近的时候，厄尔弥正在左冲右突，他刚刚发现了一个能够藏身的洞穴入口，现在正努力奔向那儿。很显然这名战士也看到了追赶而至的血红蚁，意识到形势已经千钧一发了。凭借着瞬间爆发的勇气和对危险的警觉，厄尔弥推动洞口的一块砂石，像按动机关一样，随着第一块砂砾的松动，这个位置上其他的砂石也会随之垮塌下来。于是他敏捷地爬进了洞里，拽下那块机关石，所有的砂砾在他身后崩塌了下来。

几乎就在血红蚁追上他的同时，洞口工事完成了。这四个血红蚁战士冷酷凶残，并且身经百战。其中一只叫做欧格，他的大腿上有块黑斑，一侧鬓边有道疤，左边的触角尖已经折断了，这个身手矫捷的老战士马上嗅到了猎物的气味。

“嗨，你们快过来！”他冲其他蚂蚁大喊，“他就在这儿！”

另一只蚂蚁马上靠近了厄尔弥刚刚堵上的洞口。他靠上前去查看，先是来来回回转了几圈，用触角敲了敲，然后又仔细听了听。里面没有动静。

“嘘！”他冲其他蚂蚁喊了一声。

这会儿他们全都赶到了，待在洞外看着，但厄尔弥的工事做得太好了，让他们一筹莫展。

“我不确定，”欧格说，“在我看来这更像是个废弃的洞穴，不像有入口。”

“管他呢，扒开它就晓得了，”第二只蚂蚁波南主张道，这是他第一次开腔，“可能没有别的出口。”

“啊哈！”欧格大喊了一声，“好！我们就把它扒开！

“快点儿！”第三只蚂蚁马如边喊边抓住了最大的一块砂砾，“啃啊！”

“跟他一块儿上！”欧姆喊道，急切地跳过去大干起来，“我们得马上把他弄出来！”

这不是个简单的任务，砂石不但重，而且埋得很深，但他们还是扒开了。然后开始往外拽厄尔弥，发现自己被逮住的厄尔弥用上颚咬住了马如的头，而欧格则用有力的下颌咬住了厄尔弥的腿。其他的蚂蚁也跑来参战，所有参战者都竖起了触角，在一团混战中他们连推带挤的扭打在一起。

麦克伊文注视着这一切，既兴奋又同情。一开始他因为怕死想躲得远远的，但过了一会儿无法抗拒的同胞情谊就占了上风，他决定去搭救自己的朋友。他向前弹跳而起，爬上了欧格的后背，开始用牙齿啃啮他的脖颈。欧格意识到又来了一个对手，放开了厄尔弥的腿，努力想甩开他的新敌人，但麦克伊文紧咬不放。其他的蚂蚁太亢奋了，根本顾不上看清这位新的进攻者，仍然奋力想杀死厄尔弥。厄尔弥刚刚死死地被困在和马如的厮杀中，而现在欧格的纠缠松开了，他得以使出有力的一击，马如断了气。形势稍稍对他有利了些，但波南和欧姆还在左右夹击他。

“接招！”欧姆大喊着猛地扑向厄尔弥，把他翻了个个儿，“啃下他的头，波南。”

波南放开他咬住的部位跳上了厄尔弥的头，一番殊死搏斗之后，波南牢牢地按住了他。

“杀了他！”欧姆大叫着，“快啊，欧格，快！”

就在此时麦克伊文终于咬断了欧格的头，他从欧格的背上跳了下来，冲过去援助厄尔弥。

“来啊！”他冲正抱着厄尔弥的头啃咬的波南大喊，“现在是二比二了！”麦克伊文用力扭扯波南的腹部，波南放开了厄尔弥，痛得直打滚。

但波南恢复了过来，他跨上麦克伊文，把他四脚朝天地扳倒在地。

现在战斗比刚才还要危急，参战者们翻滚扭打着。麦克伊文右边的触角在摔倒的时候折断了，一条腿也受了伤，他感觉到对手正在袭击他的脖颈，而他似乎无计可施了。

“放开我！”他叫喊着，用他的上颚撕咬着，但波南只是杀气腾腾地紧紧咬住下颌。

这时厄尔弥倒是翻转了形势，毕竟他是一位经验丰富的斗士。他抓牢了欧姆的身体把他摔在地上，欧姆吓得惊慌失措。

他看到麦克伊文身陷险境，赶快冲过来施以援手。麦克伊文悲哀地被牢牢制住，要不是厄尔弥的慨然相助，他可能就会被杀死了。厄尔弥用头给了波南猛烈一击，把他从麦克伊文身上拽了下来。他们俩尽管身受重伤，但现在抓住了这只倒霉的血红蚁，把他撕成了两半，他们本来想把欧姆也撕成碎片，但是那位满身泥泞的士兵趁他们不注意的时候已经恢复了元气，爬得远远地躲起来了。

此时麦克伊文和厄尔弥热烈地相互赞赏对方，彼此紧紧地靠在了一起。

“跟我来，”厄尔弥说，“他们全都在附近，那个逃跑的懦夫会去叫他们来抓我们的。这儿有一条通道通向我们的家，我们得赶在被他们抓到之前回去。帮我把入口堵上。”

他们一起把石块垒得比原来更结实，然后走进通道，在身后推倒了石堆。为了万无一失，他们在下面又建了另一个路障。

“现在你先望会儿风。”厄尔弥对麦克伊文说，然后急忙跑过一段长长的通道，不一会儿他就回来了，还带来了一个哨兵，他会负责在他们刚刚战斗过的地方放哨。“他会守在这里的，万一再发生袭击，他就会发布警报。”他说道。

“快来，”他边说边用触角深情地碰了碰麦克伊文，开始在前面带路，麦克伊文跟着他一口气走过一段长廊，厄尔弥显得熟门熟路，穿行在各种秘密通道之间，很快就到达了蚁穴。

“你看，”他一边走一边对麦克伊文亲密地说，“他们不知道路，就算杀了我，他们也进不来。我们的通道太复杂了。不过我们还是要保持警戒，因为现在他们就在这附近。”

“你是哪个群落的？你不是我们这个群落的吧？”

既然他们已经是患难之交，于是麦克伊文就讲述了自己的经历，但没有解释自己从哪儿来。他知道自己是某个其他蚁群的成员，只不过不确定是哪个。一种奇特而挥之不去的迷惑感困扰着他，似乎在冥冥中他曾受到了某种创伤，一时间脑子有点儿混乱。

“好了，现在你可以和我们待在一起，”厄尔弥说，“你饿吗？”

“非常饿。”麦克伊文说。

“那么我们这就来吃点东西吧。”

麦克伊文仰望着一个面积巨大的圆顶房间，他对这个房间似乎也非常熟悉，似乎在这儿住了很久。房间里有好几扇通往各个地道的门，还有通向其他房间和储藏室的走廊，这里居住着数以千计的居民。

这个部落的很多成员现在都急匆匆地赶来见他们，他们都非常亲切。

“听说你们和他们打了一仗？”好几只蚂蚁马上就发问了。

“这不值一提，”厄尔弥说，像他这样的斗士也是有一点骄傲的，“照顾好我这位朋友，是他救了我的命。”

“没这回事！”麦克伊文热情地喊道。

然而他们还来不及解释，就被崇拜者们簇拥着带到了一个房间里，里面井然有序，没有一点声息，屋里铺展着一块绿草皮，可以给他和厄尔弥躺着。

虽然他们都受了伤，但是都不肯一动不动地躺着，很快就开始到处溜达，虽然什么也干不了。麦克伊文还被特许旁观了一场发生在洞口的袭击，不过他完全插不上手，只能无精打采地观战。战斗持续了整整一天，最终以侵略者的失败而告终。这场战斗相当惨烈，战斗的主场在垒着屏障的洞口和长廊尽头的秘密出口，在那儿待着的麦克伊文总是发现自己挡了那些战士的道。此前厄尔弥已经详细地讲述了麦克伊文的英勇，称他是一个贡献良多的朋友和英雄。他们成立了一支救护队负责抬进伤者和运出死者，同时还在蚁穴其中的一个秘密入口外建立起了一个墓地，那里远离刚才被围攻的地点，死者的遗体整齐地排列着。

当天的围剿告一段落之后，整个家族重整旗鼓。那些之前一直待在巢穴里的蚂蚁出发去寻找吃的。幼蚁的照料一度停顿了下来，现在也已经恢复。之前被留在巨大的育婴室里无暇照料的幼虫和蛹现在被来来回回地转移到各个房间里，有些被送到光线斑驳的房间里取暖，还有些被送去阴凉的房间里休养。

“战斗还会发生的，”此后不久的一天，厄尔弥对麦克伊文说道，“如果我们不彻底打败这些血红蚁，他们是不会放过我们的。我们应该发动所有群落的闪灵蓄奴蚁一同奋起抗争，打败所有的血红蚁，这样我们才能重拾和平的生活。”

“说得对，”麦克伊文说，“我准备好了。”

“我也是，”厄尔弥回答，“不过这可不是小事。他们是我们的宿敌，并且和我们势均力敌。如果我们两方再次遭遇的话，你就会看到什么才是真正的战争了。

不久形影不离的麦克伊文和厄尔弥遇到了一只血红蚁，他们和他大战了一场，随后杀死了他。这之后没多久，就有许多卢奇迪（这是他所在部落的名字）成员从早上离开蚁穴去觅食之后就再也没有消息了。两个营地之间的团队经常发生遭遇战，原本井然有序的生活不复存在了。

最后整个蚁群陷入了混乱，于是他们召集了一次议会。议会的地点定在蚁巢的主厅，那是一个巨大的房间，穹顶高耸在他们的头上，犹如一片无垠的天空。蚁后和所有的将领都出席了会议，厄尔弥和麦克伊文也在出席之列。他们大吵大嚷，七嘴八舌地议论了半天，却仍旧莫衷一是，直到于弥发表了一通一针见血的简短发言，才使卢奇迪委员会豁然开朗。

“我们必须开战，”他说，“我们的老对手不会放过我们的。我们得派侦察兵去联合所有的闪灵蓄奴蚁。然后和红蓄奴蚁好好打一场，就和过去那场战役一样。”

“啊，”一个站在麦克伊文旁边的老卢奇迪说道，“那可真是一场伟大的战役啊，当时你们还太年轻，可能都不记得了。参战者不计其数，到处都是死尸，我甚至都没法迈步。”

“我们还要再打一场这样的战役吗？”麦克伊文问道。

“没错，如果我们都参战的话。我们为数众多，闪灵蓄奴蚁可是无穷无尽的。”

此时另一个声音响起了，厄尔弥倾听着。

“我们要把大家都召集起来。等到血红蚁再次发起围攻的时候，我们就倾巢而出消灭他们，让他们一个也跑不了。”

“我们先派侦察兵出去，然后听一下我们的人都怎么说的，”厄尔弥大声插话道，“血红蚁也是一个庞大的种群。我们必须量力而行。这肯定是一场决定性的战役。”

“是啊，是啊，”大家纷纷回答，“先派侦察兵！“

于是他们立刻将探子们派往所有的分部，号召各个部落的闪灵蓄奴蚁参战。探子们先后带回了消息，其他部落都同意前来支援，他们的地盘也都遭到了攻击。不久部落联盟的将领们纷纷露面了。

千军万马聚集而来，森林小径上回荡着他们的欢呼声。在第一支兄弟部落的队伍到达时，他们和一伙顽强的血红蚁发生了一场小型遭遇战，一举击退并摧毁了他们。后来在大部队聚齐之前又发生很多小战斗，时有死伤，但战争还是没有结束。大家都明白，血红蚁虽然溃逃了，但他们不会退却。他们还会杀回来。

现在大部队汇合完毕，然而对这样庞大的一支队伍来说，食物成了问题。最后他们寄希望于扫荡血红蚁巢穴的时候能有所收获，但暂时还是必须弄点其它的供给。整片地区都必须搜罗一遍。住在附近领地上的黑山蚁和红刺蚁的地盘已经遭到攻击和破坏。他们的储藏室被洗劫一空，里面的东西都被瓜分完了。他们抢光了所有的活物，但食物还是不够。

麦克伊文和厄尔弥如今已经密不可分，他们参加了其中一场突袭，这场突袭的目标是附近森林里的一个黑山蚁巢穴。整个团队一路高唱战歌，直到进入黑山蚁地盘附近才安静了下来。

“我们一个也别掉队。”麦克伊文说。

“对，”厄尔弥说，“但他们不足挂齿。我们马上就会不战而胜，看着他们狼狈而逃了。”

他边说边指着几只惊恐万状的逃向大门口的黑山蚁。卢奇迪部落发出一声呐喊，紧追而上堵住了打开的大门，把他们赶尽杀绝。不到几分钟，第一批进洞的蚂蚁就带着他们的战利品出来了。其他的蚂蚁们则忙着和一大群老弱的黑山蚁恶战。大部分黑山蚁都无心恋战，他们被这一场厄运搞得几乎不知所措。无数的黑山蚁挂在他们洞穴旁边高耸的剑形草叶上，还有些挂在茂密草丛里宽大平展的草叶上，他们用下颚衔着自己的幼虫和蛹，匆忙间逃到这些最近的藏身之处。

麦克伊文追杀着一群黑山蚁，沉浸在杀戮的快感中不能自拔，他扑过去和他们扭打在一起，用他的上颚撕咬，把自己致命的蚁酸注入他们体内。

“你需要帮忙吗？”有一次厄尔弥问他，他总在他的附近大声喊叫。

“需要，”麦克伊文轻蔑地喊道，“再给我多引点儿敌兵过来。”

这两位战友很快结束了殊死战斗，他们收集了大量食物加入了凯旋的队伍，一路高唱凯歌。

厄尔弥边走边说：“明天我们将要会战血红蚁，大家都已经同意了，头领们正在商议。”

麦克伊文不清楚这些血红蚁在哪儿，但不知怎么的，他感到非常高兴，一种战斗的狂热欲望充斥着他的内心。

“这次可不再是四比二了。”他欢欣鼓舞地大笑着说道。

“是啊，而且我们再也不用筑工事来抵抗他们了。”厄尔弥大笑着说，战斗的欲望使他血脉贲张。

然而当他们走到营地附近的时候，却发现那里已经聚集了摩拳擦掌的大部队，成千上万已经到达的蚂蚁集合成一支又一支队伍，已经准备就绪。到处是战斗的呼喊声和一队队忙忙碌碌的卢奇迪。

“出什么事了？”厄尔弥兴奋地问道。

“血红蚁，”他们听到的回答是，“他们杀回来了。”

麦克伊文立刻清醒了，厄尔弥真挚地朝他转过身。

“现在，”他郑重地说道，“拿出勇气来，我们没有退路了。”

紧接着爆发了一阵惊人的骚动，整装待发的卢奇迪大军掉头向东开拔。麦克伊文和厄尔弥找不到他们自己的队伍，汇入了一个陌生的团队里。

“听口令！”他们的耳畔响起了一个声音，“站好队，集合了。”

他们俩机械地服从了，跟在了一列整齐的队伍后面。他们很快跟着其他长长的战士行列蜿蜒穿过剑形草叶，没多久就到达了一片开阔的平地，那里真正的战斗已经开始了。无数的蚂蚁聚集在那儿，显然有成千上万只。战斗几乎毫无组织，而且很明显地几乎不需要组织，因为所有参战者都是各自为战，或者是小团伙之间的混战。如今战斗完全依靠投入的兵力，取决于个体的拼杀，或者最多是取决于小团伙之间的较量。麦克伊文、厄尔弥还有其他几只卢奇迪正要抓住一只试图靠近他们的血红蚁，这只血红蚁却出其不意地冲散了他们，麦克伊文发现自己的喉咙被一只红色恶魔咬住了，他和厄尔弥被分开了。惊吓和叫嚣声使他一时茫然失措，在这第一轮战斗中他差点沦为俘虏，然而过了一会儿他就找回了勇气和胆量。他狂怒地一跃而起，恢复了精力，并奋力反击他的对手，咬住了对手颈部的咽喉。

“接招啊！”他冲东歪西倒的尸骸说道。

他刚结果了一个敌手，另一个就又抓住了他。敌人们从四面八方围攻上来，他们就像他和厄尔弥一样猛烈和无情，以惊人的力量冲撞、撕扯、啃咬。麦克伊文敏捷地迎战他的新敌手，后者用上颚伺机攻击麦克伊文的头和触角，麦克伊文绕过他的颈部迅速咬住了他的咽喉，翻身而上把蚁酸注入到对方的喉咙里，就这样结果了他的性命。

与此同时，战斗在各处同样疯狂激烈地持续着，尸骸遍野。这边战士们捉对厮杀——而那边，整条战线还在前仆后继地涌上来。时不时地，新的战线刚刚形成，双方大批的陌生战士就敌我难辨地开始狂热的杀戮。麦克伊文处在一种奇特的迷乱状态，渴望着死亡，似乎已经顾不上思索了。如今他是孤军奋战了——他迷失在一片动荡的战争海洋里，恐惧似乎远离了他。他心想，这太棒了，太不可思议了。

一个又一个的敌人进攻他，他娴熟地与他们交战，显然他惯于此道，他想要杀死他们——要他们支离破碎、毒发身亡、身首异处。他开始计算战绩，为自己杀敌的数目而欢欣鼓舞。最后他犹如身处梦境，周围都是黑压压席卷而来的大规模敌军。

终于有四只血红蚁合伙抓住了他，他在他们面前倒了下来，几乎没有反抗之力。他们敏捷地撕扯他的头和身体，努力想要迅速地结果他。一只抓住了他的一条腿，另一只抓住了他的触角，第三只跳起来啃他的颈部。但他还是全不在乎，这就是战争，他要激情狂热地战斗到最后一口气。最后他似乎失去了意识。

当他再一次睁开双眼，厄尔弥正在他身边。

“喂！”厄尔弥说。

“嗯？”麦克伊文回答。

“你差点完蛋了。”

“是吗？”他回答，“怎么回事？”

“我也不清楚，”厄尔弥说，“我只知道我跑过来的时候你伤得很重，他们死了两个，还有两个正要杀死你。”

“你不应该管我的，”麦克伊文说，此时他才第一次注意到厄尔弥的伤情，“我没什么大不了——卢奇迪多一个不多，少一个不少——有什么关系呢？还害得你受伤了。”

“我——哦，没事。你还是担心你自己吧，我恐怕你伤得挺重的。”

“哦，我，”麦克伊文艰难地转身，他终于感到了死亡的份量，“我完了，活不了了，刚才我就觉得自己要死了。”

他闭上了双眼抽搐着。又过了一会儿，麦克伊文睁开了双眼。他环顾四周，看到叮铃铃的马车在城市的大公园里悠然驶过，这真是奇妙极了。相比起他刚刚所见到的，这一切都如此陌生，远处的剑形草叶和其它树木、花朵都不见了，取而代之的是那些高楼大厦。他惊讶地跳了起来，然后又同样惊异地双脚落了地，此时一个路过的人惊奇地看着他。

他又一次闭上双眼，出于某种奇怪的原因——陶醉、感怀、新奇——他期望重演最后一幕。他心中充满了一种怪异的渴望，一种对战友和老朋友的缅怀。当再次睁开双眼时，他似乎更多地意识到了发生过的一切，但这一切却在逐渐消逝，消逝。

他的脚下是他不久前生活过的土地，还有并肩战斗过的蚂蚁——或者说他只是他所以为的。没错，就在那里！那几英尺远的干草丛里有一块不毛之地，那是昆虫们所踩踏出来的。他惊愕地盯着那个地方，寻找着一个失落的世界的蛛丝马迹。现在他靠近了，看到一场大规模的战役正在进行，他之前梦见的正是类似的一场战役。遍地都是蚂蚁的死尸，成千上万的蚂蚁正像他梦中经历的那样互相撕咬搏斗着。这意味着什么？——这是一种精神上的启示和弱小生命（或者就是他自身）的意义——或者是别的什么？如果此刻那些左右着他的陌生的冲动、情感和无奈，在那样一个微不足道的情境里也可以左右着他，那么生命又意味着什么呢？

“天啊，我就在那里，”他恍若梦中地说道，“就在刚才。我在梦中死在了那里——也可以说几乎死在了那里。至少我是醒来后才回到了这儿，或者说是从那里掉回了这里。

他弯下腰凑得更近一点，这样就能看到战线拉到了什么地方，那里各方兵力正在恶战，尸横遍野。有那么一刻，他在梦境中亲身经历过的奇特狂热攫住了他，他看到两群黑色的蓄奴蚁正在对抗红色的蓄奴蚁，暗暗盼望着那些黑色的闪灵蓄奴蚁能够获胜。多么奇怪的世界！他想着。大千世界，显然到处都充满着无奈、争斗、情感的牵绊和联结——一切都是如此地悲哀，这是他们的悲哀——一种来自远方模糊而悲伤的情感，它存在于蚂蚁的世界，也存在于这个城市日光遍照的白昼里，无论是在那里还是在这里，这种悲哀都不会停止，直到这个怪异的、奇特的叫做生命的东西终结。

[1] 蓄奴蚁，蚂蚁家族的一员，有着奴隶主的称号。蓄奴蚁是一种”好吃懒做”的家伙，不会自己觅食，要靠奴隶的养活才能生存，但是作战能力强大，是天生的战斗家族，依靠掠夺普通蚂蚁供他们奴役，供养他们生存。（译注）

阴影

他第一次觉察到他的家庭并不如他想象的那样美好，是在那次汽车事件中发现了一丝端倪。在这之前他还从未对她有过不好的想法，一次都没有。但从那以后这个疑团始终萦绕心头——好吧，这事已经过去一年半了，尽管疑团仍然徘徊不去，却也越来越淡漠了。何况他依然由衷地爱着贝儿丽，他们二人之间也还有提克尔斯需要抚养，然而他就是无法完全抹去那个疑团。但是尽管他尽力暗中揣度，不露声色地想方设法去推断事实，却也一直在犹豫：也许他这样不停地揣测对她是不公平的……但在那段时间里怎么会有那么多可疑的迹象呢，怎么就没有一个迹象能消除这些嫌疑呢？

制约他的主要是他的工作。他在三州纸业的订购处工作，作为一名忠诚的员工，他不能在工作时间未经许可就擅自离岗，而离岗许可又很难得到。因此他离岗的次数基本上屈指可数——有一次是去看牙医，还有两三次是因为贝儿丽病了得回家照看。但偏偏就在那个下午，他的主管巴戈特先生告诉他说他得顶替奈格里到德茨-斯坎隆商店跑一趟，去告诉皮尔斯先生已经装运上船的最后一批货出了差错，这事本来一直都是奈格里处理的，但当时他恰好不在。那边的情况乱糟糟的，不可能通过打电话就能理得顺。

就在搭乘戴夫南特线回办公室的路上，他在车上横排的一张舒服的座椅上坐了下来，看着车窗外布莱克利大街上拥挤的车流，这时一辆正驶向布里斯柯公园入口的深棕色汽车闯进了他的视野，这辆车转眼就越过前面的汽车驶进了公园。就在汽车转向他的短短一瞬间，他还是清楚地看见了驾驶座上是一个身穿浅棕色大衣的大块头男人，还有坐在那个男人身边的贝儿丽，她无疑是贝儿丽，除非她有个和她长得一模一样的孪生姐妹。他可以发誓那就是贝儿丽。并且更重要的，也可以说更糟的是，她正冲着这个男人笑逐颜开，仿佛他们正情深意浓，而且是老相识了。当然他只是瞥了一眼，也有可能看错。那天早晨贝儿丽告诉过他下午要去她妈妈那儿。她经常去，有时候帮她妈妈照看生意，就让提克尔斯待着。有时候她们母女俩会一起带着孩子到公园里散步，或者正好她妹妹爱丽丝也在，就和爱丽丝一起。当然，他可能是看错了。

但是那顶一侧有一串翠绿葡萄的帽子……还有那件绿白条纹的外套……还有她说话时那独特的仰着头的模样。那真的是贝儿丽吗？如果不是，他为什么会如此深信不疑那就是？

直到那个时候他们之间还从来没有过任何猜忌——是的，从来没有，除了那张拉斯科夫斯基的照片，但那也算不上什么。任何人都有可能会仰慕一个伟大的小提琴家，并且写信向他索要照片，即使如此也不能证明贝儿丽不检点。何况那张照片的题词是给爱丽丝的。但就算她真的给他写了信，比起这次来也算不上什么了，她竟然与陌生男人坐在一辆车上！毫无疑问他由于这件事做出任何决定，乃至是离婚，都是合情合理的。

但到目前为止他证实什么了吗？什么也没有。那个下午他试图找到她，先是在他们的家，然后是她妈妈的家，再然后是“温顿和马科”房地产办公室，爱丽丝有时候会在那里帮忙。可他就是找不到她半点踪迹。然而这就能一锤定音证明什么了吗？她也可能就像她说的那样和爱丽丝一起去听音乐会了。不管怎么说，整天待在家里肯定是太闷了，他不能因为她适当地找点消遣而责怪她。他经常在某个早晨或者下午试着和她联系，但总是没有回音，按照她的说法，她是去她妈妈那儿了，或者就是出门去买东西了。而直到看到那辆汽车的那个下午，这一切从来没有令他感到有什么蹊跷。他打了电话给贝儿丽的妈妈，她说贝儿丽和爱丽丝去听音乐会了，德纳太太不可能对他说谎。也许是她们俩在背地里做不该做的事，又或者是爱丽丝帮着贝儿丽这么做，而她们的妈妈对此一无所知。爱丽丝就是这样的，她很狡猾。如果贝儿丽和那个叫拉斯科夫斯基的男人私通，那毫无疑问是爱丽丝从中牵的线，他当初发现的那张照片就是题词给爱丽丝的。爱丽丝很有可能为了博贝儿丽的欢心而允许贝儿丽借用她的姓名和地址——是的，如果归根结底这事儿有问题的话。如果没有爱丽丝从中作梗，贝儿丽不可能会对这一类的事情动什么念头。

但同样，他始终也没能证明她们是同谋，无论是当时还是其他时候。如果这其中真有什么问题的话，那只能说她们太聪明了，让他什么马脚都抓不到。在他自认为在那辆车里看到了她的那一天，他先是试着打电话找她，接着就去办公室请了几分钟假回家。但他从中得到了什么结果呢？当他赶到家的时候，贝儿丽和她妈妈已经在那儿了，照贝儿丽的说法，她们刚从德纳太太家里走过来。贝儿丽穿的也不是他在车里看见的那套帽子和外套，而那套穿着正是他想去证实的。不过在他打电话给她妈妈以及他设法请假回家的期间，如果有必要的话，她有足够的时间回家去换衣服然后再到她妈妈家去。这就是一直困扰着他，使他始终没法释怀的地方。当时她完全有可能获悉他一直在打电话找她，也有时间准备好所有的说辞。假设她那时就在车里，并且在他之前回了家，假定她妈妈帮她说了谎——但这不会的，德纳太太不会说谎的——不过假定是这样，那么一切就有可能确实是真的发生过。因为当他走进家的时候，贝儿丽带着一丝激动和慌张大喊道：“怎么回事啊，吉尔？”紧接着又说：“多疯狂啊，你匆匆忙忙赶回家就是要跟我说这个！我当然不在什么车里。多荒唐啊！你问问妈妈。你不会以为她会替我说谎吧，是吗？”然后她又不容置疑地补充说道：“爱丽丝和我在公园待了一会儿，然后我们把提克尔斯放在妈妈那儿就去听音乐会了。从音乐会回来之后爱丽丝留在了家里，所以妈妈就和我一起散步走到我们家。你怎么这么激动。”而他无话可说，除了只能说他看到了一个大个子男人开着一辆深棕色的车进了布里斯柯公园，他身边还坐着一个女人，那个男人像是——好吧，他无法确切地说出那个男人看起来像谁。但他身边的那个女人毫无疑问应该是贝儿丽。她戴着一侧有翠绿葡萄的帽子，穿着绿白条纹的外套，就像她之前曾经打扮的那样。把这一切综合起来考虑，任凭是谁都能怎么想呢？但她一笑置之，而他又能说什么呢？他当然不能指责德纳太太不明就里，也不能说贝儿丽在说谎，除非他对自己说的话有把握。她的语气是那么斩钉截铁，让人难以怀疑。何况她是在他经过了漫长的追求以后才嫁给他的，如果他们没法和睦相处的话，她也并不是那么渴望与他生活在一起。

从那以后，拉斯科夫斯基事件在他的脑海中盘旋了好几个月，那一天还发生了戴明旅馆的事（要不是看见她在那辆汽车里，他本来对这事挺不以为然的），而且此前他冲回家的时候还在一堆纸灰里发现了几封信，就在三天后的一个晚上，他在贝格力广场又看见了那辆车，车窗紧闭——天啊，千真万确！

尽管按时间顺序把这些事理清是很容易的，但对他造成的影响却是一团乱麻。那天戴明旅馆的事发生在他纠结于汽车事件之前，这事本来是不值一提的，只不过是凑巧遇到了奈格里，而他顺口提起了而已。但是把这件事和那几封烧毁了的信，还有看见（或者说是他自以为看见）她在汽车里的事联系到一起之后——天啊——

在那以后，他的思路就理所当然地回到了戴明旅馆和那辆车上去了。奈格里在贝儿丽结婚之前曾经一度对她很感兴趣（她曾经是巴戈特的速记员）。就在他看见（或者说是他自以为看见）贝儿丽在汽车里的那一天，他大约四点钟的时候回到了办公室，奈格里无意间对他说起：“斯托达德，我刚才看见你妻子了。”“是吗？在哪儿？”“刚才我路过戴明旅馆的时候她正从女卫生间门口出来。”好吧，就从这件事本身来看，并没有什么稀奇，不是吗？戴明旅馆的大门口有一个购物中心，从那儿经过或者从随便哪一个出口出来都是很平常的事。他知道贝儿丽以前也会去那里，所以对此他又有什么可担心的呢？只不过不知出于何种原因，那天晚上他回家后贝儿丽完全没有提起她那天去了市区，直到他问起，“今天四点的时候你在干什么？”“在市区买东西啊。怎么了？你看见我了吗？我去找我妈妈。”“我？没看见。你认识戴明旅馆的什么人吗？”“一个也不认识。”——完全不动声色，没有任何一个地方能令他看出破绽。“哦，对了，我现在想起来了，我路过那里看了看安娜·麦克卡提橱窗里的帽子，然后从女卫生间的出口出来了，怎么了？”“哦，没事。奈格里说他看见你了，就这些。你这些天变得很爱闲逛啊。”“噢，瞎说！我逛逛戴明商场又怎么了？我中途还想去看看你呢，不过我知道你不喜欢我到那里去打扰你。”

于是他就此打消了这个疑虑——直到发生了那辆汽车的事。

还有那几封信的事……还有拉斯科夫斯基……

贝儿丽是一个音乐迷，尽管她只是稍微懂得欣赏，并不会演奏。她妈妈只能负担得起让她接受普通学校的教育，而他也是一样的家境。但她对小提琴和所有会演奏小提琴的人都非常着迷，每当有小提琴大师到城里，她总是会设法买票去看演出。拉斯科夫斯基是一个著名的金发俄罗斯人，演奏得非常精彩，她就是这么说的。她和爱丽丝去听过他的演奏，之后好几个星期她们都在热烈地谈论着他。她们也曾经说过要写信给他，只是为了看看他是否会回信，但他对这种事感到非常不高兴，因为他不希望贝儿丽给任何一个男人写信。这对她有什么好处呢？像他那样的男人才懒得给她回信呢，尤其是如果像报纸上说的所有的女人都对他那样痴迷。但不久他就在贝儿丽的房间里发现了拉斯科夫斯基的照片，只不过照片是题词给爱丽丝的……可是，也可能是贝儿丽让爱丽丝这么做的，甚至有可能以爱丽丝的名义寄去了自己的照片，只是为了看看他是不是会回信。她们说到过要寄照片。另外，如果爱丽丝写了信并且得到了照片，为什么照片不在她那儿而是归贝儿丽所有？他问过这件事。何况这其中还有一个破绽，那就是爱丽丝并不是真的好看到可以寄去自己的照片来打动人，爱丽丝自己也知道这一点。但是贝儿丽发誓她没有写信。爱丽丝也坚持说是她而不是贝儿丽写的信。但也没有办法可以证明她没写，也没办法证明贝儿丽写了。

但为什么这一切都要这样躲躲藏藏？自从他第一次问起拉斯科夫斯基以后，她们谁也没有再提起过他。而那次仅仅是因为他偶然在贝儿丽的一本书里看到了拉斯科夫斯基的照片，他这才开始了解到这些来龙去脉。“为了我美丽的，如此热爱我弹奏《死亡之舞》的小小西方崇拜者，下次我到你的城市演奏的时候请务必前来观赏。”而爱丽丝并不是那么“美丽”或者好看。但贝儿丽是“美丽”的。而且曾经有一次热烈地赞美过那支舞曲的人也是贝儿丽，不是爱丽丝，爱丽丝也不是那么关心音乐这回事。而且说起要写信给他的也不是爱丽丝，而是贝儿丽。然而收到回信的却是爱丽丝，怎么会是这样呢？极有可能是贝儿丽说服了爱丽丝替她写信，寄去了她自己的而不是爱丽丝的照片，于是爱丽丝就此得到了拉斯科夫斯基的照片。她们的这套做法，在他发现这张照片的时候就显而易见了。爱丽丝当时反应很快地说：“哦是的，我给他写了信。”而贝儿丽发现他正盯着她的时候，显得有点别扭，甚至有几分激动，尽管她努力克制着，显出一副无所谓的样子。当时还没有发生那次汽车的事。但是后来——在他亲眼见到贝儿丽在那辆汽车里以后——他感到那天和她一起在汽车里的那个人就是拉斯科夫斯基。报纸上说拉斯科夫斯基当时正游览哥伦布城，所以他很可能路过他们这座城市。他现在回想起来了，拉斯科夫斯基也是一个身材高大的人，老天啊！他要是能找到一个办法来证实这一切该多好！

不过退一步来想想这件事，就算是她写一封信向一个名人索要照片，就算她真的这么做了，这事儿真的有那么严重吗？但真是这样吗？那天看见了她在那辆车里以后（就当做是他真的看见了），隔天早上他就在壁炉里发现了那些字迹发白的信件，至少他是发现了他们之间的蛛丝马迹。当他把这些事和贝格力那辆关着窗的车联系在一起的时候，她看着他的样子多么别扭啊。她斜睨着眼睛若有所思，当他质问她是不是收到了拉斯科夫斯基的信，拉斯科夫斯基是不是来看她的时候，她大笑了起来，笑声里颤抖得厉害。他完全是偶然发现了这些信。他总是起个大早“收拾家务”，因为贝儿丽是个嗜睡虫，所以他要给壁炉点火，到厨房里烧水。那天早晨他弯腰拨弄壁炉里的烧柴，准备重新点火的时候，不经意间发现了五六张信纸，或者说是发现了几张信纸灰，那几张信纸并在一起，像是曾经用缎带或别的什么东西系成一束。没有烧尽的部分看起来像是写在一种有钱人才用的那种厚纸张上，就是塞在长条的厚信封中的那种。顶端还辨认得出写着：“转交贝儿丽·斯托达德太太”。他弯下腰去正想看看剩下的字迹，一块木头滚了下来把纸灰压碎了。他抢救出了一张纸屑，是其中一页信纸烧焦了的一角，那上面的字迹像是拉斯科夫斯基照片上的笔迹——不过也可能只是他想当然而已，那上面写着：“……来看你。”除此以外没有别的了，这是某一页的最末一句，其他的内容在下一页上。当然了，另外那一页已经不见了！

但是看到这些东西他就联想起了拉斯科夫斯基，这不是很好笑吗？而且还联想起了公园里的那辆车。他想起来了，车里的那个男人看起来有点像照片上的拉斯科夫斯基。而他只知道，拉斯科夫斯基有可能就在他们城里——他的思路又回到了这个中心问题上——那么她有可能偷偷去和他见面了。肯定是这样。就在戴明旅馆，就是在那儿。他从来没有完全相信她。当时所有的情形都指向这种事，即使他从来没能理清过前因后果，也没能让她承认这些事实。

但从那以后他因为这些念头而受了多大的煎熬啊！他陷入了一片黑暗之中！贝儿丽不忠吗？贝儿丽就那样围着一个男人团团转吗，就算他是个伟大的小提琴家又怎样？每个人都知道他是个什么样的男人——他就是“那种”男人。报纸上总是在报道女人们对他是多么痴迷，所以他就该大老远跑到C城来，在他和贝儿丽之间制造事端！（要是他能证实的话该多好！）但她为什么要这样，她有他和提克尔斯要照顾，还有她自己的生活，她为什么还想着去追逐一个像他那样的男人呢，他对她只不过利用一时，然后就会把她弃之不顾。她有没有想过她在C城有自己的家庭，还有自己的孩子，还有妈妈和妹妹，还有他？她有没有想过他是多么努力地为了他们俩而努力工作，创造好条件？这才是最糟糕的事，这才是悲哀之所在。一切都只为了一个地位比她高得多的男人对她投注了那么一丁点注意，而他无论如何不会在乎她或任何一个人太长时间，当时的报纸就是这么说他的。而这就是全部秘密所在。她对所有搞音乐的或者画画的或者别的所有这一类的人都非常着迷，她对这些人毫无理性可言。因为这个缘故她有可能会做出那样的事情来。就他个人而言，他对这些玩意儿抬都懒得抬一下手指。不管怎么说他们都不是普通而正派的人。但她只是一个那么普通的人。而且他们俩都知道C城也是一个普通的地方。哦，要是他能证明这一点该多好！要是他当时就能证明该多好！

那天早上在纸灰堆里发现了这些信件的痕迹以后，他曾想跑到她还在睡觉的那间卧室里去拽住她的头发，把她拖出来揍一顿，让她坦白这些事，但他还是恢复了理智。是的，他曾想要这么干。那天早晨他一心只想杀人。他要让她看看他的厉害。就算她有妈妈和妹妹帮她也逃不了。（无论如何，那个狡猾的小女人爱丽丝总是把她姐姐掺和进一些事情里去，再说她从一开始就不待见他。）但很快他又生起了一个念头，毕竟有可能是他错了。假设那些信不是拉斯科夫斯基写的呢？假设她说她不在那辆车里是真的呢？他除了自己的想象以外并没有什么真凭实据，而直到那时他们之间的一切本来是多么美好。然而……

然后他又产生了另一个想法：如果那些信不是拉斯科夫斯基写的，那又会是谁写的呢？他不知道还会有谁能用那样的信纸给她写信。如果不是拉斯科夫斯基，那么她还认识谁？还有她为什么要选他不在家的时候把这些信扔到火里去烧掉？这件事太奇怪了，特别是在前一天发生了汽车事件以后。但贝格力广场汽车事件发生的那天晚上，在他质问她这件事的时候她全盘否认，只是说他们刚从克莱尔·哈格蒂那里回来，克莱尔·哈格蒂是她的一位闺中好友，结婚以后就搬去纽约了，一直和她通信，信都是寄到她妈妈那里去的，因为那时他们俩还没有自己的家，而她妈妈家是她唯一可以收信的地址。她说她一直就想把这些信处理掉，只是一直把这事给放下了，不过就在那天晚上她偶然在一个抽屉里发现了这些信，所以就扔进火里烧掉了，事情就是这样的。

但事情真的是这样的吗？

甚至当他站在壁炉前犹豫着该怎么办的时候，他心里还产生了一个念头，他觉得自己没有找对路子。他想过应该马上去雇一个侦探跟踪她，如果她真的做了什么的话，查清真相完全是可能的。这样会更好一点，真的应该这样做。然而他没有这样做，却反而不停地和她争吵，凭着自己的猜疑和亲眼所见，或者说是他自以为是的亲眼所见，出其不意地出现在她面前，而这样做如果说有什么作用的话，那就是每次都会令她更加警惕，并且让她一次次占尽上风。事情就是这样。而那天他也是一样地和她争吵，只不过在他仔细考虑了以后，他决定去雇用索尔·科恩侦探社监视她。有一天晚上他去找哈里斯·科恩先生听取监视汇报（他只有晚上才有时间去听监视汇报），在回家的路上他在贝格力广场看见了那辆汽车，贝儿丽就在汽车边上。

贝格力广场是一条横向街道，有两条纵向的街道通向他们住的温顿大街。就在贝格力附近有一栋老居民楼，楼前有一丛灌木丛和四棵树冠连成拱状的树，所以那地方在夜里光线很暗。那天晚上他正从哈里斯·科恩先生那里回家（他跟贝儿丽说他要去乡下俱乐部，这样就可以拖住她，然后早一点回家看看会有什么情况发生），当时他乘坐的汽车从纳特力大道拐进了马克街，那里离他们家只有半个街区，他正要下车，这时他看到了一个人，那人应该是——但是，算了，先把这事儿放一边吧。就在他从车里下来的时候，或者稍迟一点，在他转身向自己的家里走去的时候，有一辆汽车和他同时沿着温顿大街的方向拐向贝格力广场，汽车车灯投射出极其强烈的光线，照亮了一辆停在刚才说到的老房子前面的汽车，那辆车车窗紧闭。在贝格力广场和温顿大街之间有两个空旷的转角地段，这两个转角就在老房子的对面，所以他可以看得很清楚。在那辆汽车的车尾边上站着一个人，那个人刚刚从车上下来，正准备离开，正是贝儿丽——或者说，他确信是贝儿丽，她正在和车里的一个什么人说着话，就像人们正要分手，然后转身进屋之前那样。她披着一件连帽披肩，正是她披过几次，但不是很常披的那件。她不再喜欢连帽披风了,那已经过时了。他和上次一样非常确信那就是贝儿丽，他终于逮住她了，于是他赶紧冲向那栋房子，或者不如说他是冲向那辆车。但就在他靠近那个街角的时候，那辆停在对面的汽车车灯闪了一下——然后车灯灭了，车飞驰而去。但就算是车灯开着的时候，亮度也不足以能看清到底是贝儿丽还是别的谁，也看不清车牌上的号码。车开走了，贝儿丽也走了，他猜测，或者说他相信贝儿丽进了巷子，从后门进屋去了。他非常确定她走的是那条路，于是他也走了那条路。但当他按照自己选的路线尾随她到了后门之后，发现门锁着，厨房的灯也暗着。他只好敲门，先是轻轻地，之后咚咚地敲，她这才过来给他开了门。她开门的时候看上去就像是从来没有出过门，光着身子正准备睡觉的样子，她还问起为什么他要从这边进屋！还叫他不要弄出这么大的声音免得吓醒了提克尔斯……！

想想看，她没有一丝慌乱，也没有穿披肩。餐厅的灯亮了以后，他看见桌子上有一本书，就好像她刚才正在看书一样——那是一本由一个叫巴克利的家伙写的书。没有任何迹象显示她曾经出过门——这可真是怪事。她矢口否认出过门或者看到过汽车啊或别的什么东西。现在你能怎么办！

除了这次贝格力广场上的汽车，之前布里斯柯公园的事，纸灰堆里的信，还有奈格里看见她从戴明旅馆出来的事都令他怒气冲冲地怀着满腹的猜疑和愤怒，更别提她写信给拉斯科夫斯基要照片的事了。因为那无疑是拉斯科夫斯基，而不是别的什么人。他非常有把握每一个可能性都指向拉斯科夫斯基。他从来没有犹豫过，坚持认为他知道那是谁——就无疑是拉斯科夫斯基——他见过他，也能够凭照片认出他来。但是她竭尽全力地否认——甚至还大笑了起来——她否认了他看见的一切，否认他看见的有一辆车来接她。过了一周她还拿出一张剪报给看他，那上面说拉斯科夫斯基在意大利。

但如果那不是拉斯科夫斯基又会是谁呢——如果是别的什么人。“老天啊，吉尔，”每次她都会这样说，“我从来没有和拉斯科夫斯基或任何别的人一起出去过，我觉得你不应该跑回来做出这副样子。这让我觉得你像个疯子。我从没有看见过或听见过任何的老爷车。你想想看如果我真的那样做了，我还能站在这儿否认吗？我也不喜欢你这种方式，最近你每隔一会儿就跑回来，质问那些我没做过的事。无论怎样，你有什么根据认为我行为不检点？那张该死的照片是爱丽丝写信去要的。你认为你看见了我在汽车里，就认定了是这样。你现在要是还不停止，还继续烦我，我就离开你，我告诉你事情就是这样。我不会生气的，尤其是你根本没有证据。”她就是用这种方式当着他的面驳斥他。

另外，当时——也就是他认为自己在贝格力广场看见她的那个晚上——就好像是为给她助威，提克尔斯在卧室里醒了，开始哭喊：“妈妈，妈妈。”于是她一边继续说话一边跑过去把他抱了出来。她的语气显得非常严肃而且轻蔑，并且非常像是发自肺腑，就像一个人蒙受了不白之冤那样。所以他又一次彻底地怀疑起自己，他回到了餐厅，那里灯还亮着，还有那本她在看的书。他把自己的外套挂到衣橱里的时候看到了那件连帽披肩，它已经及时地挂回到了原来的地方。

但是他怎么可能会弄错呢？毫无疑问这其中肯定有问题。他从来不曾怀疑过这件事是真的发生过，即使是现在。但除了那些短暂的瞬间发生的一切，他从来没有找到过其他的线索，由始至终他都没有发现任何可以让他拿出来质疑的地方。侦探社的人也没能发现她的任何疑点——一个疑点都没有。他浪费了很多钱：整整一百美元。这是怎么回事？

吉尔的麻烦就在于他生性多疑却又不太聪明。他是个典型的小职员，有一个小职员的头脑和小职员的观念，他永远不会提升到一个更高的层次，因为他不能。但她也不可能完全不喜欢他。至少，他是如此始终如一地无私地深爱着她，当然了，他也竭尽所能地承担她和提克尔斯的生活，他们对他来说很重要。最麻烦的是他爱得太深太执着。那些不用上班的日子，除了去乡下俱乐部或者有逃不掉的公差，他就整天无所事事，根本不想去任何一个没有她的地方，而且就算是去了也总是着急赶回来。她之前从来没有想过要嫁给他，当时他是三州纸业物流部的一个小职员，而她是巴戈特先生的速记员，在她眼里他作为一个男人并不是那么有魅力。吉尔后来成为了她的上司巴戈特先生的助手，而他不具备巴戈特先生那种气质和能力。事实就是如此，有一次巴戈特先生说：“吉尔伯特先生人挺好，很积极也很忠诚，但他缺乏魄力。”但尽管如此，她还是嫁给了他。

这是为什么呢？

哎，这真是一言难尽。其实他长得并不难看，可以算得上帅气，而这一点对她来说很重要。他有一双明亮的黑色大眼睛，光洁的前额，粉红的双颊，还有一双非常漂亮洁净的手。作为一个处于他这种地位的年轻人，他的穿着总是非常得体。他对她既忠诚又深情，对她紧追不舍。但就算是这样，她本来也不该嫁给他。一切都是一个错误。他不是适合她的男人。如今她知道了。但其实她当时就已经知道了这一点，只是她没有听从她的理性来行事。那个时候她总是太多愁善感，太不切实际——现在她意识到了。就在她结婚以后，她被一堆婚姻带来的问题所包围，她开始清醒了。但那时一切都迟了。

就这样她结婚了，在婚后的一年半里她既要照顾提克尔斯又要照顾吉尔，最初的激情慢慢消退了。她对吉尔产生了一种她做梦都没想过会产生的新情绪。而就在她对吉尔的感情开始减淡的时候，她对提克尔斯却迸发出了热烈的爱。三年来这种爱没有丝毫减弱，反而越来越强烈了。她非常爱自己的孩子，不愿有任何事情伤害到他。但她对他们这种无可选择且一成不变的乏味日子越来越厌倦。吉尔即使到了现在也只是一周挣45美元。他们三个人的衣食住行就靠这点钱。这不是件容易的事。她宁愿出去工作。但是带着一个三岁的孩子，出去工作也不是一件容易的事。再说吉尔根本不会同意。他是那种就算自己不能给妻子提供一个优越的家庭条件，也觉得妻子就该待在家里的年轻丈夫。

然而这几年里她拥有了阅读和思考的机会，在那之前她一直没有时间去做这两件事。当时她整天和一群无知的少男少女厮混在一起。现在那些女孩中的大部分都结婚了，她们也就不再来往了。但婚后阅读和思考渐渐地占据了她所有的闲暇时间，她也开始因此而改变了。她如今真的再也不是那个当初嫁给吉尔的女孩了，她变得更有思想了。关于生活她比他要了解得多得多。他的思想境界和结婚时相比没有任何提升，他还是忙于在三州纸页的办公室里为自己谋一个更好的职位，忙于去乡村俱乐部打高尔夫球或网球，也不管自己去了以后能不能玩得起。他希望她能巴结巴结里尔克博士和夫人，还有斯托夫特夫妇，因为他们有车，还因为斯托夫特先生和吉尔喜欢在一起玩牌。但除了这些他什么事都不想，一点想法都没有。

然而在这段时间里，她越来越意识到吉尔从来就处理不好任何他自己的事。早在他们结婚前，爱丽丝就提醒过她要拒绝他。他不是真正意义上的生意人，他只会处理公文，其他能赚钱的事他一件也不会考虑，而他也从来没有足够的本钱去考虑。他们认识的其他所有人都非常有钱。也许正是这种意识把她推回到了书籍和绘画这一类的事情里去。无论如何，在那些日子里，从事这些事业的人比起那些只顾赚钱的人要有趣得多。

但当时要不是她正处在严重的精神抑郁中，本来是不会身陷和巴克利先生之间的危险关系的，那时提克尔斯才两岁，吉尔为自己是否能保住在三州纸页公司的职位而焦虑不已。他把自己之前攒的所有钱都投入到了房屋和贷款计划里，投资失败后他们无疑陷入了窘境，既无计可施又无法脱身。直到今天她也没有一件拿得出手的衣服，也指望不上能买得起，而她也不再年轻了。但毕竟还有提克尔斯，于是她重新捡起了速记技能，以防万一发生了最坏的情况——

要不是在她对生活、吉尔和一切都感到身心俱疲的时候读到了巴克利先生写的那本《全盛时代》，她本来不会冒险陷进去的，她差一点就因此毁掉了她和提克尔斯的生活——因为假如吉尔发现了，毫无疑问他会把提克尔斯从她身边带走。这本书如此犀利而真实地反映了她自己的生活，的确，这本书把她的生活的真实面目展开在她的面前，就像是有人当着她的面娓娓道来。书里的故事讲述了一个类似她这样的姑娘在困苦的少女时代梦想着自己的生活，从十四岁起就不得不自食其力，但就在她能够掌握命运的时候却和一个没有出路的男人，一个像吉尔一样的小职员结了一个愚蠢的婚，这个男人带给了她好几年捉襟见肘的生活，最后她厌倦了一切，想要委身另一个并不爱她但却很有钱的男人，他能够满足她想要而丈夫却给不了的一切，后来她的丈夫却突然出走了，留下她一个人艰难地谋生。这个故事和她自己的生活唯一的区别就是故事里没有小提克尔斯需要抚养，而且当然了，吉尔也不可能会出走。但故事里的女主角没有妥协，而是重新开始了工作，并且在过了一段时间以后，她遇到了一位人品很好的建筑师，他们陷入了爱河并且结了婚。这个故事，除了提克尔斯和建筑师以及大团圆的结局，一切都和她的生活如出一辙。

而她的生活，唉——

但机会却降临了！她在寝食难安和想入非非的煎熬中，终于鼓起勇气给巴克利先生写了一封信，尽管她非常怀疑他对他自己描写的这种生活是否还会有兴趣，是否还会被打动。她本来以为如果他有兴趣在书里如此真实地刻画一个那样的女孩，那么他应该会对她的真实生活有那么点兴趣。只不过一开始她并没有引诱他的想法，因为她不相信自己能做得到。再说，既然他能够满怀同情地描写他的女主角莱拉，那么也许他也能对她给予一定的帮助，她正面对和莱拉一样的生活困境，但她并不指望他能为她解决问题——只要给她一些建议就好。

但是后来当他回信表示感谢的时候，她却害怕再也不会收到他的信了，于是她想起了那张里尔克博士为她拍的照片，照片上的她发自内心地欢笑着，每个人都那么喜欢那张照片。他的来信是那么地与众不同，那么有趣，她觉得也许这张照片能够打动他，与她做进一步的交流，于是她寄去了这张照片，问他自己是否长得有几分像他的女主角，并为自己冒昧寄去照片表示了歉意。他很快回复了一封亲切的信，信里他说了自己的看法，并且告诉她除非她真的生活得非常不快乐，否则就不要轻举妄动，而要在这个美好的世界上努力让自己活得开心，生活建立在经济基础之上，而他自己是一个流浪者，只能成为他人生命中的过客，他的事业是第一位的，他说，除此以外，他浪迹天涯只为了在这乏味的人生中努力过得精彩，然而可以的话，他很愿意和她见面并且尽他所能给她建议，但她绝对不能以任何形式要求他改变初衷，以她目前非常困难的处境，这样做是非常不明智的。

即便如此，她依然不愿放弃对他的感情，他的来信深深地打动了她。后来他终于来到了距离150英里以外的U城，并且写信问她是否能够见面。她无法抗拒见到他的诱惑，尽管她当时就知道这样做是非常危险的。这只会引起麻烦——那是多么大的麻烦啊！但她别无选择，以她当时的心情，再大的代价她也在所不惜，她一心想不顾一切地打破这一成不变的生活。于是事情就这样发生了。他来了，一发不可收拾，真的是不可收拾，直到他又消失了。

当时在她和吉尔之间一定存在着某种看不见的神秘力量，使他总是出现在她不愿意被他看见的地方。例如，她那么小心地把巴克利的信件扔进燃烧的木头下面的煤堆里，后来还是被吉尔发现了。总之他显然能够辨认出部分的地址，因为他说这些信是通过他不知道的人转交给她的。不过当然了，关于写信的人，他完全搞错了。他因为发现了那张拉斯科夫斯基几个月前给爱丽丝的签名照，因而有了一个疯狂的念头，以为这些信是拉斯科夫斯基写的，他认为她通过爱丽丝写信去向拉斯科夫斯基索要照片——她也确实是这样做了，但那是在她读了巴克利先生的书之前。但如果不是吉尔那么疯狂地以为她感兴趣的人是拉斯科夫斯基，她不会有勇气正视自己的处境，正视自己失去提克尔斯的危险，因为那一刻她看到了吉尔表现得那么地多疑和警惕，这令她惊惧万分。那是多么胆战心惊的三天！一想到他发现了纸灰堆里那些信会做出什么事来，这一切就令她莫名地惊恐。

再说到那天他看见她快速经过布里斯柯公园，不管怎么说，当时他们经过那里的时候最多就一秒钟，但还是被他看见了！更糟的是，那天回来的时候巴克利先生本来并没打算走那条路，他当时本来应该在沃伦大街转弯的，但却错走到瑞奇利大街上去了。但是说一千道一万，吉尔竟然偏偏在那里！他应该任何时候都不会离开办公室的！幸亏她当时正要回家，所以他才没能在她之前赶到家，无疑他本来就是打算这样做。还有，假如不是她妈妈一向深得大家的信任，并且真的相信她是和爱丽丝去听音乐会了，那她根本没有勇气去面对他。一开始她没料到他会跑回家去，但他回家了，于是她意识到除非自己在信任她的妈妈面前和他当面对质，否则他们立马就会知道真相，她只剩下一个选择——嘴硬扛下去。幸运的是她妈妈没有看见她穿着吉尔坚持声称他看见的那套衣服。因为去见她妈妈之前，她和爱丽丝先带提克尔斯去她妈妈那里，然后她回家换了衣服。在吉尔到来之前，爱丽丝先回妈妈那儿去接管孩子，这就是令吉尔怎么都想不通的地方，因为他不知道换衣服的事，这一点她妈妈也不知道。她妈妈不相信这其中的奥妙，所以她觉得吉尔那样说话简直是有点疯了。她妈妈对那天的事情一无所知——她一点疑心都没有。

接下来就是那个可怕的夜晚，他觉得自己在贝格力广场看见她了，跑回家去抓她。她怎么能忘得了呢？两天前的一个晚上，他回到家对她说奈格里看见她从戴明旅馆出来。当时她从他说话的方式能看得出来，他对此并没有多想——毕竟他习惯了她白天到城里去。奈格里应该是看见她了，但她宁愿他从来都没有看见过！

毫无疑问像那样去和巴克利先生见面要冒极大的风险，虽然从另一个角度来说，似乎风险也没那么大。每个人都会因为这样那样的原因经过戴明购物中心，在那儿被人看见并不是什么大不了的事。而且不管怎么说，那地方人来人往，在那里遇到某个人停下来说两句话是再平常不过的事。就这样她那天去了那里——去迎接巴克利先生的到来，并且约好了第二天见面。她这么做是因为她知道她不会待太久，并且吉尔在那个时候不会外出，如果别人看见她了，不管是他们认识的任何一个人，她都可以说是偶遇。吉尔也是这么想的，所以当时根本就不在意。想来奈格里应该是在路过戴明旅馆的时候看见她的——幸亏当时她是一个人，于是他就跑去告诉吉尔了。他纯粹是恶意，他就是这样的。自从她甩了他选择了吉尔，他就对她不怀好意，尽可能地给她找麻烦，就是这样的。一个人在恋爱的事上受了挫折往往就会这么做。

但最糟的也是最奇怪的是那天晚上贝格力广场上的事，那是她最后一次去见巴克利先生。真是奇怪。当然那时她已经知道吉尔已经起了疑心，可能会监视她，她不想再给他任何把柄来盘问她。但那天晚上他去乡下俱乐部了，而且从他们结婚以来他从来不会错过任何一次乡下的聚会——一次都没有。何况她当时只想在外面待一个小时左右，而且就在她家附近，这样如果吉尔下了车或者有别人打电话来了，她都能知道。她甚至没有打开餐厅的灯，就是为了万一吉尔意外地回来了，或者有别人来找她，她就可以说她到附近一个街区的斯托夫特夫人家去了。为了以防万一有人问起，她还在巴克利先生快到之前到斯托夫特夫人家待了一会儿。她甚至交待巴克利先生等在贝格力广场上的那幢达尔雷姆普旧楼下的阴影里，就在树底下，这样车就不会被看见了。不管怎样，那条街上一向没有什么人，而且那里一向就非常暗。再说当时眼看就要下雨了，所以那里显得更加安全了。但就在她自以为一切都进行得天衣无缝，正准备离开的时候，他还是看见了她。

但她如何能够预料到当时会有一辆大车亮着大灯在那里转弯，又如何能料到吉尔正在那时下了车并且朝那边看？她也料不到他会比平常提前了一个小时回家——他去乡下俱乐部是从来不会早归的。此外，她那天晚上本来不想出门的，但是巴克利先生打电话来说他第二天必须离开，可能要离开几天，他想在走之前和她见个面。她想如果他们就在附近关上车窗待一会儿，就像他说的那样，那应该是没问题的，但事实却不是这样。那辆大车就在那个时候转弯，而吉尔也正在那时下车并且朝贝格力广场看了一眼，就在车灯扫射过来的时候，她正站在那儿告别。也许有些人生来幸运，但显然她不是。唯一挽救了她的，是她得以在吉尔之前赶回了家，把披肩挂了起来，跑进卧室脱掉衣服，还看了看提克尔斯是不是还睡着。当他闯进门来的时候，她觉得自己无法直视他——他是那么地绝望和愤怒。但是谢天谢地，不管他是不是真的看见她了，这件事在他的疑虑中结束了，尽管他从来不承认他自己的疑虑。

当时她面对的现实是巴克利先生写信告诉她，自从到这座城市和她见了一面以后，他就迷上了她，他想见到她，想尽一切可能帮助她。但真正令她再也不和巴克利先生见面的原因并不是因为她害怕吉尔（其实她根本就不在乎被他发现），也不是因为与巴克利先生相比她更喜欢吉尔（吉尔和巴克利先生简直不可同日而语），也不是因为她不愿意放弃她的生活或者别的什么事，而是因为就在收到巴克利先生的最后一封信的时候，她发现根据法律，如果吉尔抓住了她的把柄，他就有权带走提克尔斯，并且让她再也见不到孩子。这比任何一件事都令她感到恐惧，她也因此而下了决心，此时此地，无论她原来想要的是什么，都无法弥补失去提克尔斯给她带来的创伤和痛苦。在此之前，她从未真正地停下来思考这个问题，直到那个晚上和吉尔爆发了争吵，那天晚上他认为自己看见了她在贝格力广场，他发誓如果他能找到任何证据，他就把提克尔斯从她身边带走，或者杀了她和提克尔斯，杀了自己和拉斯科夫斯基（竟然是拉斯科夫斯基！），事到如今她才真正意识到她不能失去提克尔斯——不，连一分钟都不可以！如果没有了他，她所梦想的幸福生活就是泡影——她知道的。正是因为如此，甚至面对吉尔亲眼见到她的事实，她还是强词夺理，让他相信是他错了。是失去提克尔斯的危险给了她勇气、淡定和冷静，一想到失去他意味着什么，她就感到生命将随之变得苍白而空虚，除非她能带他走，无论去哪儿，假如有可能的话。

因此当吉尔破门而入，大喊大叫吵醒了提克尔斯以后，她抱起了孩子面对他。提克尔斯搂着她的脖子哭喊着：“妈妈！妈妈！”即便是在这一刻，她还在想着该如何才能摆脱这个困境，甚至在吉尔大吵大闹的时候，她也在告诉自己无论发生什么事，她都再也不会做任何不利的事情来妨碍到她对提克尔斯的抚养权。正因为这种决心，使她能够态度坚决，矢口否认，最终令他开始怀疑自己的判断。也因为如此，她终于设法顶住了吉尔的压力，并大获全胜。

第二天她就打电话给巴克利先生，告诉他自己无法继续和他保持婚外情关系，并告诉他因为提克尔斯对她来说太重要了，她将等待并寻找人生的出路。他非常善解人意，对她深感同情，并且告诉她从大局出发，他相信她的做法是明智的，是对她自身的幸福有利的。而她也是这么想的。只不过从今往后，他再写信给她的时候她不得不拒绝了他。如今他杳无音信了，而她还是如此地敬重他。从此她再也没有收到过他的信，因为她请求他不要再写信给她，除非她先给她写信。

但她是多么后悔自己这样做！如今她的生活，包括提克尔斯，都那么平凡无趣而单调乏味。那些美好的日子一去不复返了……那些梦想曾经是多么激动人心。但她还有提克尔斯。而在小说里，那位丈夫走了，建筑师出现了。

黑鬼杰夫

主编正在等待艾默尔·戴维斯，他是主编手下最优秀的记者之一。在这个极其自负的年轻人眼里，人生不过就是按部就班的奖励和惩罚。倘若一个人稍微做错了些事情，那他就不会有好日子过。反之，要是他什么都做对了，自然就过得好。只有那些所谓的坏人才会受到应有的惩罚，也只有那些好人才会真正得到奖赏。或许戴维斯先生从小就听别人这样说过，也就基本信以为真了。没过多久他就出现了：身着新西装，戴着新帽子，就连鞋子也是新的。在西装的翻领上里还别着一小朵紫罗兰。这是春季的一个晴朗午后，时针正指向1点钟，戴维斯感觉很不错，心情也是格外舒畅。这个世界对他特别友好，好到让他想要放声高歌。

“戴维斯，来看看这个，”主编说着递给他一份简报，“这是接下来的任务。”

戴维斯站在主编的椅子边看了起来：

欢乐谷，4月16日

“这里发生了一件有史以来最恶劣的案件。黑鬼杰夫·英格尔斯于今早侵犯了摩根·惠特克年仅19岁的女儿艾达·惠特克。惠特克是一位富裕的农场主，家住在距离这里4英里以西的地方。由治安官马修斯率领的民防团已经展开了抓捕工作。如果英格尔斯被抓住的话，预计他将被处以私刑。”

戴维斯看完后立刻抬起了头。这是多么令人发指的罪行！世界上怎么还有这种恶棍！对这种畜生完全不需要手下留情，越快杀了他越好。

“你最好去那儿一趟，戴维斯。”主编说。

“可能还会发生点什么的。在这地方死刑可算是一条大新闻。这儿还从来没有执行过死刑呢。”

戴维斯笑了笑。他挺高兴能被派出城采访。这就是一种赏赐。主编几乎从来不曾派过别的记者来跟进这种大新闻。他这次出差将会多么愉快呀！

但是戴维斯刚走了没多久就开始琢磨这事儿。或许就像主编说的，他可能得亲眼目睹这次刑讯。那这可绝不是一件愉快的事。要是他还得亲眼目睹死刑的话就更糟了。因为在他那固有的奖励与惩罚标准里，可从来没想过私刑，他甚至连这个概念都没有。曾经由于工作需要，他被迫观看过绞刑，尽管那次是正常法律程序，可那种惨状已经让他快吐出来了。现在他看着这阳光灿烂的日子，还有做工精良的西装，不能确定这次任务是不是值得去执行。为什么这种事情总是找他去报道呢，就只是因为他会写新闻？那还有其他人呢——还有那么多记者呢，为什么让他去？他开始希望不会有什么太严重的事情发生，他希望在自己到那里之前黑鬼就已经被抓住，关进监狱去了——或者如果发生最糟糕的情况，他到那儿的时候黑人已经被处死了，越想越烦！我们来瞧瞧，这封电报是早上9点钟发来的，现在是下午1点30分，他到那里估计最早也得3点钟。他还有大把时间呢，接着不管黑鬼到底是死是活，反正他只要收集下案件的细节材料，再追踪下后续发展就可以回去了。戴维斯只要稍微想到和死刑有关的事情就烦恼不已，他想得越多，就越不想去。

到了欢乐谷，戴维斯发现这确实是一个小村庄，葱绿的小山脊上有几十户人家，那里只有一条商业街，几条马路杂乱无章地延伸到远方，一两个K城（他刚刚离开的那个城市）商人忙碌着，除此之外其他地方都是一片乡下风光。下车之后，一片洁白的小房子映入眼帘，途中他还看到一条波光粼粼的小溪，煞是美丽。在主街道的一个角落，几个人围坐在典型的乡村酒吧里，戴维斯赶紧朝那里走去，他们看起来好像知道很多消息。

起初和这些人混在一起的时候，他并没有透露自己记者的身份，生怕他们知道后就不会这样肆无忌惮地谈论了。

这群人显然对案件非常感兴趣，当然犯人还没有接受惩罚，所以他们极其渴望知道接下来会发生什么。这几年里他们没有点燃怒火的契机，没法发泄积聚已久的野蛮习性。他借此机会调查了一下这次袭击的准确细节：袭击是在哪里发生的，惠特克家住在哪里。但他发现这些人的谈话内容其实十分空洞，于是就走开了，心想最好还是亲自调查一下受害人怎么样了。因为他现在还没有听说过受害者的情况，可是对受害者稍作了解也是十分必要的。所以他找到了一位在村子里有马厩的老人，骑上一匹马出发了。戴维斯并不是骑马的老手，但这里没有四轮马车，因此他也只好勉力为之。惠特克家住在4英里开外的地方，离这儿不算太远。在坑坑洼洼的小路一番颠簸之后，他终于敲开了惠特克家的前门。

“我是《泰晤士报》的记者。”戴维斯对开门的女士说道。他想要给这位高挑纤瘦的女士留下深刻的印象。在这种情况下他的记者身份有利有弊，他可能会受到欢迎，也可能不会。接着他请问对方是不是惠特克太太，又问候了惠特克小姐目前的情况。

“她很不错，”可能是由于太过压抑和紧张，太太的神色明显挺严厉的。“你不进来吗？她受到了相当大的惊吓，不过医生说可能过几天她就能恢复了。”她没再说什么。

戴维斯应邀进了门。他特别希望见见那女孩，但是惠特克小姐的麻醉还没过，这会儿还睡着，而且他也不想现在立刻进行采访。

“事情是什么时候发生的？”他问道。

“大约早上8点，”惠特克太太说，“她正准备去邻居埃德蒙兹先生家，就在这时那个黑鬼看见了我女儿。直到她哭着跑进门倒在这儿，我们才知道发生了什么事。”

“您是第一个见到她的人吗？”戴维斯问。

“是的，我也是唯一一个见到她的人，”惠特克太太说，“男人们都到地里去了。”

戴维斯打听了更多关于那个男人的体型还有来历等细节，然后就准备动身离开。临走之前惠特克太太允许他去看看小姐，可是她还在休息。这位风华正茂的小姐相当漂亮。戴维斯在院子里遇到了一个前来打探情况的农民，他为戴维斯披露了更多消息。

“他们正在南边搜查，”他指的应该是那些负责搜查的人，“要是他们抓到他，我希望他们赶快把他解决掉。靠他那两条腿跑不远的。我想治安官马修斯正带着一两个警察在追捕他。警长会努力把他活着带到克莱顿去，但要是大家先抓住他的话，那警长可就带不了活人咯。”

因此戴维斯认为他可能还得亲眼目睹绞刑，前景不容乐观。

“有没有谁知道那个黑鬼住哪儿？”他语气沉重地问到，一种油然而生的使命感压在了他的肩头。“噢，就从这儿下去一小段路，”农民回答道，“他名叫杰夫·英格尔斯。我们住在这块的都认识他。他就靠给附近的农民干点活计来养家，除了有时候会喝醉酒外，他之前还从来没犯过这么大的错呢。艾达小姐认出了他，错不了。你就顺着这条路走到下一个岔口，然后右转就是。他住的那间小木屋背对着马路——沿路你可以看到很多相似的小屋，只有杰夫的小屋边上散放着许多木片。”

戴维斯本想先去那儿看看，可后来又改变了主意。天色越来越晚了，他想还是回村子里比较好。或许目前可以从治安官和治安队那边打听到一点进展。

于是他骑马回了村子，把马交回到马主人的手里，暗暗祈祷这一切能快点有个结论，最好能在这儿就听到结论。他又回到了主街角，有一群和刚才差不多的人聚在一起，他们不停地吵吵嚷嚷、比比划划。这些人似乎就是早些时候去搜查嫌疑人的那些人中的几个。他挺想知道这些人从那之后都干了些什么，于是他就显摆了一下，告诉他们自己刚刚从惠特克家回来，还说了一下惠特克小姐现在的情况，以及治安官的抓捕进程。

就在那时，一个年轻的农夫飞奔而来，衣冠不整地喘着粗气。

“他们抓住他啦！”青年激动地大声喊道，“他们抓住他啦！”

人群向这个还在马背上的青年涌了过来，“谁抓住的？”“在哪里抓住的？”“啥时候抓住的？”

人群七嘴八舌地问着。

“哎呀，黑鬼在自己家被马修斯抓住了！”年轻人大喊着，拿出手帕擦了擦脸，“他一定是回去找什么。他们说马修斯要把他移交给克莱顿，不过他们决不会让他活着到那儿，他们正在追踪这黑鬼呢，可马修斯说谁要是敢第一个把黑鬼抢走，他就一枪毙了谁。”

“他们走的哪条路？”人们齐声高呼，群情激愤，就好像要去进攻一样。

“穿过塞勒斯街走的，”马背上的青年说，“那些人觉得他可能会从鲍德温走。”

“万岁！”人群中有人大声喊道，“我们要把他从治安官手里抢回来！山姆你去吗？”

“当然去！”山姆说道，“等等，我去骑马！”

“天呐！”戴维斯心想，“想想看吧，这下我必须得去观看‘私刑盛宴’了，简直就像是一个雇来的围观群众！”

他没再犹豫，可是在这之前他得先赶紧再去弄一匹马。人群已经蓄势待发要去追赶治安官了。那地方将会有重大新闻，极有可能会非常戏剧化。

马匹出租人看到戴维斯激动的表情，不禁打听到：“出啥事儿了？”。

“他们要去追他，”戴维斯焦急地说，“治安官抓住他了。他们现在要过去把他从治安官手里抢过来，反正他们是这么说的，治安官正带着他从鲍德温到克莱顿去。我得尽快过去，再给我刚才那匹马，我再多给你两美元。”

出租人把马租给了他，可仍旧不忘啰啰嗦嗦地叮嘱了一大堆照顾好马匹的注意事项：如果驾驭不当就会受伤、马匹使用不得超过午夜、倘若过了午夜还要用，那就要返回再取一匹马。戴维斯立刻就答应了，接着就骑上马飞奔而去。

待到他回到街角时，那些之前回去取马的人都已经整装待发了。那个送来消息的年轻人早就匆匆忙忙地去别处送信了。

戴维斯等着瞧这群人要走哪条路。然后就骑着马随人群走上了一条冒险之旅，这条乡间小路幽静怡然，他们走上矮山，走下低谷，处处都能一眼瞥见那令人沉醉的美景。可是作为记者的戴维斯被近在眼前的严峻形势搅得焦虑不堪，几乎没有注意到眼前延绵不断的美景。随着死刑越加临近，戴维斯越加倍感压力。

大约1小时后，这群人看到了治安官，他身边还跟着两个人，他们正驾驶着借来的马车在人迹罕至的乡间小路上走着。治安官坐在马车后面，一只手里拿着把左轮手枪指向人群，人们敬畏地远远跟在后面盯着，尽管每个人都激动万分，但目前他们暂时还没有采取行动。戴维斯听到有人说：“他在马车里，难道你们都没看到他被绑着躺在里面吗？”戴维斯向里面看着。

“没错，”另一个人说道，“我也看到他了。”

靠近第一排的第三个人说，“我们现在应该把他从这里劫走，然后绞死他。他活该，罪有应得，就算我们今天没绞死他，他也会被处死的。”

“没错！”治安官回答，他好像听到了这边的话。

“今天你们不可能绞死他，所以还是回去吧。”他似乎没有因为人群的出现而受到困扰。“惠尔特老头子在哪儿？”其中一个人问道，他似乎觉得他们需要一个首领，“他得赶快把这崽子带走！”

“他和另一群人在一起，在奥尔尼后面。”有人答道。

“得有人去那儿告诉他。”

“克拉克已经去了。”一个唯恐天下不乱的人确认说。

戴维斯骑着马走在大部队里，心里感到五味杂陈。他万分激动，但就目前他所看到的一切来说，队伍中有一部分人主要是为了看热闹；还有一部分人只是想亲自体验一回杀人的感觉。狐假虎威所带来的勇气基本上算不得真正的勇气，将在场所有人的力量和意志聚集起来，足以打败治安官、从他手中夺取黑鬼的意志也算不得真正的意志。这很是奇怪——从理智上来说几乎无法理解——然而事实就是这样。这群人就是害怕这位意志坚定的治安官。他们觉得必须做点什么事儿，却又不想惹上麻烦。

马修斯是一个严肃睿智的大个子，棕色皮肤，衣着破旧，戴着顶褪了色的棕帽子，他表情冷峻地注视着跟在后边的马车，似乎已经下定决心，无论如何都要从暴徒手中保护杰夫，必要时他甚至会对暴徒开枪，如果他开枪的话，那就势必会造成伤亡。后来，由于人群就这么一直不敢冲上前去攻击他，因此他似乎决定把这些人吓跑。很显然他觉得自己可以办得到，因为这些人只是呆头呆脑地跟着他。

“等一下！”他对车夫说。于是，马车停了下来，跟在后面的人群也停了下来。黑人俯卧在颠簸的马车上，治安官站在黑人身边向后喊道：

“你们给我立刻从这儿散开！现在！马上！我不会再让你们跟着我了！”

“把黑鬼给我们！”一个人半开玩笑半嘲讽地嚷嚷着。

“我只给你们两分钟回头，离开这条路，”治安官严肃地回答，边说边掏出手表看着。人群离治安官大概有100英尺，“如果你们不自己走，我可要把你们全部给毙了！”

“把黑鬼交出来！”

“斯科特，我知道是你，”马修斯认出了他的声音，“明天我会把你们全都给抓住。君子一言驷马难追！”

人群静静地听着，空气中只有咯咯作响的马嚼子声和萧萧长鸣的马嘶声。

“我们有权利将他绞死。”其中一个人回答。

“我给你们一个公正的警告，”治安官说着跳下马车，边平举着枪边慢慢走近，“数到五我就要开枪了！”

他神情严肃坚决地逼近，人群稍微往后退了一点。

“赶紧从这儿走开！”他大喊，“1——2”

包括戴维斯在内的人群全部转身撤退。

“他走远点儿的时候，我们再跟着他。”一个人辩解着。

“他真的会开枪，”另一个人讲，“让他往前走一点儿。”

治安官回到马车上继续赶路。可是他似乎意识到了人们不会服从他的命令，安全也只是暂时的，因此快马加鞭地赶着马车急速行驶。只要他能甩掉他们或者顺利启程，那就有可能一大早到达克莱顿坚实的乡村监狱。然而，那些尾随的人很快便追了上来，他们下定决心不再后退了。

“他要去鲍德温。”戴维斯所在的那群人里有一个人说道。

“鲍德温在哪儿？”戴维斯问。

“从这里往西走大概四英里。”

“那为什么他要去那儿？”

“因为他住那儿。我猜他觉得如果自己能把黑鬼带去那儿，他就能一直保护着这黑鬼，直到克莱顿派人手过来。我觉得今天夜里或者明儿一早，他就要试着把黑鬼给交接咯。”

戴维斯被这个人的英语逗笑了，这乡村土话常常让他觉得很好玩。

但是人们迟疑了半天，犹豫着应该做什么。他们不想跟丢马修斯，可是胆小懦弱控制了他们，让他们犹豫不前。他们不想直接与法律发生冲突。绞死人并不是他们的职责所在，虽然他们觉得黑鬼应该被绞死，而且看着他绞死可能是一件令人震惊又激动的事。因此他们渴望能够亲眼见证并随时待命——如果可以的话，马上去找来还在其他地方搜捕的老惠特克和他的儿子，他们想看看这父子俩会怎么做。

这一困境被一个人解决了：他建议他们可以先返回欢乐谷，然后取道沙河路去博尔温，到时可能会碰上惠特克和他儿子，或者可以在他家留个口信。即便是治安官先到那里，但抄这条小道也要比治安官走的那条路近了不少。如果治安官想要继续往前走的话，至少他们能在克莱顿追上他。通往克莱顿的路就在欢乐谷背后，很容易穿过峡谷或者在峡谷附近拦截。因此有一两个人继续跟着治安官，一旦治安官要去克莱顿，他们就要发出警报。戴维斯则跟随其他人快马加鞭以最快的速度返回欢乐谷。待到他们返回的时候已经快到晚饭时间了，他们停在街头小店门口。袅袅的炊烟从烟囱里盘旋着冒出。那些人追踪的决心在这儿似乎稍有减弱了。显然治安官毁了他们的夜晚。受害人的父亲摩根·惠特克和哥哥杰克也都还没找到。或许他们最好还是先去吃晚饭吧，有两三个人已经悄无声息地离开了。

有两个街头小店的老板守在店里没跟大家去，他们给其中一个店老板讲述着到目前为止的事件进展，就在这时女孩的哥哥杰克·惠特曼和几个人一起骑着马过来了。他们已经搜查了整个镇子北部，现在又热又累。显然他们还不知道这群人的最新进展。

“治安官已经抓住他了！”人群里有人喊道，通常情况下，那些重大新闻都是那些小乡村团体传出的，“几小时前他用马车把犯人押送去鲍德温了。”

“他走的哪条路？”杰克·惠特曼问道，他是个体格强壮的男子，穿着件半新不旧的外套，戴着顶俏皮的帽子，神采飞扬地骑着马左右踱步。

“从谢勒买街走的。走那条路你是抓不住他的，杰克，现在他已经走过那儿了。最好抄小道。”人群里你一言我一语地喋喋不休，让整个场面变得更加有趣。一个人在讲黑鬼是怎么被抓住的，另一个在描述这治安官怎么个目中无人，第三个人说还有一些人仍旧跟着治安官，或者在那儿观察着，关于这出大戏的种种要点都被事无巨细地说了一遍。

晚餐立刻被人们抛在脑后。所有晚上的惯例都在今晚再一次被颠覆。人们再次开始了一趟惊心动魄的旅程，他们骑上高山、骑过低谷、穿过了鲍德温和欢乐谷之间的可爱小村庄。

戴维斯现在疲于奔命，对骑马也是深感头痛。他现在就想知道这件事还能不能结束了，什么时候能结束，更别说去报道了。单这件事都够悲催了，更何况他还要花不知道多长时间去捕捉事态发展的可能性，虽然当下的情形显示出了极大的可能性，可他还是不敢离开。与之相比的是即将而来的恐惧，就像他现在发现的一样，黑夜美丽迷人，可却令人心感伤痛；星星已经开始在天空中闪闪烁烁；山谷里和山坡上那远方的灯光一闪一闪的，就像是村舍的黄色眼睛；空气清新而温柔；一些飞鸟在远处鸣叫着；东方慢慢升起了一轮金色的明月。

一群人得得的马蹄声在寂静的山谷里响起，听声音不会超过十二人。在黄昏里，杰克率领的人群倒像是去朝圣。年轻的杰克安静地骑着马走在人群最前头，看来似乎他一心只想着报仇雪恨，他的朋友也似乎十分体谅地离他远远的，他们把他看做了受害者。

一个小时后，坐落在矮山之间的鲍德温才进入视野。万家灯火柔和地闪烁着，可以想见篝火炉边正进行着愉快的晚餐，这些景象足以吸引现在正饥肠辘辘的戴维斯。可现在他的脑子里除了这场追逐外，什么都容不下了。

刚一进村子，他们就被鲍德温的居民认了出来，并且受到了热烈欢迎。似乎每一个人都知道他们为何而来。治安官和嫌疑人还在那里，还有十二个当地居民也奋勇加入。当地的商店老板以及各种闲人也都跟着大部队沿街赶往治安官家，那些骑马的人都已经下了马，气氛沉重地前行。

当他们走过一个人的家门前时，那个人说：“小伙子们，你们是抓不到他的。”后来戴维斯得知这个人名叫西维，看起来挺年轻的，年纪大概在25至30岁左右，他是村子的邮政局长兼报务员。西维说：“他找了两个副手和他一块儿，据说他要把黑鬼带到克莱顿去。”

在一个街角处，那几个追踪治安官的人也加入到了队伍当中。

“我们差点儿就得手了，”他们激动地说，“可是他把黑鬼关到了房子的地下室里。副手们没在黑鬼旁边，他们可能去克莱顿还是什么地方寻求援助了。”

“我们看到他们从后面那条路走了。反正我们觉得自己看到了。

距离治安官的白色小屋后方100英尺的地方有一块坡地，他们就停在那里商量。杰克扬言他要快刀斩乱麻地闯进治安官家，直接索要黑鬼。

“如果他不把黑鬼交出来，我就破门而入抓住黑鬼！”他说。

“对！我们会支持你的，惠特克。”一些人回答。

此时，一群没有骑马的当地人聚集了过来。整个村子的人都被惊醒了，村里的一条街上熙熙攘攘，满街是跑来跑去的人。门口和窗户都挤满了看热闹的人。骑马的人昂首阔步，奋力疾呼。有时也能听到零星几声左轮手枪的枪声。现在这些暴民离治安官的门前更近了，杰克作为这些人的首领走上前去。他没有像自己之前扬言的那样莽莽撞撞地直扑治安官家的门，而是停在了治安官家的大门前，叫他出来。

“你好啊，马修斯！”

“出来，出来，出来！”人群爆发出怒吼声。

怒吼声不绝于耳，可是仍旧无人响应。显然，拖延是治安官最好的武器。

然而他们的到来并非像有些人以为的这般出人意料。人们在靠近前窗的地方看到了治安官的身影。他手里好像拿着一把双管霰弹枪。而随着事态的发展，黑鬼无疑是听到了外面人群的叫喊声和左轮手枪的枪声，在地下室最阴暗的角落里吓得颤抖不已。

杰克正准备走上前，房子的前门突然开了，屋子里只开了一盏灯，人们最先看到的是双管霰弹枪头，然后看到了穿着制服的马修斯，他手中拿着的武器蓄势待发。大家都后退了，只有杰克还站在那里。

“马修斯先生，”他谨慎地说道，“我们要那个黑鬼！”

“你们别想抢到他！”治安官回答，“他不在这儿。”

“那你拿着枪干啥呀？”有人喊道。

马修斯没有回答。

“马修斯，你最好还是把他交出来，”又一个安全的藏身在人群里的人喊道，“要不然我们就进去把他带走了！”

“你们不敢，”治安官挑衅地说，“我说了人不在这儿。我再说一遍，就算他在这儿，你们也别想带走他，你们别想进我房子！如果你们不想自找麻烦的话，最好还是赶紧走开。”

另一个人大喊：“他在地下室！”

又一个人问：“为什么你不让我们看看？”

马修斯轻轻地挥了挥手上的枪。

他警告道：“你们现在最好还是离开这儿。”

“我警告你们！我会给你们每个人开一张逮捕令，如果你们觉得无所谓的话！”

人们继续让局势发酵，杰克还是一动不动地站着，他脸色发白，十分紧张，但是没有主动出击。

人群后面有人喊：“他不会开枪的，杰克，你怎么还不进去抓住他？”

“是啊！冲啊！”又一个人审时度势地说。

“他不会开枪，嗯哼？”治安官轻声说，然后他用更低的声音说，“第一个走进门的人可得承担后果。”

没人敢冒险走进大门，甚至有一些人退后了。计划好的突袭似乎化为乌有了。

“为什么不转到后门去呢？”有人说。

“那你们试试！”治安官回答着，“看看你们从那边能找到什么！我讲过了，你们别想进来。你们最好趁还没惹上麻烦赶快离开，”他重复了一遍，“你们别想进来，否则别怪我不手下留情！”

人群中又是一阵骚动，治安官警惕地站在那里。但他没有再说什么。人们的嘲讽、骚乱还有对悲剧的渴望都没能干扰他。他只是看着杰克，只要他行动，整个人群都会跟着一拥而上。

时间一点一点地过去了，还是什么事情都没有发生。实际上少不经事的杰克在这考验胆量的时刻并没有足够的勇气，而且他也感受到了身后人群的软弱。实际上他是孤军作战，这令他气馁了。最后他稍稍退了一步，观察着事态的发展，说道：“不管怎么样，天亮之前我都要抓住他。”现在人群开始散去了，人们开始返回自己的店里、家中，或是站在邮局门口，还有村子里唯一一家药店门口。戴维斯最终笑笑离开了。他确定自己已经想好了一篇关于被击败的暴民的报道。治安官会是他报道中的英雄，他准备稍后向治安官提出采访的请求。现在他得去找电报员西维安排一下，发一封电报，然后看看附近有什么能吃饭的地方。

过了一会儿他就找到了电报员，然后告诉了他自己的意图——写一篇报道，然后发一封电报。西维告诉他邮局有一个小桌子和一个电报站，这些他都能用。当他得知戴维斯在《泰晤士报》工作时，立刻表现出了浓厚的兴趣。戴维斯问他哪里能找到吃的，他说他愿意跑到街对面，让这里唯一一家旅店的老板弄点吃的，让戴维斯写报道的时候吃。他好像对记者是怎么用电报发送报道的十分感兴趣。

他说：“你写你的报道，我等会儿就回来，看看自己能不能用电报联通《泰晤士报》。”

戴维斯坐下来开始写作。他准备描述一下到目前为止的事件进展，整件事的瞬息万变和骚动混乱，还有治安官的胜利。显然是治安官的勇气获胜了，这些都是非常生动的报道。“一场被阻止的绞刑，”他开始写到，当他写到乐于助人的电报员时，电报员刚好回来了，他拿起一页报道，仔细地亲自将它们译成密电。

“很好，我看看现在能不能联系上《泰晤士报》。”他说。

“电报员太热心了，”戴维斯边写边想，但是他在采访中经常遇到和蔼可亲的热心人，所以很快就将这样的想法抛之脑后了。

吃的拿来了，戴维斯还在写，边写边用力咀嚼着。过了一会儿，《泰晤士报》回应了这个反复呼叫的信号。

“戴维斯在鲍德温，准备发回一篇报道！”电报员滴滴滴地发送着电报。

“让他快发！”《泰晤士报》的电报员回答，他非常期待这份急件。

戴维斯的脑海里浮现出了今天发生的所有事情，灵思泉涌地写了一页又一页。他时不时地看着面前的小窗户，透过窗户极目远眺，他看到山坡上有一点孤独的灯光，一闪一闪的。他不时地停下手头的工作来看看是不是有什么新情况，是不是局势又有了新的危险，但实际上什么都没有发生。然后他觉得还是等等看，等到今夜完全解除了发生血腥惨剧的可能性再离开。电报员在房间里踱来踱去，等待着发送戴维斯后续的稿件，他要确保自己的工作速度能和记者的保持一致。他们两个相处得十分融洽。

他的急件终于快写完了，戴维斯让电报员告诉K城的晚间编辑保持警觉，如果在早晨之前又有什么新进展的话，他还会发出后续报道，不过别太过指望，应该不会再有事了。很快对方就有了回应，晚间编辑会一直在线等待事情的进展。然后，戴维斯就和电报员坐下来一起聊天。

将近11点时，他们俩都觉得今晚不会再发生什么事情了，村子里的灯火逐渐熄灭了，万籁俱寂，在这乡村风情的炎炎夏日之夜，一切都静止了下来。远处隐约传来一阵马蹄声，似乎有一群人正朝着这边涌来，这时戴维斯听出了声音来自邮局的后面，是从沙河路上传来的。电报员也听到这些声响站起了身子，他们两个走到外面仔细聆听。声音越来越大，电报员说：“这可能是治安官搬来的救兵，但好像又不是。我每天都往克莱顿发6次电报。他们不可能从这条路来。这条路不对。”戴维斯非常紧张，他想现在恐怕要写份后续报道了。他真希望结束这一切！在他看来绞刑实在太可怕了。他希望人们不会这样做——他现在比任何时候都希望人们用法律武器来解决此事，而不是用双手来解决。这样太残忍也太野蛮了。那黑鬼可能在黑暗里吓得瑟瑟发抖，治安官可能也十分紧张，担心自己的责任和任务。黑鬼犯下的罪行确实很严重，但是为什么人们不能用法律的手段来解决呢？法律是更好的武器，法律的权力足以应对这样的罪行。

“他们从后面来了。”电报员严肃地说，他和戴维斯盯着的那个地方声音越来越大了。

“我怕克莱顿那边根本就不会提供任何帮助。”

“确实，我觉得你说的没错！”戴维斯回答道，冥冥之中他觉得更多麻烦会接踵而至，“他们来了！”

就在他说话的时候，得得的马蹄声、刷刷的缰绳声不绝于耳，一大群人冲到了街上，把乡村狭窄的街道挤得水泄不通。杰克·惠特克和一个年龄较长，留着胡须，带着黑色帽子的男子并排走在队伍的最前面。

“那是杰克，”电报员说，“在他旁边的是他父亲。如果他发起火来，那可绝对是一个大麻烦。现在绝对要发生些什么事了。”

戴维斯意识到，他刚才聊天的时候事情已经开始有所转变。显然他儿子刚刚返回了欢乐谷，然后组织了又一批人马去和他父亲回合。

这里立刻又是一阵骚动。门廊还有窗户都亮起了灯光，人们纷纷打开窗户看现在到底发生了什么。戴维斯立刻发现人们没有像之前那样盲从了。到处都是严峻的气氛，他觉得现在这件事儿就快结束了。这群人走到街尽头的治安官家门口，夜色浓黑，戴维斯跟着这群人，他们到治安官家门口准备下马时，他也到了。镇子里的人们也都纷纷赶来。看到事情发展到如此程度，治安官丝毫不敢放松守卫，他没有睡觉，待到人群再次抵达时，屋子里的灯又亮了起来。

现在就快要月上中天了。在月光的照射下，戴维斯认出了好几个今天下午人群中的人，当然他也认出了杰克。还有好多人他不认识，人群领头的那个老人他就不认识。

老惠特克十分健壮，面色铁青，留着络腮胡。他看起来非常像一名铁匠。

“注意那个老头子，”站在戴维斯旁边的报务员说，他也刚刚赶来。

他们还都在观望的时候，老惠特克大胆地向前走向房子，敲响了房门。有人拉起窗帘向外看了看。

“嘿，里面的人！”惠特克叫嚷着，再次敲门。

一个声音问：“你想要什么？”

“我要那个黑鬼！”

“嘿，你别想得到他！我再给你们这些人说一遍。”

老惠特克说：“把他给我交出来，要不老子就一脚踹开你这破门！”

“如果你敢冒这个险的话，当然我知道你敢，惠特克，你也清楚我会怎么做。我给你两分钟，赶紧从前门走开！”

“我告诉你，我要那个黑鬼！”

“如果你不走开，我就从门里面开枪了，”一个声音严肃地说道，“1——2”

老惠特克谨慎地往后退了几步。

人群叫喊着：“马修斯，滚出来！这次你得把黑鬼交出来，我们不得到他的话是不会走的！”

门慢慢地打开了，好像门里的人对自己对付这群暴民的结果很是满意。今天晚上他已经这么做过一次了，那再来一次又有何妨呢？人们看到了他高大的身影，他手里还拿着枪。他面无表情地向四周环视着，接着像对待朋友似的告诫惠特克。

“你得不到他的，摩根，”他说，“这是违法的。这个你和我一样清楚。“

“管他什么法律不法律的，”惠特克说，“我要那个黑鬼！”

“摩根，我告诉你，我是不会让你得到他的。你这样做是违法的。你知道自己不该在晚上这个时候到这儿做这些的。”

“那我现在就要把他带走。”老惠特克说着就往前走去。

“退后！”治安官叫着，立刻举起抢来，“你要是敢过来我就一枪毙了你，我他妈的决不食言！”

人群不再向前冲了。治安官放低了枪，仿佛他觉得危机再一次解除了。

“你们都该为自己感到羞愧，”他继续说道，声音软了下来，“你们想用这样的方式颠覆法律。”

“那黑鬼就没有犯法，是吧？”有人讥笑地问。

马修斯回答说：“他犯法了，法律会给他应有的惩罚。”

老惠特克说：“马修斯，把那混蛋给我们交出来！你最好还是交出来，要不然会引起更大的麻烦。”

“摩根，我不会跟你再争了。我说了，你不会得到，也不可能得到他。如果你不怕流血冲突的话，行啊，那你来吧。但可别怪我无情，我会崩了第一个踏进第一步的人。”

他敏捷地举起手上的枪，等待着“出头鸟”。人群站在他那个小篱笆墙外议论纷纷。

过了会儿，老惠特克退后了，他和其他几个人说了几句话。人群中的纷纷议论声更大了，然后他又回到门前。

“马修斯，我们不想找麻烦，”他开始声情并茂地挥舞着双手慷慨陈词，“但是我们觉得你应该看看，这样坚持到底是没什么好处的。我们觉得——”

戴维斯和电报员看着杰克，他奇怪的态度引起了他们的注意。杰克蓄势待发的站在人群边上，显然不想被人们发觉。他的眼神一直都集中在治安官身上，而现在治安官正在和老惠特克交谈。杰克的父亲正说着话，就在治安官似乎稍显动容，放松警惕之时，杰克却出其不意的突然向门廊跑去。一时间局势变得十分紧张，一触即发。治安官立刻举起枪来，他和老惠特克同时扣响了扳机，枪响了，但杰克也已经跑进了房间。马修斯有足够的时间把治安官手里的枪抢走，然后把他扑倒在地，他们开的这两枪从人群头顶擦过，随后便爆发了一阵骚乱。人们十人一伙的翻过篱笆，挤进了治安官的小房子里。房子的每一个角落都挤满了人，一直挤到了门廊上，那儿有两个人正在和治安官推推搡搡。治安官很快就放弃了，他发誓要报仇，要维护法律。人们拿来了火把和一条绳子。一辆马车也驶了进来，停在院子的后面。然后，大家开始呼叫黑鬼。

戴维斯一直注视着这一切，他禁不住想，在整个骚动里黑鬼一定是蜷伏在地下室的角落里，一想到自己的命运就被吓得瑟瑟发抖吧。现在他肯定意识到了自己的末日即将来临。在这段时间里他不可能睡得着的，肯定是一直蜷缩在那里，心神不宁地默默祈祷着。他肯定一直都很害怕，担心治安官恐怕不能及时把他送走。如今再听到外面的马蹄声和争吵声，他的身体该颤抖得多厉害，牙齿该打颤得多厉害啊！

“我讨厌他们这么对他，”电报员严肃地说，“但我们却什么都做不了，村子里应该给我们一些援助。”

“这太可怕了，太可怕了！”除了这些，戴维斯不知道还能说什么。

戴维斯和人群一起走进房子，想要知道每个细节。现在，许多人就像警犬那样想要找到黑鬼，他们拿着一条绳子，走到了房子边上一个低矮的地下室入口前。其他人手举火把紧随其后。惠特克和杰克带领的这群人已经进入了黑黝黝的地下室。戴维斯以令人钦佩的勇气跟了下去，他并不能肯定他们会不会允许他跟下去，但他已经下决心，只要有可能就一定要下去看看。

突然，他在最远处的角落里看到了英格斯，他蜷缩在那里恐惧万分，像是正要跳起来。他的指甲深深地抠进了泥土里。他转动着眼珠，嘴里不断地吐出泡沫。

“哦，天呐，大人们，”他呜咽着，像盲人一样地看着火把，“哦，天呐，大人们，求求你们，别杀了我！我再也不会犯这样的错误了，再也不会这么做了。这次我不是故意的。大人，我只不过是喝醉了。哦，天呐！天呐！”他连牙齿都在打颤，像是要张开嘴。他现在不怎么清醒了，只是不断单调地重复着：“哦，天呐！”

“看！他在这儿！把他拖出来！”老惠特克大叫着。

现在，黑鬼发出了一声恐惧和崩溃的叫喊，瘫倒在了地上。他极力挣扎，死亡的车轮正在逼近，他摔倒在地板的泥土地面上。他的理性已经崩溃了，现在他只不过是一个匍匐在地面上、口吐白沫的畜生而已。在他晕倒前最后看到的景象就是那些前来逮捕他的人。

这一幕发生前，戴维斯就已经撤退到了外面的草地上，但在他们抓住黑鬼并把他绑起来的时候，他又往回跑了10英尺。尽管这一幕让戴维斯心慌意乱，但他还是有身为记者训练有素的冷静和客观思考的能力。即便是现在，他还是注意到了这一幕的色彩——冒着烟的红色火把、衣冠不整的人群，以及推搡和拉扯的声响。然后突然间，他下意识地用双手捂住了自己的嘴巴。

“哦，天呐！”他小声说着，声音里几乎没什么力量。

那个黑鬼口吐白沫，眼睛被打得充血，双手痉挛不止，他被那些人从地下室拖上来，外面的人距他不过几步远。他们用绳子捆住他的腰和脚，这样就能把他拖出去，只留下头，用来执行绞刑。这张黑脸已经被那些人打到变形了。

“哦，天呐！”戴维斯再一次震惊地说，下意识地咬着手指。

这群人比刚才更为紧密地聚集在一起，看到自己的作品，他们更多的是震惊，而非欢乐。显然没有人有勇气来否认自己做错了什么，也不会仁慈到去否认自己的所作所为。人们用一种熟练的机械方式把黑鬼鲁莽地抬了起来，像扔一袋麦子一样把他扔到了马车上。惠特克父子二人骑着马走在人群的最前头，人们牵着自己的马，耳边充斥着得得的马蹄声，身后是一列安静行进的队伍。正如戴维斯后来说的，他们并没有因为绞刑而变得沉重，可能只是因为心里充满了好奇，所以变成了旁观者，他们中的大多数人希望看到新鲜事儿的发生，希望任何能够发生新鲜事儿的借口，希望自己平淡无奇的生活注入一丝不同。绞刑对于大多数人来说完全是一个新名词。戴维斯的眼睛睁得很大，十分紧张地跑到自己的马前，骑上马跟在队伍后面。他很兴奋，几乎不知道自己在做什么。

这群安静行进的队伍缓慢地走上了通往沙河路的小路，绞刑将在那里执行。月亮还是高高的挂在天上，洒下一抹银白色的光芒。戴维斯边走边思索自己要怎么完成这份电报，但仍旧觉得现在还完成不了。在这件事结束前都不会有时间。他们还要等多久才会绞死黑鬼？他们真的要绞死他吗？整个行刑过程似乎如此不真实，如此残暴野蛮，他都不敢相信这是真的，他不敢相信自己竟然也是他们中的一员。但他们仍然没有停下脚步。

“他们真的要绞死他吗？”戴维斯问一个骑在他旁边的陌生人，那人对他参与这事并不反感。“当然嘛，要不他们抓他干啥呢。”陌生人回答。

他想，明天晚上他就能回到K城，在自己家中舒适的床上好好休息了。

戴维斯再一次落在队伍后面沉默不语，想要找回勇气。他已经习惯了城市的生活，而这里的单调乏味和都市生活迥然不同，可令戴维斯不敢相信的是自己竟然变成了他们中的一员。夜晚十分轻柔，空气如此新鲜。树林在凉爽晚风的吹拂下轻轻摇曳，树影也欢快地颤动着。为什么会有人以这样的方式死去？为什么鲍德温还有其他地方的人，在这之前都遵纪守法，而现在却会置法律于不顾，任其自由发展？现在惠特克父子看起来非常残暴，虽然惠特克小姐受到了伤害，但他们也不至于这样对待黑鬼啊。可是当地似乎有将犯强奸罪的人处以死刑的习俗。习俗反而成了一种公理自明、量刑精确的法律，虽然很是残酷，可毕竟是习俗规定的。过了一会儿他骑马赶上了马车，又一次看了看黑鬼。

戴维斯很庆幸地发现黑鬼还没有清醒。他的呼吸很沉重，不断发出呻吟声，潜意识中感到疼痛却无能为力。他的眼神呆滞，脸上和手上全是血，似乎布满了抓痕和各种践踏的痕迹。他浑身无力地躺在那里。

戴维斯不忍再看下去了。他往后退了几步，心里觉得很难过，他不想再看到更多景象，似乎只有嗜杀成性的魔鬼才会做这种事。队伍仍旧在前行，戴维斯跟在后面，经过了被月光染成白色的田野，穿过了一片又一片黑暗静谧的树林，月光下稀稀疏疏的树影投在地上，他们爬上矮山，走过低谷，直到最后一条小溪映入眼帘，就是他早些时候看到的那条小溪，过了那座桥后就到了执行绞刑的地点。现在溪流涔涔流过，波光粼粼，像是夜色中的一道电流。片刻之后，公路离溪流更近了，然后他们直接穿过了那座桥，能看到前面还有一段路。

现在队伍还在前进，然后就停下了。马车被驶到了桥上，惠特克父子也赶到了。包括戴维斯在内所有骑马的人们都下了马，几乎所有人都挤到了马车前，人群像抬一个袋子一样把黑鬼抬了下来。值得庆幸的是，就像戴维斯告诉过自己的，现在黑鬼还没有恢复意识，这是意外的仁慈。不过他不想再亲眼见证这个故事的结局了，沿着比桥稍高的河岸走远了些。毕竟，他还不是那种毫无怜悯之心的记者。可是从他站的地方，他能看到长长的铁桥梁在水面上方凸了出来，它们是支撑桥梁用的，一些人在梁上紧紧地寄上了一条绳子，然后他看到他们用绳子的另一头系在了黑鬼的脖子上。

最终，那群看热闹的人向后退开了，他把脸转向了别处。

“你有没有什么想说的？”一个声音问到。

没有回答。黑鬼可能在四肢无力地不断呻吟，差不多和之前一样毫无意识。

然后，大家一齐把这个黑乎乎的一团东西（血肉模糊，根本无法辨别）举到半空中，戴维斯看到一个柔软的东西被放下，然后拉起，听到绳索的嘎吱嘎吱声。在微弱的月光下，似乎那个躯体还在挣扎，但是他也分辨不清。戴维斯看着这一切，他张大了嘴巴，却一个字都说不出，然后那具躯体就不动了。过了一会儿，他听到人群准备离去。最终，黑鬼还是被绞死了，只剩下他魂不守舍的站在那里。陪伴着他的只有一个挂在惨白月光下的黑色物体，它在微微发光的水面上摇摆着。他坐在河岸边上，静静地看着远方。现在，一切恐怖的东西都已经消失了，苦难也已经结束了。他不必再害怕了。所有事物都充满了夏天的感觉，十分美丽。整个队伍都消失不见了，月亮也已经西沉。他的马系在桥下的一棵小树苗上，正耐心地等着戴维斯的到来。他仍旧坐在那儿，现在他应该火急火燎地返回鲍德温的那个小邮局，如果还能找到西维的话，就完成报道的剩余细节，但是这于事无补。现在已经很晚了，不过这又有什么关系呢？仅有一位记者跟进这次事件，他可以在明天早上写一篇更完整、更悲伤、更生动的报道。他胡思乱想着，西维发生了什么事？为什么他没有跟过来？人生似乎是如此悲哀陌生、神秘而费解。

戴维斯还是坐在那里，天空浮现出了鱼肚白，东边出现了一抹薰衣草色的淡淡朝霞，然后变成了玫瑰色的光晕，呈现出了天堂所有的奇妙色彩，小溪的水面上也反射出同样的光。小溪底部的白色鹅卵石闪着粉红色的光，草丛原先是黑色的，现在变成了半透不透的绿色。尸体仍旧挂在那里，在天空下只能看到黑黝黝的一团软绵绵地挂在那里，现在一丝微风吹过，明显能看到尸体在摆动。最后他起身骑上马，独自回到了欢乐谷。之前的这场悲剧填满了他的思绪，沿途的美景再也吸引不了他。他叫醒了马匹出租人，向他解释了整个事件经过，向他保证自己把马照顾得很好，递给了他5美元。然后他离开了，又开始边走边想。

由于中午前这里没有火车，他的工作也要求他在这里再呆上一天，于是他决定抽出一天时间在这里逛逛，搜集更多关于这个事件后续报道的细节。谁会去把尸体放下来呢？该不该逮捕那些执行绞刑的人？——比如惠特克父子？现在治安官怎么样了？他被吓到了吗？他知道如果自己把报道的主体部分电邮给主管，那主管就不会在意他晚回去一天。在这里多待一天是个不错的选择。他和市民及官员谈论了这个事件，他骑马去了受害的女孩家，去了鲍德温看望治安官。那个角落里非常安静、平和。治安官保证自己知道几乎所有参与这件事情的人，准备给那些人开搜捕令，同样的，戴维斯发现从哲学意义上来说，他像接受危险一样接受了自己的失败。那个屋角随后不再有什么动静了。毋庸置疑，他想要继续担任一个受欢迎的治安官。

第二天日落时分，他想起来自己还没有去看尸体是不是被放下来了。他也还没有询问别人为什么黑鬼当时要跑回家，还有他到底是怎么样被抓住的。晚上9点才有回城的火车，现在戴维斯还有一点时间寻找答案，他决定要好好调查调查。黑人的小木屋需要沿着一条满是松树的道路走上2英里，但乡间的夜晚令人愉快，于是他决定走着去。夕阳渐渐西沉了，最后一抹斜阳拉长了一棵刚吐出嫩芽的树影。不久之后他就到了黑人的小屋前，那是个一层的小屋，坐落在公路后面，被许多凌乱的树木包围着。现在天色已晚，小屋与路之间的空地已经被清理了出来，上面洒满了柴堆的小木条。屋顶已经塌陷下去，窗户上到处都是补丁，但不管怎样它都闪烁出家的光辉。走进敞开的前门，你能看见烧柴火的火焰，黄色的灯光使屋内充满了金色的光芒。

戴维斯在门前徘徊，最终还是敲响了那扇门。他没有听到回答，于是朝屋里张望了下，看到了一把破旧不堪的藤椅和他们精心呵护的旧家具。这是一个典型的黑人小屋，家徒四壁，不用怎么描述都能想到有多么穷困。过了一会儿后门开了，一个黑人小女孩哭着走来，她手里拿着一盏没有玻璃罩的破旧小灯。她没有听到戴维斯的敲门声，不过还是发现了他在前门的身影。于是，她把正冒着烟的灯举过头顶让自己看的更清楚，然后走上前来。

她那尚未发育好的身体和松松垮垮的棉布连衣裙看起来有些可笑，她的手脚都非常大，头上全是用白线扎起来的小辫儿，非常引人注目。她洁白的牙齿和眼白与黑色的皮肤形成了巨大的反差，显得肤色更黑了。

戴维斯看了她一会儿，平时面对这种古怪的情形他只会觉得好笑，但这一次他却感到了一丝感动。他问道：“这里是不是英格斯家？”

小女孩点了点头，她看起来非常顺从，似乎快哭了。

“他的尸体被送到这儿了吗？”

“是的，先森。”她回答道，带着一点黑人口音。

“他们什么时候送来的？”

“今天早上。”

“你是他妹妹？”

“是的，先森。”

“好，那你能不能告诉我，他是怎么被抓的？他什么时候回家的，回来干什么？”他对自己的冒昧有些难为情。

“下午，大概两点钟吧。”

“回来干什么？”戴维斯又问了一遍。

“来找我们，”小女孩回答，“来找我妈妈。”

“那他有没有要什么东西？他不只是回来找她，是吗？”

“是的，先森，”女孩说，“他回来是说再见。我们不知道他们什么时候抓住哥哥的。”她的声音有些颤抖。

“那他不知道自己可能会被抓住吗？”戴维斯看到女孩如此伤心，颇感同情。

“先森，我想他晓得的。”

她仍旧安静得站着，举着破旧不堪的小灯，低着头看着脚下。

“那他说了什么？”戴维斯问。

“他没说啥。他说他想看看妈妈，还有他要走了。”

女孩似乎把戴维斯当成官员之类的人了，戴维斯也知道这点。

“我能不能看看他的尸体？他问。”

女孩没有回答，但是转身就走，像是在带路。

“葬礼什么时候举行？”他问。

“明天。”

女孩带他走过几间连成一排一直延伸到远方的棚屋。最后一个棚屋像是用来放置杂物的仓库。房屋上有许多窗户，但是几乎没有玻璃，月光可以直接照进屋内，其中的一些窗户上只是从外面钉上了木板。戴维斯之前一直在思索尸体会被放在哪里，还有这个地方为什么会这样冷清，除了这个头扎羊角辫的小女孩外，这里可能就没有其他人了。如果他们还有其他黑人邻居的话，这些邻居恐怕也害怕被人看见。

现在他踏入了这个寒冷、阴暗、没有遮挡的屋子，荒芜寂寞之感更加深刻了。这是一间非常破旧的屋子，只能算得上是一个棚子或者盥洗室。房子的中间躺着一具尸体，上面盖着一条白色的床单，再往远处是一个放在盒子里的烫衣板和一把椅子。屋内的所有角落都很黑。只有屋子中间闪烁着一道道银色的月光。

戴维斯走上前去，然后女孩拿着灯走开了。显然她觉得月光足以将这间房子点亮，而且她也不想再在这里待下去。他勇敢地揭开床单更清楚的查看尸体，他看到了这个安静的黑色尸体。即便是死后，尸体的脸还是极度扭曲，他甚至能看到绳子勒的部位。一道寒冷的月光正好照到了尸体的脸和胸膛。他还在那里看着，想着很快就能完成报道，就在这时，一种半是叹气、半是哀鸣的声音传到了他的耳朵里。

他一开始听到这个声音还以为是鬼魂在作祟。在黑暗的地方，这样的声音太可怕，太出乎意料了。他的肌肉开始紧张起来，心脏也开始疯狂跳动。他首先想到的是这肯定是死人发出来的声响。

“噢……吼……吼！”声音再次响起，这一次是呜咽声，像是有人在哭泣。

他立刻转过身去，现在这个声音似乎是从房间的一个角落里传出来的，就在他身后右边的角落。他非常不安向那边走去，看到了什么东西的影子靠在墙上，好像是一个女人的影子。那里蜷缩着一个黑人，所以几乎看不到。

“噢……吼……吼！”这个声音又出现了，似乎比上一次更加悲痛。

戴维斯现在明白了。他慢慢地靠近，然后又更快的希望离开，因为他看见了一位黑人母亲，她哭得更厉害了。她坐在两堵墙间的窄小地方，头埋在膝间，身体一动不动。戴维斯站在她旁边的时候，她不断发出“噢……吼……吼！”的哭声。

戴维斯悄无声息地退后。在这样的悲痛面前，他的造访似乎无情又鲁莽。哪有一个人能比得上母亲对自己孩子的爱？感动的泪水从他的眼睛里流出。他立刻盖上尸体，然后离开了。

从英格斯家出来后，他轻松地走在月光下，但是很快就停下脚步向身后看去。整个小屋非常凄凉，只挂着一盏灯，像一只金色的眼睛，那扇门看起来可怜兮兮的。哭泣的母亲一个人蜷缩在角落里。他回来是为了说声“再见！”，戴维斯的心情很是复杂。那个夜晚，那场悲剧，那段悲伤，他全都经历过。他带着记者的无情本能开始思索这篇报道中的人物要如何去写——他们的肤色，还有那些悲伤。现在他明白了，不是每个人都能得到正义，看着被人们指责的母亲那无尽的悲痛，他逐渐认识到记者这个行业不是叙述事件发生的经过，而是揭发事件背后的真实。

“我会把这些全都公诸于众！”他非常激动地大喊，如果最终能成功通过总编辑那关的话，“我会把这些都公诸于众！”

故地重游

他驱车驶向老城区那座新建成的桥梁，桥的南边是昔日的老城区，而今已经成为了一座颇为繁华的城市，他在这里下了车，驻足在桥头附近望向远方——桥下的河水打着卷儿地流向远处，自从他二十年前离开这里后一切都改变了，桥的两边建起了新码头和防洪堤坝；远处的岸滨斜坡上曾经青草茵茵，如今却基本上都被工厂所覆盖；然而即便是现在，他也还是能依稀辨认出昔日那个破旧而偏僻的郊区，那个他和玛丽都难以忘怀的地方。现在恰兹桥变成了这座大城市的一部分，直通各条大街的条条车道连接着它与城市。这座桥就是这样一个简单而含蓄的事物，在它的潺潺流水之畔坐落着一个小小的郊区村庄，在这个位于大城市北端的小村落中车子无法通行，人们必须步行走过这座桥，才能好好享受一番田园的静谧以及异常低廉的租金，对于那时的他来说后者才是最为重要的。

当时他穷困潦倒，只是一个担任技工和发明家的毛头小子，苦心钻研着航空学、电学和工程学，和玛丽刚刚结婚的他口袋里一分钱都没有，对自己的未来也丝毫没有计划，现在的他——不知怎么他并不太愿意想到现在——相比之下算是非常富有，也更加成熟睿智，并且在商界成为了举足轻重的一员，可是那时的他却毫无影响力，日子过得愁云惨雾，总是闷闷不乐——现在回顾往昔，昨日的自己只不过是一个前途渺茫、犹豫不决的小屁孩儿罢了，虽然踌躇满志，但却总是与现实前景或机遇格格不入。爱默生曾经说过“把你的马车拴到星星上”，这些话真是说来容易。有些人还没准备好就已经开始追寻或者想要追寻梦想了。他们忽视了自身的“马车”行动缓慢，所以根本没法追寻梦想，至少暂时还不能。

这就是他所犯过的错。那时他当然正在进步，但是他并不满足，对自己不满意，成天闷闷不乐。整个世界每分每秒都在闪耀和欢笑；世界上的每个人似乎都在吃喝玩乐，变得更加富有而快乐；但惟独他——他和玛丽还有随后出生的两个孩子——看起来似乎踌躇不前。是的，毫无进步。他们被这个世界排除在外，孤独地隐身于这个狭小的城乡结合区。其他地方都充满令人——至少是令他心潮澎湃的事物——财富、权力、愉悦、声望，而这里的一切却都令人厌恶。在那些日子里，他对这些东西的渴望是多么强烈而疯狂啊！而那时他们距离这样的生活又是多么遥远啊！

玛丽可不像他。她性格温柔，坚守着自己拥有的小幸福。虽然说在大事上她无能为力，可是在生活小事上她却很能干。噢，应该说是非常能干。

他是在费城与她邂逅的，随后又把她带回了纽约，那时对他而言似乎不可能再有比这更好的婚约了。玛丽如此温柔美丽，白皙的脸颊上染着一抹淡淡的粉红，温柔的深棕色眸子常常含情脉脉地看着他，就像是在问：“亲爱的，我有什么可以为你做的吗？”然而最初的迷恋渐渐褪却了，她光滑洁白的前额、温柔甜蜜的双眸、飘逸的长发以及凹凸有致的丰满身材已经再也无法引起他诗画般的遐想，几个月之后他发现了一个事实，那就是不论在心智还是精神上，玛丽从来都配不上他，这个发现令他颇感不快。可是那时蜗居在这家徒四壁的小房间里，穿着一身粗布衣服的她看起来却如此美好，笑靥如花的白皙脸颊与周围的阴郁景象形成了鲜明的对照。玛丽的父亲是一名小技工；而他们相遇时，玛丽是费城兰德百货公司一名小小的柜员；他自己也只是考沃尔电器公司的一名实验助手，从未接受过任何相关的技术培训，只是怀揣深造的念头，离开启事业还早得很。

他的双亲也是穷困潦倒，所以在十四岁时他就被迫开始自立谋生，补贴家用。待到他二十四岁时却又定下了这桩愚蠢的婚约，那时他才刚开始想要干出一番大事业，特别是在电气行业做出一些成绩呢！他刚刚开始思考要如何取得成功，该做些什么、学习些什么、思考些什么，还有通向成功的途中会遇到哪些阻碍，甚至是要做出哪些牺牲。而那些在他脑中生根发芽的想法在以后无比优越的条件里逐渐丰满起来。总之，他的薪水没有因为他伟大的梦想而立刻增长。他并没有因为在脑海中构想出了要如何用摇臂、涡轮枪、电磁遥控器以及机械传动挖掘机来将现有的技术加以改进，就成为了实验室或是器材部门最出色的助手。他拥有想法，但他也明白实现这些想法需要长期的学习和积累；那些个夜晚、周末还有假期他从图书馆还有其他地方学到的知识并没有立刻让他在工作上变得更加得心应手。实际上长久以来他们的经济状况一直处于低谷，那时两个孩子也已经降临人世，需要购置衣服和其他用品。然而他的薪水却没有增加，他似乎也没有别人有出息。

但是在那段艰难岁月里玛丽与他同甘共苦，这可爱的小东西。虽然刚开始宽宏大度、吃苦耐劳又体贴周到的她看起来如此美好，可后来因为穷困和工作上遇到的一大堆烦心事，他渐渐开始有些厌烦玛丽了。在费城的那些日子里，晚上他总是陪她回家，看着她帮母亲摆放餐具，刷洗碗碟，在晚饭后收拾屋子，有时还能一起愉快地散步。那时她看上去完美极了，完全是他理想中的妻子。后来他见识了世间百态、遍尝了世事艰辛、了解了人类与生俱来的自私以及进取心和勇气的必要性，不再情愿变成奴隶和苦力，那些玛丽身上曾经具有的特质和魅力现在反倒成了令他反感的根源。可怜的小玛丽！

可是从其他方面来看，他的心思并非一直放在工作上。有时，他的思绪会飘到那远大的梦想上，有时又会想到当初自己想要赶快结婚是多么愚蠢和盲目。这都怪自己当年被玛丽的甜美纯真所蛊惑，所以才会在事业还没有成功时就扛上如此沉重的婚姻枷锁。那段日子他读了很多书，在某本哲学类的书籍上他看到了一段句子，令他久久不能忘怀——“有妻室儿女之人，就把自己押给了命运。”——这令人苦不堪言的想法似乎与日俱增。他过去为什么那么愚昧，为什么在不适合结婚的年纪结了婚，他怎么就这么傻呢！正是这些傻事让他懊恼不已。

并不是说玛丽一无是处——当然不是！——那两个男孩也不是（两个都是男孩，想想吧！）他们刚开始对他来说都弥足珍贵。不是，并不是说他们有什么错，而是无论这些多么珍贵而富有魅力，他自己都还没有准备好承受家室之累，或是享受天伦之乐。他那时太过于年轻狂躁、懵懵懂懂和异想天开了。正如同他后来常常反思的，他根本就还没弄懂自己想要什么，一直到他们开始过上了如此艰辛的日子后，他才知道自己不想过这样的生活。唉，在他婚后的第一年，那时彼得刚刚出生，由于这儿的电气行业比较景气，所以他们搬了过来（那时他一周只赚二十四美元），似乎没有一件事顺心如意。确实，从那以后没有一件事顺心，连一件都没有。

第一件事就是彼得出生后玛丽就得了病。这让他整天提心吊胆的，开始省吃俭用，拼命攒钱用来支付医药费。这场病夺去了玛丽的美丽容颜。自那之后她看起来总是有些痛苦和虚弱（就连这事他也怪在玛丽头上！）。随后彼得又闹了几个月小毛病，后来才知道是营养不良，虽然那时玛丽看起来已经恢复了，但她身体欠佳，还是影响到了哺乳。两年之后弗兰克来到了人世，这当然又是一个错误。他本来没想在玛丽身体如此虚弱的情况下再要个孩子的。接着他自己和国际电气公司绝缘部的主管产生了摩擦，他那时很焦虑，忧心忡忡，意识到自己的职业生涯走上了岔路，当然玛丽的也是。后来他发现生命一直在流逝，他不断地想如果自己变老了，就没法达到从前预定的目标，也没有办法完成技术教育。家庭的负担令他裹足不前。就是这个地方，一切就是在这里发生的，在这个恬静而衰败的城市边缘，自从他上一次看到这条河以来，这里发生了巨大的改变。是的，这些事情就是发生在这里。

但是虽然面目全非，现在这里却是一片宁静。桥下的流水还是和从前一样，打着卷儿地汇入海洋。这个深秋十月的午后勾起了他过往的回忆，他第一次走在这里时也是一个十月的午后，当时是多么温暖、美好而多姿多彩啊。他能忘记这个午后吗？那时他曾想过要做得更好，也曾为此祈祷过，可是什么都是一团糟。他自己生活得焦躁不安，对自己、玛丽以及生活都不满意。一切似乎都糟糕透顶，缥缈不定。确实，生活似乎成了一场风暴，一阵晴天霹雳。他被国际电气公司开除了，表面上是因为他有一天晚上下班以后带走了一节正在研制的电池，可实际上是因为他长期以来的压抑不满、精神恍惚，还有他由于不在状态而造成的疏忽早就惹怒了上司。

他被开除后没多久，彼得就患肺炎夭折了，他觉得彼得可能是被他的阴暗念头害死的。紧接着的三天之后，弗兰克也随彼得走了。他记得清清楚楚，因为他们没钱，所以两场葬礼只用了一辆马车；他把自己的手表给当了，从玛丽母亲那里借来了五美元，又把七本化学和电气方面的书稿卖给了一个老书商，这才凑齐了给那些送葬人的钱。后来，精神上的某些东西似乎在他内心瓦解了，他再也不能理解发生了这些之后，这个世界和他身处其中的生活对自己和其他人来说还有什么意义。他再也受不了了，受不了这份厌倦、对自己的不满、自己的失败，这让人厌烦的一连串事件，这些从他事业刚刚开启时便随之发生的悲惨事件。

可这就是为什么他今天会来这里的原因——这么多年以后，确切地说是二十四年以后，他怀揣着悸动而伤感的心绪来到这里。啊，那儿，就在那儿！此时有一群鸽子正在空中飞翔，仿佛像当年老亚比亚·哈格特的鸽子一样。一缕炉烟从坦泽锻铁工厂那儿盘旋而上，这个锻铁工厂是桥那边工厂的分部。他是多么清楚的记得老坦泽和他的熔炉，还有他身上那一块块肌肉和被煤烟熏黑的脸啊！每当和他擦身而过的时候，老坦泽总是向他友好地点头致意，有时还会抱怨几句飞蝇和夏日的酷热。这就是为什么他今天会驻足在这座桥上细细回想。他只是想回头看看曾经的过往，沐浴着这金秋十月的午后阳光，盯着打着卷儿的河水流过新建成的煤场和乔治·C·伍德拉夫工厂新扩建的电灯厂房，那个厂房从前只不过是马路角落里一间不起眼的小棚屋。选址在此处当然是因为这里租金便宜，伍德拉夫的事业刚刚起步，就像二十四年前的他一样。时光犹如白驹过隙，一个人的理想和观念也都在飞速改变着。二十四年前，他愿意倾其所有来换得现在所拥有的财富和权势。但是如今故地在他心中却是美不胜收。

陈旧泛黄的学校楼房在远处的高地上耸立着，艾奇伍德大道那宽阔的沥青马路向前一直延伸到那栋五层高的旧公寓，也是这里的唯一一栋公寓，因为手头拮据，他和玛丽曾经住在这个令他们苦不堪言的小公寓里，如今那座公寓还在原地。确实啊，它还像旧时一样，周围的许多其他事物也都一如往日：老哈格特门前的那片橡树，他车房上面红色的风向标（现在可能都生锈了），宏伟浪漫的圣佐治圣公会高塔，这些都不曾改变。朝河的西边看去，还能看到在这里稍作停泊的船只的桅杆。刚开始这些田园般的美妙回忆掩盖了一切，可是接着那些阴郁的回忆也浮上了表面。因为尽管刚开始甜美而宁静，可是巨大的痛苦和精神折磨也发生在这里。

他回想起曾经和玛丽一起漫步于此的日子，那时是多么美好啊，他们几乎总是手牵着手走过这座桥，走上艾奇伍德大道，这差不多是二十四年前的事情了！刚开始他们多么幸福，做着关于未来的小梦想，而现在呢，他请私人侦探将他带到这里，只是为了了解在他离开后她的生活，还有她的小小世界和她的母亲。他们遭受了太多磨难，很显然这全都是因他而起。但是现在他却不想回忆这些。他今天来这儿的目的不是这个，而是想要重温刚开始那段泛黄而美好的岁月。

他走过桥踏上了一条老路，这条曾经用鹅卵石铺成的马车道现在变成了艾奇伍德大道，道路两旁是田园风格的房子。他曾经十分畏惧这些房子，因为住在这些房子里的都是有钱人，他们有广阔的草坪、缤纷的花园以及穿行其中的小径，相比之下他和玛丽的生活看起来更显得贫困不堪。啊，没错，这里是牙医盖特伍德先生的住宅，那时他在城里开了家诊所，事业正如日中天，那栋则是牛顿医生的，就是那位在彼得和弗兰克弥留之际他们请来的医生；还有药店老板谭泊尔和杂货店老板斯多特梅尔，在他离开这里的时候还欠他们两个人钱呢，尽管最后都还清了。如今他们门窗上再也没有挂着盖特伍德或是牛顿的牌子了，谭泊尔的药店也已经不见踪迹。但是斯多特梅尔的杂货店依然在那儿，还有布斯皮尔的肉店——他还健在吗？店里还能见到他老态龙钟的矮胖身影吗？奥特曼的面包店还是和从前一样，没有一丝改变的迹象。在路的那头就是乡村学校，他看到这里已经变成了二六一公立学校。在学校的对面，你能看到一栋狭小的五层公寓，它建造在这块地区显得颇为突兀，这完全是由于规划失误造成的。当然，那个时候他们以为城市就会如此发展起来——建起那种灰白色的房子。他和玛丽那时就在这栋公寓五楼的一个隐蔽角落找到了一个带洗手间的三室小套间，在这个不断扩张的城市中，对于他们来说这里的租金已经非常便宜了。一看到这栋公寓，回忆就如同潮水般奔涌而来！当年他和玛丽住在这儿的时候，那些曾经在夏日的傍晚忙忙碌碌的人们，那些老街坊和他们的孩子们现在又在哪里呢？起初一切都非常美好，玛丽在屋子里准备晚餐，他一到七点就立刻赶回家，有时开心得会在路上吹口哨！就算是在这种穷地方，他也并不是一味地黯淡神伤。

确实啊，这间公寓和这所学校的一切都未曾改变，甚至就跟他从前住在这里时完全一样！他们曾经住过的那个套间外面挂着一块“房屋出租”的牌子，四架飞机从空中划过，正如那年温暖的金秋十月，他们初到这里寻找住所时一样。

可是他却变了：变得更结实了，也老了许多，头发已经灰白了。至于玛丽，他离开之后没几年她就病得奄奄一息，就在眼下这个地方，而他却一次都没有回来看过她，她曾经给他写了那么多封令人感动的信件，可他却再也没有回来。在他离开她的时候，她一定伤心欲绝，无论精神还是肉体都完全崩溃了。这不是夸张，哎，如此可悲的事没必要夸张。没错，他确实离开了她。他能够被原谅吗？在他由于错误的野心和对自我的不满做出这种事后，他还能受到亲切的接待吗，无论是在人间还是天堂？他在随后的岁月里由于这个决定而深深地懊悔。确实如此，现在他变得富有而成功了，这种想法就开始折磨他。大概从五年前开始他就想回来赎罪，可那时他却发现她再也不在这个世上了。可怜的小玛丽！

可这堵墙是那么的牢固，经久不坏（石头比起血肉之躯来说，就是有这种优势吧！），他当年离开他们的时候不正是如此么？当年他和玛丽才来到这里时，心中充满了希望和欢乐，虽然说后来他们俩是那么沮丧。（而他始终把所有的灾难和不幸都怪在她头上，令她痛苦不堪，就好像她本可以避免似的！）。

这是多么的冷漠无情啊！

这是何等的残忍暴行啊！

这又是多么的无知愚昧啊！

如果她现在能看看他那该多好，看看他那气派的店铺和工厂，看看他手下上千号的员工，看看他现在的妻儿和豪华的新家——还有了解他是多么的懊悔！如果他能把她召唤回来，跟她说个话，道个歉，向她解释、赎罪！可是，不！生活从来都没法回头。生活的门开了又开，合了又合。迟到的忏悔没有任何意义。尽管这关乎生活，也关乎其他所有的一切！当然现在有些话他能说出口了，他能解释自己那时是怎么想的，让她知道当时他感觉多么悲伤、绝望和疲惫不堪。可是她能够懂他，在乎他，原谅他吗？那时她是那么爱他，用她那种甜蜜小心思为他付出了那么多。但是，如果她知道他当时真的是别无他法，他是那么得心烦意乱、沮丧绝望、渴望更好的生活，并且在过上好生活之前就看清了自己的失败和错误。如果她能了解他此后所取得的成就如今对他而言多么微不足道，他现在多么希望能为她做点什么啊！如果，如果一切都能重来多好！哎，他必须打消这些念头。它们根本就没有用，就算他跑到这个地方来感慨万千也是无济于事！

可是生活有时却如此残酷。人们的本性驱使着自己关上并锁紧身后的门，像慌乱的阉牛一样一次又一次地钻进命运的狭窄跑道。或许他本可以很开心地和玛丽还有孩子们在这儿生活下去，就像是他刚刚来到这个地方时一样。又或者，如果他在两个小东西离开人世后带玛丽一起走，那他们本来也可能会很幸福。他们可能会！可是，不，不！那时候他内心的某些东西绝不会同意他这样做。确实如此，他的冷酷、冲动、梦想、热情、疯狂和放纵害了自己。那时他一心只想成功，疯狂地想要爬上这个世界的顶峰。有时候人们就是会这样。那时的他就是如此。他必须做这些想要做的事情，如果不做，他就将承受苦痛的精神折磨，所以尽管所有的伦理道义全都与自己相左，他也在所不惜。一个人年轻时的观念会随着岁月而改变，那就是为什么他今天带着沮丧和忏悔的心情站在这里。

现在他走到了拐角，驻足停留在老公寓侧面的入口处。街尽头老亚比亚·哈格特的宅邸现在几乎被鸽子占据了。钢铁制造商亚比亚·哈格特是是长老派成员，他拥有更高档的郊外住宅，可却住在这里，过着缺乏享受的廉价生活。那时他和玛丽听说他们家装着硬木地板、挂着气派的枝形吊灯，地上铺着地毯，房屋前美不胜收——屋子面朝一个宽阔的草坪，一直延伸到河岸边。可是看看现在的样子！在草坪和河岸之间建了一个贮木场，草坪的一端是几个小商店还是工厂什么的！然而在往昔，亚比亚养着的那头宠物牛在树下悠闲地吃着草；扇尾鸽站在他谷仓的顶上；现在建起了一座小工厂那个的拐角处和屋后原来是一片繁茂的金光菊，就长在温室的外面，朝着东方盛开。再往下，快到河流的地方有两座塔。可是现在这些全都不见了！全都消失了！差不多都没了！只剩下这座旧房子和一块破草坪。现在谁在这里住着呢？在过去的日子里他从来不敢想象，或者说简直没有想过，在多年后的某天，当他更加衰老悲伤，脑海中萦绕着这些旧时美景的时候——他能够回到这儿看看，发现自己拥有的昂贵玩物比老哈格特所梦想的还多。

玩物！

玩物！

是的，那些只不过是玩物而已，因为你只会跟它们玩上一小会儿罢了，你拥有那么多玩物，要不了多久，你就会永远把它们搁在一边了。

玩物！

玩物！

后来他才知道，老哈格特虽然有钱，但也有着跟他相似的困扰。那时令他最为骄傲的大儿子卢锡安是一个散发着艺术家气质的纤瘦男孩，而有谣言说后来他变成了一个酒鬼和赌徒，整夜出去鬼混，还同时和好几个女的交往，因此被父亲剥夺了继承权，并且逐出了家门——甚至被禁止回家看望。他患上了各种疾病，每天都在这栋房子的周围游荡，有邻居看到他偷偷地跑进去见他的母亲恳求帮助，特别是在阴暗或者下雨的夜里。和天下所有的母亲一样，虽然她害怕自己的丈夫，但是仍旧偷偷地帮助卢锡安，至少人们是这样说的。母亲都是这样的，他的母亲也不例外。邻居们证实他们亲眼看到她和他在草坪的树荫下窃窃私语，或者就在旁边的街角处咬耳朵。这位郁郁寡欢、操碎了心的母亲总是穿着黑色或者深蓝色的衣服。是啊，人人有本难念的经，无论是老亚比亚还是他自己都不能幸免。

他在门前停下了脚步，不知道该不该继续向前走，因为现今这栋公寓和这个小区的气氛都极其压抑，更令人怀念往昔那些快要忘却的甜蜜回忆。这边的小河曾经如此欢快地从街角下匆匆流过；他在工厂没事做的时候也曾经悠闲地漫步走过那个孩子们曾经玩耍喧闹的学校；小小的教堂伫立在街上，那里曾经有多少信徒在周日聚集在此；在这条街稍远的地方是管道工人那破烂不堪的小棚子，这个管道工人每个周六和周日就开着他买来的二手小破拖车，这车虽说是让各路专家都修理过了，可还是发出嘎吱嘎吱的声响，一开起来感觉像是随时会散架一样。

即便那段日子是如此贫困，然而那时多姿多彩的生活、愉悦的心情和灿烂的阳光是多么令人怀念！

他犹豫着是否要按响门铃，就像他和玛丽在二十年前那样。那时的她是多么的欢乐，充满了希望，对自己未来多舛的命运毫无察觉......这里面现在又是什么样呢？玛丽的小煤气炉是不是还摆在那间多功能客厅的窗户边上？那间被分隔成厨房、餐厅和洗衣房的客厅是不是还在那里？为了节省其他房间的供暖费用，常常吃过饭后他就坐在那里读书或者规划未来的蓝图，因为所谓的暖气根本就不热，而那油炉又要花钱买油。从那以后已经经历了多年岁月，它还在那个地方吗？多么悲哀！他从未在此与她一同感受过幸运或者机遇的眷顾，哪怕一次也没有。但是，如果她能知道要是没有她，他就能辉煌地实现一些梦想，赢得财富，而且她也不会为此而感到痛苦的话，那该多好。

这座公寓小的可怜，只有像他当年那样羽翼未丰的青年人才会蜗居于此，那些青年人高大健壮、拥有璀璨的前途，现在的他早已不复当年了。他还会想着要买下这个地方吗？或者说把它租下来给佣人或者亲戚住？谁知道呢？他要是这么做又能改变什么呢？他为什么要在意这些呢？

他按响了门铃，回想着当年来给他们开门的那名妇女，那人瘦小愚昧、神色不善，带着强烈的防备神情，二十多年前她曾经从地下室走上来，在条纹布衫的围裙上擦着双手，抱怨地盯着他们。他把她记得多清楚啊，虽然说他们一直努力想和她套近乎，可她总是那么的不友善，因为他们看起来实在不怎么样。当然她不可能再在这儿了；这个出来的女人除了愚蠢和粗野像足了她之外，其他方面和她没有一点相似之处。可是穿上围裙后，她们看起来还真像。只不过这个女人看起来比较敦实强壮，差不多顶她两个了。

“这些房间，”他差点说成“套间”了，“我能看看顶层吗？”

“按天算的话，每天只要三美元，按月算的话是每月十四美元。”

“嗯，我知道，”他难过地说着。也就是说这些年来他们根本就没有涨房租，虽然城市在不断发展。但显然这个地方没有变得更好，反而更糟糕了。“如果您允许的话，我想先看看这些房间。”他走进房间，面前那张呆滞的脸庞显然颇为疑惑，搞不懂他究竟为什么要看这些房间。

“等等，我给你钥匙。你自己上去吧。”

他早就该知道，她才不会费心去爬这四层楼。

不久她就回来了，他走上楼去，回想着之前那个女门警的胖丈夫，他每晚十点钟都会迅速爬上楼，而在他下楼之前你一定得把那微弱的灯光灭了（除了二楼的小火苗，当然这一定是房东规定的），他会在每个租户门口大声嚷嚷：“二楼，该熄灯了；三楼，该熄灯了；四楼，该熄灯了，”直到他走到五楼，那正是他们居住的地方。我们有多少次听着他的响动，在他来的时候“噗”地一声吹灭灯。

是的，他们那时都讨厌那种黄棕色的墙纸，这个走廊的墙上现在就贴满了这种墙纸。楼梯踩上去仍旧像昨天一样吱吱作响。走廊上的煤气灯火焰也仍同从前那样微弱，火焰上方依旧用蜡烛造型的粉红色灯罩罩着，无疑是为了给这里营造一种气氛，不过灯罩一看就是那种粗劣的人造玻璃制品。如果只看这个门厅，他和玛丽是绝对不会住在这种地方的，不过小窗户外的风景却看起来美极了。过去有多少个夜里，他拖着沉重的步伐走上楼，不管是冬天还是夏天，他在上楼的时候总是能听到玛丽在厨房的声音，有了孩子后，还能听到两个孩子咿咿呀呀的学语声，门下的缝隙中总是透出一片柔和的光晕，这片光芒在冬季的六点钟就开始闪耀，钥匙孔中也会透出一丝光亮。这是他家中的灯光！这是他的家门！他在离家很远的市区上班，在那些天黑得早的冬季，他每天都会按点回家，而玛丽一听到他开门声音就会跑出来，她浓密的乌发整齐地盘在额头上方，娇小的身躯优雅地裹在自己缝制的居家服里。不管生活多么艰辛，家庭收入又是多么窘迫，玛丽总会微笑着说“你好啊，宝贝，你回来啦？”可怜的小玛丽！

在他爬上楼梯走近门口时，这些思绪全都涌回了他的脑海中。天啊！

这就是从前那扇门，完全没有改变——门上刷着黄漆，想要模仿橡树的天然纹理，但是正如他多年前就发现的，这是一个令人沮丧的失败作品。就连那锁也都完全没有改变！他能相信吗？这无可置疑就是那把锁。因为这儿就是那个旧锁眼，锁眼里塞着油灰，上面又涂上了一层漆。他和玛丽曾经猜想过这是其他锁眼还是门把手留下的破洞。现在那里还用纸堵着呢！玛丽还担心过小偷会通过这个洞撬开门，他也曾经嘲笑过他们有什么值得被偷的。可怜的小玛丽！

可是现在，现在只剩下了他一个人，二十四年后，玛丽、彼得和弗兰克都早就已经不在了，而他现在管理着这么多人，获得了这么大的影响力和财富。哎，生活是什么呢？到底是什么呢？

鬼魂！鬼魂！

这里有鬼魂吗？

那些鬼魂有时也会回到这里，回到住过的地方，回忆一下过去的悲伤场景，就像是他现在所做的一样吗？玛丽会这样吗？她会吗？她有没有回忆过呢？

哦，玛丽！……玛丽！可怜的小玛丽，她的灵魂饱经风霜，深受生活的磨难之苦。而他却是所有痛苦的罪魁祸首。

好了，现在他已经走进房间了，所有东西都跟他们在这里生活的那些困窘岁月一样，几乎没有什么改变。不，应该说是完全没有改变。也许墙上多了些钉子的痕迹，特别是在厨房这里，在他们之后无疑换了一波又一波的住户，那些人在钉子的痕迹上又重新钉上油布。而客厅里的墙纸也完全一如往昔！墙纸上整齐地排着像碗那么大的纸花图案，真是难看极了！但是当时他们只付了这么少的租金，根不能不可能提议让房东重新装修下房子。房东才懒得管呢。

这里西边的墙壁上挂着一幅劣质的小画作，这是幅打印出来的蚀刻画，他当时非常喜欢这幅花了一美元买来的二手货。画面上是一栋坐落在海边的房子，他想住的就是这样的房子，那时他觉得自己有朝一日肯定能拥有这样的房子。画的两边各有一扇窗户，从窗户望去能看到亚比亚·哈格特的家、河流和蔓延到尽头的城市。啊，这些窗户！他和她最喜欢的是北面的那扇窗，因为它能将从西面到北面的美景尽收眼底。他常常在下午五点多钟或者冬天的傍晚站在那里，看着或柔和、或暗淡、或红艳的夕阳从河边落下，给河水镀上金辉，眺望着远方那座繁华城市中的公寓和房间。那时生活看起来的确非常黑暗。有时看着看着，他就会变得非常沮丧。他常常站在那儿凝视着那条可爱的小河，凝视着头顶一片漆黑的天空中闪烁的星光，每当这时他就好似某个发明界的哈姆雷特一样沉思着。在秋天，夕阳的余晖还没落下，被落日染成冷红色的小岛状云朵飘在河流和在整个城市上空，然后他开始疑惑自己的将来会如何，等待他的到底是什么！如此种种的虚妄回忆！它们毫无意义！

可是在这里事情总是停滞不前！虽然那时他满脑子都是发明、发明、发明，还有如何将它们变得具有广泛而普遍的用途，让他获得金钱、地位和名誉——就像是它们后来给他带来的一样。当时他思索着电磁的运动，电磁的吸引力还有极性，金属、木材还有各种材料的波长、抗张强度还有粘附强度等未解之谜。他当时总是自以为自己会失败，因此从未开始着手实践。他只能在心中想象，与此同时做着平凡而乏味的体力活，比如画接线、绝缘体和电路图等等。然后，依然在这个小公寓中，由于他在婚后就开始不断地读书、工作和思考，生活就开始成为一种矛盾却又明晰的混合体，这令他困惑不已，没有人能够想出关于生活的解释，也没有一位发明家能够真正利用它们，就算是爱迪生、开尔文、或者贝尔也一样。他那时知晓且打算利用一切事物全都生机勃勃，充满力量，即便是那些所谓死去或腐烂的事物。生活就是一种力量，一种奇妙的，有时看起来充满智慧的东西，有时又除了力量外什么都没有——奇妙、完美不可毁灭。他独自在这个小房间里回忆起来，他过去曾在头顶的屋顶上做过一些实验，望着老哈格特家的鸽子飞到蓝天里，有时聆听它们翅膀从身边划过的声音，就好像是对海浪，对梦想的细细私语一样。

可是所谓健康与衰弱、强壮与虚弱之间的界限是多么模糊、还有那所谓永恒不变的事物（那时他对这一切是多么执着啊）。他对这一切事物的执着都已经消逝了，变成了一种愚蠢的幻象，一种迷惑他的信念，令他相信这个世界，还有他的身体和精神状况都是真实而不朽的，是整个世界最重要的事情，而事实显然并非如此。但他自己不是这样。他只不过是一个影子、一个幻影、什么都不是。他晚上会独自一人坐在在这个小房顶上，在天气很好的时候或者是阴天的白天，他也会坐在这里，周六和周日的时候，如果天气晴朗，他也会在这儿坐上一整天，因为那时他们没有钱，也没有特别想要去的地方，只是坐在这里看看星星、城市的灯光，或者阳光洒在下面的河上泛起的点点亮光——这些他全都想得起来。这些回忆全都涌了上来，所有的一切都会消失不见，一切都是变化多端。所有事物都生机勃勃，但所有事物都是幻影。虽然一切看似没有改变，但它们实际上都慢慢地衰退、改变、进步或者以现在看来根本想象不到的方式变迁着，甚至是像他这样一个如此卑微的人——一位发明家，也经历着这个连锁反应，天知道是怎么回事。这就是为什么他在后来变成了一位伟大的发明家，因为他的渴望，所以他获得了这种连锁力量，就凭他！他开始意识到先前和未来的那些力量，还有那些智慧和能量所能够带来的巨大而深不可测的益处。然后他获得了少许力量，再后来他获得了全部。但是不是在这儿！哦，不。是在后来！

现在想想看，那种力量带来了令人悲痛的结果，那就是可怜的小玛丽再也不能理解他到底在想些什么，即便他解释了又解释也一样，何况他从来都没有解释过。生活对于玛丽来说完全是一个谜——深邃、黑暗又奇怪的迷，对于他来说也是如此，唯一的区别就是他在探寻，而她却没有。对她而言只要呆在他身边，用她那简单无言的方式来爱他就足够了，她并不想去探寻。他意识到了这些，然后开始在心里为此责怪她，他觉得她不是自己真正的帮手，也终究不可能是，她只不过是一个当了母亲的女孩、一个家庭主妇、一颗社会的螺丝钉、一个厨师如此罢了，如果他真的成功了，那就注定会抛弃她，这在那时也令人悲哀，但显然是事实。

不过显然对她来说，他并不仅仅是一个平凡的男人，他是她心中的神、她的梦想、她的情郎、她心中最优秀的人，他做着奇怪的梦，想着不同的东西，只有上帝才知道这些念头会把他带向何处。虽然他是那么的陌生和遥不可及，可是她却从来没有猜疑过。原因很简单，因为她盲目而不顾一切地崇拜着他；而正是她的爱令他感到厌倦，有时候甚至是非常讨厌。所有的一切他都能想起来，他们婚后第一年还是第二、三年，那时她美丽的外貌对他来说不再新奇，魅力已经消失殆尽，孩子也已经出生，操持着由于他的事业失败而捉襟见肘的家庭生活。有时他看着她时，觉得她是一个忠诚、耐心又可爱的小苦力，但是再没有别的了，而且她这一辈子都只有这样了。想想这些吧！这就是生活的本来面目，这就是它所给与爱情的奖赏！他还没有开始不喜欢她，不，也不是说不喜欢，而是因为她和孩子们都成了他前进路途上的绊脚石，就像哲学家说的那样，她不是那种能够激励他尽快进步的女人，这也是他开始厌倦她的原因。这也是他抛弃她的根本原因，而不是因为她所做的什么事情。

是的，就是这样，这里的一切都折磨着他，就好像是给他的脚上戴上了镣铐，令他再也不能快速向前走，甚至连真正的自由都没有了。他不能把心思放在自己的发明上，而得思考怎么才能养得起她和孩子们，再赚上十几美元，给玛丽买条新裙子，或者给孩子们买双新鞋！他得思考工资要涨到多少钱才能负担得起这一切!这是一直以来存在的最大问题。虽然说那时的他身体健康、精力旺盛、又有着远大的志向，但他就是那种不愿意听天由命的人，他渴望获得自由。这份愿望过于强烈和急躁，令他无法忍受这种寒酸的生活。正是因为这样才让他在后来的日子里变得非常粗暴、残酷和冷漠，甚至对她也是这样。而她却对此不知所措，这可怜的小东西，她不知道应该如何帮助他，也从来没有让他迎娶她！生活曾经不断在他耳畔提醒着他。在他眼里，自己从根本上就是一个失败的丈夫，在事业上也是一个失败者，这些让他心烦意乱。他一心觉得自己在这么年轻时就结婚，并且这么快就有了孩子是一个错误的决定，那时他越来越了解自己适合从事什么职业，只要能够有一个机会离开这里，随便去一所技术院校进修，不用受家事之累，然后在某地谋得一份不错的职位，从此就能改变自己的生活。他知道自己的想法能够令他在工作上更上层楼，凭借他脑海中的创意和经验，他还有什么奇迹达成不了！坐在这个小房间里时、工作时、或者在屋顶上做梦时，他常常都会想到这些情景！

可是，不！这么长时间以来都没有发生任何转机。一天又一天、一周又一周、一月又一月、甚至一年又一年，基本上毫无变化。命运似乎通过蹂躏他、他的梦想与希望获得了一种罪恶的快感。美国迎来了艰难岁月，在整整一年半的困窘岁月中，每个人都紧紧地握住自己的饭碗，他连自己手中那可怜的一点东西都很难保住，更别说要求更多的薪酬了。就在那个时候，他的梦想、稍纵即逝的青春和过重的家庭负担越来越折磨着他。玛丽似乎对任何事情都不是很在意，只要能跟他在一起就足够了。当然她也在挣扎，不过多数是因为他而不是自己，他的不安和不满都令她害怕。他会不会就从此离开她呢？他和她在一起的时候是不是越来越不开心了呢？她的眼神中经常流露出无法言传的担忧。

有一次他们攒了七十美元，原本是想用在他的发明工作上，可是小彼得因为某些原因爬上了洗衣桶，不慎从上面摔了下去，摔断了胳膊。还没等到彼得康复，并且还清账单，这七十美元就花完了。还有一次玛丽的母亲病危——或许是她自己这么想的，所以她得回家一趟陪伴孤单的父亲和哥哥。又有一次他哥哥乔治破产了，他没有其他地方可以去，因此从费城过来和他们在一起住了一段时间。有一次他得到了一个跳槽到温斯顿·卡斯特罗发电公司的机会，那儿提供的薪水更高。但是当他离开国际电气公司之后，温斯顿·卡斯特罗发电公司那名面试他的经理却被解雇了——他称之为“流放”，后来上任的经理又不想雇佣他。所以有长达三个月的时间他一无所有，也没有工作，他准备好了咒骂上天，然后一死了之。

然后，就在这些小房间里，他开始了精神上的反抗，他现在还想得起来。然后他告诉自己他不能再这样下去了，这样只会毁灭他的生活，而且可能会折磨玛丽，甚至也将她毁灭，他必须离开，做一些改善现状的事情。对，他希望自己从来没有娶过玛丽，希望他从来不曾这么傻的要了孩子，希望玛丽不会再依赖他，希望他能自由地离开，变成他想变成的人，做他想做的事情，不管去哪里，只要能够离开，只要能够自由。对，他的希望是多么猛烈，多么难以控制，多么虔诚啊！

在那些人生中的寒冬岁月里，接下来的一年是他生命中最黑暗萧条的时光，也是他陪在玛丽身边的最后时光。似乎再也没有任何东西能够拯救他们自己和孩子们解脱苦海了。在她身边的时候，他最多能赚到二十五美元。孩子们一天天长大，这点工资常常是杯水车薪；玛丽也需要很多东西，但是却舍不得在自己身上花钱。有一次她用他不要的内衣给自己做了一些塑身衣——破得跟他丢掉的内衣一样！还有一次，当他走在恰兹桥上的时候，就在公寓下方，他停下脚步，陷入了沉思和想象，突然一阵疾风吹过，把他的新帽子吹进了水里，这是他最好的一顶，之前那顶旧帽子已经让他给磨坏了。狂风猛烈的吹着，他的手里拿着必须要带回家的一捆东西，而帽子就这么掉了下去，被水波带向远方。那段时间他一直被这样的事情折磨得苦不堪言，尽管他常常会勃然大怒，可是这次他没有。他只是咬紧牙关，步履艰难的在狂风中前行，冒着感冒或者死于其他疾病之类的风险——那个时候他就是这么想的，那时他对自己说他什么都不管了。他是死是活于人于己又有什么影响呢？有谁会真的在意他到底变成什么样吗？假如他真的死了呢？那又会怎样呢？会比现在还糟糕吗？该死的生活和造物主都他妈的见鬼去吧！这野蛮的狂风、寒冷、折磨人的饥饿、嫉妒、恐惧和残忍都在驱使和制造悲剧，降临在匍匐地上的可怜众生身上，天呐，都见鬼去吧！他曾经从上天得到过什么吗？上天又帮助过他、他的生活和他的妻儿什么吗？

于是他勃然大怒，向上帝发起诅咒。

然后命运——或者上天，随你怎么称呼吧——终于回复了他的呐喊。就好像是某个既仁慈又残暴的神明在说：“很好，好吧，既然你如此不满，不开心，我给你的这些东西似乎一点价值都没有，那我就实现你的意志和梦想吧。你祈祷变得自由，即便你现下所拥有的事物都会消逝。你将因违背自己心中的爱与信念而背上责任。你想要自由！看看吧！瞧瞧吧！你会自由的！你的梦想都能成真！”

就在那个时候，仿佛为了呼应自己的言语，神明似乎立马显灵了，最后一次劫难开始席卷一切。这是对命运的一击。似乎黑暗天使已经进入他们家，佩戴着毁灭之剑和死亡之剑盘踞在他的门窗上。鸟身女妖[1]和复仇女神[2]围绕在他要经过的小道上，栖息在他家的屋顶上。就在彼得和弗兰克离世前一个月的一个晚上，那时距离他们确诊仅仅只有三天，他又走在公寓正下方的那座桥上，像往常一样遐想着自己的生活和未来。那天刮着风，十分寒冷，从下面的运煤驳船上飘上来阵阵尘埃，突然间两束光吸引了他视线，这两束光好像来自山上，从他们家的方向穿过河面，然后升了起来，在他面前穿过桥梁，在另外一端消失不见了。它们穿过的时候离他非常近，似乎就擦着他的脸，然而他不敢相信自己看见的是真的。它们太诡异了。他第一眼在远处看着那些光的时候，它们看起来很奇怪。它们来得那么轻快、那么优雅；就连消失的时候也是如此。他第一次看到这两束光是在泰格米勒的油漆店下面，他那时还在疑惑。它们是什么？意味着什么？它们看起来是极其清澈的蓝色，像是模糊昏暗的星星如此苍白而黯淡。突然，好像有什么东西在对他窃窃私语：“看吧！这些是你儿子们的灵魂。它们走了，再也不会回来了！看吧！你的祈祷开始应验了！”

他被这种恐怖和绝望吓呆了，赶紧匆匆忙忙跑回家，已经做好了充分的思想准备会从玛丽那里听到关于两个孩子的噩耗。但是他回到家后发现他们像平常一样在房顶玩耍，他想要把刚才看到的两束光当作是错觉，所以什么都没有说。可是这两束光的事情还是萦绕在他脑海中驱之不散。他两个儿子真的会死吗？起初第一天和第二天什么都没有发生，可是就在第三天，两个孩子都生病了，他知道自己的恐惧已经成真了。

玛丽立刻就陷入了几乎是莫名其妙的深切忧愁之中，尽管她试图用等待和担心在他面前掩饰着自己。他们把孩子们放在小卧室里，而自己则睡在“客厅”加宽的简易床上，此前这儿一直是两个孩子睡的地方。他们去找来了年轻有为的牛顿医生，他是附近享有盛誉的内科医生，住在他们附近的老沃特慈小姐也自愿过来帮忙，这位独自住在这里的德国人非常喜欢玛丽。然后他们的磨难开始了，只有老天知道他们经历了什么。玛丽尽可能的给他们所有人准备饭菜。每天他都半梦半醒地去上班，想着到底会有怎样的结局。

然后有天夜里，他和玛丽都躺在简易床上假装睡着了，他感觉到玛丽在哭泣。于是他将她抱在怀里，他不希望自己之前祈祷的所有黑暗事件发生，可是显然为时已晚。有东西告诉他现在已经来不及了。仿佛是在某个黑暗大厦里的超自然法院，某个既光明又黑暗的地方，他的祷文被受理且被回应了。法院已经做了这个判决，而且不能撤销。不。在他们躺着的破旧不堪的小房间里，她正在哭泣的房间里，有一个黑暗使者走了出来，它浑身都是鳞片，长着巨大的臂膀和翅膀，带着一把闪闪发光的剑，一身骑士般的装束，浑身上下都是黑色的，直到所有判决都被执行之前它是不会离开的。可能当时他有时会有些精神错乱，可是看起来确实是这样。

然后，就在他看到那两束光的仅仅几周之后，玛丽恸哭了几天之后，彼得死了，可怜的小东西；而仅仅三天过后，弗兰克也死了。这些糟糕透顶的日子！于是他就觉得这一切都太诡异、太悲伤、太神秘了，他吃不下、睡不着、哭不出、不能工作也不能思考。他——当然还有玛丽——已经陷入了麻木与绝望之中。诚然，就像他现在告诉自己的一样——之后他也是这样告诉自己的——他从来不曾无私忘我地爱过自己的孩子，他所拥有的东西从来就不是他想要的。可是真到了这时他却备受煎熬，因为他应该给孩子的那些爱他都未曾给予，然而现在他却再也没有机会了，只能封存在回忆当中。他回想起孩子们在最后那几天的悲惨模样，他们痛苦的小脸，还有那双虚弱的小手！玛丽彻底崩溃了，虽然那时他们比以往都相偎相依。但是这两个孩子一旦离世，他们看起来就成了他那黑暗想法的受害者，仿佛他自己的愤怒，充满愤恨的愿望诅咒了孩子们。然后他的情绪立刻发生了改变。如果能的话，他多么希望自己从来没有许过这样的愿望，多么希望还是像从前一样和玛丽生活下去，再要几个孩子来代替丧子对她的影响，但是不。显然不会这样，再也不会这样了。

两个孩子一离世，维系在他和玛丽之间的绳索就变得更加纤细，基本上是已经断裂了。曾经玛丽对他的魅力全都来自她的活泼和活力，还有她对两个有毛茸茸卷发的咿咿学语的孩子的关怀。除了经济负担、争吵不休和精疲力竭之外，他们之间还有一种联系，在他们的关系中还有淡淡的甜蜜和对于未来的希望，能够维持现在这种不平衡的局面。两个孩子在身边的话，他会感到无论处境多么黑暗，他都必须忍受这一切，因为他们还有美好的未来；而孩子们一离开，很明显他们再也没有改变现状的可能了，就在刚才，他还几乎不敢去想或者去希望，也许他可以离开这里，去其他地方学习一段时间。但现在他没必要再待在这里了。周围的场景让他想起了曾经忍受的悲惨遭遇。或许在某个地方，他能整理自己的思绪，想出新的发明。如果他离开这里的话，他可能会对玛丽更好。她应该回到费城的父母那里住上一段时间，然后等他回来，像从前一样去工作，直到他过来接她为止。沉重的债务可以先搁置到一旁，待到他有能力偿还也不迟。与此同时他还能工作，不管他背负了多少不可推卸的义务，也许都可以推给她——让她去还清那些债务。

就这样，他觉得心安理得。

可是这当然没有实现。是啊，玛丽那时的心情十分糟糕，想要挺过这一段不是那么容易。自从那一年四月的一天，他在费城联系大干货店的时候遇到了她，从此她整个生命当中就有了他的印记，尽管他的生命不曾与她融合。是的。他明显能看出来，不管是过去还是将来，离开了他她就什么都不是，然而他离开了她却会变得富有；没有她，他会生活得更好，很久以前就是这样的，至少从物质层面上来说是这样的。但是如果他长期在外，或者永远都不再回来，她会怎么做？她会变成什么样？他那个时候有没有想过这些呢？是的，他想过。他甚至想过一旦他离开这里，就不想再回来，让这悲惨的境况再度上演。玛丽似乎也有所察觉。她很悲伤。他还没有直接大胆地设想过这些东西倒是真的。这一切更像是狡猾逃窜的阴影，潜伏在他大脑的深处，那些东西简直不敢在明亮的地方露面，虽然后来它们都显现出来，曾经露过一次面，它们就开始变得肆无忌惮了。只是在那个时候，后来，甚至现在，他都不禁想起不管玛丽从一开始有多少缺点，他们之间的错误主要是在他身上，因为如果他自己从一开始就不是那么愚蠢，所有这些倒霉事都不会发生在他或者她的身上。但是，没有他的话，她还能继续生活吗？她会吗？他后来这样自己问自己。然后就回答说他离开她，在一个不同的世界里发展，然后再回来帮助她是更好的选择。所以他苦恼不堪，却又有着充分的理由。

可是时间已经将这些问题解决了。除了他不禁会想象她独自一人和父母在费城时孤零零的背影，她和父母在丽大街那间又小又破的小屋——可能也算不上是一个小屋，而仅仅是一排红色小平房中的一间，这个平房上有个非常小的烟囱，对面就是著名的瑞福灵顿区，那里林立着大工厂，她父亲在死前就是在其中工作的。他问自己，她在那里可能在做什么呢？在没有他的时候，她都在想些什么呢，是不是死去的孩子们？可是他还是离开了。

在离开她的那一天他清楚地记得，她走向了费城的方向，而他则转向了波士顿，他和她的心里可能都充满了泪水、失望和难以置信的悲伤。她有没有怀疑？她能不能预知未来？即便是在那个时候，她还是那么的温柔，她是那么信赖他，那么悲伤。“你很快就会回到我身边了，对吧，亲爱的？”她悲伤地问，“我们会是很幸福的，对吧？”她边抽泣边问道。然后他许下了承诺。哦，是的。他一生当中做了许多承诺，不管是过去还是现在。这便是他本性中最黑暗的东西，他许诺的力量。

但是，他遵守这些承诺了吗？

无论在接下了的几个月甚至几年里，他有多少次告诉自己他想回去，必须回去，只有回去才是公平、正派、正确的事情，可是他还是没有回去。不。一天又一天，一周又一周，一月又一月，一年又一年过去了，他又冒出了其他想法，其他力量和利益阻碍着他。某个计划，某个人，某种渴望一直出现在脑中，妨碍、警告、劝告、拖延着他。有人能给他答案吗？在离家的第一年里，他给她写过几次信，寄过几次钱，虽然说他自己急需用钱。后来，过了很长一段时间，他觉得她应该和他父母相处得很好，工作也得心应手了，他就没有再写信回去。第二个女人以朋友的姿态出现在了他的生命里。

从那以后的几个月里甚至几年里，他都再也没有给她写过一封信，寄过一次钱！在离开玛丽以后他开始学习大学课程，边工作边读书。课程结束后就离开了波士顿，前往K城开始担任工厂经理助手，开发一些自己的创意，贩卖自己为大公司发明的物品专利。从某种角度来讲，他开始完全的独立，并且拥有了更好的生活。他发现自己是如此强大，对其他人是如此有吸引力。为什么不能永远自由呢？为什么不能变得更强大呢？那些使他解脱出来的东西是那样的局限和狭隘。他不可能再回去了。那座小破庙再也容不下他了。除了她很温柔外，她对他来说已经没有什么重要性了。所以，他已经看到了他能够做的事情是如此多，他能变成如此优秀的人，他能看到如此多的新面孔，他能看到一个新的世界，还能结识拥有更高社会地位的女人。

可是即便如此，她还是时不时地寄出可怜的少许信件，却寄不到他新住的地方，因为她不知道他在哪里，而是寄到他的旧居。信上诉说着她有多么爱他，她还在等待他回家，她知道他正在经历着艰难时刻，她经常为他祈祷，所有的一切都会好起来的，他们也会重新团聚！她为了他工作，为了他攒钱，为了他祈祷！当然，他可以找到在最初的四年里什么都没做的借口，但是现在他能为她做些什么了，他会去做吗——回家，然后说服她放他离开，让她觉得舒服一些，甚至是将她接到离他比较近的地方？他这些都没做，而是不断地恐惧、找理由、辩解不休。

是的，他本性的邪恶和野心已经完全将他束缚。他很清楚自己可能会变成什么样的人，并且很快就已经开始变成了那个样子了。他所挣扎的一切还有看到一切都是把玛丽推到一边，他真正渴望的是伟大的事业、辉煌的日子、他的声誉，还有他现在变成的样子，他想把所有东西都推至一旁。与此同时，他可能会变得比从前更加吝啬，更加冷漠，更加无情，差不多已经准备好牺牲所有东西，牺牲所有人，直到他获得了命中注定的成就。但是在此之前，他已经做得够多了。他没有再回去，再回到这个而甜蜜的昔日世界，直到最近才下定了决心。

但是在此期间，就像他很久以前知道的，她悲惨的人生结束了。突然间，那些早些年的信件就停止了，时间飞逝而过，一晃过了十年，他开始变得好奇起来。他用虚假的笔迹匿名写信给她在费城的邻居，他得知在她父亲去世前的两年里，她和她母亲还有哥哥都搬走了，邻居也不知道他们搬到什么地方去了。然后又过了五年，他真的变得非常富有了，他通过私家侦探得知，她和她母亲还有那无所事事的哥哥又搬回到了这个老街坊里——他和她曾经住过的街坊！或者比这个稍远一点，靠近埋葬着他们两个孩子的墓地。她是多么傻啊！这种不用驯化的返巢本能驱使着她做出这样的决定！

根据他最新了解的情况，她和她妈妈还是穷困潦倒地住在这里。他们只能住得起再远一点的最小公寓，最后不得不在洗衣店给人洗衣服维持生计。而他那时已经变得非常富有，真的非常富有了！在他委托侦探开始调查的三年前，她母亲与世长辞，两年后她也离开了人世，和他们的孩子一样死于肺炎。她知道不知道那时他在担心她？就在那之前的六个月，虽然他再婚了，变得富有了，还有了两个女儿，为什么他一刻也不能停止地想找到她，回到这个地方再看看？那些灵魂还会不会偷偷出现在这个世界上？

是的，今天他回到了这里，只是发现这次返回已经永远成为了徒劳，他曾经是多么残忍啊！他离开后，她的日子是多么凄惨啊，住在这个破旧的偏僻角落里，而这里至少是她曾经很幸福的地方——他和她。

“曾经很幸福！”

“天呐！”他突然大喊，一时间自我良心的谴责和回忆全都涌了上来，“我受不了了！这不对，不公平。我不该等待这么长时间的。我早就应该回来了。这残忍——这邪恶！这所有一切都充满了残酷和邪恶，所有财富，所有野心，所有追逐名誉当中都充满了——太残忍了！我必须出去！我不能再想了，不能再看到这些了。”

说着他就匆匆忙忙地跑到门口，冲下那发出咯吱咯吱声的楼梯，快速走回昂贵的汽车旁边，这车停在几个街区外的桥下——这辆车代表了所谓的权力和成功的王国，而现在的他两样都已经拥有了——这个王国长期以来已经带走了这里曾经所有的辉煌，不管是悲惨、孤独、阴暗还是失望。在这个王国里他迅速地被卷起，然后沮丧地被带走了。

[1] Harpy：鸟身女妖。是西方的神话生物。Harpy一词源于古典希腊语“Ἅρπυια”（Harpyia），意为“强盗”。在希腊神话中，鸟妖为海女伊莱伽与海神陶玛斯所生。

[2] Fury：复仇女神。厄里倪厄斯是希腊神话中的三个复仇女神。在古典时代的阿提卡地区，人们举行祭祀仪式时从不直接提到这些女神的名字，而使用其别名欧墨尼得斯。在罗马神话中，厄里倪厄斯的对应者是孚里埃。在雅典娜的劝说下改变了复仇的形象，转为繁荣的保护者，被尊称为仁慈女神。

财富幻影

你亲自到托尼看一看，才能对托尼有一个真实的印象——崎岖的乡村、遍地的岩石、贫瘠的土壤、坍圮的房屋、破烂的谷仓、陈旧的农具、瘦弱的牛马，最后还有瘦弱的人。特别是人，土地上的一切都那么贫瘠破败，人的生活又怎么能丰裕起来呢？

如果说在“杰克”或者说是在锌被发现之前，托尼这个地方就有其所谓的宝藏的话，那么第一个发现托尼的真正宝藏就是锌矿的人，是老法官布洛。在遥远K城的一个冬日午后，老法官布洛站在熔炉旁边，十分仔细地观察着工人正在熔炼的矿石。令他惊讶的是，这种矿石居然和家乡的某种叫作“金属块”的大石头十分相似。

“这是什么？”他问其中一个工人。工人刚从通红的熔炉边走出来，现在正用光膀子擦着脸上的汗珠。

“锌。”工人回答着，用脏兮兮的大手抹了一把额头。

“我家乡有很多像这样的东西，”法官把弄着手里其貌不扬的石块，考虑了片刻，“我确定就是，我家乡有很多。”然后他又想到什么，突然陷入沉默。

“如果那真的是‘杰克’，”工人用贸易或采矿术语说，“那么就能挣大钱了，这里的这些都是从圣弗朗西斯运来的。”

老法官思考了片刻，然后安静地转身离开了。他知道圣弗朗西斯在哪儿，如果这矿能够值钱到让他们用船从B城东南运过来的话，那么为什么不去托尼运呢？自己在托尼不是就拥有很多土地嘛？

结果没过多久，在托尼及附近地区就逐渐发生了明显却又秘密的变化。在法官悄悄探测以及来来回回几趟后，一两个精明的探矿者相继而至。过了不久，整个乡村土地上便到处都是探矿者。不过在这之前，许多农民对自己土地的价值还一无所知时，他们地里的宝藏就被有些探矿者给搜刮走了。

老头子波塞·奇德是当地农民，农活一直干得马马虎虎。他已经在自己的地产或者说农场上生活了四十个年头。法官布洛神秘兮兮地在田间地里走来走去时，波塞·奇德还不知道那些经常把自己那双大脚磕疼的石头里，居然蕴藏着他一生做梦时都望眼欲穿的财富。对波塞来说大地其实十分神秘，的的确确包含着他一无所知的一切。打个比方，他那些总面积七十英亩的土地从他身上榨取得最多的东西，就是他眉梢滴下的汗水和嘴里骂出的诅咒，可是这些土地里蕴藏着的东西就可能让他实现自己的梦想，只是他还不知道而已。他现在已经老了，脑袋里不时有些奇思异想。他有些与《圣经》相关的想法，比如说世界末日何时到来之类的。不过他虽然无法和人斗争，但还是能和大自然斗争的。春夏甚至是秋季的每一天，我们都能在他自己贫瘠的土地上看见他，他又短又秃的胡须和稀疏的头发十分显眼，鸡爪般的手抓着犁头扶手在贫瘠的地里犁出垄沟，犁头在多石的土壤中咯咯作响。这些满是石头的土地早就无法给他带来甚至是一点点的收益。他现在所期望的就是能活着，而他所得到的也仅仅是活着而已。他和妻子、女儿、儿子所共同居住的房子，或者说是小木屋，已经破败到不能住人，甚至也无法修葺了。砌房子围墙用的石头都已经腐烂了，那是在地里建围栏时积攒下来的。他一直认为这是一种奇怪的石头，于人于牲口都毫无用处。他常说这些石头是“累赘”。他的谷仓仅仅是靠几条木板搭起来的，里面放着一辆旧马车，还有一些机器上的破铜烂铁。那个据说是饲料槽的东西已经有些年头，歪斜着摇摇欲坠。野草、荒地、瘦骨嶙峋的马匹、瘦骨嶙峋的孩子、多石的土地、瘦弱的树木、与世隔绝的生活、时而的贫困——这些都是他照料和主宰的一切。

奇德太太是一个合适的伴侣，适合奇德注定要过的那种生活。她蛮不在乎地接受了这种一成不变的贫穷生活。像样的学校、会议厅或者市政厅要么太远，要么就直接没有，更不用说有住得近的邻居了。这让她几乎与世隔绝。脾气暴躁的奇德太太爱和人争吵，而且颇有些古怪。她说话的声音刺耳，外表显得死气沉沉。对于奇德她要么是彻底理解，要么是彻底误解。从某一方面来看，奇德也能让她感觉欣慰，因为正如奇德所说，她可以“对着他喋喋不休”，而且就算他们常常吵架，吵架的方式也轻声细语，并不激烈。生活在这样贫瘠的土地上，生活在这样破烂的围栏里，吵架是在所难免的。

“你怎么不把那些金属块搬去那边砌围栏啊？”十年来她无数次要奇德做这做那。她是指那些堆在附近几块土地边上的锌。这些锌的质地非常好，几乎没有杂质，这多达三十五堆的锌都是奇德放在那里的。奇德太太这次让奇德这样做是因为两只瘦母牛跑到了自家的玉米地里。她说的“金属块”，价值不少于两千美元。

而奇德则是千篇一律地回答她：

“啊，老祖宗，你以为我没得其它事情做啊？你就觉得那些叮叮当当的石块最值钱。我费尽老力把它们从土里挖出来，你又喊我用它们去砌围栏！”

“随便你怎么说，你个懒鬼，不成事的老烟鬼。”骂了这一长串过后，通常其中一个会向另一个扔锅盖、拨火棒或者不长不短的木棍，而另外一个通常能熟练地躲开。你看，这就是爱情和亲情，如此亲近紧密，打不破也分不开。

可接下来炎热多雨的季节年复一年来了又去，那些石块仍然堆在那儿。达德是家中最大的孩子，也是唯一的男孩。他没什么文化，身材又高又瘦，做事的动作颇为笨拙。他没有从焦虑的父母那儿继承到温柔和蔼的性格。根据他父亲的说法，要不是因为达德是个“闹心的懒棍”，他早就把那些金属块搬走了。母亲则说他和父亲是一个样。而女儿简或许会帮达德把那些金属块搬走。可是他们俩都和父亲一样，闷闷不乐，对这件事漠不关心。那他们为什么不搬呢？放在那儿祈祷吗？他们一家人长久劳作，却收获甚少，要真有仁慈的上帝，他们的艰辛生活早就有所好转了，这一家子早就看透了，对未来也已经随遇而安。与坚固的土地做无谓的斗争让他们的精神得到了最大程度的锤炼。

“不晓得犁南边那块地有什么用，”这已经是达德今年春天第三次说这种话了，“那该死的地里什么都不长。”

“你只要花一半的心思去打理那块地，而不是光坐在杜松下面边剔牙边胡思乱想，那么那块地就会长东西的，”奇德太太尖声嚷道。她的脾气一贯暴躁，总是忿忿不平，说话也尖酸刻薄——长久以来无望地与土地斗争让她的性情越来越差。

“我看犁那么多石头出来也没有用，”达德回答着，无聊地胡乱拍打一只苍蝇，“那块该死的地还不值一筐豆子呢。”从某方面来看，他说的倒也没有错。

“那你为啥不扔掉地出门呢？”奇德说，声音里有些逗弄的味道。他并没有特别替农场辩护，只是无所事事地想改变单调的生活，“我说，如果这些地让你过得不错，就值得你去打理。”

“不错！”没大没小的奇德哼了一声，有些不耐烦和蔑视，“我想想看，从来没有看到哪点不错。你心里面想的怕是我去上的那些好学校或者那些我去过的那些地方哦。”他拍打着另外一只苍蝇。

老奇德听出了儿子轻蔑的语气，不过他觉得这是自己的不对。儿子才干了活回来。而且他也觉得没必要和儿子争吵，儿子比他年轻，比他强壮，而且因为家中争吵不断，儿子对他也已经不再毕恭毕敬。这其实只是另外一个方面。他小时候挨了许多打骂，现在身体比父亲要强壮得多，而且不管哪一方面他都比父亲强。至于奇德，他起先是一家之主，觉得自己说的话就是家规，不过现在他不得不退居次位，或者三位、四位。而且就算通过争吵和近乎无用的大喊大叫，家人对他的尊重也几乎没有增长。

不过尽管这样，他们还是漠然地生活在一起。法官布洛回到托尼后，采矿大潮日益临近，经济也随着采矿潮而越来越繁荣昌盛。实话说，敏锐的人们或许都会注意到采矿大潮就像不断聚集的风暴云一样日益临近，可是托尼这些农民并不敏锐，他们对于事情的发展一无所知。在这样一个交通闭塞、没有城镇的地方，人们又能通过何种方式知道呢。探矿者们有的去了奇德家的南面，有的去了他家的北面，可就是没有人直接来他家居住的这块风水宝地上。他家那儿离大路太远了，周围都是丛生的荆棘和茂密的树林，还有满地的石头。

六月一个晴朗的早晨——

“嗨，你好，”卡尔·阿诺德喊。他是奇德家的邻居，住在三英里开外。他拉住缰绳，把他那辆摇摇晃晃的马车停在奇德打理的那块地的对面。“你有没有听说？”他轻快地说，把嚼着的烟草换到口腔另外一边，用一种传递好消息的眼神欢快地看着奇德。

“没听说，啥子事？”奇停下“耕种”问道，他放下破烂的单犁铧犁头，走过去靠在他的锌块围栏上，伸手摩挲着自己稀疏的头发。

“下面牛顿村的老头子邓克·波特把他的农场卖了，”卡尔机灵而欣喜地说，好像在讲一个关于战争或者世界末日来临的故事一样，“他可卖了三千块钱呢，”说到三千这个数字时，他美美地回味了一番。

“胡说八道，”奇德说，他的声音不大，内心却十分震惊。“三千块？”他有点激动，就像一个人听说不可能的事情发生了一样，“咋可能？”

“他们现在晓得地上有矿，”卡尔继续精明地说，“他们晓得这整个村子的矿多得不得了，到处都是。他们给我说的，这里的这些金属块，”他轻轻拍了拍奇德靠着的那堆至今还一文不值的锌，“就是矿，就是他们说的‘杰克’，捻（他的意思是“炼”）出来以后一磅可以卖两分钱呢，甚至还不止这个价。我看你这里有不少哟，我的也多着呢，我那块地上都是。我也搞不懂怎么这东西那么值钱，可他们说这个就是值钱。我听一些去过昆城的孩子说，这些东西给捻成块儿以后可大有用处呢。”

他并不太清楚到底有什么用处，也就没有继续解释，而是眯着一只眼睛，撅着嘴准备吐东西。他看着奇德，而奇德的脑子还没转过来，他拿起一块至今都还鄙视的“金属块”，看着它心想，自己辛辛苦苦受罪了这么多年，本该相信这石头是一分钱不值的，可是才一眨眼的工夫，这石头“捻”了之后就可以卖两分钱一磅了，邻居们也都开始高价出售农场了；他自己的农场上满地都是这种东西，那岂不是要赚大发了；可不，这东西一堆一堆的，暗灰色的背面暴露在烈日下；它们从地上冒出来，形成了一堵矮墙。想一想！想一想！他想了很多，不过却什么也没有说，因为在他饥饿的脑袋里，一个宏大奇异的想法正在生根发芽、茁壮成长。自己就要有钱了，放轻松，自己就要有大钱了。想一想！再不用在炎夏的烈日下挥汗如雨地干活了，可以悠闲自在地生活，可以自由自在地做梦，烟草可以想嚼多少就嚼多少，可以住到镇子上，可以去遥远神秘的昆城一览美景。

过了一会儿，阿诺德注意到奇德明显心不在焉，便说：“好了，我得走了，我要去布鲁德家，太阳下山前还要赶回来。前几天我拿一头猪和他换了些干草。”他拍了拍那两匹干瘦的马，然后驾车沿着尘土飞扬的碎石路离去了。

奇德一时半会不太敢相信自己的感觉。这一切是真的吗？波特真的把农场卖了？过了几天，他驾车去十六英里远的阿诺寻找真相，不过他仍然把自己的想法藏在心底，呵护着一个美丽的幻想。土地是属于他的，不属于他妻子，也不属于他的两个孩子。多年前他辛苦劳作买下了这些土地，有时是用零散的现金，结婚前则是用些等价的玉米、肉猪和小麦。现在……现在……某个有钱的陌生人——阿诺德说的“拓矿者”——很快就会出现购买自己的土地。太好了！太好了！自己会得到多少呢？五千块是肯定的，因为波特都得到了三千，他只有四十亩地，而自己却有七十亩。就算是四千块，也要比波特的多一点点。他算不太清楚，不过反正都会比波特的多，管它是多少呢——很可能是五千！

不过这一切幻想里有一个瑕疵，一个不小的瑕疵，那就是自己那个无情无义的家庭——倔强的达德、死板的简，还有他那个坏脾气的妻子艾玛，他们现在或许会来瓜分这价值连城的土地，甚至有可能一点不剩地全部拿走，然后把他打回自己长久以来的穷苦生活中去。他们比自己固执霸道得多。他年纪越来越大，而且多年的辛苦劳动让他日显老态龙钟。他清清楚楚地记得，这么多年来妻子只是对他冷嘲热讽。还有他那个野蛮的儿子，他和妻子是一丘之貉。至于简，她从来都是事不关己高高挂起。在她看来，他就是一个失败者，什么也做不好。她只叫他要努力干活。如果亲情、仁爱、团结这些东西真的存在的话，那么在这个艰苦贫困的世界里它们早就已经枯萎了。他亏欠他们什么呢？什么都不亏欠。他们现在理所当然想要来分一杯羹。和他们一起在这样不愉快的环境中生活了这么久，他现在心想他们怎么就敢来提这种要求呢；不过他知道反正他们会来的。和他大打出手，不停地找他的茬，这些他们都干过。不过现在他就要发大财了，他们肯定会跟在他屁股后面巴结他，或许还会叫他把钱拿出来。他该怎么做呢？这一切怎么处理呢？这笔大钱就要到手了，不会有什么问题的。他像一只自作聪明的小老鼠，竖着耳朵，这儿偷看一眼，那儿偷看一眼。他的举止有了明显的变化，家人也注意到了，他们觉得奇怪，不过他们不知道发生了什么，只是觉得他越老越奇怪罢了。

一天中午，奇德吃了饭回到地里干活后，达德问简和母亲，“你们有没有发现，爸爸这几天有些奇怪。他老是站在篱笆边上张望，好像是在等人，又好像在想什么事情。或许他又比以前怪了一点，你们说是不是？”

达德是家人中最关心父亲情况的，与其说是关心他的人，不如说是关心他将来的身心状况，因为一旦他撒手人寰，那些地就会被划分成小块，他会被叫去主持分地，那样一来，他就能成为附近某位农村姑娘的如意郎君，就能实现自己长期以来的结婚梦想。那些他不得不忍受的艰难困苦，让他的这个梦想变得易碎，甚至无法实现。

“对啊，我也发现了，”奇德太太说，“他和几天前不太一样，我看他脑子里又有啥子想法了，肯定是他想做又不能做的事，或者是什么有关宗教的事情，永远都搞不清楚他在想啥子。”

简也同意他们的看法，对话到此为止了。不过奇德仍在冥思苦想，试图解决这个麻烦的问题。当然了，如何解决这个问题还是取决于他是公开卖地，还是悄悄卖地。他最后做了决定，既然家里人一直都对他都不好，如果能悄悄地卖，他就悄悄地把土地卖掉。他们不应该得到好处。土地是属于他的，凭什么给他们好处呢？

最终来了一名探矿者，他骑在马背上，一身艰苦旅行的打扮。他观察着这一片的土地，估量着这些土地的价值，土地表面露出一条粗大的矿脉，他显得颇有兴趣。那个时候奇德已经去了农场远处，看不见人了。奇德太太倒是亲切有加地招呼了这个陌生人。她对土地的价值一无所知，所以也没有看出这个陌生人眼中抑制的光芒。

“能不能讨口水喝？”奇德太太出现在门口时，陌生人问。

“当然可以，”她满怀敬意地回答。即使是穿着相对讲究一些的陌生人，在这里也是很少见的。

老奇德在远处的地里观察着水井边的陌生人，起身往家里走去。

“你们家的围墙是用什么东西砌的？”陌生人欣然问道，他不确定他们是否认识。

“额，我不晓得，”奇德太太说，“想来就是石头嘛，我们这片儿都叫它‘金属块’。”

陌生人压抑住想笑的冲动，弯腰从遍地的锌中捡起一块。这里的锌和几公里外看到的大同小异，只是更纯更优质。他从来没有看到过比这块地上更多更好的锌。地上的锌随处可见，经过耕种的翻动、霜冻的侵蚀以及雨水的冲刷，它们都裸露了出来，而在隔壁村子里还得靠人们去挖掘。看到这些荒芜的土地，看到人们破旧的衣着，看到年迈的奇德在炙热的土地上辛苦劳作，看到这些土地因为矿产丰富而种不出庄稼，他的心里有些难受。

“这附近的地都是你们家的吗？”他问。

“大概七十亩吧。”奇德太太回答。

“你晓得一亩能卖多少钱不？”

“不晓得，应该卖不到多少吧，有些日子没听说附近有人卖地了。”

听到奇德太太说“卖不到多少”的时候，陌生人无意地抽动了一下。他的朋友和对手如果知道这个地方后会说什么呢？要是有人告诉了这些人实情该怎么办呢？要是能低价买下这块地就好了，一定要低价买过来。附近已经有其他探矿者了。他在阿诺的时候不就已经和那三个探矿者模样的人同桌吃过饭吗？他必须买下这块地，而且就是现在。

“想来我该去和你丈夫谈谈，”陌生人说，然后慢步走开了。奇德太太和简穿着宽松的蓝色条纹衣服，站在摇摇欲坠的门廊里目送着陌生人离开。

“他还挺好笑的吧？”女儿说，“不晓得他去找爸爸干啥？”

老奇德继续犁着地，犁地的时候他疑惑地抬头看了看。看见那个陌生人正朝自己走来，他疑心重重地的打量着那个陌生人，高兴地对他说了“早上好”。

“你晓不晓得这附近有好的地要卖吗？”和奇德寒暄两句天气过后，探矿者问道。

“你想买来种地？”奇德嘲笑道。他观察着这个陌生人。陌生人从奇德的眼神里立马就看出来他比他妻子要懂得多。“我听说他们大多都是买来采矿的，”奇德说着，像只小鸟一样昂起头，看这个陌生人如何应对自己的开门见山。

陌生人俏皮又精明地笑了笑。“我晓得了，”他说，“你是觉得你的土地用来开矿不错，是吧？那如果你有机会能把地卖出去开矿的话，你打算卖多少钱？”

奇德思考了片刻。两只林鸽在远处叽叽咕咕，发出凄惨地叫声；一只黑鸟吱吱嘎嘎，声音沙哑地叫了几声。接着，奇德回答了探矿者的问题。

“我不晓得，我还不太想卖。”他最近一直在想，如果想留着地的话，自己该怎么做——顶住一个又一个欲望，抬高卖地的要价。而且他还想到自己要是真的把地卖了的话，妻子和孩子应该很快就会知道，还会来找他分钱。他梦想着走去出开开眼界，梦想着离开家庭，开开心心地过疯狂自由的生活。这些梦想真真切切地让他受尽折磨。

“那下面那些地是谁的？”陌生人问，他知道自己最好放弃空手套白狼的念头。不过奇德还是有些沮丧，因为他也很清楚，附近的土地上也有不少锌矿。

“额，我看看，”他略显刻薄地回答道，心里有些不情愿，但又有些无所谓，“玛拉迪尤的，”他最后不情愿地说。毫无疑问，如果他不卖的话，这个陌生人或者其他人都会从其他农民那儿买。和他的土地一样，这附近的地还是值些钱的。如果邓克·波特都卖到三千块的话，那么……

“既然你不想卖的话，我想他应该会卖的，”陌生人继续和气地说。他话说得很婉转，既意味深长，又带着一种无所谓的语气。

两人都沉默不语，奇德倚着犁把思考着。这个等待已久的机会有可能与自己失之交臂，那可真是糟糕啊。不过因为渴望和贪婪，他还没有彻底绝望。阿诺德说过，光是那些金属，那些石块，就值两分钱一磅呢。而且他还固执地认为，就算没有锌矿，这块地也是值些钱的。就是嘛，地上面还可以种少许作物呢。

“不知道，”他轻蔑却显得无力地说，“你去问问。没有听人说他想卖地。”如果自己以后非要追着这个陌生人求他让步的话，他下定决心再冒一次险，虽然他也不想这样做，但是迄今还没有其他的探矿者过来买地。

“我还不确定我是否要买，”探矿者说，他的语气很重，却又带有一种十分无所谓的感觉，“不过如果你想卖的话，我倒是愿意买一个选择权[1]。这七十亩地的六十天的选择权，你想卖多少钱？”

这个精疲力竭的老农民根本就不晓得什么是“选择权”，不过他决定不承认自己不知道。“你开价多少？”他不知该说何才好，便问道。

“嗯，先付你两百押金，然后六十天到期的时候，我们要是达成协议了，再付你五千。”他给出了最低的价格，觉得奇德应该会接受，因为今天他听说附近就有土地买卖。

奇德不知道什么是选择权，也不知道该说什么。五千块正是他最初设想的价格，可是还有什么六十天！六十天是什么意思？他要是想买的话，为什么不一次付清呢？为什么不像给邓克·波特现金那样，也给自己现金呢？他兴奋地看着陌生人，倚着犁把烦躁不安。最后他毫无目标地说道，“如果我再等等的话，我晓得我随时都能卖到七千。下面有个家伙都卖到三千，他的地比我的还少三十亩呢。已经有人来给我开过六千的价格了。”

“嗯，如果地没有问题的话，六千也可以。”

“一手交钱，一手交货？”奇德伸脚踢着泥块，惊讶地问到。

“六十天内完成交易，”探矿者回答。

“啊！”奇德有些郁闷，“我还以为你今天就要买呢。”

“不是的，”探矿者说，“我说的是选择权。如果我们协商好了的话，我会在六十天内带着钱回来，然后完成交易——六千块现金，减去选择权押金。当然了，我也可以不来买。我只是在六十天内随时有购买优先权。如果六十天内我没有带着钱回来，今天给的押金就是你的了，到那个时候你想把地卖给谁都行。”

“呵！”奇德嘀咕。他本来梦想一次性得到卖地的钱，然后独自悄悄离开，可这人说要等上六十天，那不就是说自己只能得到很少，甚至什么也得不到。

“好吧，”探矿者说。他发现奇德不太满意，决定让自己开出的条件再诱人一些。“那就七千，现在就给你五百，怎么样？六十天内付满七千，现在给五百现金。你看如何？”

他从口袋里掏出一个塞满钞票的钱包。奇德看得激动不已，他从来没近距离见过这么多现金，如果他答应陌生人的条件，他就马上能把这些钱拿到自己手里了。毕竟五百块现金本身就不是一个小数目了。拿着这五百块钱，自己能做什么呢？而且不要忘了，六十天内总共有七千呢！不过，还是要考虑考虑妻子和两个孩子的问题。如果自己要实现携款逃跑的梦想，那么这一切都必须要绝对保密。要是让他们晓得了这一切——哪怕是只晓得这五百现金——任何事情都有可能发生！达德会不会把这些钱拿走，会不会趁自己睡觉时把钱偷去？妻子会不会呢？简呢？或者他们三个一起？很有可能！他茫然地陷入了沉默。陌生人以为他要拒绝自己的开价。

“这样给你说吧，”陌生人说，似乎自己让了很大一步，“给你加到八千，现在给你八百，如何？如果这样都不行的话，这笔买卖就只好到此为止了，因为这是我能给的最高价了。”说着他把钱包放回了口袋里。

奇德仍然目光呆滞，看到这么多钱，想到这些钱带来的麻烦，他几乎说不出话来。八千啊！八百的押金！简直难以置信。“今天吗？”奇德问。

“对的，就是今天，你只需要和我去一趟阿诺。我想看看你的土地所有权凭证，你应该有地契吧？”

奇德点了点头。

“如果都没什么问题的话，我就马上付钱给你。我这儿有一张协议，我们可以找个人见证一下。你的妻子也需要签字。”

奇德的脸色突然变了。这可就困难了，会让妻子和两个孩子知道的！“她必须得签字？”他沮丧甚至伤心地问道。他感觉到一种难以自拔的绝望和恶心。自己做牛做马这么多年，现在机会来了，却要与其失之交臂了！

“是的，”探矿者说。从奇德的举止和语气中，他看出奇德不想让妻子知道。“她也需要签字，抱歉让你觉得麻烦，不过法律就是这样规定的，或许你可以和她商量商量，为什么不去和她谈谈卖地的事情呢？”

奇德有点犹豫。他真的不愿意和妻子与儿子分享。简倒是没有什么。他们要是知道了，就会跑来和他大吵大闹，而且还想要多的那一份。他必须得抗争，坚守自己的“权利”。只要自己拿到钱——如果有机会的话——自己一定要把钱看好藏好，藏到一个他们都找不到的地方。

“怎么了？”探矿者发现奇德心神不宁，便问，“她不同意你卖地吗？”

“不是，她会同意的，只要我给她说，她肯定会同意。我只是不想让她晓得。她会分走很多钱，她和达德。这地根本就不是他们的，是我的。我最先来的这个地方，还没有见到她之前这个地方就已经属于我了。她一天不是吵就是打。”

“我们应该去你家和她谈谈的，她应该不会不讲理的，她只有三分之一的所有权，你不用给她多余的钱。法律就是这样规定的。那样的话，你还剩将近五千呢。老实说，无论如何你都可以得到五千。”他看得出五千块钱对奇德来说是个大数目。

完全没错，奇德听到可以得到五千时，稍微开心了一点。五千块？那岂不是比自己一个小时前设想的要多得多！假设妻子真的分去三千块，那又能怎样呢？自己的梦想难道就不会实现了？他立马同意和探矿者一起回家去。可是在路上时他又停住看着探矿者。奇德就是这样一个人，他很少能意识到自己在做什么。只要一切顺利，这些钱便意味着能过上新生活！他感觉到有些奇怪，有些异样，还有些困惑。多年来积累的心理问题、这笔巨大财富带来的各种复杂问题和各种可能性都让奇德几乎不知所措。奇德缓缓从西转向东，目不转睛看着探矿者，探矿者发现他双眼闪着明亮又空虚的奇异光芒。

“怎么了？”他问道，怀疑奇德是不是疯了。

奇德似乎又突然恢复了正常。“没啥，”他说，“只是想点事而已。”

探矿者心想，和这个精神病签合同是否有效呢？可是这些土地价值连城，顾不得细枝末节了。只要签了合同，哪怕对方是精神病，要想毁约就得过法律这个难关。

简和母亲站在木屋里，搞不懂走过来的这两个人想要干嘛。奇德像赶小鸡一样叫简走开。他们走进一间小房间，这间房既可以当做客厅也可以当做卧室，怎么方便怎么用。一走进房间，奇德就关上了通往厨房的那扇门。简刚才就是从这扇门出去的。

“走远点，”看见简还在门外，他说，“我们要和你妈妈谈点事。”

简才刚刚离开房间，可是接着又把一只畸形的耳朵贴到门上偷听，直到疑神疑鬼的父亲把她赶走。简离开后，奇德就开始给妻子解释这一切是怎么回事。

“这位陌生人……我还不晓得你的名字？”

“克劳福德！克劳福德！”探矿者回答。

“克劳福德，克劳福德先生，是来买地的。你可以得到一部分钱，大概三分之一，所以我觉得应该来和你谈谈。”

“钱！”奇德太太表示怀疑，厉声说道。她根本没有顾虑陌生人在场，一如既往地照自己的方式表达意见，“这是我应得的，我在这些地上辛辛苦苦地干了二十四年！那你打算用多少钱买这些土地？”她刻薄地向陌生人发问。

奇德慌张地示意陌生人不能把价格说出来，示意的声音十分明显，几乎都能被听到了。

“那你觉得这些地值多少钱嘛？”

“不晓得，我也说不准，”奇德的妻子贪婪狡猾地回答。她以为奇德晓得他自己年纪太大，脑袋不好使，所以让她来负责协商谈判，“附近有些和我家一样大的农场卖了两千块。”她报出了自己听说过的最大的数字。

“有些太高了吧？”克劳福德看也不看奇德一眼，严肃地问道，“这附近的地一般不会超过二十块钱一亩，据我所知，你家的地也只有七十亩嘛。”

“没错，可是我家的地不像其它有些地那么瘦，”奇德太太忘记了最先想好的话语，用一个自己能想到的最好的理由来反驳，“我家的土地上还有一眼泉呢，就在房子下面些。”

“嗯，”克劳福德说，“来的时候看见了，是能值点钱。你觉得你的土地值两千块，是吧？”他精明地看着奇德，仿佛在说，“这个玩笑开得不错嘛，奇德。”

奇德太太看到自己在协商中占了上风，十分满意。她转身询问丈夫的意见，“你看怎么样，波塞？”

因为害怕自己刻意欺骗的事情暴露，又因为自己心里贪婪和麻烦的梦想，奇德坐立不安。他紧张地盯着妻子，“当然了，怎么都能值那么多。”

克劳福德开始解释说他现在只想要一个选择权，也就是说奇德在约定时间内只能把卖给他。而且如果有了选择权，签订了选择权合同，他就会付一定的押金。说着他机敏地朝奇德眨了眨眼。奇德懂了，他知道自己还是可以得到之前二人说好的那些钱。

“既然这样，那我们现在就签合同吧，”克劳福德迎合道。他从口袋里拿出一份合同，接着把合同翻开。“我把它填上，然后你们就可以签字了。”他走到那张破烂的白杨桌子边上展开合同。奇德和妻子饶有兴趣地看着。二人都不会读写。不过奇德虽然不晓得如何得到那八百块钱，但眼下也只好相信克劳福德足够耿直，能解决好这个问题。而且，想到能这么快就把那些一文不值的旧土地高价卖掉，想到马上就能拥有很多钱，奇德夫妇的脑子都有些恍惚，动作和思考都像是在做梦一样。奇德太太的眼睛已经眯成了两条贪婪的细线。

“你刚才说要给多少押金来着？”她紧张地问道，眼睛兴奋地闪烁着。

“噢，”克劳福德说着，再次用眼神向奇德示意，“一百吧，怎么样？够不够？”

一百块！就算是一百块，在这个穷地方也是一笔大钱。奇德太太对农场上锌矿的价值一无所知，所以对她来说，一百块钱简直难以置信，简直就像天上掉馅饼，意味着能过上更好的生活。而且之后还有两千呢！可问题是谁来见证，合同又该怎么签呢？克劳福德用铅笔填上刚才约定的押金金额——一百元，然后说，“在这儿签字，奇德先生。”奇德回答说，“我和我老婆都不会写字啊。”

“我小的时候没有机会上学。”奇德太太傻笑道。

“好吧，我只好让你们画押了，还得找个人见证，你的儿子或者女儿会写字吗？”

这又是一个问题，而且还是一个让大家都不快的问题。因为达德那么顽固叛逆，一旦叫他来见证，他肯定会想要主宰一切。他会写自己的名字，而且也认得几个字，可他们想让他知道吗？夫妻二人疑心重重，面面相觑。现在怎么办？附近马路上传来马车的轱辘声，问题解决了。

“或许这个人可以来做见证人？”克劳福德建议道。

奇德向外面张望了一下，说，“没错，他肯定会写字。”他往外面喊，“嘿，莱斯特，耽搁你一下，过来帮我个忙。”

车轱辘声停了，最后莱斯特·博茨来到了门口，他也是农民，长相比奇德好看不了多少。克劳福德向博茨解释需要他做什么，博茨点头答应了。只是他不知道奇德的土地上有锌矿，所以急着想要告诉克劳福德如果要种庄稼的话，有些土地要更好些也更便宜，不过他不知道该怎么开口。还没签字，奇德太太就把自己的立场表达得一清二楚。

“我现在就可以拿到我那份钱，是不是？”她问，“能不能现在就给我？”

克劳福德不确定奇德意愿如何，只好看着他。而奇德深知妻子的脾气，他被妻子的贪婪激怒了，吼道，“只要我还没有死，你就什么都得不到。只要我们没有离婚，你就没有权利分到一分钱。”

“那我就不签字。”奇德太太怒气冲冲地说。

“当然了，我不想干涉你们的私事，”克劳福德抚慰道，“可是我觉得你最好把她的那份给她，三十三块，”他用劝说的眼神看着奇德，“还要给她两千的三分之一，也就是六百六。总比不卖了好吧，你说是吧？你必须得答应，这样也不错嘛，大家都可以分到很多。”

奇德仔细听出了克劳福德话中的微妙之处。毕竟，六百六对于八千来说不算太多。他不愿意冒交易被推迟和秘密被发现的风险，所以假装软和下来，最后同意了克劳福德的提议。他和妻子画了押，博茨见证画押有效。克劳福德数了一百块钱，然后按奇德太太的要求把这一百块钱分成了两摞。最后克劳福德把合同装回口袋，和博茨一道离开了。奇德跟了上去缠着克劳福德，最后也得到了最先约定的八百中剩下的七百块。看见这七百块钱，老奇德的眼睛像是被磁铁吸住了一样，上下左右不停地晃动。贪婪的煎熬让他颤抖起来，他等了一会，然后用自己僵硬粗糙的手指紧紧抓住那些钱，就好像鹰爪紧紧扣住猎物一样。

“谢谢了，”他大声说，“谢谢。”然后边走边忧虑地说，“下回来了先单独来看我哈，我们必须得十分小心，不然她会发现的，要是让她发现了，她是不会签字的，而且还会大吵大闹。”

“哦，好的，”克劳福德调皮地回答。他心想就今天耍的这些阴谋诡计来看，以曝光奇德的骗局来威胁他，硬说用铅笔写的两千就是卖地金额，这将再容易不过了。不过还有六十天的时间可以好好考虑。“六十天内我会再来的。”说后他便优雅地匆匆离去了，留下老农奇德一人在那儿沉思。

大家都知道，事情并未因支付这些钱而结束，因为达德和简后来听母亲说农场卖了一大笔钱后就一直愤愤不平。钱——只要是钱，不管有多少——都让人联想到舒适和快乐。可在这片土地上辛苦了这么多年，谁又该得到这些钱呢？自己的那一份钱去哪儿了？他们也干活了，他们一遍又一遍地讨要自己的那份钱，可却徒劳无功。父亲和母亲固执己见，告诉他们土地交易完成后才会考虑这件事。

不过就在他们还争论不休，为了一百块钱这么点钱（他们都觉得这点钱算不上多）吵得难解难分时，新的问题又出现了。达德很快就发现自家的土地上锌矿丰富，而且隔壁的阿代尔镇上，甚至就在他们这个镇上，也有不少人在卖地。他还听到谣言说奇德已经以五千块的价格把土地卖了，而奇德如果真的五千就把地卖了的话，那他肯定是被骗了，因为他的土地价值远不止那点——值两百块一亩，或者说总共值一万四千块钱。达德听到这些，立马就怀疑父母在卖地一事上联合起来欺骗自己，也就是说根本没有什么选择权，而是直接把地卖掉了，而且父母其中一人，或者两人联合，把一大笔钱藏了起来，不让自己和简知道。家中的气氛紧张起来，大家都疑神疑鬼，心生恶意。

“他们卖地卖了五千！根本不是两千，而是五千！”一天，奇德当着父母的面对简说，“大家都晓得我家的地值好多钱，我敢肯定他们得到的就是五千。”

“胡说八道！”奇德尖声叫道。他深受打击，如果达德说的是真的，自己就已经掉进一个经济和道德的陷阱里面爬不出来了。“我什么都没有卖，”他继续气冲冲地说道，“莱斯特·博茨在场的，他看得清清楚楚的，而且他也签了字的。”

“如果那些地不止值两千的话，那天那个家伙就不会只给那点钱了，”奇德太太解释道，不过她不信任丈夫，开始怀疑丈夫和那个陌生人间是不是有什么秘密协议。“不晓得那家伙和你爸说过其它什么话没有，”说到这里她疑心重重地看了奇德一眼，开始回忆陌生人的平和气场和礼貌态度，“反正他是什么都没有给我说，我倒是记得他和你爸还没有进屋来前，在围栏那边说了将近一个小时，不晓得他们在讲些什么。”发现之前约定的价格明显不合理，她开始有些担心，心想怎么样才能涨价呢。

至于达德，他现在愤怒又怀疑地看着父亲。“依我看，他卖地得到的钱肯定不止他说的那点点，”他坚称，“下面阿诺的人卖地，少了两百块一亩不卖，而且他们的地根本比不上我家的。你肯定把得到的钱藏起来了，肯定是。”

奇德太太想到丈夫在这件事情上面可能耍了花招，心里虽然烦躁不安，但仍然觉得上天可以证明自己没有欺骗大家；如果陌生人多付了钱，自己并不知情。奇德则因为恐惧和气愤，因为讨厌他们，不愿意给他们分钱，所以现在变得激动不已。

“你个不省心的无赖，”他对达德吼叫着，跳起来跑去拿拨火棒，“我让你看看我有没有藏，你说我悄悄把地卖了，是不是？”

达德拦住了他，而且因为比他强壮，还把他推到了一边。这对达德来说易如反掌，而对奇德来说则是火上浇油。奇德只是鄙视儿子引以为傲的力量，面对儿子的冷嘲热讽，他倒是什么也没说。父亲被儿子推到屋外，母亲则不停解释说现在自己知道的都已经说出来了，她和丈夫悄悄签合同卖地不是为了害孩子们，而是为了保护他们和自己。这场争论也就这样结束了。

现在，奇德太太想着奇德可能欺骗了大家，开始想方设法的单独行动，或者联合两个孩子，计划揭穿奇德的阴谋诡计。奇德一个人悄悄地生着气；他对儿子又恨又怕，而且想到儿子知道得不少，以后指不定还会继续找茬。最后交易的时候如何才能让儿子不在场呢？克劳福德又如何把那些秘密剩下的钱给自己呢？而且自己拿到钱后又怎么知道没有被骗呢？每天都有新传言说有人卖了土地，价格都比他当初协商的要高。而且奇德太太每天都像一只愤怒的母鸡，对他可能耍的花招喋喋不休。然而，在他偷偷摸摸的贪婪和怪异中，并没有这个女人的一席之地。一天中的大部分时间他都离房子远远的，只要听到一丝响动或者看到陌生人路过就会像耗子一样猛然一动，而且一言不发，也不为自己辩解。他把他得到的那七百块钱包在纸里，藏在谷仓一根柱子后面的裂缝里，外面放一个锡罐保护着这笔新进之财。他一天要回去几次，先是竖起耳朵听一听，接着偷偷四下望一望，随后才冒险去看这笔钱是否安然无恙。

实际上从这个时候开始，他们的家庭秩序就已经有些极端，简直可以说是疯狂了，因为现在母亲和两个孩子都在计划着整垮奇德。而奇德则整夜睁着眼，在黑暗中一惊一乍，聆听着任何谷仓传来的声音。他把藏钱的地方换了好几次，甚至有一次他还把钱藏在身上。有一回他找到了一把生锈的旧杀猪刀，把它放在衣服怀里抱着睡觉，梦到了自己被麻烦缠身。

一波未平，一波又起。一天早晨，另外一个探矿者像克劳福德一样来到了奇德的土地上。和其他有商业头脑的人一样，他迫不及待想要单独见见土地的主人，便要人去叫奇德。

“噢，爸！”简站在摇摇欲坠的门廊里喊，“有人找你！”

老奇德在炎热的地里（他已经在这儿等了好几天）小心翼翼地抬起头看着这个陌生人。他放下除草的工作向前走去。达德也不知道从什么地方游荡了过来。

“天气太干了，是吧？”奇德走到半路，陌生人就和气地与他打招呼。

“是啊，”他木然地回答。他这几天真的真的身心俱疲了，“不过还过得去，还过得去。”他伸手拭了拭粗糙坚硬的额头。

“你晓不晓得，这附近有没有人打算卖土地的？”

“看来你也是一个拓矿者吧？”奇德稍显委婉地问。之前来过一个探矿者的事实他没有必要再遮遮掩掩。

陌生人没有想到这里的人这么快就知道了这么多，他有些吃惊。“是的。”他直白地说。

“卖地的人，想来是有的吧，”奇德说。

“你呢？有没有想过卖这些土地？”陌生人问。

“嗯，我不晓得啦，”奇德精明地说，“之前有几个家伙已经来看过了，你觉得这些地对你来说值多少？”他犀利地看着陌生人。达德、简和母亲站在门廊里听着，二人慢步远离了他们。

陌生人闲庭信步，仔细观察着地面上的石块，这些石块数量丰富，遍地都是。

“这块地不错，”片刻过后，他悄悄地说，“你觉得每亩值多少？”

“嗯，我听说下面阿诺的人每亩能卖到三百呢，”奇德夸大其词。现在又来了一个买地的，他迫切想知道这个人的出价如果能比上次那个高的话，到底能高多少。

“好吧，是不是稍微有些高了，你说呢，从这里把矿运到铁路边有些远嘛，要花不少运费呢。”

“运费再高，我看也不会让土地值不起三百一亩嘛，是吧？”奇德聪明地说。

“嗯，我也不太清楚。两百一亩，我买四十亩，怎么样？”

听见陌生人报出的价格，老奇德竖起了耳朵。他费劲地算计着，两百块一亩卖四十亩，自己就可以得到原来卖七十亩才能得到的钱，而且还剩下三十亩地可以支配。这个干脆的报价让他激动不已，他看到了自己将要得到的巨大财富——四十亩地卖八千块钱啊，费尽口水同最先来那个家伙讨价还价，都才卖到八千块，而且还是七十亩卖八千！

“呵，”他轻松从容地继续谈判，“已经有人买走了选择权，要一万二买我的全部土地。”

“啥！”陌生人不满地看着他说，“那你和他签没签合同？”

奇德觉得这个陌生人在怀疑自己背信弃义，便盯着他看了片刻。后来他看见三个家人站在远处的门廊下审视着他们，便悄悄对陌生人打了个手势。

“到这边来，”他说着，领着陌生往远处的围栏走去。走到足够远时，他们停了下来。“我给你说嘛，”他悄悄地说，“三四个星期前来了个家伙，那个时候我还不晓得这里这些是矿，他骗着问我多少钱愿意卖地。在那之前有个邻居来过我这里，给我说下边有块四十亩的地卖了五千块。我看我的地和他的也一样，而且只会比别人好，不会比别人的差，我估计我的七十亩大概能卖四十亩的两倍嘛，然后我就给那个人说了。他最先不愿意，可后来他又回来了。我给他说我是家里最先到这片土地上的，我还没有结婚前就已经在这里种庄稼了，如果我把地卖给他的话，不管卖多少钱，我都应该得到最多的那一份钱。他也同意了。所以我和他就悄悄的说定了，其他人都不晓得，六十天到期的时候，他要把那些钱的绝大部分给我，然后我才和他签合同。当然了，如果我不是最先拥有这些地的，或者如果我老婆和孩子对我像当初一样好，我是不会这样做的，可我老婆就是一直又打又闹。如果那家伙说话算话，回到这里来的话，我就可以单独拿到八千，剩下的那些就和我妻子分，按法律办事，她可以得到属于她的三分之一。”

陌生人听奇德讲着，又惊又喜，而且想到奇德的那份合同严格说来虽不算违法，但是至少可以让奇德以为它是违法的，他还感到有些满意。

如果向他妻子告一状的话，那份合同必定会被解除；而且这个老男人贪得无厌，要让他废掉那份合同或许也很容易，而且即使到了现在，他还不知道自己愚蠢出卖掉的土地真正价值几何。他四周的这些土地地表下面埋着丰富可观的锌矿。与东部地区比起来，花六万买这些地简直都是九牛一毛。要投资在这里建设矿场，一百万都低得可笑。自己在交易中可以得到十万块。天啊，先来的那个家伙简直就是空手套白狼嘛，不能让他轻易得逞。

“我这样给你说，奇德先生，”他等了一会儿说，“要我看啊，这个家伙，不管他是谁，给你的报价低到不能再低了，你的土地远不止值那点，这是显而易见的。你可以轻松地从他的合同中脱身，因为你签这份合同的时候并不知道自己在做什么。我相信法律就是这样规定的。如果你签合同卖东西的时候并不知道自己卖的是什么的话，那么你就不必坚守合同。老实说，如果你愿意的话，我可以帮助你摆脱那份合同。你需要做的就是到时候不要和他再签任何合同，然后把他之前付的钱还给他。到时候我会很乐意三百块一亩现金买下你的农场。那样你就发大财了。等我们签卖地合同的那天，我就先把三千现金交到你手里。你之前是被骗签的合同，你和你妻子当时都不知道自己在做什么。”

“就是嘛，”奇德大声嚷道，“我们就是被骗的，我们签那份合同的时候根本不晓得这里有矿。”

他默默计算着，三百一亩，那总共就是二万一，二万一啊！不是可怜兮兮的八千！他手足无措地站在那里，穿着破烂的衣裳摇摇晃晃。他知道自己只要开口就能真的拥有财富；可是他也知道因为之前的恐惧和无知自己现在或许无法让家人接受。他饱经风霜、佝偻干枯的身体轻轻地颤栗着，枯萎杂乱的大脑因独处而变得有些扭曲，摇摇晃晃地思考着这件不可思议的事情。这件事情在他的头脑中穿梭，让他双眼斜视着。

陌生人不确定奇德不说话到底是什么意思，便又说道，“或者我还可以开出更好的条件，奇德先生，比如说总共二万五。有了二万五，你就可以在市里买房子了，你妻子也可以穿上丝质衣服，你自己不用再干一点农活，要是你儿子女儿愿意的话，他们还可以去上学。你需要做的，仅仅是在那个家伙回来后不要和他签合同，还有把他给你的钱还给他，要么你把他的地址给我，我帮你把钱送过去也行。”

“他把我骗了，这个骗子！”奇德几乎喊了出来，额头上渗出了大颗大颗的汗珠，“他这个强盗，我一亩都不会卖给他的，老天作证，一亩都不会卖给他的。”

“就要这样，”陌生人说。离开之前，他旁敲侧击地让奇德相信一万二（他真以为之前那家伙要给奇德的是一万二）和二万五之间，差距有多大多不公平。他给奇德描绘了城市里的不同生活和机会，描述了未来的舒适生活。

不幸的是奇德毫无办法逃离之前欺骗家人的事实。在金额相对少的这八千块上面，自己欺骗了妻子和孩子，而现在这一笔金额大很多的钱却也带来了更多的问题——儿子和妻子的情绪那么激动，或许在钱还没有到手前他们会吵吵闹闹，还会与自己大打出手。自己打得过吗？与此同时，自己虽然什么都没有得到过，现在却有一种失去了很多东西的感觉，就好像有人从自己那里把自己拥有的某样好东西拿走了一样。

此后几天他一遍遍地冥思苦想，尽量避免与家人碰面。而他的家人呢，他们不知道第一个探矿者何时回来，也不知道奇德到底和第二个谈了些什么，约定了什么，所以就严密监视着奇德。奇德的心理几乎崩溃了，他脑中逐渐只有一个想法，那就是妻子、孩子以及世上所有人都想抢夺他的东西；还有自己一旦拿到钱，就必须带着钱逃跑。可是要怎么逃跑呢？可以确定一件事，那就是他们不该分到钱。自己首先要与他们斗争，就算要为此搭上性命也在所不惜。他一个人站在安静的地里，身心俱疲，翻来覆去想着那笔钱，感觉自己像是已经得到并在保卫着那笔钱。

这个时候第一个探矿者一直在想，既然奇德希望他保守秘密，希望那几千块钱悄悄地给他，那么在这种情况下象征性地花上两千就可以轻轻松松得到土地。一旦他当着妻子和律师的面签了合同——合同上仍然写的两千，冷静地按合同行事，只给他两千就走人是多么容易啊。

六十天的期限就要到了，一切还都悬而未决，令人恐惧。奇德的心理已经无法再承受任何事情了。他空洞的双眼里写满了无法解答的疑惑。他毫无缘由，紧张地到处游荡。六十天到期时，奇德的克星，最先来的那个探矿者骑着马来了。随他一道而来的还有从阿诺来的律师贾尔斯，一个不折不扣的流氓，一个无赖律师。

第一眼看到他们时奇德有一种想要逃跑的强烈冲动，不过转念一想他不再敢逃跑。土地是他的嘛。如果他不坚守阵地，妻子和儿子就会不经过他的同意签合同。那样他岂不是地财两空了。或者他们会发现他和第一个探矿者约定的不止那点钱，会发现他已经多收了人家的钱，或者还会发现他悄悄接受了的报价。他必须留下，不过他完全不知道该如何处理这一切。

他们走进院子里时，简正好在门廊里迎接了他们。正在旁边的地里干活并且密切关注着的达德随后问候了他们。接着奇德太太挑剔、敌视地把他们打量了一遍：这就是想要利用自己挣钱的那两个家伙！

“达德，你爸呢？”贾尔斯律师熟悉这一家子，便亲密地问。

“那边第二块土豆地里，”达德不高兴地回答。他粗略猜测了一会儿，又说，“如果你们是冲着土地来的话，我看你们就白跑一趟了，我爸我妈决定不卖了，我家土地的价值比你出的价高好多。我听说阿诺那边有些地，上面的矿还不如我家地上的多呢，人家都卖到了三百一亩。除非我爸我妈是傻子，否则才不会答应卖给你。”

“噢，这样不好吧，”贾尔斯想要安抚却又气愤叫道。他是一个易怒的人，不过却总要在这样的尴尬场合下安抚别人的脾气。“这位克劳福德先生有买你家地的选择权，你爸你妈都签字了的，而且博……”——他想了想——“博茨先生，对，莱斯特·博茨，见证了的。按法律规定你们不能违约。克劳福德先生要做的就是把钱给你们，把钱放在这儿，然后地就属于他了。法律是这样规定的。选择权就是选择权，而且还有见证人。我真的不晓得你们怎么会想要违约。”

“我签那东西的时候他们根本就没有提矿的事，”奇德太太坚持说道，“那上面说的什么我一点都不晓得，不然我是不会签什么字的。”

“好了，好了，”贾尔斯不耐烦地说，“还是把奇德叫来吧，看他怎么说，他肯定不会不讲道理不讲法律的。”

简大声叫了奇德，老奇德小心翼翼地慢慢从房子一角走了过来，他就像一只被猎人追逐的动物，脸色阴郁，一副担惊受怕、疑神疑鬼的模样。探矿者和律师坐在那里，看见他后都站了起来。

“哎呀，奇德先生，你来了啊，”探矿者的话头停住了，他发现奇德的举止很奇怪，奇德一只手没有目的地擦过额头，然后呆滞站在他前面看着。他看上去不像是个人，更像是只饥饿的小鸟，面黄肌瘦，不成人样。

“你看爸爸。”简悄悄对达德说，就像往常看到奇德老态龙钟时说的一样。

“奇德先生，”律师没有理会简的悄悄话，急着想要平息这十分棘手的局面，便开口说，“是这样的，我们按照选择权的条款过来完成土地交易，你没有什么问题吧？”

“啥？”奇德茫然地说。然后他稍微清醒了一点，又说道，“我什么都不会签的，什么都不签，什么都不签！不签！”他张开又握上十指，向前伸了伸脖子，好像自己身上什么地方特别不舒服一样。

“这是为什么啊？”律师尖锐地问，试图用音调震慑他或者让他恢复理智，“不签？你说不签是什么意思？人家一百块钱现金交到你手里面买了选择权，你和你妻子都签字了的，莱斯特·博茨见证的，你现在居然说不签！我不想说重话，不过你们确实是签了选择权合同，而且也收了钱的，不能这样不负责，奇德先生。你们签了合同的，合同在法律面前是很严肃很严肃的，奇德先生。碰到这样的情况，法律上有办法来解决。不管你想不想签，根据这个选择权和选择权的要求，我们可以在见证下支付购地款，然后打官司要地，而且官司我们肯定会赢的。”

“如果人家签合同的时候不晓得自己在做什么的话，你们是不会赢官司的，”达德坚持道。由于他自己的利益，加上父亲看上去在被他们误导，所以他现在和声和气，至少态度比刚才好了一些。

“我啥都不签，”奇德板着脸说，“休想把我的地骗走，以前我不晓得我的地和他们的一样上面有矿，更不晓得我的地值多少钱，我是不会签的，你们怎么说我都不签，你们就想骗我的地，我才不签。”

“上次签合同的时候我根本不晓得地上有矿。”奇德太太呜咽着说。

“哦，怎么能这样！怎么能这样！”克劳福德尖刻地说。他决定和这个奇怪的人交交手，相信自己提提和他的秘密协议就能够震慑住他，“奇德先生，不要忘了我和你之间有个特别的协议哦。”他现在不太确定该付多少，两千还是八千呢？“你是否要遵守我们之间的协议呢？你得快些做决定。是还是否？”

“出去！”奇德吼道。他十分激动，挥舞着双手往后跳了几步，“你骗了我，你骗了我，你以为你能把这些地骗走，哼，不可能，你骗不走的，我是啥都不会签的，啥都不会签。”他的脑海中涌入了太多想法，所以双眼通红，眼神变得疯狂。

一直想用两千块把地买到的克劳福德，现在决定遵守他和奇德之间的秘密协议支付八千买地，但是他决定不等着私下和奇德商量，而是公开利用这个秘密协议，让奇德的家人知道奇德真正得到的是多少钱，让他们知道奇德在计划里对他们是如何的不公平，这样就可以唆使他们赞成他自己的观点。他很确定他们都以为是两千。如果让他们知道事情真相，或许事情会有所改观，对自己有利。

“我花八千买这些地，你说我是在骗你？而且你还收了我八百，把那八百块钱揣了六十天啊！”

“什么？”达德靠近一些问道，然后转身怒视父亲一眼，又惊讶地看着母亲。这笔总额八千的钱，从数量上和从重要程度上看，都超过了他想象中他们得到的一切。当然，他以为奇德夫妇二人都在撒谎。“八千！你们不是说的两千吗？”他看着母亲，希望母亲给个准话。

奇德太太一副十分惊讶的样子。“我也是头回听到说是八千。”在卖地这件事上自己的诚实被质疑时，她几乎无言以对。

在这种情况下，奇德造就的这一场面真是不同寻常。他一直担心会被揭露，而现在克劳福德的爆料有些出乎他的意料，让他心烦意乱。他的愤怒和恐惧，以及他给自己带来的这一堆理不清的麻烦，让他难以控制自己的情绪。想到在定下那个不公平的秘密协议后，这个男的居然这样出其不意地给自己一击，奇德心里有些沮丧。而且妻子和儿子知道了他那时的贪婪和自私，这也让他感到虚弱甚至恐惧。

“对啊，我给他说的就是八千，”克劳福德看到效果很好，便继续侵略性十足地说，“他也答应了的，我今天来就是给这八千的。我之前给了他八百现金让他遵守约定。这八百现在还在他那儿。他说我骗他的地，真是稀奇。他那天叫我不要说这件事，说这些地全是他的，想用自己的方式来处理和你们三个之间的事情。

“滚出去，”奇德几乎疯了，粗暴地大喊，“不然我杀了你，我什么都不会签的，根本就没有和你说过什么八千的事情，两千，你说的就是两千，你想骗我的地，你这个无耻小人，我什么都不会签的！”他弯腰去拿墙边的凳子。

看到奇德拿凳子，大家都往后退了几步，只有达德站着没动。他不止一次的在打斗中制服过父亲，现在他突然给了父亲一击，单手一推就把父亲放倒在地。奇德太弱了。律师和探矿者看他倒在地上，上去替他劝架。达德心想自己的机会来了。父亲骗了他，现在也害怕他。为什么不凭着自己的力量强迫他接受这个合约，收下那八千块钱呢？如果能让父亲在合同上签字，一旦八千块当场付清，他就可以顺顺利利得到自己的那一份。为什么不让这样的梦想实现呢？“他同意了八千的，现在就得签字嘛，”他心想，“就是嘛。”

“别打了，”贾尔斯说，“我们不想有人打来打去，好好把事情解决了就行了。”

毕竟还是要奇德再签一次字，或者再画一次押，如果可能的话还是要好好说服他。而且他们也不想有人大打出手，他们是来谈生意的，不是来打架的。

“你说他同意了八千是不是？”达德问。这么大一笔将要支付的现金对他来说简直难以置信。

“就是的。”探矿者回答。

“那么他就应该说话算话！”达德摇着圆圆的脑袋说。他两手叉腰，急不可耐想看到克劳福德支付那笔钱。“你，”他转身看着父亲说。奇德摔倒磕伤了头，现在手肘支撑着半躺在地上，迷茫地看着这几个人。他很困惑，脑袋很混乱，不太清楚到底发生了什么，也没法真正的抵抗。“你怎么了？你个站不稳的老家伙。起来！”达德走过去，把父亲拉起来推着往桌边的椅子走去。“你最好把合同签了，现在就签。合同在哪儿？”他问律师，“你只用给他说签在哪里，想来他就会签的。不过先给我们看看你要付给我们的钱，”他又说，“然后他再签字，我想确认一下。”

探矿者从钱包里拿出八千块现金——他之前估计没有人愿意要支票。律师拿出需要签字的合同。达德接过钱开始点起来。

“他要做的，”贾尔斯拿合同出来时对其他人说，“就是签这第二份合同，他和他的妻子都要签。”达德数完了钱，贾尔斯看双方都很满意，便对达德说，“如果你识字的话可以自己读读合同。”达德转过身拿起合同看，好像合同很简单，自己看得很清楚一样。“你可以看得到，”律师继续说，“我们已经和他协商好八千买他的土地了。之前已经付了八百，还差七千二没有付，刚才给你的就是七千二。”他碰了碰达德手里的钱。达德真的拿到这些现金后激动不已，高兴得几乎说不出话来。想想，七千二百块啊，全部在他干瘦的手里拿着。

“啊，天啊！”奇德太太和简异口同声地惊呼，“没有想到啊！八千！”

老奇德仍然晕头晕脑、糊里糊涂，不过他也已经能从椅子里站起来，奇怪地四下张望。达德想让他签字，不容商量地把他推回椅子上。

“老家伙，别起来，”他粗暴地说，“就呆在那里，按他的要求把字签了。你答应了的，你就应该说话算话。都有八千了，你还想要多少嘛。”他开玩笑说。他现在知道因为某些奇怪的原因，父亲已经完全在自己的控制下了，而奇德则十分无助地一言不发。“他说你同意了的是不是？死了啊你？”

“天啊，”激动的奇德太太喊道，“八千！他一直在这里说是两千，绝口不提八千的事，哪个晓得哦，他要是一直不说，肯定就把八千全部独吞了。”

“就是，”简贪婪恶毒地补充说，“还想一个人独吞！亏得我们一年接一年在地里干活让他过得舒舒服服的！”她强硬的眼神丝毫不比达德逊色。在她眼里父亲就和小偷差不多，想要偷走他们辛辛苦苦换来的劳动果实。

律师从达德手里拿过合同在桌上展开，然后给了奇德一支笔。奇德就像一个孩子一样恍恍惚惚地接过笔，然后在指定的地方画了押。贾尔斯小心翼翼地说，“签字是你自愿的行为，是吧？奇德先生。”奇德没有回答。或许是因为摔倒时撞到了脑袋，他那时已经忘记了自己不签合同的想法了。签了字过后他茫然看了看周围，似乎不确定别人还需要自己做什么。奇德太太也画了押，对律师那同一个狡猾的问题回答了声“是”。达德作为家中相对聪明的人，通过暴力成为了统治者。在和简一起看着父亲母亲画押以及留下两个必不可少的签字后，达德拿着钱在家人紧张的眼睛面前又开始点第二遍。奇德仍然不知道这些钱的含义，他一言不发坐着，伸手试图抓这些钱，好像自己应该需要这些钱但是又不太确定。

“我看都没有问题了吧？”律师问着转身打算离开。达德表示没有任何问题。

然后两个来客拿着想要的合同离开了。而奇德的家人把仍然安静呆滞坐着的奇德扔在一旁，开始讨论怎么分这一笔大钱。

“现在我只想给你说一件事，达德，”母亲贪婪又紧张地说，“三分之一，不管是多少钱，三分之一是我的，这是法律规定了的。”

“我那样在地上干了这么久，肯定也应该有三分之一。”紧挨着站在达德边上的简说。

“哎呀，把手拿开，让我数完行不？”达德说。他又开始数第三遍。那种感觉真让人陶醉！有了这些钱还有什么事办不了呢？他可以结婚、去市里、做一百件想做的事情。父亲也有权分一份钱的事实，或者父亲无法再理解事情，现在十分无助，招人怜悯，从此可能孤苦伶仃，无法按意愿做事情的事实，都丝毫没有打动达德。利用作为男人拥有的力量，他现在是家中的实际统治者，或者他觉得自己是。数钱的时候他想着非比寻常的事情，容光焕发地说着话。想到父亲藏起来的八百块，或者说想到属于父亲的那一份钱，他说，“对了，我想晓得那八百块钱在哪里呢？要么在他身上，要么被他藏起来了。”他看着一蹶不振的奇德，用手在奇德衣服里摸索，不过他什么也没有找到，便停下手，然后说迟些时候或许能找到的。达德手里的钱最终被瓜分了：奇德太太得到三分之一，简得到四分之一，达德自认为是父亲忠实的继承者和左右手，得到了剩下的钱，同时他还在猜测剩下那八百的下落。

一直失去意识的奇德现在恢复了过来，能够猜测到刚才都发生了什么。他一下站了起来，气愤地看着周围，用尖细的声音喊道，“他们偷了我的地！偷了我的地！我被抢了！被抢了！我被抢了！啊！啊！啊！这些地不止值八千啊，值两万五啊，我本来可以得到两万五啊，他们来让我签字卖掉了，啊！啊！啊！”他又跳又呻吟，无助地跺着脚，直到看见达德手里还稳稳地拿着分到的钱。他的疯狂懊恼变化了形式。他抓过达德手里的钱，跑到大开着的门外，开始往风中撒一部分珍贵的钞票，边撒便哭，“他们偷了我的地！他们偷了我的地！我不要这闹心的钱！不要！还我的地啊！啊！啊！”

在这样一个惊人的情形下，达德只看到一点——那就是钱。他完全不知道第二个探矿者的出价，也就不知道到底老头子为什么如此愤怒，心里为什么如此崩溃。奇德又跳又喊地扔着钱，达德像只野猫一样奋力扑到他身上把他扑到在地，从他手里抢回剩下的钱。他把奇德稳稳压在下面，同时对着妹妹和母亲大喊，“不会把钱捡起来啊？把钱捡起来，然后找根绳子来。绳子。没看见他疯了啊？他已经疯了，肯定疯了，快找绳子来。”看见两个家人帮忙捡起了钱，他把疯狂挣扎着的奇德按到地上。奇德被绑稳当了，钱也拿回来了，激动的达德站了起来。把自己的钱数了一遍确保一张没丢后，他心满意足了，在这个十分危险的世界上稍微亲切地看了看奇德。他看见奇德像一只市场上卖的家禽一样被绑在那里，或许有些同情的说：

“哎呀，想不到啊！可怜的老爸！我确定他这次真的疯了！真正的疯了！”

“对啊，就是疯了，我也能肯定。”奇德太太接着说，话中略带她作为妻子的关心，不过她最关心的还是她的分到的那些钱。

达德和母亲、妹妹开始蛮不在乎地思考接下来该如何处理奇德，而奇德则转动着空虚的眼睛，看着一幕自己再也无法理解的场景。

[1] 选择权是一种契约，其持有人有权利在契约到期日或之前，以一固定价格向对方购买或出售一定数量的资产或商品。（译注）

寻找菲比

他们生活在乡间一隅，那里离其中一个人口不增反减的小镇大概有三英里远，已经不如从前那样繁荣了。在这儿定居的人不算太多，或许每隔一英里左右才能看见一户人家，不过却有大片大片的玉米地和小麦地，还有每隔一季就会种上梯牧草和苜蓿的休耕地。他们的房子有几间是原木房，另外几间是木板房。原木房是亨利的祖父最先居住的地方,而较新的那几间木板房经过雨水的侵蚀和时间的磨砺，不时会有风从木板上的缝隙吹进来，发出刺耳的呼呼声。几棵榆树和一棵灰胡桃树浓荫蔽日，让这几间木板房显得有些别致而怀旧，不过也让房子有些潮湿。这几间木板房是亨利修建的，那时他二十一岁，刚刚结婚成家。

那是四十八年前的事了。房内的家具和房子的外观一样陈旧和发霉，让人回想起过去的岁月。你见过的那种樱桃木架子，螺旋腿儿、顶部有凹槽的那种，在房子里面就摆着一套。那种床柱子上有球形装饰和深深的弯曲凹槽的老式四柱床，房子里也有一张。这是一张拙劣模仿詹姆斯一世风格的床。那张樱桃木的写字台依然宽大结实，不过外表已经不再光亮，还散发着一股霉味。这些都是耐用家具的典范。在它们的下面压着一张松松垮垮的碎布地毯，它的一部分已经褪成了暗灰色，一部分还依然是粉色。这是菲比·安去世前十五年亲手编织的。织这张地毯时所用的那台破旧的木制织布机，现在像一副积满灰尘的骨架一样立着。它和一把破损的摇椅、一个腐烂的衣橱（天晓得它走过了多少年头）、一张沾着石灰点子的长凳（曾经被放在外面充当花盆架），以及其它破旧的家庭用品一起摆在东边那间靠着所谓主屋的侧屋里。那里堆着各种各样的破烂家具——一个古董晾衣架，它的两根晾杆上已经有了裂缝；一面镶在陈旧的樱桃木镜框里的破碎镜子，这面镜子是在他们的小儿子杰里去世的三天前从钉子上掉下来摔破的；一排伸缩衣帽架，它的楔子曾经都是有圆形陶瓷头的；还有一台缝纫机，它那笨拙的构造早就已被新一代的缝纫机赶超了。

房子东边的果园里种满了多节瘤的苹果树，它们的枝干已经被虫蛀坏。绿色和白色的地衣铺满了果园的地面，每到夜晚，月光就会给这绿白交织的地面镀上一层银光，呈现出一种忧伤的气息。低矮的棚屋里曾经养过一些鸡、一两匹马、一头奶牛和几只猪。棚屋顶上东一块西一块地覆盖着青苔。棚屋的侧面由于太久没有刷过漆，所以显得灰里泛黑，松软多孔。屋前的尖桩栅栏——栅栏门吱吱嘎嘎，歪歪斜斜——和侧边的交叉搭成的栅栏都同样破烂不堪。事实上，住在这儿的老亨利·莱夫斯耐德和妻子菲比·安有多大年纪，这些栅栏也就有多大年纪了。

这两位自从四十八年前结婚后就一直住在这里，而且在结婚前亨利就已经住在这里了。他在这里度过了他的童年并长大成人。年轻的亨利坠入爱河并且决定结婚时，当时仍旧健在的父母让他把妻子娶回这个地方；而他也照做了。婚后父母和他们夫妻二人一起生活了十年，然后便离开了人世，留下亨利和菲比，还有他们那五个茁壮成长的孩子。不过自那以后事情便接二连三地发生了。他们生育的总共七个孩子中死了三个；剩下的四个中，一个女儿去了堪萨斯；一个儿子去了苏瀑，然后就杳无音信；还有一个儿子去了华盛顿；剩下的那个女儿和他们住在同一个州，就隔了五个县，不过她自己要操心的事情就已经让她不堪负重，所以很少能想到父母。时光的流逝和平淡的家庭生活让这些孩子彻底断了与父母的联系，所以不管他们在哪儿，他们都很少考虑父母到底过得怎么样。

老亨利和妻子菲比是一对恩爱的夫妻。你或许知道，纯粹的天性让他们就像当时环境和气候中生长在石头上的地衣一样，消磨着岁月直至老死。巨大的世界发出广阔的声音，但是对他们来说却没有吸引力。他们没有顶尖的聪明才智。果园、牧场、玉米地、猪圈、鸡圈便是他们作为人类活动的全部范围。小麦结了穗，他们就收麦打麦；玉米杆枯黄结霜了，他们就收割堆垛；梯牧草全都结了穗，他们就割下来堆成堆。然后冬天就来临了，他们把粮食运去市场，伐木劈柴，打理一些简单琐事——生火做饭、修修补补、走家串户。除了这些事情和变换的阴晴雨雪，就再没有其他迫切、重要的事情了。生活的其余部分就是一个遥远、喧嚣、千变万化的风景，像夜晚的北极光一样摇曳闪烁，发出的声音像远处牛铃的叮当声一样微弱。

老亨利和妻子菲比相亲相爱，他们就和那些实在没有其它东西珍爱，因此只好珍爱对方的老夫妇一样。亨利是一个干瘦的老男人，妻子去世的时候他刚好七十岁。他行为古怪，脾气暴躁，长着灰黑的头发和蓬乱的胡子，一双看着你的眼睛死气沉沉，呆滞无力，眼角有着深棕色的鱼尾纹。他的穿着和许多农民差不多，衣服破旧松垮，口袋十分显眼，领口并不合身，手肘和膝盖的地方向外鼓起，破烂不堪。菲比·安身材纤瘦，体型并不好看，活像一把雨伞，一身破旧的黑色衣着，头上那顶黑色童帽是她最好的衣物。随着时间的流逝，再加上除了他们自己又没有其他什么需要照料的，因此他们的动作越发蹒跚，活动也越来越少。他们原来每年要养五头猪，现在只养了一头咕咕噜噜的肥猪。亨利留下的唯一那匹马整天一副昏昏欲睡的摸样，喂养得马马虎虎，而且也不太干净。之前那一大群鸡，因为雪貂和狐狸的偷袭，加上没有好好照料生了病，现在几乎都死光了。曾经欣欣向荣的花园现在只是杂草丛生的回忆。曾经装饰窗户和庭院的葡萄藤和花圃现在成了密密麻麻的灌木丛。老亨利立过遗嘱，打算把这一小块得费力打理的地产平分给四个孩子，结果孩子们对这块地产就真的没有了任何兴趣。这对老夫妇安宁和谐地生活在一起，只是老亨利不时地会过分暴躁，几乎每次都抱怨些无足轻重的事情，不是抱怨这样没有收拾好，就是抱怨那样放错了地方。

“菲比，我的镰刀呢？你老是喜欢乱动我东西。”

“安静点，亨利，”妻子尖声尖气地提醒他，“你要是再吵吵囔囔的，我就丢下你走了。要是哪天我真走了，看你去得了哪里，你也只有我照看你了，所以还是安分些的好。你的镰刀不是一直都放在壁炉台子上的嘛，要不就是你拿去放在其它什么地方了。”

老亨利晓得妻子怎么都不会离开自己，他偶尔会想，如果妻子快要离开人世了，自己该怎么办。他害怕妻子比自己先离开人世。他晚上爬到椅子上给那副钟摆很长的古老双摆钟上发条时，或者睡前去看前门和后门是否关好时，只要想到菲比还在，或许都已经睡在床上了，想到自己如果晚上翻来覆去的话，她会问自己想要什么，他就会感到很欣慰。

“哎呀，亨利，睡好不要动！就像只鸡一样翻去翻来的。”

“哎，我睡不着，菲比。”

“反正你不要翻去翻来的，你要让我睡觉啊。”

这通常会让他放松一些，产生睡意。如果菲比需要一桶水，他会嘴上咕咕哝哝却又很乐意地去把水打来；如果菲比先起床生火，他会确保柴已经劈好，放在伸手就可以拿到的地方。他们合理地分配着这一切纯粹的事情。

不过随着日子流逝，来拜访他们的人越来越少。方圆十英里内的人们都知道他们，把他们叫做莱夫斯耐德老先生和莱夫斯耐德老太太，知道他们老实巴交，是一对温和的基督信徒。不过他们年纪太大了，人们已经不再真正关注他们了。写信几乎成为了一个难以完成的负担，太过困难而无法坚持，甚至也无法请别人代写。不过，在彭伯顿县的女儿偶尔还是会寄来那么一封信。不时地会有老朋友带着馅饼糕点或者烤鸡烤鸭来拜访，或者只是来看看他们是否还好，不过即使这种好心的拜访也已经不再频繁了。

早春的一天，六十四岁的菲比生了病，起先是低热，后来发展成了一种说不清的小病。她年纪大了，生这点小病都无法治愈。老亨利驾车去了趟隔壁的斯温纳顿镇请来了医生。几位朋友也上门看望，从他手中接过了照料妻子的工作。后来在一个春寒料峭的夜晚，菲比离开了人世。老亨利在悲伤和迷茫的笼罩下把妻子的遗体送葬到了最近的墓地里。墓地并不漂亮，里面长着几棵松树。他本可以去一趟彭伯顿县告诉女儿，或者请人去把女儿叫回来也行，可那样太过麻烦，更何况他身心疲惫，人又固执。有一两个朋友立即建议他去和他们住上一段时间，可是他觉得不太合适。他年纪太大，而且非常固执，也已经习惯了这么多年来熟悉的环境，所以不愿意离开。他想离埋葬菲比的地方近一些。而且自己要独自生活这一事实根本就没有烦扰到他。几个孩子都接到了通知，如果他离开那儿的话，他们都会照顾他，可是他就是不离开。

“我可以将就着一个人过，”他一再对给妻子治病的老医生莫罗说，“我多少会做点饭，再说我也喝不了多少咖啡，吃不了多少面包。我可以过得很好，就让我留在这儿吧。”许多人恳求劝告过后，便适当地给了他一些咖啡豆、熏猪肉、烤面包，把他一个人留在了那里。有一阵子他闲坐在门外，在春日下沉思。他试着重新拾起对农活的兴趣，想要通过照料田地（近来这些田地大多都荒废了）让自己忙起来，不再胡思乱想。但是每到了晚上或者下午，看着那些满载着菲比回忆的物品，想到已经不在的菲比，他就感到有些忧郁。他逐渐把一些菲比的东西收了起来。到了晚上，他会坐在灯旁，读读以前偶尔漏读的报纸，或者读读那本闲置了多年的《圣经》，不过却很少能从中得到慰藉。晚上的大多数时间里他都捂着嘴坐着，低头看着地面思索菲比怎么样了，而自己又还能活上多久。他早上煮咖啡和晚上给自己煎熏肉的时候都十分尽心尽力，可是他的食欲已经消失了。他栖身多年的房子看上去空荡荡的，房子的影子总会唤起他无法治愈的悲痛。他就这样十分沮丧地生活了五个月后，事情开始发生了变化。

那是一天晚上，他关好了前门和后门，给摆钟上了发条，吹灭了灯，敷衍着做完了多年来每晚的例行事项之后就上了床。可是他并没有睡觉，而是躺在床上思考。这晚月光溶溶，他躺在床上正好可以看到外面盖着绿色地衣的果园，果园里银光遍地，显得阴森却又甜蜜。月光穿过东边的窗户，窗框的影子印到木地板上，他熟悉的那些老家具在房间里依稀可见。通常他都在想念菲比，想念他们在一起的青葱岁月，想念已经去世的几个孩子，思索他目前将就过着的生活。房子的状况越发糟糕了。床上用品凌乱不堪，而且还很肮脏，因为他只是胡乱洗了洗而已。房子之于他就是一件讨厌的东西。房顶漏雨，每次都让屋子里的有些东西接连潮湿几个星期，可是他认为自己应该接受一切，不用再费力去做这做那了。他宁愿慢慢地来回踱步或者坐着思考。

这晚十二点时他就已经睡着了，但是到了两点他又醒了过来。这时月亮已经变换了位置，来到了房子的西面，月光透过客厅的窗户和稍远一些的厨房窗户照射进来。桌边搭着他衣服的椅子、投下阴影的半开着的厨房门、报纸边上的油灯，这些凑在一起让他似乎看到了菲比就像她生前常做的那样倚在桌子边上。亨利猛然一惊。是她吗？或者是她的灵魂？他不怎么相信灵魂，可还是在微弱的光线里目不转睛地看着她，他感到枯老的头发根部有些奇怪的刺痛，接着他坐了起来。那人影并未移动。他把干瘦的双腿伸到床外，坐着看着她，心想那真的是菲比吗？他们俩一起生活时经常讨论灵魂、鬼怪和预兆，可是这些东西到底存不存在，他们从未达成过一致。他的妻子从来都不相信她死后会有灵魂回到世上游荡。她死后的世界应该截然不同，大概也差不多是个天堂，正直的人是不会费心从那儿回来的。可是现在她就在那儿倚靠着桌子，穿着她的黑色裙子，围着灰色围巾，在月光的映衬下显出苍白的身影。

“菲比，”他从头到脚一阵激动，伸出一只干瘦的手喊道，“你回来了？”

那个身影一动不动。他起身踌躇着往门边走去，同时目不转睛地盯着那个身影。可是在他走近后，那个幻影现出了原形——高背椅上的旧衣服、报纸边上的油灯和半开着的门。

“哎，”他张口自言自语，“我还以为真的是她呢。”他莫名其妙又心不在焉地伸手捋了捋头发，紧张的心情也随之放松了。那个幻影尽管消失了，但是却让他产生了菲比可能会回来的念头。

因为这一次幻觉和对菲比的日夜思念，也因为年纪，所以另外一晚他从床边的窗户俯视着鸡棚、猪圈和马车棚的一角，潮湿的地面上隐约冒着雾气，他觉得自己又看到了菲比。其实他看到的是其中一缕雾气。白天暖和过后，夜晚凉快下来，地上就会散发出一缕缕微弱的雾气，像白色的小柏树一样摇曳，然后消失殆尽。菲比生前就习惯从厨房门走出来，穿过这片空地，去猪圈往里丢做饭剩下的东西。现在她又出现在了这块空地上。他坐起身来看着，因为之前的那次经历，他颇有些觉得不可思议和半信半疑。不过又因为全身上下激动的战栗，他有些相信灵魂真的存在，相信菲比会由于担忧他孤身一人，由于对他的思念而回来。她能有其它什么方法呢？除此以外她又能如何表达自己呢？她这样做是因为她的仁慈，以及对他充满爱意的关心。他的身子轻轻颤抖着，热切地看着那缕雾气，可是轻风微动，雾气被吹向栅栏，然后消失了。

大概十天过后的又一个晚上，他梦到菲比来到了他的床边，把手放到他头上。

“可怜的亨利，”她说，“太可怜了。”

他从睡梦中醒来，觉得自己看到了菲比从卧室走到客厅，她的身影是一团模糊的黑色。老亨利的眼睛有些轻微的疲劳，所以看到菲比的身影轮廓边上有些许光点在闪烁。他十分惊讶地下了床，在凉爽的房间里游荡，他相信菲比会回到自己身边。只要他的思念足够多，只要通过感情把对她的急切需要表达得足够清楚，那么她就会回来；这位善良的妻子就会回来告诉他该怎么做。不管怎样，她或许晚上许多时间都会和他在一起，那样会让他不再那么孤单，让他现在好受一点。

亨利年纪大了，身子也虚弱了。对于他来说错觉和真正的幻觉之间并没有太大差别，而且最终他的错觉会转化成幻觉。他一夜又一夜地等着，期待着她回来。有一回情绪古怪时，他甚至以为自己看到了一团苍白的亮光在房间里游荡，还有一回他以为自己看到了她天黑后在果园里走动。一天早上他几乎再也无法忍耐孤单了，那天他醒来时甚至认为菲比还活着。很难说他是怎么得出这个结论的。他失去了理智，取而代之的是一个固执的幻觉——他和菲比毫无意义地吵了一架，他责备她没有把他的烟斗放在他习惯找得到的地方，然后她就丢下他走了。菲比过去开玩笑地威胁过他，说如果他再唠唠叨叨的话就会离开他，她这次的离开只是反常地吓吓他而已。

“我想我应该找得到你的，”他通常都是这样回应她的威胁，不过菲比仍然一直那样开玩笑地威胁他。

“我要是走了，你是找不到我的，我可以去一个你找不到的地方。”

这天早上，他起床时并没有像往常那样生火，也没有按习惯磨咖啡和切面包，而是独自思考要去哪儿找菲比，又该怎么样劝她回来。那匹马近来也被晾在了一边，因为他觉得它是个累赘，而且自己也用不上。他穿好衣服，取下那顶柔软的折叠帽，双眼闪露着兴致和决心。接着他从门后取出了黑色的牧羊手杖（他一直都把手杖放在门后），轻快地走出门，去最近的几个邻居家寻找菲比。一路上他那双旧鞋子在尘土中发出沉重的脚步声。他灰黑的头发现在长得尤其的长，从帽子下散乱地露出来，围成了一圈夸张的发穗。他短短的外衣随着步伐不停摆动，双手和面孔既憔悴又苍白。

“嘿，亨利，这么早去哪儿啊？”法玛尔·道奇在运麦子去市场的马路上碰见亨利，便问他。自从菲比去世后就他就再没有见到过亨利，算来已经有好几个月了，看见亨利如此精力充沛，他不禁有些疑惑。

“你有没有看见菲比？”亨利抬起头疑惑地问道。

“哪个菲比？”法玛尔·道奇问道，他没有把这个名字和亨利逝去的妻子联系起来。

“啊，当然是我老婆菲比嘛，你觉得我说的是哪个哦？”他抬头看着，灰白的浓眉下眼神犀利却又感伤。

“哎，我说啊，亨利，你不是在开玩笑吧？”老实巴交的道奇问道。他身材肥胖，光滑而结实的脸庞红彤彤的，“你说的怎么会是你老婆嘛，她都已经死啦。”

“死了！胡说八道！”精神错乱的亨利反驳道，“她今天早上才走的，那个时候我还在睡觉，她通常都是起来生火，可今天就不见了，昨天晚上我和她拌嘴，想来是因为这个她才走的，不过我应该可以找到她，她去玛蒂尔达·雷斯家了，肯定是的。”

他沿着马路轻快地往前走去，道奇惊讶地盯着他的背影，颇有些摸不着头脑。

“唉，我得掉头回去，”他大声地自言自语，“他已经疯了，这个可怜的老家伙一个人住在那里，现在都已经疯了，我得去通知官方的人。”他热情高涨地挥动鞭子，“驾！”说着便出发了。

这个地方人烟稀少，亨利没有再遇到其他人，他一直走到了三英里外的玛蒂尔达·雷斯和她丈夫家，走到了他们家粉刷成白色的栅栏边。他一路上经过了其他几户人家，不过他并未在幻想中考虑到那些人家。他的妻子和玛蒂尔达很熟，肯定就在这儿。他推开挡着路的尖木桩栅栏门，迈着沉重的步子快速往屋门走去。

“嘿，莱夫斯耐德先生，”身材粗壮的老玛蒂尔达过来应门，她开门惊呼道，“今天早上是什么风把你吹来了啊？”

“菲比在这儿吗？”他急切地问道。

“哪个菲比？什么菲比啊？”雷斯太太问道。她看到亨利突然变得精力充沛，觉得有些奇怪。

“哎呀，当然是我家菲比嘛，我老婆嘛。不然你觉得是哪个菲比啊？她在没在你家？”

“天啊！”雷斯太太开口惊呼，“可怜的老头，你肯定是疯了。快进来坐坐，我给你煮杯咖啡。你老婆当然不在这里，不过你还是先进来坐嘛，等会我会帮你找到她的，我晓得她在哪里。”

亨利的眼神变得柔和了，然后进了门。他那么纤瘦苍白，虽然糊里糊涂的，但却依然令人敬重。他脱下帽子，轻轻地放在自己膝盖上时，雷斯太太心里涌上了一股深切的同情。

“昨天晚上我和她吵了一架，然后她就丢下我走了。”他主动开口说道。

“哎！哎！”此时此刻没有人可以分担雷斯太太的惊讶，她叹着气往厨房走去，“可怜的人！得有人去照顾他啊。可不能让他在村子里跑来跑去找他死去的妻子，那样太可怜了。”

她给亨利煮了一壶咖啡，给他拿来了刚出炉的面包和新鲜的黄油，拿出了最好的果酱，还煮了几个鸡蛋，同时尽力哄骗着亨利。

“你现在就在这儿坐着，亨利大叔，等杰克回来我就让他去找菲比。想来她应该和几个朋友一起去斯温纳顿镇上了，反正我们会找到她的，你只管喝点咖啡，吃点面包，大清早的走这么远肯定很累了。”她打算和“她的男人”杰克商量商量，或者让杰克通知一下当局。

她在屋里走来走去，思考着生活中的种种不确定性。老亨利用苍白的手指拨弄着帽沿，然后心不在焉地吃了些雷斯太太给的东西。他的心思在妻子身上，妻子不在这里，也没有来这里，他模模糊糊地想到了相反方向几里外的穆雷家。过了一会儿，他决定不再等杰克·雷斯回来找菲比，他要自己去找。他必须找到她，然后劝她回来。

“好了，我要走了，”他说着站起身来，古古怪怪地看着四周，“想来她是没有来你家了，她应该是去穆雷家了，我就不在这儿等了，雷斯太太，今天家里还有很多事情要做呢。”他不顾雷斯太太的阻拦走出了她家，再次踏上了温暖春日下尘土飞扬的马路，边走边用手杖敲着路面。

两个小时过后，这个一身灰尘和汗水的急切男人出现在穆雷家的门廊下。他走了足足五英里路，现在已经是中午时分了。六十岁的穆雷夫妇听到他的奇怪问题，也知道他已经疯了。他们劝他留下来吃饭，打算迟些时候通知官方的人，看看到底该怎么办。亨利留下来吃了点东西，但是他并没有呆太久，想着自己有很多事要做，想着自己需要菲比，他便起身去了另外一家远处的农舍。他就这样日复一日地询问着，询问的范围也越来越广。

在这样一个地区，一个人变得奇怪以及行为变得滑稽古怪却又无害，通常是一个很复杂、很招人可怜的过程。上面说到的这一天里，亨利还去了其他人家，急切地问了他的奇怪问题后就离开了，让人们感到既惊讶又同情。官方虽然得到了消息——至少郡长知道了——但是他们认为把亨利关起来不可行。由于地区贫穷，当地的精神病院环境非常恶劣，那些认识亨利很久的人想到这些就决定先不控制亨利，因为说起来有些奇怪，人们调查后发现他到了晚上就十分安静地回到他孤独的住所，看妻子是否已经回家，然后又孤独地思考到早上。亨利这样一个头发花白、态度友好、提问天真、急切寻人的瘦老头，谁又会把他锁起来呢？而且他过去可是出名的能吃苦耐劳，和蔼可亲，而且还靠得住。熟知他的人都赞成让他一个人自由游荡。他不会伤害别人，而且许多人也愿意帮助他，给他些食物、旧衣服、以及一些日常生活需要的小东西——至少刚开始时人们会愿意帮助他。时间一长，他的形象不再是一个平常人，而成了一个公认的怪人，人们也都开始习惯性地回答，“啊，没有，亨利，我没有看见她”或者是“没有看见，亨利，菲比今天没来这里”。

接下来几年里他一直奇奇怪怪的，顶着烈日或冒着雨，走在尘土飞扬或泥泞不堪的马路上，不停地寻找菲比。人们总能偶尔在陌生或者意料之外的地方碰到他。虽说邻居们和知道他故事的人们都乐意拿出储藏的食物帮助他，可是过了一阵，因为长时间的行走和稀少的进食，他的身体受到了营养不足的影响。他这样在马路上走得越远，他的奇异幻想就越深。他的寻觅之途越来越远，回家也越来越难。最后他开始从家里带上锅瓢碗盏，把它们装成小包，以防自己回不了家。他在一个大号的旧咖啡壶里放了一个小锡杯、一把刀、一把叉子、一把勺子、一些盐巴和胡椒粉，用一根绳子穿过罐子外面打的孔绑上一个盘子。盘子可以取下来，在外面吃饭时用来充当桌子。要满足他的那点食物需求并不困难，而且怀着一种奇特的、近乎虔诚的尊严，他讨要那点食物时并没有丝毫犹豫。他的头发逐渐越来越长，原来黑色的帽子变成了泥土般的棕黄色，衣衫也变得破烂不堪，满是灰尘。

他走了整整三年，没有人知道他寻找的范围有多广，也没有人知道他是如何在暴风和寒冷中活下来的。人们没有看见他躲在草堆里或者躲到牛的身边过，他应该有着农村人的朴素知识和先见啊，温暖的牛身子能保护他不被冻着，而且牛反应迟钝、善解人意，他又无意伤害，所以牛是不会反对他在边上的。有些时候，悬着的石头和树木可以让他躲雨。舒适的干草棚或者玉米棚也在他谦恭的考虑范围之内。

幻觉的加重过程既复杂又奇特。亨利挨家挨户地敲门询问，常常受到冷落和拒绝，他最终得出了结论，认为菲比尽管不在他询问的这些人家里，但是她应该可以听到自己的声音。所以，他从耐心询问转变到开始偶尔悲伤地大声呼唤。他的呼喊声有时在安静的野外和崎岖的山丘地带回荡，他的柔弱呼唤——“噢……菲比！噢……菲比！”——不断回响。他的声音虽说疯狂，却也招人怜悯。许多农民或者农家孩子老远就听出是他的声音，便说，“老亨利来了。”

过了一段时间，询问了好几百次过后，另外又有件事情困扰了他，那就是眼前没有人家，没有人可以询问的时候，他该走哪一条路呢？那些有时通往四个甚至六个方向的岔路口后来让他伤透了脑筋。不过为了解决这个越来越困扰他的复杂问题，他脑袋中又有了新的幻想——菲比的灵魂，或者空气、风、自然的某种力量会告诉他走哪一条路；如果他站在岔路口中间，闭上眼睛转三圈，喊两声“噢……菲比”，然后把手杖扔到身前，手杖肯定能指示出找到菲比的道路，或者某种神秘力量会控制手杖落下的方向。不管手杖指向哪个方向，即使手杖让他掉转头走回头路，或者让他穿过田地（这种情况并非不常见），他都照做不误。亨利并没有神志不清，他会给自己足够的时间寻找方向，然后才会再次大声呼唤。他的幻想似乎还在继续，并且认为自己总有一天会找到菲比。有些时候他双脚酸痛，四肢无力；有些时候他在热浪中停下来擦拭布满皱纹的前额，或者在寒冷中停下来拍打双臂。有些时候他扔出手杖，发现手杖指着他刚走过来的那个方向，他会无可奈何却又有颇具深意地摇摇头，似乎在思考不可思议的事情或者多舛的命运，然后就轻快地动身出发。最后，连最远的那三四个县里的人都知道了他的怪异事迹。老亨利是个招人怜悯的人物。他的名声已经传到了四面八方。

在格林县一个叫做沃特斯维尔的小镇附近，有一个当地人称为”红崖“的地方或悬崖，那里离人们活动的小中心有四英里远，是一处陡峭的红色砂岩石壁，石壁大概有一百英尺高，陡峭的崖面横向延伸半英里或更长。悬崖下是肥沃的玉米地和果园。悬崖顶上长着茂密的小树丛。而它另一面的平缓斜坡上覆盖着异常繁茂的水青冈、山核桃和白蜡树，几条马车压出来的小道在其间曲折穿过。天气不错时，老亨利习惯去那里——他现在已经十分适应了野外的环境——在那些小树林里搭上床，在树下煎熏肉和煮鸡蛋，然后躺下过夜。有时睡得不熟，睡眠断断续续，他便会在夜里赶路。月光的照射、林中突然吹动的阵风、或者在边上侦察的动物经常会让他醒来，他醒后便会坐起来思考，或者继续在月光下或黑暗中呼唤。他这个古怪反常的人外表有些野蛮，像个野人一般，但是却完全不会伤害别人，他在孤单的岔路口呼喊，凝视着黑暗，盯着拉上百叶窗的房舍，心想菲比在哪里，到底在哪里？

每每到了凌晨两点，周围环境中一阵特别的沉寂都会让他醒来。醒后他虽然不再赶路，但是会坐起来凝视着黑暗或星辰思考。有些时候在他运转奇怪的脑袋里，他会幻想自己看到了他失去的妻子的身影在树林中移动，然后他就会起来，带上穿在绳子上的餐具，拿着拐杖跟着后面。如果他觉得菲比能轻易躲开他，他就会跑起来，或者说话恳求。如果突然跟丢了他幻想出来的菲比，他就会惊恐失望地站着，为寻觅过程中有许多几乎无法克服的困难而悲痛不已。

亨利无望地寻觅着，转眼到了第七个年头。在和妻子去世那年相似的初春季节里，他最终在一个夜晚来到了红崖顶部附近。在上一个岔路口时，用来占卜的长手杖指引他来到了这里。他走了很多很多英里的路程。晚上十点的时候他已经精疲力竭。长时间的行走和稀少的进食让他几乎成为了一个原来的自己的幽灵。现在的问题不是他的体力还能支撑多久，而是他的意志还能支撑自己多久。这天他几乎粒米未进，现在已经精疲力竭了，他在黑暗中坐下来休息，可能的话还想睡上一会儿。

奇怪的是，在这个时候有种奇怪的暗示在告诉他妻子就在附近。尽管这么多个月来他一无所获，但他仍然告诉自己要不了多久就能见到她，和她说上话了。过了一会，他把头靠在膝盖上睡着了。半夜的时候月亮开始爬上天空，到了他常常醒来的凌晨两点，月亮成了一个银色的大圆盘，月光透过东边的树林洒到地上。月光十分明亮时在他脚下投射出银色的图案，并且照亮了树林。他在这时睁开了眼睛。树林里的光亮显得奇异，银色的月光和阴影组成了各种图案。和往常一样，这时他又觉得妻子就在附近，便怀疑而期待地看了看四周。树林远处他来时走过的那条路上有什么在树荫中移动，那是一团苍白闪烁的鬼火，它在树间优雅地跳动，紧紧地抓住了他期待的眼神。月光和阴影交错，赋予了这个东西——闪烁的鬼火抑或是舞蹈游荡的萤火虫群——一个奇怪的外形，也赋予了它一种更加奇特的真实感。这真的是他丢失了的菲比吗？它迂回着从他身前飘过。他兴奋极了，幻想自己看见了菲比的那双眼睛。和上次见她穿着黑裙子围着黑围巾时不一样，这次是一个年轻得出奇的菲比，更加欢快，更加甜蜜，是他许多年前认识的那个菲比姑娘。老亨利站了起来。这几年来他都在期待和梦想这一刻的到来。他把一只干瘦的手插在花白的头发里，怀疑地看着那团在面前轻轻舞动的微光。

突然，许多年来他首次感受到她少女身材的完整魅力，正如他少年时认识的菲比一样，愉悦可爱的微笑、棕色的头发、一次野餐时她系在腰间的蓝色饰带，还有她欢快优雅的动作。他睁大眼睛在树下走动，忘记了自己的手杖和餐具，急切跟在她后面。菲比——那团鬼火——在他前面继续移动着，头顶上有一小撮火焰，她似乎在矮小的白蜡树和水青冈、粗大的山核桃和榆树中间，用少女轻盈的手召唤着他。

“啊，菲比！菲比！”他喊道，“你真的来了？你真的回应我了？”他加快步子，一度摔倒在地，一瘸一拐地走着，却只看到那团光亮在远处继续虚幻地舞动。他越走越快，最后简直跑了起来，树木拂拭着他衣衫褴褛的双臂，挡道的细嫩树枝拍打着他的双手和脸庞。他跑得气喘吁吁，帽子也掉了。他已经神志不清了。来到悬崖边时，他看见她在悬崖下面的苹果园里。适逢春天，果园里的苹果树长势正茂盛。

“啊，菲比！”他喊着，“菲比啊！别丢下我！”他感觉到另外一个世界的诱惑，那儿有年轻的爱情，有他幻觉中的菲比。那是他们昔日青春的缩影。他欢快地大喊，“菲比啊！等等我！”然后纵身跳了下去。

几天过后，几个农家孩子来这片宝地侦查勘探。他们先发现了那些绑在一起被亨利丢在树下的锡制餐具，后来在崖底发现了亨利的躯体。他的躯体苍白破裂，但是神情却显得欢欣。他的唇间定格着平和的微笑，露出愉悦的表情。在低矮的小树丛和被亨利拨在身后的细嫩树枝下面，他们发现了他的旧帽子。那儿的纯朴居民没人懂得他找到丢失的伴侣时是多么的热切和快乐。

舆论

一

从前，有位才识过人的报社漫画师给我讲过一个故事，这个故事阐明了社会舆论对人性的强烈压抑，而且这种压抑往往还具有强大的改造性力量。因此我把它记录下来，作为美国社会的真实记录。如其所述，故事是这样的：

那时，我在美国中西部地区一座滨河的城市工作，在当地一家大报社做美术编辑。不论在当时还是现在，那都是一座非常典型的美国城市。当时城市人口约为四五十万，有各色的俱乐部、教堂以及各种传统活动。这是一座繁荣发达的制造业城市，仅此而已。

当时与我搭档的是一位记者，我知道他的一些情况，但和他并没有什么深入的交往。我不知道是否有必要描述一下他的外貌，因为这跟整个故事关系不大。不过，如果可以的话，我感觉撇开他的内心活动来单独分析一下他这个人也是挺有意思的，甚至挺有必要的。我真想理一理他的各个思维组织和器官，弄清他思维运转的具体过程。可是这事我做不来；我没这本事。除了我将在下文提到的一些心理表象，他对当时的我而言完全是一个心理学谜题，现在也依然是。他是那种会耍小聪明的人，比较擅长写一些客观实用的新闻报道，似乎深得上司喜欢。他还擅长写周日专题报道，不过在我看来，这些报道没有一篇能传达出哪怕一丝一毫的动人的色彩或者真正的诗意。他这人倒有几分幽默，效率也挺高，消息灵通，穿着得体，长得也不算丑——高高瘦瘦、结结实实的，浑身上下几乎没有赘肉。逢人总是带着温和的笑容，与熟人交谈时亲切友好。他跟城中很多消息灵通人士关系非常融洽，经常互通有无，这些人与各大商贸机构、团体都有着千丝万缕的联系，他可以时不时地捕获一些新闻线索。因此报社大佬们一致认为他很能干。

我们俩偶尔会被派去承担同一项任务——基本上都是周日专题报道，他负责文字部分，我负责素描配图。我们偶尔也会就时下的话题交流一下看法，比如报社工作、时政热点以及手头上的专题报道之类的，但是聊得都不怎么火热。我觉得他看待问题缺乏艺术或诗意的视角。当然，我说过，我们还算友好。他在我眼里只是一个具有良好职业操守的同行而已。

到我入职的第二年春夏之际，一天，周日版编辑把我叫进他的办公室——托他的照顾，报社给我加了薪——并告诉我他决定让华莱士·斯蒂尔和我合作推出一篇关于“爱之舟”的专题报道，这艘船每逢周六、周日下午和每天傍晚都会沿河往返，行驶35英里或者更远。如果天气好的话，六七百对情侣就能在酷热的夜晚摆脱干燥烦闷的城市热浪——这里的夏天可是够热的——伴着中式灯笼摇曳的光影或者满月的清辉，享受着阵阵凉风与轻歌曼舞。多么美妙啊！每年这个时节都有成千上万的市民可以享受到这一福利。

这一切如此美妙，想当年风华正茂，踌躇满志，我坐在飓风号或者按我们编辑的叫法——“调情号”甲板上，仔细观察着这数百对年轻或年长的男男女女，他们主要是来幽会的，其次才是欣赏河流风光、呼吸新鲜空气，凝望风景如画的树木、丛林、远处的房屋与岸边陡峭的悬崖，看着船后拖着长长的烟雾，盯着不停发出嚓嚓声的蒸汽机的两根巨大的钢铁活动梁，倾听后方水轮转动的声响。这就是汽车发明之前时代的写照，那时这些可以让人远离城市的交通工具比现在要受欢迎得多。

言归正传，我们接着说这位编辑和他提出的要求。他让我画几幅情侣搂抱的素描，至少要画两到三对身份各异、举止暧昧的情侣。斯蒂尔则负责讲述幽会调情的过程。我们这种消遣方式没有任何恶意，只想为这个单调乏味的世界提供一丝慰藉，却常常受到报社中某些“聪明人士”以及本城保守派的质疑，甚至是厌恶。真正的保守派可不会这样放纵自己。我们编辑的真正目的是为报纸加点料，希望引发小小的轰动而已。毫不夸张地说，我们这寥寥几幅展现生活与爱情的图片令保守派大为震怒，虽然这种方式没有恶意，但在这座小城仍是大忌。据我了解，那是因为这则报道描绘了一种放纵低俗的生活方式。这类出游可不像商业活动或者宗教活动那样循规蹈矩。

二

我们回到刚才的话题。任务刚一确定，斯蒂尔就来找我商量。他非常喜欢这个想法，因为这是个非常合适的周日话题，而且出门旅行对他也很有吸引力。我们定在那天晚上八点钟坐船离开海滩路路口的码头。编辑允许他随意发挥，只要把字数控制在一千五到两千之间即可。如果我能画出三幅满意的作品，这就差不多占到了增页四分之三的版面了。而他则要竭尽所能地把故事写得生动形象、多姿多彩。派他来解说这样一个低俗放荡的生活场景，他着实有点受宠若惊。

我们接到任务时是一点半。四点左右他又来找了我一次。我们之前暂定在码头入口处见面，然后一起完成报道。可是这时他已经另有计划了。也许我应该交代一句，直到那时我只是隐约知道他已经结婚生子，还有他们一家住在本城西南部的某个地方，至于那是他自己的房产还是租赁的公寓，我就不清楚了。细想一下，我记得此前他曾跟别人说过他妻子不在城里住。不管怎样，他这时跟我说，由于妻子不在城里，那位房东女士又十分寂寞可怜，也很少外出，因此他决定带她一起来。他让我不用等他，我们可以在船上汇合，也可以稍后再讨论这则报道。

我同意了，决定不把这件事放在心上，只是有一点除外。可能是他讲述时的神态令我察觉到了什么，也可能是我心灵感应般地知晓了他的思绪想法，令我想到他可能是趁妻子不在的时候出去与别人约会。可我不明白为什么这个想法一直压在心头，挥之不去。我压根就不感兴趣。而且我一点证据都没有，我也不需要。就像我说的，我完全不关心这个。我都不认识他妻子，也不关心他有没有跟别人幽会。可是这个愚蠢的想法还是滑进了我的脑海中，这肯定是他塞给我的，因为他在想——至少这样想过——他不跟妻子一起出游，而是跟别的女人一块儿去，我会不会觉得多少有点奇怪呢。而且在这之前，我见过他到处晃荡，还在邮局旁边街角处跟女孩闲聊，那时我只是隐隐约约有个感觉，不管是婚前还是婚后，这个年轻人应该都挺喜欢溜出去跟一些他熟识或偶遇的女孩幽会上一两个小时，只要能瞒得住别人，尤其是他妻子就好。不过这些都不重要，因为我对他不怎么关心。

不管怎样，马上就到七点了，我在办公室附近的一家小餐馆吃了晚饭，然后出发去码头。那天晚上燥热异常，但是却很晴朗，肯定能看见一轮皎洁的满月，能去赏月我自然很高兴。不过同时我也感到非常孤单和沮丧，因为我一直希望能够告别单身，但是却还没有女友——没有一个可爱的女孩挽着我的胳膊一起去乘船，陪我坐在甲板上约会赏月，或者在灯光璀璨、乐师满座的客舱甲板一起跳舞。我真希望能够在这艘船的某个地方找到那个她，我也可以和她一起呆呆地坐着，有说有笑，时而调调情。但是我没有。想再多也是徒劳。我不是那种讨女人喜欢的男人，也很少会有女孩含情脉脉地看着我。而且像这类出游活动，妇女、少女们身边通常都会有人陪伴，结果总是我形单影只地去了，又形单影只地回来，仅此而已。

我心不在焉地随着最早一批来客上了船，走到客舱甲板上坐下，看别人缓缓走来。这也是为我手中的画笔遴选报道主角的机会，符合条件的人物还不少。他们都兴高采烈地走来，要么成双成对，要么四人一组、六人一列、八人一行、十人一队等等，大都是来自公寓或者贫民窟的年轻人，其中也有一些年纪较大的夫妇，所有人都有说有笑，最后到来的一拨人则兴冲冲地急奔上了船，我也敏锐地发现男孩都带着女孩，女孩身边也都跟着情郎。我挑选了几组不同风格的情侣，在便笺上随意记了几条，主要是脸部特征、帽子形状、举止动作与身体摆动情况等等。舷梯上方的那盏灯非常亮，我可以在那里画速写。一切都是那么多姿多彩，可孤单的我却怎么也高兴不起来。

斯蒂尔和他寂寞的女房东夹在后头的几批人流中漫步走来，斯蒂尔之前说他这一提议完全是出于对她的同情。因此我本来以为会看见一个有些邋遢的女人——至少得三十五或四十岁，肯定也不会多漂亮。但是当他们从码头走上船时，借着炫目的汽油喷灯，我却出乎意料地看到一位非常年轻的女士，最多也就是二十七八岁，很是漂亮。她戴着一顶镶有花边的宽大软帽，深蓝色的帽子与那件镶着荷叶花边的白色晚礼服相得益彰，她体态优雅丰盈，令人百看不厌。好一个女房东啊，我边想边带着艳羡的目光向下观望，真希望她紧紧挽着的手臂是我的，而不是他的！

好一个暴发户！我心想。想想看，他居然趁妻子不在就搞上了如此迷人的姑娘，而我却什么都没有！他还回家换了一套更帅气的衣服，带上了草帽和手杖，各种装备一应俱全，而我这个笨蛋跟平时穿的没有两样！难怪没有动人的姑娘看我。傻瓜！不过我仍然待在原位研究登船的人群，直到最后一对情侣上船，水手们喊道“起锚喽！”“松开（桅杆）支索吧！”“当心喽！”“快收起踏板！”不久船就开到了河中央。摇滚轻音乐早已响起，上百对情侣已经在客舱甲板上跳起了舞步，而我却独自徘徊在吧台，在人群中信步闲逛，寻找着我中意的姑娘，我哪儿也不想去，只想找个姑娘和我一起呆在调情甲板上，让她挽着我的胳膊依偎在我身边，和她四目相对会心一笑，开开玩笑跳跳舞。

三

由于斯蒂尔之前说过，我也就压根儿没指望着他会来和我碰头，确实他也没来跟我打招呼。为了寻找有意思的场景我转遍了两层甲板，然而却没有看到他。因为我想在调情甲板上至少选取一两个场景，所以最终把目标锁定在了操舵室后面阴影里，那里有一对情侣半隐半现。他们窝在离两个烟囱不远的通风口前方，活动梁在他们上方起起落落。一轮满月刚刚从东方地平线上升起，在圆月前相依相偎的他们构成了一副浪漫的图景。我看不清他们的脸庞——只能看到大致轮廓：她的头依偎在他肩上，他的脸悄悄朝着她脸蛋的方向凑了过去。她已经摘下了帽子，用一只手拿着放在膝上。我朝升降扶梯的方向退了一点，那里有灯，可以画出我的大致印象。等我再回去的时候他们已经坐了起来。竟是斯蒂尔跟他的女房东！我感到非常奇怪，在我注意到的所有情侣和人群场景中，最浪漫的竟然是斯蒂尔跟这个女人！他担心女房东太过孤单，没有机会出去活动，相信他妻子应该会对这些感兴趣的。不过，我当时倒不是嫉妒，只是感到好奇，还有一点点好笑。

这就是那个故事，最后素描也画了，故事也出版了。由于是他和这个姑娘为我提供了最好的场景，我便稍作掩饰，让它不至于太像操舵室后面，以防被斯蒂尔认出。他这次也陶醉于斑斓的色彩与浪漫的情调，超常发挥写了一篇出乎我意料之外的精彩报道。他在故事里详细描述了河流两岸的风光，摆脱高温热浪的侵扰，还有迷人的月色和曼妙的舞姿。我认为他这篇报道写得很不错，对他来说算是相当出色了，当然我可是洞悉缘由的。

后来有一天，大概是一个月还是六周之后，我在本地新闻编辑室遇见了斯蒂尔的妻子和他们五岁左右的小儿子。那时大概是下午三四点钟，我猜她是来市中心购物，然后顺路过来的。自从上次在汽船上看到他跟那位年轻女子在一起之后，我承认我很是震惊。而面前的这名妇女一脸憔悴，没有什么姿色，皮肤也暗淡无光——真是个道道地地的无盐女，依我那时的眼光来看，不管是妻子、女儿、母亲还是甜心恋人，作为女人就不该是这副模样。实际上，当时我对爱情、青春、婚姻与幸福等都太过焦虑，没能对已婚夫妇做出公正的评判。自从在甲板上看到那个跟斯蒂尔在一起的女人之后，眼前的这个女人就让我很不舒服。

在我看来，与那一位相比，她太过狭隘、慢条斯理、平庸乏味。像她那种姑娘不管少女时期多么娇艳，只要结了婚就会成为道道地地的黄脸婆。天啊，我心想，像斯蒂尔这样的男人怎么会娶了这样一个女人？虽然他也不是很英俊，但也算……难怪他会带着女房东出游！换做是我，我也会的。我现在能够理解了。实际上，虽然我不怎么关心斯蒂尔，但是一想到他正当盛年，并且依然“精力”旺盛，却要忍受这样一个妻子，我就不禁为他感到难过。不仅如此，还有他们的孩子，倒也不是说那孩子看起来不像他，不过更像他妻子。一旦有了孩子，就很难再从失败的婚姻中解脱出来。在我看来，他的处境确实不幸。现在还过着燥热的夏天，却又冒出这个女人来添乱！

斯蒂尔向他们介绍了我，说我跟他一块合作完成了几篇新闻报道。我注意到他妻子嗓音尖细，听着好像假嗓音一般。我觉得她目光有些呆滞，不过还算热情。她邀请我周末有空的话可以去他们家共进晚餐。因为斯蒂尔之前说那是他女房东的家，我开始怀疑他是不是一直在对我撒谎。这时她接着解释说他们几周前一直在别人家里借宿，但现在已经找到了一处乡间小别墅，可以邀请朋友前去聚会。虽然我满口应承着，却从没去过，反正没去吃过晚饭。

四

又过了两个月。时已深秋，寒冬将近。在我看来，时事新闻千篇一律单调乏味。本地更是没有新闻可言。我几乎都不怎么看报纸了，只是瞄一眼我画的个别配图出版了没有，是否令人满意。后来却突然爆出了一条重磅新闻：有人给斯蒂尔的妻子寄来一盒下毒的糖果，她吃了几颗就中毒了！

这则新闻是怎么见报的我都忘得差不多了，只是依稀记得好像是另一个记者和他妻子——另一家报社的小编辑还是记者——他们两家住得很近，斯蒂尔太太叫来了这名记者的妻子，随后就吐露说她觉得自己中毒了，她声称投毒者应该是一个叫玛丽·戴维斯的已婚女人——就是在艾拉·拉姆斯德尔号汽船上的那位夫人，接着她说她丈夫跟这个女人的关系一直非常亲密。她从丈夫的信中认出了包裹上的笔迹，然而这时她已经吃下了糖果，而且腹中开始剧痛。她的情况相当严重，似乎将不久于人世。据说她在危急关头还不忘补充道，这个女人令她被自己的丈夫长期冷落，但她一直以来为了不让家丑外扬而默默忍受着。现在却突遭这一横祸！

紧接着全城弥漫起一波恐慌的气氛，伴之以深深的同情。情形非常不妙。与此同时，有种呼声逐渐抬头，要求找到这个破坏别人婚姻的第三者——当然要逮捕她，看看她到底有没有投毒。接着警方以涉嫌投毒拘留了戴维斯夫人，如果不算合法逮捕的话。尽管这一指控尚未有证据证实，她还是被立即送进监狱，等待斯蒂尔夫人死亡或康复的消息，同时警方继续搜寻她寄送糖果的证据。而各路记者和摄影师则携带着相机纷纷涌向县监狱，听取被告方对案情的陈述。

我当时一听到新闻就有了预感，事实证明被告正是我在艾拉·拉姆斯德尔号汽船上看见的那位夫人，她和之前一样迷人。作为派去速写的记者之一，我有幸第一批听到了她陈述案情。她竭力否认寄过下毒的糖果，称自己连想都没想过。但她没有否认自己一直且当时正与斯蒂尔处于热恋中，这在我看来很容易把嫌疑揽上身。其实不管当时还是后来，我感兴趣的也正是这一点，她声称他们的爱不同寻常，彼此拥有心灵的共鸣，而不是那种短暂、粗俗的性关系。她还说这份高尚而纯美的情感——神圣的爱——是他们一生中所经历的最为真实、美妙的东西。她相信他也会这么说的。在认识她之前，华莱士·斯蒂尔终日郁郁寡欢——哦，苦闷极了！当然，她的婚姻也非常不幸。

华莱士——此刻她一声声亲昵地唤着——曾经向她吐露这份秘密的新恋情令他重获新生。他的妻子令他厌烦。他懵懵懂懂的时候就结了婚，完全不晓得自己在干什么，也不知道自己真正想要什么。不过这份崭新的恋情已经将他所有的悲伤化为美好，给他带来了完整的幸福。他们决定互相依靠共度余生。他们的所作所为是没有罪的，因为他们彼此相爱。当然，华莱士想过不少办法劝诱斯蒂尔太太跟他离婚，但斯蒂尔太太都不同意；不然他们早就可以结婚了，就因为他妻子不愿放弃，所以双方只能这样凑活着。但说到要毒死她——这太疯狂了！他们如此美好而又真实的爱情并不需要通过一场婚礼来合法化，她愤怒地嚷道。当时留给我的印象是她生性浪漫多情，的确处在热恋中。

我们接着说说斯蒂尔。听了她激情澎湃的自白，记者们自然纷纷赶去采访斯蒂尔，想看看他会说些什么。然而斯蒂尔却与她以及她精彩的自白大相径庭，他早就被这突如其来的麻烦事吓得丢了魂，全身止不住地颤抖。所有人都感觉他似乎并不是一个无视社会舆论的人。或许他爱过这个女人，但是任谁都能看出，他并没有在这段感情中投入太深，倘若这件事需要牺牲他自己在这个平凡而又传统的世界中的栖身之处，那他是不会同意的。他出轨一事一经曝光就吓得他慌了神。毫无疑问，他自始至终都在左右摇摆，一直幻想着出轨不被发现，他最不愿意因为犯此罪孽而遭人唾弃。恰恰相反，随后的情况表明，他一边与玛丽山盟海誓，一边还竭力安抚妻子，让她保持缄默。他不想要妻子，但更不想麻烦缠身。现在他作的孽已是尽人皆知，而他只会不停地哆嗦。

总之，正如他曾向一个答应保守秘密的记者吐露过的，他远没有像戴维斯夫人想象得那样深爱着她——可怜的人儿！他的确迷恋过她一段时间，但为时很短。当然，她非常漂亮，并且深爱着他——但他却从来没想过要当真。天啊！他们一年前相逢在河滨浴场。他当时被迷得神魂颠倒。他跟妻子的关系一直不好，不过还是要为他的小儿子着想的。他从没想过要伤害谁。当然他们夫妇之间早就没了激情与热情。但公众是不会支持他因此而偷情的。这只会给他带来麻烦。不过，既然戴维斯夫人都因涉嫌寄送毒糖果来毒害他妻子而被关进监狱了，所以他和戴维斯夫人也就完了，不是吗？公众也不会支持他这样做的。

这太可怕了！太可怜了！他肯定觉得玛丽不至于给他妻子投毒，他压根就不相信她会这样做。然而——或许这个“然而”里的确包含着他的怀疑，不过也可能是记者们的牵强附会。他观察着现在的情形，自己无论如何都要站在妻子一边，直至其脱离危险期，否则舆论是不会放过他的。新闻记者对他的整体印象就是个懦夫。有一个记者这样评价过他的胆量：“咦，他头上又冷汗直冒了！”

不过他还是去看了戴维斯夫人几次。但除了有一次记者报道她深情啜泣之外，他们之间究竟还发生了什么事我就不清楚了。他开始闭口不言，而她则被告诫不要再说了。当然也有很多记者去采访他妻子，她没被毒死，既然家丑已经外扬了，她也没什么好隐瞒的了，她承认自己之前常常截留丈夫与戴维斯夫人之间的往来信件。她吃下了糖果，感到有中毒的症状之后——而非之前——才发现邮包上的字迹很像戴维斯夫人的，这令她开始怀疑糖果肯定是戴维斯夫人寄的。

五

尽管斯蒂尔夫人经历悲惨，但此时戴维斯夫人才是各大报纸重点关注的对象。她不但年轻漂亮，而且为了爱情不惜牺牲自己，至少是做好了牺牲的准备。一份日报要的不就是这些吗？她自然成了一个女英雄，即便是在这样一个传统的保守型城市，人们普遍恪守道德准则，笃信宗教。平民百姓自然是乐此不疲，甚至还有些许同情的成份。（不知伦理学家会怎么解释这个现象呢？）正因为人们对此普遍感兴趣，一群报社女作家开始蜂拥到她周围，即便在当时，这群“催泪姊妹”都很出名，她们的职责使命就是对嫌犯进行心理分析，不仅要挖掘出案情的每一丝痕迹，还要挖掘出她的内在动机与隐秘动机，这甚至比任何犯罪证据或者控告都受到重视。

记得我当时看过有关报道，她们说她既不是神经病也不是疯子，没有表现出任何狡猾、躲闪或是富于心计的迹象，她的确没有。而且她是个温柔娴静、天真无邪、充满热情的姑娘，深深地沉迷在对爱情的幻想中。她当然心有愧疚——也可能没有——不过挺像是有的，她必须讲讲她当时是怎么做的，原因何在，又是在怎样的情绪下。而且她投寄毒药这一行为似乎是蓄意而为，既冷血又残忍。她的双眼、双手，还有耳朵、鼻子的形状均表现出了这一点。此外，所有这些特征都表明她本可以不这样做。要是她受心中澎湃的情感与渴望的压力驱使着这样做的，那这压力对她来说是不是太重而承受不住？她该不该为这个过于强大的毁灭性的爱情负责呢？当然要负责！谁可以不对自己的行为负责？爱的热情确实过于强大，势不可挡，这往往又会起到破坏作用！胡说！她能克制。她克制不住。她能克制住吗？所以才会这样。

此时，我们也看到了很多针对斯蒂尔家庭情况的调查。他们究竟是什么样的人？据说斯蒂尔挺普通的，他就是一名有点才华的报社记者，没有什么特别突出的能力，也没有什么值得挑剔的恶习——多年来他一直在该报社任职，为人严谨认真、忠诚可靠。另一方面，斯蒂尔太太也是个好女人，但是并不怎么漂亮。她不懂浪漫，缺乏幻想，毫无魅力可言。只要看看她，再看看像戴维斯夫人那样可爱迷人的女人，斯蒂尔会出轨也就没什么可奇怪的了。这老套的三角关系——一个没有魅力的女人、一个颇具魅力的尤物、还有被后者迷住的男人——是没有解决办法的，最终只能以悲剧收场。人们不禁要同情斯蒂尔太太，这个被男人欺骗的女人；而另一方面，人们也不禁要同情戴维斯夫人，她宛若天仙，热情奔放，充满渴望却又相当无助——她的无助便是来源于她的渴望。

与此同时，地方检察官办公室已经接手了这一案件，并且取得了不少进展。有必要查明糖果的购买地点、下毒方法、毒药品种以及毒药的购买地点。药剂师、侦探以及笔迹鉴别专家全部开始行动。药剂师很快就确定毒药是砒霜，而查证砒霜的购买地点就没有那么容易了，侦探们为此花了很长一段时间。不过查证糖果的来源就相对容易得多了。糖果邮寄的时候是装在原包装盒里的，而这家糖果公司远近驰名。但是查证购买人的情况也没有那么容易。糖果公司方面已经记不清了，而戴维斯夫人却断然否认寄过包裹，也没从那家公司买过任何糖果，虽说汇单上的字体确实有点像她的。她非常愿意去糖果公司接受辨别指认，结果糖果公司的职员都不能确定她就是那个买糖的人。有一两个职员觉得之前有个买糖的女的长得挺像她的，但不是很肯定。不过在买糖那一周，还有一个小姑娘在那儿做实习售货员，但她现在已不在那儿上班了。这个新来的小姑娘恰好在那实习一周，接着就不知所踪了。当然还是知道她的名字的，各大报社以及地方检察官办公室便立即着手寻找她。

还有些谣传称斯蒂尔本人和戴维斯夫人都参与了这一阴谋，或者干脆就是斯蒂尔自己干的，原因很明显，他一直急着要除掉他老婆，对吧？他可能模仿了戴维斯夫人的字迹，或者纯属意外写得太相似了。不过仍然存在不同的声音，即使在我们报社的办公室里，都有人认为可能是斯蒂尔太太给她自己寄的糖果，以这种方式来陷害小情妇，对吧？这确有可能。女人都这样。以前不就发生过类似的案件吗？争啊！辩啊！“她也许是想死，同时报复小情人呢？”铁路版编辑评论道。“噢，扯淡！胡说八道！”另一个喊道，“没有个女人会自杀来给对手腾地方的，忒离谱了。”“好吧”，第三个人接着说，“有可能是她算错了毒药的剂量，谁知道呢？或许她也没打算吃那么多吧。”“天啊！”第四个人从某个地方插嘴道，“听听，夏洛克·福尔摩斯协会在那开会呢！省省吧你们！”

然后，记不清是一周还是几周之后，那名在糖果店工作过的失踪姑娘被找到了。原来她在工作结束后的第二周就离开G市去了丹佛。警方给她看了戴维斯夫人、斯蒂尔太太以及其他几个人的照片，问她在某一天是否卖过一盒两磅重的糖果给这些人中的哪一位，她似乎对这些人都没什么印象，除了斯蒂尔太太有点熟悉，但仅凭照片她还不太确定。她还得看看斯蒂尔太太本人。结果她没跟一直引领本案调查的报社说一声就回到了G市。包括戴维斯夫人在内，那些与本案有关的妇女都被召集到了地区检察官办公室。但她看完之后，发现对这些人都没有印象。当时斯蒂尔太太已被安排在附近等待，接着就被请了过来。与她一起进来的还有检察官办公室的代表。尽管当时屋里还有别的妇女，不过小姑娘一看见斯蒂尔太太走进来，立刻大喊道：“就是她！就是这个女的！没错，她就是那个买糖的！”她这次非常肯定。

六

尽管人们对斯蒂尔太太表达了深深的同情，但按照这类案件的惯常做法，她还是被移交给了刑事专家，后者很快从她那里查明了真相。她崩溃了，歇斯底里地大哭起来。

原来购买糖果并下毒的正是她自己。她的生活将要破碎了。她现在说自己本想去死。正如我们报社一些自以为聪明的人士所猜想的那样，是她自己在这包糖上写下的地址，不过她先用纸描摹了戴维斯夫人寄给斯蒂尔的信封上的字迹，然后再抄在了包裹上。她往糖果里放的不是什么砒霜，而是不久前买的老鼠药，为了控告戴维斯夫人，每一块糖果上她都撒了一点鼠药，剂量大概能毒死一只老鼠，这样似乎可以让人感觉一整盒糖果都被下毒了。这个办法是她从几年前报纸报道的一个案件中学来的。她痛恨戴维斯夫人偷走了她丈夫，并且还跟踪过他们。

现在她一口咬定，当时她吃了一块糖之后就以为自己终于可以解脱了。不过在服毒之前，她特地确认了达尔林普勒夫人在家，她是另一名报社记者的妻子，也是她首先要求助的人，这样她过会就可以打电话求助或者叫她的小儿子过去叫她。她这样做的目的就是向达尔林普勒夫人陷害戴维斯夫人。这样她死后戴维斯夫人将难逃刑罚，她丈夫就得不到她，而自己却可以脱离苦海了。

结局是戴维斯夫人立即无罪释放，而斯蒂尔太太也得以免于起诉。地方检察官办公室，还有最忠实地代表本地民意的各家报纸均表示，她已经吃尽了苦头。由于民意如此激昂，地方检察官办公室也不敢惩罚她。她心碎的告白令民心都转向了自己，而不久前却还是支持戴维斯夫人的。瞧，事实证明用情更深的是斯蒂尔太太，而不是戴维斯夫人，她为了爱情随时准备而且决意牺牲自己和第三者，甚至真的这么做了。不管是哪种情况，在民众的心底都觉着是为爱献身——即使成功的几率极小，你仍然这样做——会使民众转而同情那个为了爱情最心甘情愿去杀人的人。

千万不要以为故事就这样结束了。事实远非如此。这里还有点别的东西需要大家留意一下。我说过报纸舆论已经转而支持斯蒂尔太太。确实如此。连催泪姊妹都是，她们可是社会舆论的晴雨表呢。她们给斯蒂尔太太写了成堆的颂词，她的奉献和缄默，她不堪忍受的悲哀和凄惨的心境，还有她的牺牲精神。现在她成了那群伪新闻分析专家的宠儿。

而戴维斯夫人呢——此后再也没有人对她表以同情，更不要说褒扬或者理解之类的言辞了。信不信由你，她获释后立即被人遗忘，几乎无人关注，后来就湮没无闻了。此后，她好像从没出现过一般。我想她应该是先回家呆了几周，然后就彻底不知所踪了。

现在说说斯蒂尔。这是本案的第三个特殊角色。戴维斯夫人获释后就悄无声息地离开了，你觉得他心里会怎样想，或者应该怎样想？他会去哪里？干什么？会有怎样的心态？重新忠于他妻子？还是重新忠于戴维斯夫人？还是对一切都不抱幻想，漠然视之？这些都令我很是困惑，我只是一个不起眼的旁观者，对这件事也没有什么特别地关注，不过和普通大众一样，对这类与我们的性生活及社会生活关系重大的事件存有好奇心而已。可是不仅只是我困惑，别人也同样困惑，尤其是本市报刊行业的那些人——新闻编辑、本地新闻编辑以及总编们，他们一直追踪关注着事件的进展，左右摇摆飘忽不定，我称之为墙头草政策。你可能也猜到了,他们一直想当然地以为他参与了戴维斯夫人除掉斯蒂尔太太的密谋。从另一方面来说，既然现在已经消除了阴影，站在斯蒂尔的立场来看，这充其量不过是个简单的出轨案件，婚姻的不幸令他妻子产生了通过死亡来解脱的想法，他们准备用一种更为温和的视角来审视他和这个结局。斯蒂尔太太毕竟没有死。戴维斯夫人也受到了应有的惩罚。不管怎么说，看看斯蒂尔太太过去的样子，再看看戴维斯夫人过去的样子——光是美色诱惑就够你受的了，更不用说精神刺激了，换做是你又会怎么做呢？

报社中七嘴八舌的议论大致如此。最后有些本地新闻编辑和总编们问起，怎么处理斯蒂尔？现在一切都已平息，该拿他怎么办呢？让他永远苦恼？胡说！这可不太公平，而且不管怎样，这也没什么意义和价值了。既然风暴已经过去了，可以拉他一把吗？毕竟他曾经也是一名相当可敬的新闻记者，名声也不错。为什么不能让他回来呢？如果不让他回来，以后朋友们又会怎么看他？应该放任他不管，任他被抛弃，被遗忘，抑或是其他？他会不会继续留在G市扭转被动局面，还是直接离开？如果他要离开或者留下，那他又会跟谁一块呢？如此可见，人们总是怀有这样半是友好而又半是自私的好奇心。

七

跟斯蒂尔多少有点交情的不止我们报社的那几个人，别的报社也有几个，经过商量，大家最后决定去看看斯蒂尔本人，不是抱着采访的目的，只是私下问问他想做什么，有什么打算，现在有没有什么需要本地几家报社帮忙的，还有想不想恢复工作，今后会不会忠于他的妻子等等，然后再不带恶意地问问今后提到戴维斯夫人该怎么说。他们会在多少有点私密、亲切或专业的氛围中提出来，然后尽可能地满足他的需要。

于是，有两名他素来敬重的本地新闻记者去看望了他，并且向他转述了上述提议。我后来得知，他们看见他的时候，他正坐在房子的前廊上看报纸，房子窄小而普通，自从戴维斯夫人无罪获释后，他和妻子就一直住在那儿。斯蒂尔太太与他坐在一起，她比之前更纤瘦更苍白了，脾气也更暴躁，比之前更无魅力可言。外面园子里坐着他们的小儿子。他们一看见斯蒂尔就示意要和他私下聊聊，斯蒂尔太太便起身进了房子里。据其中一位说，她似乎还嫌麻烦惹得少呢。而斯蒂尔这边则是满脸堆笑，亲切地招呼着来客。他自然是不想再惹上任何麻烦，心里非常紧张，甚至还搓了搓手，舔了下嘴唇说：“快进来吧，伙计们。到门廊上来。等一下，我去搬两张椅子来。”他飞快地去搬了椅子回来，毫不拖泥带水，他们感觉他在努力留下一个好印象。

在听他们说完了来访目的之后——当然措辞非常委婉含蓄——他笑容满面，显然心情立刻就好转了。他们问他打算是留还是走，他答道：“留，暂时会留下。”他没有太多选择。最近也没有攒下多少钱来做点别的事情，而他妻子的病和其他杂事几乎耗尽了他全部的积蓄。“现在就我们几个，斯蒂尔，”两名访客中和他交情更好的那人说道，“你说说戴维斯夫人和你妻子吧？你到底是什么立场？你到底是打算忠于你妻子还是要跟那个女人在一起？我们不会给你惹麻烦，你懂的，绝不到处宣扬。但是报社同仁对这件事都有一点点疑惑。他们不会再公开任何信息了，也不会毁谤你，只是想了解一下你的看法，万一再有什么与此有关的事情发生，也好帮你处理，免得你麻烦，明白了吧。”

“是，我明白，”斯蒂尔很开心，不假思索地答道，“但至于戴维斯那个女人，你们可以忽略她了。我和她结束了。对我来说，她一直什么都不是，怎么说呢，她就是个common（鸨儿）。”这里他使用了一个很出彩的古英文词汇，意思是妓女。而他妻子，他当然会忠于她。她是个好女人，而且很爱他。他们还有个可爱的小儿子。他已经摆脱了这一堆乱七八糟的事情了。不会再有什么问题了。男人总会犯这种错的，等等。

根据这两个人后来的转述，他们当时大为震惊，因为正如他们所说，从之前发生的所有事情来看，他们认为斯蒂尔和那个女人之间的关系肯定不止纯粹的性关系。否则斯蒂尔太太怎么会产生这么强烈的嫉妒心理？而戴维斯夫人对于精神不朽的纯粹爱情所作的那番激情奔放的宣言又怎么说呢？想想看吧！与斯蒂尔又稍微聊了几句，两人便离开了，他们发现不管斯蒂尔对妻子或者戴维斯夫人有没有兴趣，他已经完全被舆论给吓坏了，现在正挣扎着寻找一个借口来为自己申辩。他非常懦弱，希望尽可能地在这件事上表现出最好的姿态。就像后来一名记者描述的那样，“这让人不大舒服。”所以为什么他转变得这么快？为什么戴维斯夫人会无端地遭到侮辱？他之前承认过对她的种种爱慕，为什么现在却要以这种公开而又无礼的方式来确立其卑鄙男人的形象呢？很明显，他就是一个卑鄙的人。戴维斯夫人不可能像他说的那样肮脏不堪，在这一点上人们立刻就达成了共识。因此斯蒂尔在G市的无赖形象便最终确立下来。此后他在G市再也没有找到任何工作。

对我来说，我最后还是没有完全弄明白。这件事一直萦绕在我心头。究竟是什么东西改变了他？是公众舆论，还是害怕失去他曾经得到的那点社会认可，还是他妻子的不幸，抑或是戴维斯夫人曾经做过什么特别的事？当然了，事实确实如此，她除了爱他之外没有任何过错——当然那份爱情不受法律支持，却依然纯粹而炙热。我不由自主地回想起船尾处那两个重叠着的身影；那月光下的操舵室；那些古怪、模糊却又浪漫的身影。再看看现在！当时还是轻歌曼舞，有说有笑，何等恩爱。

八

虽然你已经准备合上书本了，但故事还没有结束。我还有个后记必须要补充。那是七年之后，我已经搬去纽约，作为漫画家也算是小有成就了。这时我听说斯蒂尔也来了纽约，并且在一家报社担任一般性的职务——好像是校读。不管怎样，我在某个星期天遇见了他。那是在布朗克斯动物园入口附近，恰逢动物园闭馆，我遇见了他和他妻子，他们还带着另一个小男孩，是他们离开G市之后生的。他们的长子——那时该有十岁了吧——没有一起来。这些情况是我跟他们简短交谈之后得知的。

再看看他妻子！我永远不会忘记她。她看起来特别疲倦憔悴，令人感觉不可思议。还有这个在她身边的男孩——他们和好之后又生的儿子！天哪！我想，恐惧和舆论的力量对人类情感的抹杀是多么严重啊！更有甚者，他已经不像过去那样谦卑了——我不想说目中无人——而是自鸣得意、喋喋不休地阐述着自己如何坚决抵制放荡生活的诱惑。当然他也明白，我又回想起了那件案子——还有那令人生厌的离奇细节。

“这是我妻子！我妻子！”由于一开始我似乎没有认出来，他赶紧示以夸张的手势并大声喊道，好像在说，“你看，我为我妻子感到骄傲，我们伉俪情深。我已经跟在G市时完全不同了，完全不同了！”

“哦，是的，”我看了他们所有人一眼，回答道，“我记得你太太，还有你儿子。”

“哦，不，不是那个，”他急忙解释，“那是哈利，这是另一个——弗朗西斯。”然后他仿佛要向我重塑以前的社会声望，继续说道：“我们现在住在斯塔顿岛上——就在岛北端的渡口旁边。你改天一定要过来看看，那儿挺惬意的。我们见到你都非常开心。是吧，埃斯特尔？”

“是的，当然了，”斯蒂尔太太说。

我急忙离开了那里。这与我该死的记忆形成了太明显的对比；虽然那份爱并非光明正大，但是反差太明显了。我情不自禁地想起艾拉·拉姆斯德尔号上的那一幕，我曾经是多么嫉妒他，嫉妒那舞姿、佳人、乐曲，还有月光。

“天哪！”我边走边大声喊着，“天哪！”

这正是我现在对这份逝去的爱情以及欢悦时光的感受——冰冷的悲伤。

一个人的婚姻

一想到爱情和婚姻，我就会想到阿雷，想到他的职员形象和职员头脑。我初到纽约时认识了一些人，他就是其中之一。和纽约几百万人口中许多追寻成功的人一样，他也在为事业奔忙。在我看来他还算幸运，作为一个平常人，他虽然有这样那样的缺点，但却抱有雄心壮志。那时他正在一家大公司上班。这种公司专门调查各种大小商人的名声，然后将调查结果卖给其他商人。他对工作兴趣十足，似乎也心满意足，觉得自己只要坚持不懈就一定能实现一个算得上雄心勃勃的目标：当上这家大公司的分公司经理，拿到高达五六千的年薪。除了他和蔼可亲的性格，他让我感兴趣的另外一方面就是他本有许多机会观察人类思维中的才智与机敏、压抑与豁达、幽默与悲剧以及常见的诡诈与多变，可是主要关注的却是那些需要调查的公司的基本情况——有无偿还能力？有无拖欠债务行为？股本总额多少？有多少现款？这些都是他需要的信息，而且他主要局限在这一方面。

但是在与他打交道的那些人当中，有的心怀阴谋诡计，有的说话遮遮掩掩，有的办事错误百出，还有的自私至极，这让他时而发笑时而惊讶，时而生气时而自命正直。他觉得自己诚实坦率，不像其他人那样能力平平而且道德低劣。正因为这样，他深信自己能够成功。当然，他虽然有些缺点，但最终还是成功了。

他相信自己能够获得确切或者合理的回报，这种十分值得尊敬的职员信仰曾让我颇感兴趣，但现在我却总是将他视为极佳例子，证明他那种梦想只是徒劳。如果一个人像他对自己的期待那样做事，如果一个人勤劳诚实，节约有礼貌，而且拥有其它更多我们觉得应该拥有的品质，那么在他认为应该有的良好环境中，这个人一定能比别人过得好。一个拥有诚实、勤劳和谨慎品质的人，生活会不如一个不仅没有这些品质甚至还对此公然加以鄙视的人？简直是胡说八道。前者肯定会比后者过得好。当然了，人们也会遭遇意外事故和疾病侵袭，还会有人偷鸡摸狗，这些平时在他身边都有例子。银行倒闭了，就会成立信托机构和联合机构，可这些机构似乎和普通人的权益格格不入。不过即使这样，从各个方面考虑，普通人如果像能上面说的那样做事正派的话，就有可能比那些不正派的人过得好很多。简而言之，世上存在类似正义的东西。好人好事是主流，恶人恶行会得到应有的惩罚。

对于爱情和婚姻他也有明确的见解。不是他过于狭隘，也不是他喜欢批判那些没有过上理想生活的人，而是他认为正如之前说的那些品质能带来物质成功一样，婚姻当中也有一条通往成功的正确道路。男人必须要对女人有所了解；有钱人应该有品位和原则，必须确保自己所选择的求爱对象是一个既有理智又有魅力的女人，这个女人不必富有，出身贫苦也不要紧。男人在求爱的时候还要有理智，能够确保自己喜爱这个女人。许多求爱的人以为他们两情相悦，但那其实只是一种愚蠢而短暂的激情。而且许多女人工于心计，或者至少也浅薄轻浮。她们愿意帮助正经的男人成功，然而却有心无力。虽然如此，在世界上许多偏僻的角落里有许多真正理智又值得追求的女孩。和她们结为连理是一种荣耀。男人就应该选择这种女孩。即使这样也需要注意：男人也有可能会娶到过于狭隘守旧的女孩，可能会娶到不理解世界并因此充满偏见的女孩。如果能找到一个聪明伶俐、心灵手巧、没有偏见而且和他志同道合的女孩的话，阿雷就打算娶她为妻。

直到成为了某个大人物的秘书后，他才在办公室邂逅了一个女孩，这个女孩似乎具有所有他认为必不可少的品质。她父母住在澳城近郊，过着十分简朴的生活。当然，她也是一个能干又可靠的速记员。如果你去过她成长的那个郊区，一个不大却体面的地方，你就会理解她为什么有那些品质。她不但长得如花似玉，看上去心灵手巧，而且在许多方面都很通情达理，但是她深受来自家庭教诲、教堂教义和家族信条的束缚。就像那些最热衷于保持世界秩序和优点的人所希望的那样，家庭、教堂和家族这三个世界清楚地固定在她的脑海中，她觉得这三个世界大有价值，值得崇敬。我和阿雷一见面就会交流各自的情况，所以他没过多久就告诉我，这个女孩反对戏剧、舞蹈和任何形式的晚宴，反对周末去市里游玩，还反对她宗教和家庭世界中任何被认为是亵渎安息日[1]的事情。我还记得他说那个女孩是“最保守”的人，不过他希望能让她逐渐变得开明。他还带着一种世俗的男子气概饶有乐趣地告诉我，在安息日那天，即使是到她家附近的小河上划船这种简单的短途游玩，他都无法说服她，因为她觉得那样做不对；相反，他得跟着她和她的父母去教堂。他并不信教，而且对社会主义稍有兴趣，不过这些他都没有告诉她。戏剧作为一种消遣方式根本不能提及，而且她不会跳舞，也不会去跳舞；她觉得阿雷想看戏和跳舞的意愿不仅世俗，而且还放荡和罪恶。但是阿雷对我说他很喜欢她，正尽全力影响和启蒙她。她是个既优秀又聪明的女孩，不会抓着这些观念不放，她会抛弃这些观念的。

在献了两三年殷勤过后，他终于在周末成功带她去了市区里她能接受的地方吃饭，甚至还在礼拜天晚上带她去听了宗教音乐会。当然了，她父母和邻居都不知情。不过，他自认最为成功的就是让她对读书产生了兴趣，特别是一些与历史和哲学有关的书籍，他认为这些书不拘泥于传统而且观念开放，定能让她在脑海中产生一些怀疑。而且，因为他很爱去剧院，也一直认为看戏是他无伤大雅的最好消遣，所以他最终成功劝她去看了一场戏剧，后来便有了第二次、第三次。简短说来，他到现在为止一直尽力解放她的思想，对于结果他似乎也比较满意。

两人结婚后生活都有了新面貌，她的生活更是焕然一新。她之前对纽约这座城市心存不少疑惑，但现在他们在那里租了一套小公寓，开始结识各种朋友。没过多久她就加入了附近的一个文学社，在那儿结识了一些精力充沛、不知疲倦、有进取心的女人，其中就有德雷克太太和曼肖太太。阿雷并不喜欢这种女人。他后来告诉我，他一开始就知道和她们在一起不会有任何益处，但是妻子贝茜喜欢她们，而且乐意和她们黏在一起。

这时我心里产生了疑惑，在他们至今仍然亲密的关系中是不是有不顺的事情。我不再经常见到他，不过我去他们的小公寓拜访时不禁发现，她在阿雷引领她感兴趣的那些方面简直就是一个聪明伶俐的学生。就一般的读书和生活而言，她显然已经从旧观念中解放了出来，而且不再觉得戏剧是罪恶的。阿雷显然就是那个进入秘密花园的白马王子，他唤醒了沉睡的公主，将她带到了一个她从来没有梦想过的多彩世界中。她现在已经能够批评某些流行作家了，还能谈论她正在阅读的十分开明的法国历史，甚至还能谈论文学社中讨论的某些哲学和诗歌。从我们三人谈话的本质中我可以看出，阿雷前不久就已经感觉到这个和他结婚的单纯女孩可能会在一些领域超越他，而他本来希望自己在那些领域中永远都是她的导师。我还注意到她实际上不止一次地质疑和反驳阿雷。谈论到某一故事情节的意义或者某些历史日期的相关性时，她知道的要比阿雷多，我觉得这就算没有让阿雷恼怒也会让他惊讶不已。她现在公开表达和捍卫自己的知识了，就像以前坚守旧信条时一样有力量和决心。她的方式方法并没有高人一等的感觉，也不会激怒别人；她就许多事情与他讨论或向他请教的方式都很友好，看得出来她并没有想要证明一种自己没有意识到的优越感。“不是那样啦，亲爱的，他叫本特利，去年在这里演出的那场戏剧《曼弗雷德的七枚戒指》就是他写的嘛，你忘记了啊？”阿雷只能十分不情愿地承认她是对的。

此后只要我和他单独在一起，他就会向我吐露自己日渐增长的困惑。贝茜不再是他刚认识时那个女孩了，就像他自己也不再是十岁时的那个男孩了。她身上正发生着十分巨大的变化。她越来越强势，越来越爱争论，越来越以自我为中心，变化越来越大。她阅读大量书籍；对于她应该过的那种生活来说，她所阅读的书籍实在太多了。后来他们之间常常爆发长时间的争论；这些争论无关紧要，最后也能得到解决，不过如果争论的结果不如她意的话，她就会勃然大怒。她会忘掉家庭，一天到晚和她的新朋友游荡。阿雷喜欢的戏剧，她却不喜欢。阿雷想要看轻松有趣的戏剧，而她想看的则是关于严肃道德或者费人脑力的戏剧。她现在只阅读严肃作品，并且正在听一系列的讲座，而阿雷则承认自己现在对严肃作品多少有些厌倦。严肃作品有什么意思嘛？它们只会不合时宜地勾起你的思绪和感情。她喜欢或者假装喜欢音乐、大歌剧[2]、独奏会之类的东西，而阿雷则对音乐不太感兴趣。大歌剧让他感到厌烦，他也坦然承认了这一点，可是如果不陪她去听的话，她就会和那一两个他开始厌恶的坏女人一起去听。那两个女人的丈夫有些钱，在社交和艺术渴求方面给了她们充分的自由。她们没有家务负担，来去自由。阿雷现在认定这全都是她们的错，就是因为她们的教唆，贝茜才会养成那些兴趣爱好，就是因为她们怂恿贝茜出去，她才会变成这样。他该怎么办呢？放任不管是不会有好下场的。他们经常吵架，而且最近她还不止一次威胁他，说是要离开他，在纽约独自生活——阿雷知道她完全做得出。阿雷现在事业蒸蒸日上，只要摆脱那些人，他们就能生活得很开心。

才过了一两个月，阿雷就心不在焉地来看我了。试着和我拉了一会儿家常后，他最终承认他年轻的妻子离开了他。她在别处租了一间房，重拾速记员的工作。而且他虽然偶尔会在地铁里碰到她，她却丝毫不理睬他。她想彻底结束一切。我该不该信呢？她指责他狭隘、无知、固执，还有其它许多缺点。想想看吧！三四年前，他想在周末去划船或者晚上去市区吃饭，她都觉得他大错特错。这些事情可能发生吗？而且尽管他们之间经历了这么多事情，他现在依然爱着他。他不禁回想起初次相遇时她的甜蜜、天真和奇特，她那时深爱着父母，尊重父母的意愿。看看现在！看着他画的她的“旧时”画像，他突然惊呼，“真希望我当时没有那么迫切地去改变她。她当时那样挺好的，当时我要是知道就好了。她那时根本就不知道这些新奇但无用的东西，而我却不满意，后来让她对这些东西有了兴趣。你看，现在她丢下我走了，说我狭隘固执，说我想压制她的思想，仅仅是因为现在她想做的事我不想做，她感兴趣的我不感兴趣。”

我摇了摇头。碰到这种情况，提建议有什么价值呢？何况我确信这二人的性格分歧根本无法调和，能调和这种分歧的只有自然——意外事件，或者把两个互不适合的人分开的强烈反对态度。不过既然阿雷恳求，我也就大胆提了一个从别人那儿听来的愚蠢建议。他之前说过，只要能够让她回来，他愿意改变那种逼走她的毫无意义的反对和争吵。只要她回来，她就可以自由地走她的知识道路。看他那么温顺急切，我给他提了一个别人在类似处境下提过的建议。要劝她回来，他得给她那些她愿意接受的承诺；然后要想把她留在身边，他得劝她生一个孩子。那样才大有可能博取她的同情心，才能让她在不经意间爱上他。所以我对他说，有孩子的夫妻很少会分开。

这个想法深深地吸引了他，满足了他注重实际的职员本性。他满怀希望地离开了我，之后我有几个月没有见到他。他最后来告诉我，一切都已完好如初。她回到了他身边，而为了履行新约定，他到纽约市区一个更迷人的地方租了一套更大的公寓。贝茜继续去她的文学社，而阿雷则不反对她做任何事情。年内他们就生了孩子，随后便是养护这个新生命，处理那些简单、温馨和看似束缚人的事情。

不过我后来才知道，即使在那段时间里，事情也不如我所期望的那样顺利。一次阿雷不在，贝茜和我交谈时说虽然有自己的孩子很开心，但是她觉得自己就像一头照顾着牛犊的奶牛，有责任照顾牛犊直到它能够自己照顾自己。还有一次，她说做母亲的都是奴仆，说她虽然爱自己的小女儿，但是她忍不住觉得对于既有母性又有抱负的人来说，孩子就是一种束缚和负担。可是阿雷这个小职员却喜出望外。他们家附近有个小公园，只要工作允许，就能看到他用一辆漂亮的婴儿车推着孩子出现在公园里。他要么坐在一边，要么推着孩子散步。只要在公园里看见和他的孩子差不多大的小孩，他就会两相比较。他喜欢琢磨孩子的魅力和天真，在别人家孩子身上发现之前未曾察觉的许多东西时，他会很开心。他已经开始规划小珍妮特的未来。把孩子禁锢在城市的公寓里太过残酷。如果能说服贝茜的话，他打算一两年内就举家搬去某个郊区小镇，小珍妮特在那里能够呼吸到乡村的空气。

他们现在收入不菲，雇得起保姆。所以阿雷太太又重新开始追寻知识，重拾了自由的生活。大家都可以看得出来，她虽然敬重阿雷是一个尽职有爱、有条不紊的男人，但是她却并不爱慕他，这主要是因为他们在思想上有差距。他虽然会掩饰，但鲜于思考和梦想的人与有雄心抱负的人之间总是有差距的。重点不在于思维出众与否；就我所见，贝茜的思维并非优于阿雷，而是不同于阿雷。确切来说，二人对情感的反应快慢不一，对于同样一种情感，他的反应较慢，她的则较快。他的情感更加符合多数人的传统思维和情感，不过这并不重要。她对自己的情感更加满意，她的情感中包含着一种阿雷害怕而非鄙视的本能冲动；而阿雷虽说会妥协，但也对自己情感更加满意。观察他们二人，看得出阿雷为她感到自豪，为他们的关系而自豪，看得出他感觉自己捡到了宝贝，虽然留住这个宝贝并不容易。而在另一方面，也轻易看得出他在她的思绪和心境中的分量之轻。那些她知道他不感兴趣或者反对的事情，她总是去和别人讨论。

她又一头扎进那些起初让他心烦的老活动中，他现在则抱怨起她忽视了小珍妮特。她现在应该把全身心都放在孩子身上，但她却整天忙着其他事。更糟糕的是，她现在喜欢读弗洛伊德、克拉夫特·埃宾，以及其他同盟国思想家和专家的作品。虽然他几乎完全不理解这些人和作品的真谛，但他仍然觉得这些人糟糕至极，读他们的东西简直就是一种耻辱。

他有一天来找我说：“你知不知道一个叫皮埃尔·洛蒂的作家？”

“知道，”我说，“我知道他的一些作品，怎么了？”

“你觉得他怎么样？”

“写作方面吗？嗯，我很尊敬他，怎么了？”

“噢，从思维方面来说，他或许是一个好作家。但是你觉得他书籍中的人生观适合一个小女孩的母亲吗？”

“阿雷，”我说，“我无法在纯道德基础上讨论一个人的作品。对于有些母亲来说，他或许有益，而对于另外一些来说，他或许就有害了。一篇描写生活的文章，会被伤害的人读了过后一定会被伤害，要不想被伤害，就得让他们远离这种不好的影响，而那些会从中受益的人，读了过后定能从中获益。我只能这样讨论书籍或生活。我觉得书籍仅仅是以某种形式真实体现着生活而已。阻止一个需要知识的人接触可能对他有益的东西，对这个人来说是不公平的。不过这只是我个人的看法而已。”

不久我便得知他们俩又吵了一架，贝茜又一次离开了他，事实证明这一次她是永远离开了他。她把孩子也带走了——这或许既不合法又不公平。我不知道让他们一刀两断的原因到底是什么，但我想应该是他们二人观点上的持久分歧。他一度急切希望她拥有更高尚的人生观——他的人生观，对于这种人生观他们无法达成一致意见；他们当然无法达成一致，因为她已经超越了那种人生观，而且生活方式也难以让他满意。

我有一些日子没有听到他的消息，于是去拜访了他。我发现他仍然租住在那套大公寓里。公寓里的家具更适合四个人使用，但是妻子已经离开七八个月了，他仍然一个人住在这里，公寓里的每一件东西都让他想起妻子和珍妮特。至于他自己，除了心灵上的受伤和不满让他表现得庄严拘谨之外，他仍旧假装若无其事地满于现状，这与他过去对她的爱并不相符。没错，她已经离开了；但是她犯错了，她以后会明白的。生活并非她想像的那样。她是和别的男人一起走的——这点他敢肯定，虽然他并不知道那个男人是谁。这全都怪德雷克太太。她和德雷克太太感兴趣的东西，他总是不感兴趣，也不可能感兴趣。过了一会儿，他还告诉我他去见了贝茜的父母。我猜不出其中的原因。他这样做无非是因为他感到寂寞，仍然深爱着贝茜，觉得贝茜的父母能帮助他搞懂眼前这个十分烦人的难题。

再次见到阿雷已经是一年半以后的事情了。据我所知，在这一年半的时间里，他仍然住在那套他们一起住过的公寓里。这时他已经成为了公司的部门主管，有条不紊地往返于家和办公室之间。独自生活和冥思苦想一年多后，他在一个十一月的雨夜来看我。他看上去物质生活过得不错，衣着相当讲究。不过他却瘦了一些，比以前更紧张，更坐立不安。他径自坐到我家的壁炉前，宣称他现在还不错，在考虑休长假去西部看看朋友（他之前告诉过我，他听说贝茜去了加州）。对了，他还是住在那套公寓里面。可能我觉得奇怪，但是他觉得搬家不值得，得另寻住处，家具又不容易打包，而且他又不喜欢住旅馆。

他突然注意到我在好奇地观察着他，便有些坐立不安，最后站起身来转悠着看看一些画作，仔细瞅瞅书架上的书。他举止就像一个困惑且犹豫的人，就像一个抵抗着沉默和孤独的人，这种沉默和孤独已经让他心力交瘁。他突然转身面对我，“是这样的，我无法再忍受了，就是无法再忍受了。我很努力很努力了。我以为有了孩子一切就会好起来，可是她不这么想。她不想要孩子，也不会原谅我劝她生下珍妮特。还有她对文学鬼迷心窍——不过那都是我的错。是我鼓励她读书，是我鼓励她去剧院的。以前我说她不够潮流，应该和聪明的人去去剧院。可话说回来，这也不关读书和看戏的事啊。如果她是一个好女人，她就不会那样做了。”他停下说话，紧张且夸张地握紧双拳，就好像站在他面前听他指责的就是贝茜本人，而不是我。

“阿雷啊，”我插话说，“说这些也没有用。你看我们两个，不都没有成为我们应该成为的那个人吗？你又何必说这些话呢？”

“让我给你说说她做的好事，”他愤怒地说，“你不晓得我的经历，根本就不晓得。为了摆脱我，她竟然想毒死我。”他接着悲伤地简述了事情的经过，讲述了妻子的绝望——阿雷渴望拥有她，而她则同样渴望挣脱他。接着他又说，“她爱上了别的男人，我只是不晓得那个男人是谁。”他的声音变得低弱，似乎想搞清楚那个神秘的男人到底是谁，“而且我还知道她耍了花招，只是我无法证实而已。”他详细给我讲了贝茜多次神秘地离开家，他多次悄悄跟踪；他给我讲了他怎样采取行动，得到了何种证据，还讲了他的愤怒以及他们之间的争吵。这一切都暗示他们的关系中有着无法愈合的缺口。“而且，”他最后大声说，“她让我倍受折磨。你不会懂的，永远不会懂的。可是我爱她，到现在也还爱着她。”他又狠狠握紧双拳，脸色苍白，双眼闪烁着愤怒的光芒。

“一天中午，我站在一套公寓的窗外，我知道她就在里面，而且我还知道那个本应该住在那里的男人的名字，只是后来我发现他把公寓转租出去了。她带着珍妮特，带着我们的女儿！我看见她来窗边看了一次。我亲眼看见她在别的男人的房间里。我跑上去用力捶门，想撞开门进去。我喊她出来，可是她不。我就去找警察来开门。可是回来的时候，一个佣人假装刚出门回来，打开门进了屋。这些都是小花招，我晓得的。她们没有在里面。她带着珍妮特悄悄跑了。那天她给我说过要去西切斯特！”

“还有一次，她说要去拜访朋友，我跟踪着她，她去了一家餐厅。我怀疑那是个男的，就是我觉得和她私混的那个男的，可却是个我没有见过的人。他们出来坐出租的时候，我上去对他们说了我的想法，威胁说要杀死他们。她让他先走，然后和我一起回家。我拿她没办法。她不和我讲话。她只是说我如果不喜欢她做事的方式的话可以放手。她想我和他离婚。就算我之前想过，我也不会放手的。我以前深爱她，现在仍然深爱着她。真的。我就是无法控制自己。”他停了下来。他的痛苦和后悔有些让人感动。

“还有一次，”他继续说，“我跟踪她去了一家旅馆。是的，就是一家旅馆。可是我进去就看见她在那里等着我。她之前看见了我。我看见一个男的朝她走去，只是他不是我想象的那个男的，不过他一见我就转身走了。我不确定他是不是来见贝茜的。我试着和她谈谈那个男人，她却转身走开了。我和她就沉默着回了家。我拿她没办法。她坐着读书，好几天都不理我。好几天啊，我给你说，她一句话都不和我说。”

“我晓得，”我说，“可你做的都是傻事，根本没有用，也没有希望，你又何必呢？”

“我知道，我知道，”他大声说，“可我就是控制不住自己。我无法控制自己。我爱她。我无法不爱她，是吧？没有她我很痛苦。我知道我做的都是蠢事，可我对她就是这么疯狂。她越讨厌我，我就越爱她。我此时此刻也爱着她。我控制不住自己。有几天她让我受尽煎熬，我紧张得呕吐了。我生了病，身体也垮了。在她面前我直冒冷汗。她不在的时候，我又不知道她去了哪儿。我会在大街上走几个小时，有些时候甚至一走就是整整一天，因为我吃不下也睡不着，我不知道该做什么。天啊！”他又停下来紧紧握住双拳。“我能做的就是一遍又一遍地想。是的，我现在就是一遍一遍地想。她走了之后我就失去了自我。我无法振作起来。是的，我还住在那里，可是为什么呢？因为我觉得她有一天会回来，因为我们一起在那里住过。我等啊等啊。我知道这样很傻，但我就是等着她。为什么？只有天知道！反正我就是等着她。哎，”他叹了口气，“等了三年了，三年啊！”

他停下来盯着我，我也盯着他，我们都因为这个无人能解决的难题而心绪不宁。阿雷在这里，这个对女人了解甚深的男人。可是贝茜在哪儿呢？这个阿雷想要启蒙、想要让她跟上潮流、想让她更为开明的女人，她在哪儿呢？她有没有想起阿雷？她在崭新的自由生活中是否过得快乐？阿雷利落地穿上雨衣，拿起雨伞僵硬地走进雨中。我猜想他是要在雨中边走边思考。我关上了门看着墙壁思索，思索阿雷的绝望和愤怒，思索他的激情和爱情。“对啊，”我想，“这就是爱情，至少是一个人的爱情；这就是婚姻，至少是一个人的婚姻。他在精神上娶了鄙视他的贝茜，而贝茜又可能在精神上嫁给其他鄙视她的男人。不过今晚在这间屋里，我亲眼目睹了爱情和婚姻，至少是一个人的爱情和婚姻。”

[1] 安息日：犹太教和一些基督教派认为星期六是休息和拜神的日子，即安息日。（译注）

[2] 大歌剧：19世纪上半叶流行于法国的一种歌剧类型，也可指无说白的严肃歌剧。（译注）

大盗王子

——以最古老的东方主题进行的即兴创作

阿拉伯世界的一天下午，炙人的热浪退去，荷台达清真寺的大门敞开着，仿佛在招呼人们进去参拜。由于礼拜即将开始，寺内信徒们的神情愈发虔诚，纷纷朝着麦加的方向拜倒在地。寺外，宏伟的清真寺礼拜坛上，十来个衣衫褴褛的乞丐挤在东边高墙的阴影下，还有几个仍在争抢好位置，期盼着那些虔诚的信徒在离开时能遵循《古兰经》的指示，抛掷下一派士或一安那[1]。《古兰经》上面不是写着“不要忘记贫穷的人和流浪汉”吗？即便如此，一切赞颂全归至高无上的真主。

离他们不远处一群孩子正在玩耍，他们围成一圈做着游戏，像群苍蝇和蝙蝠一样到处乱跑，看都不看这些穷人，对他们所遭受的痛苦视若无睹，似乎也没有注意到这是清真寺的入口。荷台达的好市民们穿行在人群中，或者三三两两地闲扯着当日的大事小事，他们的店铺刚刚打烊，结束了一天的辛劳——比如罐头店老板博利，他准备回家前找个舒适的角落吸袋水烟，再嚼上点阿拉伯茶，而织地毯的艾哈迈德则要前往清真寺祈祷一番再回家；店铺相邻的面包店老板丘迪跟布店老板扎德·埃尔·丁都已经是孩子的父亲了，他们谈论着生意和来自塔伊夫的驼队。走在他们之后的是理发师阿扎德·巴赫特，他习惯性地擦弄着额头。再往后是卖水的费瑞兹。由于此时正值店铺打烊，周围人来人往；过会等大家在寺里祷告之后，就会回家或者找个角落休息去了。此时，来世和今生如此接近。

但行乞说书人噶扎尔·阿尔·丁却不在此列，一小时前他跟随塔伊夫来的驼队经过了切达门，然后独自离开驼队来到了这里。其实，他是头次来到荷台达，与其他说书艺人一样，他靠着说书流浪行乞，从一个城市到另一个城市，从一个村庄到另一个村庄，吟诵着国王、王子、公主们的荣耀传说，历数着神灵、魔法师以及虚构名人的奇闻异事。但他本人确是一贫如洗。在旅途中，他不停地收集各种轶事来丰富他的故事。虽然他已年近八十，其貌不扬，但他的故事却讲得极为巧妙，情节设计一波三折，从来都不会缺少听众。他衣衫褴褛，几不蔽体，全身上下就一条扎腰布、一块包头巾，还有个破烂不堪的斗篷。胡子和头发也是多年没有梳理过，沾满了沙漠的沙子与街上的尘土。他脸色枯黄，手若钩爪，一条胳膊已经残废了。

噶扎尔·阿尔·丁瞥了一眼寺门口那二十多个同样悲惨的乞丐，然后走到人群之外，如同审视自己一样审视着这个世界。阿尔·哈德雅兹的餐馆离这很近，随着微风飘来缕缕诱人的饭香，他开始思索如何才能把匆匆而过的路人聚拢到自己身边。因为他也得吃饭。毫无疑问，荷台达的说书艺人肯定不少，而且清真寺周围等待施舍的人又这么多，他们肯定不会欢迎他这个外来户的。实际上他已经遭遇过多次公开的敌对行为了，之前在费鲁兹，有一次他刚刚向一众看客收完钱，马上就被人偷袭，遭到一顿毒打，钱包也被人抢走了，更有甚者，那群人里面的一个野蛮泼妇竟然往他身上浇了一桶泔水。因此他不得不时刻提防着。

不过仔细想想，他的人生似乎也不是那么悲惨。诚然，许多人有家有室，开着铺子做着生意，难道他们就没有任何烦恼吗？这些人中的佼佼者不过也就像沙漠中的棕榈树和沙子一样固定在一处，无法自由走动。他们一生中也许会去一次麦加或者麦地那，但在那总是难逃恶棍的抢劫诈骗，不少人甚至就此丢了性命。但他现在……阿尔·哈德雅兹店里又飘来了阵阵饭香……没功夫瞎想了，他要先找个舒适的门道或者高墙的阴凉处，以便铺开斗篷，敲起弹拨鼓[2]来吸引路人，并尽可能地在他开始讲述奇幻冒险故事，激起那些最易疲怠、最为冷漠的看客对于这类故事的兴致之前，挣到足够的安那来支付今天的食宿费用。他很清楚，要挣到这笔钱，这个故事里就必须要有一个美若天仙的公主和她英俊潇洒的恋人；还要有一个高贵大气、无比英明的哈里发[3]。当然，还得多讲讲现实生活中难得一见的黄金宝藏和无上权力，还得有残忍凶狠的强盗窃贼以及现实中同样少见的正直君子。如果听众表露出兴味索然的神情，此时明智的做法就是将不同的故事拆分重编，达到借此补彼的效果。

他边走边留意着周围的店铺住宅，最后终于发现一处通向封闭集市的幽深门洞，离广场只有大约二十英尺的距离。于是他坐了下来，开始轻柔地拨弄起弹拨鼓，以免惹恼虔诚的教民。他也不希望招来寺门口徘徊着的其他乞丐。这些乞丐不久就会离去，那时他就比较安心了，因为他们对他只有嘲弄和敌意，尤其是他这样的艺人。他轻轻地敲打着鼓，同时快速地扫视四周，目光从窗户、寺院一直落到蜿蜒的街道上。他看到来了两个小孩子，又出现了第三个，他们停下来看着他，他断定这一计策马上就可以见到成效。因为只要小孩子一停留，家长们肯定很快就跟上来了。事实的确如此。第一拨的孩子越走越近，越走越多，四个、五个、六个。不久卖香烟的小贩海法朝着清真寺一瘸一拐地走来，他也停下脚步加入孩子们的行列。他很好奇接下来会发生什么——噶扎尔能否留住观众。随后走来的是卖水的瓦伊迪，他刚刚卖了些水；接着是游手好闲却爱管闲事的阿耶波，他在集市上打扫商户们的摊位。紧随其后过来的是搬运工苏迪和帕尔斐，他们异常渴望传奇故事；后面跟着卖柴火的艾尔·杰德。

看着他们渐渐围在身边，噶扎尔·阿尔·丁趁机把鼓敲得愈来愈响，大声吆喝道：“我这儿有精彩故事哟，真主的子民们！精彩故事，快来听喽！荷台达从来没讲过的故事——不，全也门也没讲过！《大盗王子》！《大盗王子》！快来哟，只要给二十安那——没错，四分之一卢比——我就开讲喽。啊，多么美妙的故事啊！就像茉莉花一样芳香宜人；就像阿拉伯茶一样越嚼越过瘾！绝对精彩！”

“哟，那谁知道好不好听？”织地毯的艾哈迈德朝裁缝丘迪说道，他们刚走过来。“这么多说书的都说自己的故事好听，但我还没见过讲得好的呢。”

“说的没错，艾哈迈德。我经常听故事，每回都没少个安那，可那些说书的讲的没个值得听的。”

“你怎么还不开讲啊？”搬运工苏迪问道。“那按你说的，故事这么好听，你还担心挣不到钱吗？这里会说书的忒多了，他们都——”

“是的，我马上就讲”，乞丐巧妙地回答道，“要是观众都像你一样善良就好了。可是我长途跋涉来到贵地，现在还粒米未进，晚上都不知道何处落脚……故事讲的是伟大的哈里发、公主雅妮和高贵的侯赛因[4]的传奇经历，侯赛因[5]小时候被人偷走，后来又被找到了。还有哈里发的那座一直封闭着的巨型藏宝库，虽然设有重兵把守，但仍遭入库盗窃，哈里发始终捉不到盗贼。给点安那吧——只要二十安那，我就开始讲！什么？荷台达的人都这么穷啊，这么好的故事，又有爱情，又有欢乐，更有冒险，还有宏伟的宫殿、英明的王子、哈里发以及神出鬼没的盗贼，就为了区区几安那就不听了——这鼓里连十安那都没有吧？故事绝对精彩啊！绝对精彩！”

他停下来，伸出弹拨鼓，对人们投以试探的目光。听众则满是怀疑和好奇地看着他，都在想这个新来的讲故事的是何许人也？从哪来的？当然，故事讲得好的话，一安那也不多——好吧——不过故事讲得像骆驼打哈欠一样枯燥乏味的太多了。

“你说故事绝对精彩，是吧？”帕尔斐小心地问道，“如果这么精彩，那你干嘛还不开始讲呢？就为一把安那，这人是什么话都敢说。”

“以前有个人许诺得倒挺好，”爱说长道短的阿耶波缓缓说道，“他当时就坐在这个门口。我记得很清楚，他系着块绿头巾，没有比他更能撒谎的了。一开始说又惊险又刺激，到最后嘛都没有——连神仙鬼怪的影子都没有。”

“你光知道神仙鬼怪吗，呆驴？”海法讥笑道，“世上到处都有惊险刺激，但不见得都得出现在故事里。”

“没错，但你讲个故事也不能总想着挣钱吧，”卖水的瓦伊迪说道，“大家都忙活了一天，都是来听个故事休息一下的。我就喜欢那些结尾皆大欢喜的故事，善有善报，恶有恶报。”

“来吧，朋友们，”噶扎尔·阿尔·丁看到已经有一两个人感兴趣了，就继续煽动道，“二十安那我就开讲。故事发生在也门，就是我们这个也门，还有巴格达，这座比当今任何城市都要伟大的城市——”

“开始吧，”理发师阿扎德·巴赫特说，“给你一安那。”他说着就往鼓里丢了一枚硬币。

“我也给你一个，”海法边说边掏着钱包，“冒个险也没什么。”

“我也出一个，”苏迪傲慢地喊着，“开始吧。”

“我也给一个，”帕尔斐大模大样地说，“那现在行了吧，你也说了，故事要精彩啊。”接着他们纷纷在他周围蹲坐下来。

但噶扎尔打定主意没有十安那绝不开始，十安那也就只够买一碗干酪和一杯咖啡果粒茶，他一直等到鼓里的钱够数了，当然围观的听众也开始不耐烦地骂起了“无赖！”“畜生”“你个守财奴到底讲不讲，还是光顾着装满你那破鼓？”他才蹲下身子，坐在破衣服上挥了挥手示意安静，于是开始讲他的故事：

“听好了，各位荷台达的善人们，很多年以前，我们也门这里有个地方，现在叫做塔伊夫，当时是座非常繁华的城市，城中住着一位苏丹[6]名叫喀尔·闪，他拥有许多座庞大的城市、宏伟的宫殿，还有一支能征善战的军队，而且他深受臣民的爱戴。在他——朋友，你能不能坐下？安静！在他的统治下国泰民安，他新婚不久便喜得王子，名字唤作侯赛因，小王子非常迷人可爱，苏丹当即决定要精心培养他，将来也好成为这个伟大国家的合格君主。机缘巧合的是，当时继承苏丹王位的还有一个竞争对手，也可以说是争权的人，他是被苏丹远祖废黜的另一支脉的传人，名叫巴布·埃尔·巴尔，他一心要偷走幼小的侯赛因王子并设法处理掉，让王子永远回不了家，也就无法继承王位了。在王子四岁那年夏天，有一天行宫遇袭，小王子被人抓走。他被人带着穿过大沙漠来到了巴格达，并被当做奴隶卖给了一个大盗，这个人一直在物色像小王子这样的孩子，他打算从小就将他们作为盗贼进行培养，这样他们长大之后就会毫无是非之心了。”

“哎，还真有这样的人，”织地毯的艾哈迈德突然插嘴道，他家的店铺最近刚遭洗劫，“我太了解这些贼有多坏了。”

“安静！安静！”瓦伊迪和海法暴躁地喊道。

噶扎尔·阿尔·丁停顿了一下，等他们安静下来，又继续讲起来：

“侯赛因王子一落到大盗手里，就被安排与那些小偷住在一起，小偷们轮流教他如何偷盗。大盗尤素夫常用的一个遴选新手的法子，就是在这些孩子七岁的时候，给他们穿上纱织开衫，将他们放到一个无水的蓄水池里，他们根本逃不出来，然后在水池上方的横梁上放一个大圈饼，他告诉孩子要么拿到饼，要么就挨饿。许多孩子在饿了多天之后就被撵走了，因为尤素夫觉得他们不配学他的手艺。不过轮到侯赛因王子被放进蓄水池后，他开始认真地思索自己的处境。最后，他把纱织开衫拆掉一部分，把拆开的纱线系在一小块鹅卵石上往上扔，石子正好落进大饼的圈里，这样他就把饼拉了下来。尤素夫看到这一幕很是满意，立即吩咐把他拉上来，给他做顿好饭。

“尤素夫不断地从侯赛因的小偷师傅那里收到好消息。一天，他把侯赛因带到一座山顶上，他看到有个农夫扛着一只羊从山路上走过来，尤素夫·本·阿里向已改名为阿布（以防被人找到）的侯赛因问道：‘我们怎么才能搞到那只羊，而又不会被农夫发现呢？’平常师傅们都是训练阿布遇事要动脑，不然就要受罚，这时阿布想了想，然后答道：‘等到路上只剩那只羊的时候，牵走就行了！’阿布偷偷地从灌木丛里溜出来，把一只鞋放在路上然后又躲了起来。农夫走过来看到有只鞋，但由于仅有一只就没有去捡。待农夫走过后，阿布跑出来捡起鞋，不久又出现在农夫前方远处的林子里，他在路上放下脚上的另外一只鞋，接着又躲了起来。待农夫走到仔细一看，便把羊系在路边的树上，跑回去捡头一只。这时尤素夫看到路上只剩下那只羊，赶紧上来把羊牵走了，阿布跟着过来捡起鞋就跑了。”

“把羊就这样扔路上，真是蠢驴。”搬运工帕尔斐神情严肃地插嘴道。

“放着第一只鞋不捡，才傻到家了呢。”苏迪补充道。

“安那！”“安那！”噶扎尔·阿尔·丁趁机喊着向新来的人收钱，“绝妙的故事！别忘了那些会说书的，是他们给最悲苦的日子带来了甘甜滋味，是他们让那些疲惫不堪的人们减轻了烦恼。安那！安那！”接着他用那只鸟爪一般的手攥着鼓伸到了扎德·埃尔·丁和阿扎德·巴赫特的面前，两人开始后悔来听了。

“难道不给钱还不讲了？”扎德·埃尔·丁一边嘟哝着，一边翻腾着钱包，最后给了一个安那，阿扎德·巴赫特和其他几个人也迫不得已给了钱。此时其他听众也开始嘟囔抱怨了，噶扎尔继续讲起故事来。

“农夫返回他看到第一只鞋的地方，却没有找到鞋，感到非常困惑，就赶紧返回刚刚系羊的地方，却发现羊跟第二只鞋都不见了。尤素夫非常满意，回去之后奖励了阿布一件新外套，不过现在这儿还没结束。根据长期的偷盗经验，尤素夫认为农夫要么是买了羊扛回家，要么是扛到集市去卖，因此他对阿布说：“我们再等等。他可能还会再带一只羊来。”

“啊，真高明，”阿耶波一边认真地点着头一边咕哝着。“因此，”噶扎尔·阿尔·丁接着讲道，“他们就等着，不久农夫果然又带了一只羊走来。尤素夫问阿布这回还能不能再把羊搞到，阿布仍是告诉他等路上只剩那只羊时，牵走就行了。”

“扯吧你！”卖面包的丘迪喊道，“他刚丢了一只羊，还会再把另一只也扔路上？这也太离谱了吧！”不过噶扎尔却没有理会他。

“虽然尤素夫是个大盗，”他接着讲，“但阿布的机敏应对还是让他很是疑惑。他培训出来的所有小偷中，几乎没有人能解决他的各种难题的，他感觉阿布有成为大盗的天赋。农夫走过来的时候，阿布挥手让尤素夫藏在旁边的石缝里，他自己则躲进了树林里。农夫越走越近，这时阿布把手放在嘴上，咩咩地模仿起羊叫来，农夫听到了羊叫声，以为是之前丢失的那只羊，就把身上扛着的那只羊藏到石头后面，由于羊腿是捆着的，倒不用担心会跑，藏好之后农夫就钻进树林里去找那只丢失的羊了。尤素夫一直躲在石缝里暗中观察着，看到这他立刻跑了出去扛起羊就跑。农夫循着叫声找去，阿布则爬到树上躲了起来，看着农夫苦苦寻觅的样子，他不禁莞尔一笑，因为大盗告诉他偷盗靠的是智慧，被偷的人纯粹是傻子。”

“确实傻到家了，”瓦伊迪想，他这辈子也没少偷人东西。

“看着农夫痛心地离开后，阿布爬下树找到了尤素夫。他们一块回到城中尤素夫的家，尤素夫甚为高兴，决定将阿布收为养子。”看到听众投入的样子，噶扎尔便停顿下来，然后适时地伸出手鼓，喊道：“安那，伙计们，安那！难道我这说书的、给你们疲倦的心灵带来甘甜滋味的人，还不配得到点辛苦钱吗？我手上的安那还不到二十，十安那也才够买一碗干酪或是一杯咖啡果粒茶，我又是长途跋涉远道而来。在骆驼圈里睡一觉也得要十安那，何况我也上了岁数。”他举着手鼓四下里哀求着。

“无赖！”苏迪咆哮道，“不给钱就不讲故事了？”

“真主啊！这哪里是讲故事啊，这分明就是抢劫啊，”帕尔斐喊道。

“安静，朋友们，”噶扎尔说，他害怕激怒这座陌生城市的听众，“故事就要进入高潮了——倾国倾城的雅妮公主，哈里发的藏宝库和绝世大盗的故事。不过看在真主的份上，再给十安那吧，我保证这回不会再停顿了。天也晚了，行行好，赏我一杯茶喝，睡一晚骆驼圈吧——”他不停地摇晃着手鼓。三个没给过钱的每人往手鼓里丢了一安那。

“现在，”噶扎尔看到挣到的钱少得可怜，顿时有些沮丧，但还是接着讲起故事来，“大盗尤素夫除了在沙漠里抢劫盗窃驼队、杀人越货之外，还经营着一个地毯集市，掩护他进行更多的偷盗杀人勾当。这个集市坐落于商人云集的主要道路上，他时不时地也会在那里露个面，一般是盘腿靠在枕头上。不过遇到有陌生的富商出现时，即便他只是询问一下价格，尤素夫也会把地毯或布匹的价格报得非常低，低到连乞丐都想买的程度。富商惊讶之余，一般都会掏出钱包，这个时候尤素夫一拍手，布帘后面就会奔出一群奴隶把富商绑了，抢去他的钱包，扒光他的衣服，然后把尸体丢进河里，使人难寻踪迹。”

“真是彻头彻尾的强盗！”苏迪赞同地说道。

“自从尤素夫将阿布认作养子之后，就把阿布带回了家，他的府邸有很多房间、别院，里面还有一座花园，其中有个院子还建有池塘，拱廊、房间都摆满了坐垫和沙发长椅，院内奴仆成群，来回穿梭；他给阿布穿上精美的丝绸衣装，然后带着阿布去了他冒牌的地毯集市，并隆重宣布在他百年之后将由阿布继承他的事业。他召集家奴训话道：“要像侍奉我一样好好地侍奉你们的主人，我不在的时候，或者万一离世了——赞颂归于善良伟大的真主！务必要听他的吩咐，他可是非常聪明的。”不久尤素夫就乔装成托钵僧，开始全新的冒险去了。而留下来全权管理地毯集市的阿布则整天忙着搜寻金银财宝，确定价值，考虑如何实施抢劫等，如果必要的话，还要考虑如何杀人灭口，怎样做得干净利落。

“虽然阿布心地善良，但他从小就受到了严厉的偷盗训练，学了一身坏本领，一直以来师傅们都向他灌输着：杀人抢劫值得表扬，偷盗时心软犯错不可原谅，必须受到严厉的惩罚。他虽然相信这一切，但有时也会诚挚地为他伤害过的人悲伤难过。他知道不能当着尤素夫的面表露感情，虽然尤素夫待他很好，但不管是谁，只要流露出一丝怜悯或者没有听从他的吩咐，他一律严惩不贷，甚至只要知晓有人欺瞒或者背叛了他，他都会毫不手软地干掉这个人。”

“咦，果然狠毒。”厨子阿尔·哈德雅兹咕哝道。

“我毫不怀疑直到今天也门也还有这号人物，”打扫摊位的阿耶波接着说道，“卖香料的奥斯曼·哈桑不就是遭人抢劫之后被杀了吗？”

“尤素夫踏上神秘的冒险旅程后不久，阿布这边就发生了一件大事。各位应该知道，当时统治巴格达的是伟大英明的伊安科一世，幼发拉底河与底格里斯河流域的哈里发，众教区和分封诸国的统治者，他拥有巨大的藏金宝库，建于一栋高耸的石砌楼宇中。他还拥有一座富丽堂皇的宫殿，吸引着来自全国各地和国外的游客前来参观。宫殿是由众多五彩石和珍贵木材建成的，小道走廊、园林花卉、泳池阳台一应俱全，应有尽有，内庭还装有遮阳网格，室内永远凉爽宜人，沁香扑鼻。宫内遍植着桃金娘、茉莉花、棕榈树、雪松，还有五彩斑斓的飞鸟，身材高挑的朱鹭，羽色鲜艳的火烈鸟。宫内有成群的嫔妃佳丽、奴隶、侍臣，世界各地的贤哲不远万里前来辅佐哈里发，为他治国安邦献良策，其时四海升平，伊安科深受臣民的爱戴。

“他最为宠爱的王妃阿特瑞莎十三年前为他生了一位美丽、温柔、典雅、可爱的小公主，这位雅妮公主可谓是集万千宠爱于一身，也是哈里发的女儿中最美丽最可爱的一个。从一开始哈里发就决定要将雅妮公主嫁给一位超凡的王子，他们的孩子也会出落得聪明美丽，不管她嫁给谁，他们的继承人都会获得空前的荣耀与权力，因为她丈夫的出身应当跟她门当户对。而且，哈里发坚信聪明、伟大、配得上雅妮的人一定也配得上他所拥有的一切——伟大的巴格达哈里发帝国。为实现这一目标，他召集了最睿智、最博学的教师以及精通鲁特琴、弹拨鼓和舞蹈的师傅前往巴格达，又从成群的嫔妃中挑选了精通服饰、仪礼、美容、保养的人来教育雅妮。因此，在公主长到十三岁的美好花季时，就成为阿拉伯世界和全世界最完美的女子。金丝长发，珍珠皓齿，光彩照人；白皙的皮肤宛若初升的明月般皎洁，美丽的四肢仿佛盛开的花瓣般娇艳。她艳艳的红唇如新开的石榴般诱人，闪闪的双眸仿佛月光映照下的深潭。”

“没错，这我倒听说过，不过是在神话故事里，”面包师丘迪感叹道，他老婆满脸皱纹，跟破旧不堪的羊皮纸差不多。

“对头，那只会在深宫大院里面，还有远方的城市吧，这里肯定没有，”扎德·埃尔·丁接着说道，因为他的妻子和女儿没个漂亮的。“她们是不会生在荷台达的。”

“哎，即使她有这么漂亮，”阿尔·泰德雅兹叹了口气说，“那也没有人能配得上她。要找个如意郎君可难喽。”

“安静！”艾哈迈德喊道，“我们还是听故事吧。”

“没错，趁他还没有再要钱。”清扫夫哈德雅兹喃喃说道，声音很小。

不过噶扎尔其实早就发现这群看客已经入迷了，他可不想错过这个机会。就在看客们议论纷纷的时候，噶扎尔伸出了手鼓喊道：“安那，安那，安那！”但反对的声音太多，他也不敢过于坚持。

“无赖！”瓦伊迪骂道，“你就不能消停会啊？再给你一个，这是最后一个了。”

“你个财迷鬼！”海法张嘴说道，不过他仍然深深地沉浸在故事中，“赶紧讲你的故事吧！”

“那贼可是个土豪，有的是钱，我敢保证，”苏迪接着说道，他又给了一个安那。

而扎德·埃尔·丁和艾哈迈德两人都垂涎于雅妮的美貌，每人又给了一个安那。

“不要责怪我，朋友们，”噶扎尔一边把钱放进斗篷里，一边老练地说，“因为你们都看到了，我穷得无家可归，只能乞讨、流浪，无处栖身，我除了会讲故事，一无所有。”但他发现这群看客脸上没有显露丝毫的同情，于是接着讲起了故事。

“正当阿布掌管这个罪恶的集市时，碰巧赶上了一年一度的盛事，哈里发把公主送往巴克特里亚的阿卓山区，那里有座宏伟壮丽的消夏行宫。他派出了一大队人马，都骑着尤拉尔和塞尔夫两地出产的大象和骆驼，还有塔伊夫本地出产的稀世宝马。全部人马统一着以绸缎、细羊毛料的外衣，并饰以埃谢尔和巴尔两地出产的金丝镶边的穗带与纺纱。场面宏大非凡，人们纷纷驻足观望。在这支庞大的队伍经过巴格达的街道时，阿布听到了巨大的喧闹声、人群以及驾车人的呼喊声，还有马蹄声和骆驼的脚步声，声音离他的集市越来越近了，他身穿丝绸长袍，头戴银丝镶边的名贵头巾。这时他已经成长为一名十八岁的英俊青年了，一头黑发像乌鸦的翅膀一样黑亮，乌黑的大眼睛因重重心事而略带忧伤的神色，宛若清澈池水中一轮皎洁的明月。他的脸庞与手臂瘦削红润，仿佛涂了一层薄薄的散沫花粉。他举止优雅，透出怡然自得的神情。他站在门口，看到庞大奢华的队伍走过长长的街道并消失于拐弯处，不禁惊讶异常。同时，由于职业习惯使然，他不禁想到如果劫了这队人马，抢了他们的金银财宝，再把这些男男女女收为奴隶，这战利品得多丰盛啊！

“不过安拉的安排真是让人难以捉摸，就在阿布边看边想时，旁边走过一只骆驼，驼背上载着一顶轿子，里面铺满绸缎和名贵装饰，而外面看来却毫无奢华痕迹，因此无人可以知晓个中实情。轿子里坐着的正是倾国倾城的雅妮公主，她隐藏在迎风飘舞的重重丝帘之后，并遵照习俗，用面纱遮住了脸庞和前额，一直遮到她那双水汪汪的眼睛上，只留出一丝缝隙。生活的巧合和安拉的安排还真是奇妙，年轻的公主心中充满好奇和敬畏，此时她正巧从面纱后面向帘外窥探，大千世界的情景如此鲜活地展现在她的眼前。她四下张望着，正好瞧见阿布也在好奇地看着她精美的坐骑。他的身形是如此轻盈，眼睛是如此深邃，脸庞是如此英俊，像被光线刺穿一样，雅妮的心立刻就融化了，她毫不犹豫地掀开面纱，打开轿帘，为的是看得更清楚，也让他看得更清楚。阿布也注意到轿帘被掀到一旁，里面探出一双乌黑明亮的大眼睛，脉脉含情地凝视着他，绯红的俏脸宛若绽放的玫瑰花瓣一般，阿布的眼睛仿佛钉在那里，再也挪不动了，也思考不了了。

“他就这样痴痴地望着，直到骆驼和人马渐行渐远，最后消失在街道的拐角处。此时，他想到此生可能再也见不到她了，登时惊醒过来，立马拨开人群追了上去。最后终于追上了那匹护卫森严的骆驼，骆驼的周遭满是太监和奴仆，他悄悄地把一个拉到一旁，轻声问道：‘朋友，不要生气，如果你能尽快赶到地毯商尤素夫的集市来告诉我这轿里坐的是谁，我就给你一百个第纳尔金币[7]。你到那就说找阿布。其他的我概不多问。’奴隶看他一身锦衣华服，头上是裹着银丝边的绿头巾，想他怎么也得是个官宦子弟，于是就答道：‘这位少爷，您还是别太好奇了，哈里发不会饶恕……’‘我会给你钱的。’……‘那好，我到时候去。’

“即便如此，阿布已经欣喜若狂了，然而欢乐转瞬即逝，无限沮丧登时袭上心头。‘我这是怎么了？’他不禁问自己，‘刚才不管交给我办什么事我都能找到乐趣；而此刻我却跟丢了魂似地。’”

“唉，”理发师阿扎德·巴赫特叹了口气说道，“我不止一次有过这种感受。这种感觉没法摆脱。”

“阿尔·卓德在沙漠里——”帕尔斐也开口说起来，不过被大家‘安静——安静”’的喊声打断了。

“此后整整一个月，”噶扎尔接着说，“阿布都恍如置身梦中，郁郁寡欢，怅然若失，苦苦思索着如何才能再次见到轿帘后面那张让他茶饭不思的俏脸，也不知道那个牵骆驼的人会不会回来呢？日子就这样一天一天过去了，依旧音信全无，他日渐消瘦，渐渐地开始绝望，也厌倦了生活。终于有一天店里来了一位长须老者，他的衣衫沾满泥尘，一进门就问阿布何在。家奴把他带到阿布面前，他开口便说：‘我想跟您单独聊聊。’阿布便把他带到一边，他问道：‘您还记得哈里发公主的那支队伍经过您这儿去往阿卓那边的伊什帕里吗？’阿布答道：‘当然记得，感谢真主！’‘您还记得您打听过的那个人吗？’‘记得呀，’阿布答道，心里激动万分，‘我向您打听过那位坐在驼背上的人是谁。’‘当时您说有什么回报来着？’‘一百第纳尔。’‘这些第纳尔您还是留着吧——要不这样吧，您把钱给我，我再分给那些穷人，算作是我给您带来消息的回报吧。轿里坐的不是别人，正是哈里发的女儿和王国继承人——雅妮公主本人。不过我此次来访还请您严加保密，不要向任何人透露你打听过此事。哈里发耳目众多，一旦走漏风声，你我都难逃一死。您还那么年轻，还没经历过生活的风风雨雨，这是我从伊什帕里带来的一枝桃金娘花，就送给您了。不管之前看过什么，听过什么，您都不要再去想了。性命要紧！’他用三根手指在额头和脖子处比划了一个杀头的手势，然后把树枝递给阿布，接过了金币。”

“真主啊！”苏迪喊道，“这么多钱啊，想想都觉着爽呀！”

“没错，”海法也评论道，“这些什么荣华富贵啊，绝代佳人啊，养尊处优啊，想想就过瘾。”

“再给十安那吧，”噶扎尔又开始要钱了，“也就是我在骆驼圈里过一夜的钱，接下来的故事将会更加精彩——爱情的甜蜜、阿布技艺的出神入化——安那，安那——只要再给五个，我就认真讲下去。”

“你个豺狼！”阿耶波尖声喊道，“你只会叫唤着要一样东西——安那。你刚才还说只再要十个呢，现在你要了一百个也不止了吧。讲你的故事吧！”

“你吸血蝙蝠啊你！”丘迪也喊道，“你比你讲的尤素夫还要贪婪！”这一回再没有人给钱了。

“得悉这枝桃金娘花来自公主那里，”噶扎尔只好接着讲，却没了之前的兴奋劲，“而且他以后只能把自己的思绪深埋心底，不能跟任何人提起，阿布长叹了口气，回到了集市上。”

“不久，尤素夫的长途旅行也结束了，他回来后找到阿布，告诉阿布一个大胆的想法。原来他这次的计划正是冲着哈里发的巨型宝库去的。这座宝库位于城中心，在公共集市前面，一直处于严密封锁状态并设有重兵把守，宝库由巨石砌成，里面存放着上百个行省的巨额宝藏。此外，尤素夫还了解到此时恰逢全国上下征收什一税，偌大的宝库里财宝都堆到了屋顶，据说里面堆满了金灿灿的第纳尔。这宝库是一座由巨石建成的四方形建筑，仿照金字塔的结构，逐层往上叠加巨石。每层楼四边都建有一堵低矮的女儿墙，每堵女儿墙两端以及楼下的地面上均有两名士兵巡逻，每名士兵都是先从走道的中心走到头，再转身走回，并在中心相遇，然后再转回，如此循环往复。每层和每堵墙边都还另外配有两名士兵。每层和每堵墙边都不准两名巡逻士兵与上下楼层的士兵同时走到中心或护墙两端，以杜绝任何位置出现无人巡守的情况。整座宝库只有地面上的一个出入口，正对着集市。这个门只有哈里发本人、财政大臣以及几名特使有权进出。巡守士兵上下楼全靠一部严密把守的楼梯。安那，朋友们，”噶扎尔再次乞求道，“下面就要讲到他们盗窃宝库了，真是惊心动魄啊——阿布机智巧妙的手法——财政大臣与哈里发采取的措施，以及屡斗屡败的困惑——安那！可怜可怜我，再给一点钱吧！”

“豺狼！”阿扎德·巴赫特起身骂道，“强盗也没你狠，真是贪得无厌啊！”

“都不要再给了，”费瑞兹咆哮道，“就他这信口胡扯连一个安那也不值。”

“不要这么绝情啊，朋友们，”噶扎尔沉着镇定地恳求着，“你们看看，我总共也才二十个安那——还不够一顿饭钱，更不用说过夜的钱了。再给十个——不——五个——我就继续讲。”

“来，来，给你，”阿尔·哈德雅兹边喊边扔了四个安那；扎德·埃尔·丁、海法、丘迪每人也给了一个，噶扎尔收起钱来接着讲：

“尤素夫觊觎这座宝库很久了，他绞尽脑汁也没想出怎么进去偷点金子出来。他和徒弟们也讨论过很多次，每次都是无果而终。没人能帮他解决这个难题。一天，他和阿布去清真寺朝拜，路过金库时，尤素夫对阿布说：‘想想看，孩子，这座神奇的宝库建得如此用心，守卫又如此严密，倘若是你的话，你会如何进入里面的金库呢？’阿布一心只想着雅妮，根本没有注意到宝库，听到这个问题，他丝毫没有表露出惊讶的神情，因为他早对这些突如其来的疑难问题习以为常了，他很平静地看了看宝库，尤素夫倒很是惊讶：‘怎么样？有没有办法？’‘哦，我还没有想过呢，尤素夫，’阿布答道；‘不过，你要是想进去的话，我们再走近一点仔细看看吧。’”

“于是，他们穿过集市上来来往往的商人小贩、异乡人、毛驴、头戴面纱尚未出嫁的姑娘和那些游手好闲的人，走近宝库仔细察看起来。阿布立刻就发现了守卫士兵的移动规律，在某一层士兵相背而行时，邻近的上下层的士兵必定是相对而行的。尽管宝库只有一个入口且守卫森严，但仍然存在一个薄弱环节，就在宝库的圆顶，有个四方形的平层，那里无人巡守。‘虽然上去很难，’他思考了一下又说，‘但并非全无可能。让我想想。’”

“于是仔细考虑之后，阿布没和尤素夫商量就行动了，他化装成一个卖骆驼饲料的商人，设法弄到了一根丝质绳索、四个口袋和一只铁钩。回家之后，他用软布缠上铁钩，这样钩子落地就不会有声响了，接着把它系到丝绳的一头，然后他对尤素夫说：‘快来，我们去试试这个。’尤素夫对阿布的计策很好奇，就跟他去了，他们一块绑在绳子上看看绳子能否经得住两人的重量。接着，阿布又通过观察弄清了守卫士兵的夜班换岗时间，他跟尤素夫挑了一个无月无星的黑夜，乔装打扮成城中巡夜人的模样奔向宝库。宝库的守卫依旧森严，他们先藏身在附近的一条小巷中。此时，阿布恰好看到一个赶骡子的人走过来，为了检验一下他们的化装是否成功，阿布命令他走开，赶骡人吓得赶紧跑远了。随后，阿布看到第一层的守卫碰面然后转身，而第二层的守卫还在远处朝着中心行进，阿布叫了一声尤素夫，然后两人迅速地跑过去，把钩子扔到第一层的屋檐上，便迅速地抓着绳子向上爬，然后悬停在第一层卫兵的头顶上方，直到第一层的卫兵碰面转身，接着他们翻过护墙，然后将这个把戏用在第二层的卫兵身上，接着第三层、第四层，直到最后他们爬上了圆顶，并在那儿平躺休息了一下。阿布之前早已准备妥当，他拧开了圆顶的一块石板，把绳钩挂在一边，然后小声地询问尤素夫：‘师傅，现在我们谁下去？’尤素夫素来谨慎，便答道：‘你去吧，向我报告情况。’

“阿布顺着绳索滑了下去，最后来到一个巨大的金库，里面全是一堆一堆的黄金珠宝，他拿出口袋装满宝贝，然后把这些袋子系在绳子上，他上去之后把宝贝也拉了上去。尤素夫看到这么多财宝，两眼直放光，他还想再多偷几次，不过阿布发现天边晨星即将升起，赶紧催促他就此作罢。于是两人把袋子系在腰间，将石板归位，然后按照上来时的办法一层一层地下去了。”

“真绝！”扎德·埃尔·丁插嘴说道。

“梦寐以求的藏宝库啊！”阿尔·哈德雅兹接着说道。

“就这样他们接连偷了三夜，”噶扎尔没敢再要钱，便接着往下讲，“从宝库里偷了成千上万的第纳尔和珠宝。不过，到第四夜的时候，一个士兵发现了他们慌慌张张离去的身影，立刻拉响了警报。一听到警报，阿布和尤素夫立刻分头逃窜，尤素夫往家里一路狂奔，阿布则逃回了店铺。一回到店铺，他立即脱下巡夜人的装扮，转身变成了一个卖地毯的老掌柜，追捕的士兵旋踵而至，便问他有没有看到谁进了铺子，阿布指了指铺子后面，几名士兵追了过去，立马就被尤素夫豢养的家奴强盗绑起来干掉了。其余的士兵则迅速找到队长汇报了情况，队长又立即通知了财政大臣。于是他们点起火把又仔细搜查了一通，大臣把情况迅速上报给哈里发。哈里发闻讯大惊，但始终没弄明白盗贼如何做到出入自如而不留踪迹，于是便派人带来了那个抓获不久并被判处绞刑的大盗，哈里发问他：

“‘你还想不想活命？’

“‘是的，如果陛下愿意赦免的话。’

“‘听着，’哈里发说，‘国库刚刚被盗，但盗贼没有留下任何踪迹。倘若你能在一月之内能给我破了本案，那我可饶你一死，从轻发落。’

“‘啊，万民的守护者，’这贼答道，‘请让我察看一下国库里面的情况。’

“于是，在财政大臣和哈里发的亲自押送下，戴着脚镣手铐的大盗被带到了国库里。大盗四下勘察了半天，最后终于发现穹顶那块撬开过的石板缝里投下来一丝微光。

“‘啊，万民的守护者，’狡猾的大盗满怀希望地说，‘请在穹顶下方放一大锅滚烫的沥青，看看能不能逮住这个贼。’

“于是哈里发采纳了他的办法，命令重新封锁了国库，调来了新的卫兵，并且每天定时烧热沥青，阿布和尤素夫却没有再去。但过了一段时间，尤素夫贪心又起，手痒难耐，就这样过了一个月，两人又挑了一个漆黑的夜晚再次奔向宝库。此时宝库的戒备已经渐渐懈怠了，他们又成功地爬上了穹顶。阿布一掀开石板就闻到了一股刺鼻的沥青味，他立即劝说尤素夫不要下去，但尤素夫根本不听。一想到之前几个晚上偷到的那些黄金珠宝，尤素夫就急不可耐地往下爬。一看到接近黄金，尤素夫立刻急切地伸手去抓，可他抓的哪里是金子啊，全是滚烫滚烫的沥青，严重的烫伤疼得他松开了绳子掉了下去。他朝阿布喊道：‘沥青烫死我了，快救我！’阿布赶紧爬下来，伸手去拉他，可尤素夫的手不住地颤抖，渐渐地没了力气。阿布感到尤素夫快不行了，一旦他的尸体被人发现，不光阿布自身难保，就连尤素夫的妻子、下人都难以幸免，于是他从腰间抽出随身带着的短弯刀，砍下了尤素夫的头并系在腰间，重新爬上了绳索，盖好石板，小心翼翼地离开了宝库。他回到了尤素夫家里，把尤素夫的人头交给了他妻子，并警告她千万保密。”

“这段时间哈里发每天都会和财政大臣来巡查国库，他们惊奇地发现宝库原封未动，却无缘无故地多了一具无头尸。他们不知如何破解这桩无首尸案，便派人带来了大盗，大盗建议将这具无头尸在集市上吊起来，并安排卫兵观察有谁前来哀悼或者打探消息。于是这具无头尸被当众吊在了市场上。阿布远远地路过时发现了这一情况，非常担心尤素夫的妻子米尔扎赶来吊唁，因为米尔扎来自维迪家族，这一家族认为当面吊唁死者是义不容辞的责任。他立即赶回家叮嘱她，‘不要去那边，’他说，‘倘若你非去不可，那就带上两碗牛奶，扮成一个卖牛奶的。倘若你非哭不可，就装成不小心打翻牛奶的样子，让人以为你是因为洒了牛奶而哭泣。’于是米尔扎提了两碗牛奶就上路了，她路过广场上的绞刑架时打翻了一碗，随即开始大哭，她忠实地执行着家族的信仰。卫兵看到这一幕并没有起疑心——‘这婆娘，’士兵说道，‘也够可怜的，命苦哭哭也正常。’到了晚上，哈里发召来值班守卫向他和大盗汇报一天的情况。‘没有发现异常，’卫兵长官答道，‘除了一个可怜的老太太因为摔了一个碗哭过！’‘一群笨蛋！’大盗张嘴便骂，“猪脑袋！我不是说了不管谁来吊唁，都给我带来吗？她就是那盗贼的遗孀。再试一次，在绞刑架下面撒些金币，谁敢碰就给我逮来。’

“守卫兵士按命令撒了一些金币，然后各就各位等待着。阿布看到尤素夫的遗孀吊唁归来，很是高兴，便去看看哈里发又采取了什么新计策。他看到地上的金币，自言自语道：‘就凭这个还来引诱我。’这激起了他一试身手的想法，他很快就想到了一个点子，这个点子既可以偷到金币，又不会被抓。为此，他乔装成一个衣衫褴褛的弱智小乞丐，还找了个年纪更小的小脏孩陪着，两人都是一副可怜兮兮的样子，在广场上跑来跑去，好像在做什么游戏。不过在他奔跑之前，已经在鞋底上抹了一层厚厚的树胶，这样就能粘走地上的金币。卫兵都被貌似年少愚笨的阿布和小脏孩欺骗了，一致以为‘不过是两个小破孩，能拿什么金子。’可等到晚上清点金币的时候，却发现少了许多，他们顿时心生恐惧。当夜哈里发听过汇报之后，气得立刻把他们鞭笞了一顿，并下令换来新的卫兵。哈里发再次召来大盗出谋划策，大盗让他准备一头骆驼，驮上诱人的金银财宝，然后再找几个不会喝酒的生面孔牵着骆驼游街窜巷。‘这蟊贼一定经不住诱惑，肯定会再来抢劫的。’

“不久，在集市徘徊观察的阿布就留意到了这头满载金银财宝的骆驼，还有那些牵着骆驼的陌生商人。他发现这些人毫无目的地四处游荡，因此断定他们是哈里发的人。阿布又盯上了这批财宝，在他血液里有一种追求冒险的本能，而且由于雅妮公主的原因，他也希望哈里发能够注意到自己。他装了一皮囊好酒，在里面放上了尤素夫生前特制的蒙汗药，然后打扮成一个邋邋遢遢的小贩出门了。他来到骆驼徘徊的那条街，看到牵骆驼的那些人懒洋洋地走着，不住地打着哈欠，又困又乏，于是立刻吆喝起来，‘卖酒喽！一帕拉一碗！’牵骆驼的人一哄而上，美酒的滋味令他们无意识地跟着阿布走去，他们一路边喝酒边讨价还价，还嘲笑阿布的木讷，不知不觉间就走进了尤素夫的遗孀——米尔扎家门里，这个门通向一处秘密庭院。阿布停留了一会，等待药效发作，他猛地抬起头往天上看了会，用手指了指。这些牵骆驼的也跟着抬头看，却什么都没看到。原来是药效发作了，这伙人全都倒下了；阿布迅速地牵着骆驼进了院子，并关上了大门。他回来后发现牵骆驼的人都还没醒过来，就把他们的头发和胡子都剃掉了一半，然后转身离开，另换了一身行头，与路人一起嘲笑他们的丑态，此时这伙人已经醒来，正东奔西跑忙着寻找那头驮满财宝的骆驼，全然没有注意到他们荒诞的模样。为了清除所有的线索和痕迹，米尔扎吩咐下人把骆驼宰杀了，又把金银财宝分散藏起来。米尔扎是个细心节俭的家庭主妇，她叫人把驼肉煮了，炼成油脂保存在罐子里。这种油脂具有药用价值。哈里发获悉骆驼丢失的原委后，只得重新考虑如何才能捉到这个超级大盗，这个一再嘲弄他而又极富智慧的盗贼。哈里发召集了之前的大盗和一帮谋臣策士，亲自给他们讲述事情的来龙去脉，并向他们征集捉拿大盗王子的策略。‘请再试试这个计策，陛下，’大盗毕恭毕敬地禀报道，他现在大受震动，很担心他的小命就这么没了。‘请派老妪一名逐门逐户地去讨要骆驼油脂，就说是为了病中的亲人讨的。盗贼很可能因为担心被人发现，而把骆驼杀了炼成油脂存了起来。只要发现哪家有，就让她在那家门口做个记号，然后派兵把屋里所有的人都抓起来。’

“于是街上就来了一名老妇人，挨家挨户地哭诉着病痛之苦。不久她就来到了米尔扎家讨油，米尔扎给了她驼油，离开前这名老妇特意在门旁画了个叉号。她回去后就禀告了哈里发，哈里发当即召集人马，奔向标着叉号的大门赶来围捕。此时，阿布恰好刚刚回家，他看到了门口的叉号，便询问米尔扎缘故。一听米尔扎讲到那名老妇来访的事，阿布也赶紧拿了一碗驼油，在附近几条街巷的大门上都画上了同样的记号。哈里发来到街上，看到所有的门口都有记号，心中十分愤怒，转而想到他从没见过如此聪慧的人，当下又顿生敬畏钦佩之意。‘你可以活命了，’他对大盗说，‘我现在发现你根本没法跟这个贼比。他比所有的哈里发和盗贼都聪明。我们回去吧。’折返宫殿后，哈里发非常好奇，这盗贼究竟何德何能，竟然如此轻易地击败自己。

“时间一天天过去了，一天，哈里发对维齐尔[8]说：‘我总会想起那个盗我国库、抢我骆驼，还从绞刑架下偷我金币的贼。他比任何人都聪明，我们应当给他安排一个上好的职务，爱卿意下如何？我是不是应该先赦免他，等他现身之后再捉拿归案——你觉着他会不会露面呢？’‘英明的主上啊，您大可一试，’维齐尔答道。于是哈里发起草了诏书，并交由传令官公开宣布这一新命令：如果这名大盗能在指定时间内来集市自首，那么哈里发将完全赦免他的罪过，给予他自由，并赐予他大堆的旷世奇宝。当然这只是哈里发的幌子而已。

“此时阿布听到诏告万分沮丧，为命运的不公、为得不到雅妮、为尤素夫的死去，他也想有朝一日不靠偷窃也能出人头地，便谋划着如何去自首并接受哈里发的恩赐，假如这只是抓捕他的骗局，他又该如何逃脱呢。他等待已久的时刻终于到了，广场上到处都布满了卫兵，他们都收到了命令，一旦盗贼现身就立刻拿下。阿布穿着一身卫兵军服混在其中。哈里发也前来观看抓捕情况。他身边的传令官请大盗尽快出来自首，届时哈里发将饶恕他的所有罪过。阿布在人群中大喊：‘哈里发，我在这！饶恕我吧！’哈里发以为这次肯定捉得到，便大叫：‘捉住他！捉住他！’而混在人群中的阿布也跟着大喊：‘捉住他！捉住他！’同时还学着别人做出东瞅西瞧的样子。卫兵看到他也是名卫兵，就让他逃脱了。哈里发又一次被激怒了，相当懊恼，立刻回宫召集首席辅政大臣并起草了如下的诏文：

告臣民书

鉴于帝国境内有一不世出之人才，帝国政府业已指挥多次行动，付出百般努力，其人仍屡犯禁令，逃避侦缉。此高人甫一现身，帝国上下大为震惊，民心惶惶。今政府甚惜其足智多谋，怒意已消，对其表现亦感欣慰，特草此诏，以告此人及其可能求助之人士，如其有意现身并向指定人士细述其冒险经历，政府将不胜荣幸之至，并给予其特别优待，决不反悔。其身份一俟证实，即可得享富贵荣华，觐见圣上，并获赐内阁大臣一职。空口无凭，立此为证。

伊安科一世

“诏书一经哈里发签署，立即送发各大公共场所宣读。阿布听读了诏书，但由于哈里发之前设圈套诱捕，他现在不敢轻易相信了。不过同时他也很高兴，因为从这件事中可以看出，无论是好是坏，他已经引起哈里发和大臣们的极大关注；不过转念一想，即使这仍是圈套，他仍旧可以击败哈里发，或许还能赢得他的青睐，从而进一步了解雅妮公主呢。因此，他写了一封应答书贴在公共广场上，上面写着：

哈里发所寻之人应答书

圣主垂鉴：哈里发所寻之人安然居于人民之中，他尊重哈里发的意愿和良苦用心，但他仍然心有余悸。在此，他请求哈里发不要命令他去表明身份，他恳请哈里发另外设计一种方法，指定一个时间，要在黑暗中，不会威胁到他的人身安全。他要能看到对方的面孔。务必确保现场不会有人捉拿他。

哈里发所寻之人

“这封应答书很快就呈送到哈里发手上，他立刻召集大臣商议，既然没有别的办法将其捉拿归案，也只好另想办法来诱捕他。王宫城墙上设有一扇窗，那就是著名的‘倾诉之窗’，一直以来，很多遭遇不幸或遭人陷害而又昭雪无望的人都会在夜晚定时来此哭诉，而坐在里面倾听的通常是哈里发的女儿雅妮公主，她心地善良、人品高尚。经雅妮转述，哈里发了解到很多悲惨的情形。此时，哈里发就想通过这种方式来捉拿大盗。为了确保大盗能够现身，他公开宣布只要有人能来说出当时是如何进入国库，如何从绞刑架下偷走金币以及如何偷走并杀死了骆驼，他就能获得一袋第纳尔金币以及一道特赦诏令；以后，如果他愿意公开现身的话，他还会被赐封为国务大臣。

“看到新诏文，想到可能会再看到公主，阿布动心了，他决定再跟哈里发比一比本领。他化装成一名卖烟草的小贩，慢慢走近那扇窗口，透过窗栅栏往里瞅了又瞅，开口说道：‘伟大的哈里发公主，看看我这个悲惨的人儿吧，我就是哈里发要找的人，不知道他是要赏我还是要杀我。我也是那个在你去阿卓山区和伊什帕里夏宫路上看到的人，当时你从我父亲的地毯集市门前路过，还掀开轿帘，摘下面纱，对我展露了微笑。我至今还珍藏着，’他摸了摸胸口，‘这支枯萎的桃金娘花，据说它来自伊什帕里，一看到它我就难抑伤心泪。’

“雅妮听后大惊失色，没想到现在面对的就是父亲费尽心思追捕的大盗，而且他竟然自称是自己一直念念不忘的英俊少年，然而她又担心这是维齐尔或某位嫔妃搞鬼使坏，可能有人听说了她这份有点特别的爱情，有些人总是对比她们年轻漂亮的人充满恶意。因此她有点不知所措了。她感觉应该机智一些、宽容一些，便问：‘你说什么？你既是我父亲追捕的大盗，还是当时见我微笑的地毯商的儿子，我怎么可能忘记安拉的训诫而对着一个盗贼微笑呢？所以，倘若如你所说，那我就要叫人拿盏灯来看看。不管你是地毯商的儿子，还是大盗，或者都是，我希望你能够得到饶恕，拿走这袋属于你的金币，当然你必须向我细述你是如何进入国库、如何从绞刑架下盗取金币，还有如何从一群人手里偷走骆驼的。’‘乐意之至，我的公主，’阿布答道，‘不过，在我向您展露真实面容之前，可否让我先核实一下，您是不是我当日见过的那位少女？她那么美丽善良，绝不会伤害任何人。如果您愿意先摘下面纱让我一睹芳容，就像您当时离去时那样，我就立刻摘掉头巾，向您证实我没有撒谎。’

“一想到那个令她朝思暮想的英俊青年竟是父亲通缉的大盗，公主立刻心乱如麻，犹豫异常，不知是该遵从父命还是忠于心上人，最后她只好答道：‘好吧，不过有一个条件：如果你说的属实，你既是你所说的我喜欢的那个人，又是在我父亲的王国里犯下那些大罪的要犯，那么你可以拿着这份特赦令还有你的金币离开了；但不能再来骚扰我和我父亲，因为我无法忍受我喜欢的人虽然仪表堂堂，却是个贼！’

“听到雅妮这样说，阿布心中一紧，一股巨大的哀伤袭上心头；他亲眼目睹了尤素夫的死，此时他再次感到盗贼生涯的恐怖悲惨。他也深知公主所言有情有义，于是答道：‘好的，公主，我答应你，我早就决心不再为非作歹了，当时走上这条路也不是我的意愿，今后更不会扰乱你们的生活。如果我看到的正是我朝思暮想的那个可爱面庞，我将从此消失，决不再来，因为我不想跟任何爱你的人共处一国。我呢，唉，就是那个大盗，我马上告诉你我是怎么从绞刑架下还有你父亲的国库里偷走金币的；但这袋金子我不会再动了，我只要他的特赦令，我真是这么想的。虽然我生而为贼，但从此不是了。’听了他发自肺腑的话语，看到他言谈举止间流露出的高贵气质，公主深受感动，但唯恐灯光亮起后美梦就会结束，她满含悲伤地说：‘但愿如此。如果你真是那个大盗，你必须给我讲讲你是怎么做上贼的，我不敢相信我感觉那么好的一个人竟然尽做坏事。’

“阿布感到自己已经遭到报应，非常难过地答应了。火把拿来后，公主拨开面纱。阿布再次看到那张他魂牵梦萦的脸庞，顿时百感交集，感动得说不出话来，便从脸上撕下伪装，面对着公主。雅妮再一次看到这张英俊的面孔，这些日子里她日夜思念的就是他，他不敢相信，也不敢说话，于是她摘下面纱，静静地坐着，听阿布讲述他坎坷的经历，整个少年时代，他只记得自己屡次被打，被教唆着干坏事，所以长大后他就只知道为非作歹了；接着他又讲了自己是怎么进宝库盗宝，又是怎么犯下哈里发公布的其他罪行的，而之所以犯下这些罪，主要是为了保护尤素夫的遗孀，同时跟哈里发一较高下。尽管他为恶甚多，公主却非常佩服他的机智从容，况且人长得又这么英俊，所以有点茫然不知所措了。尽管哈里发已经公开作出承诺并发出诏文，但他还是明确要求雅妮，只要阿布一露面，她就要配合抓捕他，而这偏偏是她无法做到的。最后她对阿布说道：‘你走吧，不要再回来了，因为我不敢再见你了，而且哈里发也不会让你好过的。我回去后会告诉父亲，你不会再骚扰他了。’阿布回答道：‘请放心，公主，我说到做到。’接着，雅妮打开了窗子护栏，递给他那份无效的特赦令和那袋金子，但阿布没拿金子，而是轻轻地抓起她的手吻了一下，然后便离开了。

“雅妮回去之后，向父亲讲述了国库被盗的经过以及此后发生的一系列事件，同时补充说，她之所以没能抓住他的手将他逮到，是因为他没有伸手拿金子。阿布安然无恙地拿走了哈里发签署的特赦令，他的机灵让哈里发再次追悔莫及。哈里发只好重新思索怎样才能再设计一个新的抓捕圈套。他想起雅妮说盗贼长得年轻英俊，那么用雅妮作诱饵，兴许就能逮住他，于是哈里发便起草了如下这份诏文，也是最后一份，诏曰：

告巴格达人民书

与署名为‘哈里发所寻之人’的数次较量均告失败后，政府依然对其采取了最宽大的政策，并为其授予了哈里发亲自签发并加盖玉玺的特赦令，在此，政府郑重宣布，如果这名最聪明的大盗愿意前来接受我们的敬意与善意，政府承诺：倘其少年有为，彬彬有礼，我们愿意招其为驸马，并教导他成为公主的左膀右臂；如若不是，则倘其正值盛年，我们将聘其为国务大臣兼内阁首辅。为了充分表明我们的诚意，我们特将七月三日定为全国假日，并在宫中大院举办群众公共宴会。如果这名最聪明的逃犯届时现身自首，我们在此重申，一定严格执行上述承诺，欢迎他进入我们的生活，政府将给予他充分的信任。空口无凭，立此为证。

伊安科一世

“哈里发把这篇诏文拿给女儿，雅妮看后幽幽地叹了口气，因为她知道哈里发这次的陷阱又要落空了——阿布不是说了不会再回来了吗？但哈里发依旧按计划实施，一心想着这回终于可以抓到阿布了。

“此时也门，即阿布作为合法继承人的王国，正遭逢大变。他的父亲喀尔·闪已经过世，无耻的篡国者巴布·埃尔·巴尔发动了宫廷政变妄图篡位，不过以失败告终，他向拥护喀尔·闪的大臣们供认了他绑架侯赛因王子以及将其卖给巴格达的地毯商为奴的经过。于是也门立即派出信使和皇家使团，前去寻找侯赛因王子。他们来到巴格达，先找到了尤素夫的遗孀，她告诉他们尤素夫有很多奴隶，其中有一个孩子原来是叫侯赛因，不过他们早给他改名为阿布了。

“因此，阿布从‘倾诉之窗’一回来，就见到了在米尔扎家里恭候着他的来自祖国的使臣们，他们发现阿布年轻英俊，才智过人。经过仔细询问，他们确定阿布就是他们所寻找的侯赛因王子。于是便将他高贵的身份地位一一禀报，并以也门人民的名义拥戴他继承喀尔·闪的王位。

“此时，侯赛因（之前的阿布）方才知道自己竟也如此高贵，便思念起美丽的雅妮公主，想着公主对他的爱慕和他对公主绵绵不绝的爱恋，他再次萌生了要智胜哈里发的念头。为此，他让随从以也门使臣的名义致信哈里发，说他们经过漫长的寻找，终于找到了王子，同时应王子的礼善之命，特向哈里发致以问候。哈里发一向希望与周边国家的人民和睦共处，尤其是强大的也门，他接到信后非常高兴，立刻派出一帮大臣拜访侯赛因王子，此时侯赛因已和随行人员住在城中一家大旅馆中，大臣们向他转达了哈里发的邀请，请他即刻动身前往王宫，以便妥善接待。于是阿布便以真身拜会了哈里发，并受到了隆重的款待，哈里发还特别为他举办了不少为期多日的公共庆祝活动。

“伊安科前不久为诱捕阿布而设的假日就在活动期间。为了愉悦贵宾，哈里发向王子完整地讲述了大盗的故事以及他为抓捕大盗所采取的种种措施，可惜无一奏效。他在侯赛因王子面前毫不掩饰自己对大盗神偷绝活的敬佩之情，最后他说，倘若有谁知道怎样才能抓住阿布，他愿意提拔这人为内阁大臣，倘若这人年轻有为、出身高贵，他还愿意把女儿嫁给他。听到这个承诺，侯赛因觉得可以此来赢得雅妮公主，便当众宣布自己愿意一试，他准备到时以悍匪的身份现身，同时命一名随从在当天扮成王子。

“盛大的筵席假日终于到来了，传令官走街串巷宣传盛宴以及哈里发给予阿布的恩赐，城中弥漫着欢乐的氛围。公共广场上摆上了长长的餐桌，挂满了各式各样的标语旗帜。美丽的雅妮公主也听说了父亲对侯赛因王子许下的承诺，但她一点也不担心，因为她相信阿布，相信他说过的话，更相信他的本领。广场上，民众越聚越多，哈里发、列位大臣以及冒牌侯赛因在筵席首桌就座后，哈里发举手示意安静。财政大臣站在台阶上，背后即是张贴皇榜的布告栏，他重新宣读了之前的诏文，并让阿布即刻当众现身并接受哈里发的赏赐，否则将永远禁止出现。阿布，也就是现在的侯赛因，已经装扮成一名凶恶的山贼来到了人群中间，这时他主动走上前来，手中高高地举着哈里发的特赦令，并当众宣布他就是那个盗贼，他能证明自己的身份。同时，他要求哈里发兑现承诺，把女儿嫁给他。哈里发大为震惊，没有想到这么笨拙、凶恶的大老粗竟然是那名无比聪明的盗贼，他甚为疑惑，心想赶紧找个借口推掉。但是当着这么多人的面，他自己又是有言在先，这让他顿时困窘异常，不知如何是好。这时，躲在屏风后面的雅妮公主传话给他，说这个恶贼根本就是个骗子，压根就不是之前找过她的那个人。哈里发这才发觉自己上了当，大为光火，立刻命人把这个疑似冒牌的阿布逮住绑了起来，此时冒牌的侯赛因穿着王子的衣装走上前来，请求哈里发释放这名悍匪，因为他并非悍匪，而正是他们千里迢迢寻觅到的真正的王子。

“真正的侯赛因觉着玩笑也开够了，便脱掉悍匪的装束来到哈里发面前，向伊安科讲述起他坎坷的经历。听到这，哈里发回想起阿布之前说过的话，便不住地打量着他，心想既然他贵为也门王子，正可谓是雅妮的如意郎君，便差人把公主叫了出来。雅妮一看甚是惊讶与疑惑，没想到还能再次见到失去的爱人，更没想到他现在摇身一变已经贵为王子了，这让她惊喜颤抖之余又甚是娇羞含情。哈里发见此高兴地不得了，不知此为何故，顿时来了兴致，急欲尽知个中缘由。于是，侯赛因便向哈里发讲述了在雅妮去伊什帕里的路上，经过他盗贼养父的集市时，他有幸一睹芳容，自此之后他一直哀叹自己的出身太过低微，因此这段姻缘根本无法企及，值得庆幸的是现在自己终于可以光明正大地向她袒露心迹了。哈里发被这浪漫的爱情感动了，便问雅妮有什么想法。雅妮羞涩地答道，她一直也没有忘记阿布。侯赛因立即又重申了他对雅妮永不褪色的爱恋，说如果雅妮愿意接受他作丈夫、哈里发愿意接受他作驸马，他愿当场迎娶雅妮为王后，并在回国前择日举行大婚。喜事临门，哈里发也不甘示弱，立即宣布他不仅乐意接受如此聪明的王子作驸马，更愿意立他为嗣子，待他百年之后，王子和雅妮就可以共同统治也门和他的王国了，接着人群中爆出如雷的欢呼声，侯赛因王子和雅妮公主携手骑上骏马，来到欢呼的人群中接受祝福。

“现在，各位听众朋友，”虽然故事讲完了，噶扎尔仍然以极富感染力的语言讲着，“你们都听了不幸的阿布是如何依靠聪明智慧，赢得了美好的爱情、荣誉、财富以及两个国家的统治权；可是我，依旧是个可怜的流浪汉啊——”

大家一看他这还想要钱，都感觉就这么单薄的一个故事，钱已经给的够多了，纷纷起身离开。苏迪和帕尔斐边走还边骂他是盗贼土匪；噶扎尔数着手里那一小堆安那，还不忘抬头看看飘来饭香的阿尔·哈德雅兹的饭馆，还有那边驼队栖身的地方，看来今晚只能跟骆驼睡在一块了，他不禁摇了摇头叹了口气。讲个故事受了这么多屈辱，得到的也只够今天的半顿饭和一个铺而已，明天的还没有着落呢。

“真主啊，”他感慨道，“即便一个人周游世界，收集了各色离奇曲折的故事，想方设法来丰富它们，保持故事的新鲜感，就像往里面注入没药和熏香的芬芳，玫瑰和曙光的色彩，可即便如此煞费苦心，到头来还是挣不到一顿饭一张床，这样还有何用啊？真主啊！要不是我这胳膊残废了，我还用得着费这个劲讲这破烂故事啊！”他一边说着，一边把手鼓塞进了缠腰布里，然后迈着疲惫的步伐向清真寺走去，因为《古兰经》教导人们饭前必须祈祷。

[1] 印度等地的货币单位，1卢比=16安那；1安那=14派士，即1卢比=16安那=224派士。

[2] 弹拨鼓是中东地区的一种手持鼓类乐器，常以独奏方式来表现表演者在节奏和速度方面灵巧的功力。

[3] 哈里发是伊斯兰教中宗教及世俗界最高统治者的称号。先知穆罕默德去世后，“哈里发”被用于指称穆罕默德的继承人，即穆斯林社群组织的领袖。

[4] 此两处原文误作“尤素夫”，实应为“侯赛因”。

[5] 此两处原文误作“尤素夫”，实应为“侯赛因”。

[6] 苏丹，又译作“素丹”，旧译“算端”、“速檀”、“锁鲁檀”、“苏尔坦”等，为部分伊斯兰教国家君主的称谓，原意为“力量”或“权柄”，引申为“君主”或“统治者”。

[7] 第纳尔起源于公元693年，为倭马亚王朝的哈里发阿布杜勒·马利克在大马士革打造的伊斯兰世界上最早的金币。

[8] 维齐尔，伊斯兰国家历史上对宫廷大臣或宰相的称谓，他们为穆斯林君主如哈里发及苏丹服务。

1.Khat

"0, thou blessed that contains no demon, but a fairy! When I follow thee thou takest me into regions overlooking Paradise. My sor- rows are as nothing. My rags are become as robes of silk. My feet are shod, not worn and bleeding. I lift uf my head — Flower of Paradise! O Flower of Paradise!" old Arabian song.

"When the European is weary he calls for alcohol to revive him; when he is joyful he thinks of wine that he may have more joy. In like manner the Chinese wooes his 'white lady,' the poppy flower. The Indian chews bhang, and the West African seeks surcease in kola. To the Yemen Arab, khat, the poor man's happiness, his 'flower of paradise,' is more than any of these to its devotees. It is no narcotic compelling sleep, but a stimulant like alcohol, a green shrub that grows upon the hills in moist places. On the roads leading to the few cities of Arabia, and in the cities themselves, it may be seen being borne on the backs of camels to the market-place or the wedding feast — the wet and dripping leaves of the shrub. The poor and the well- to-do at once crave and adore it. They speak of it as 'the strength of the weak,' 'the inspiration of the depressed,' 'the dispeller of sorrow and too deep care.' All who may, buy and chew it, the poor by the anna's worth, the rich by the rupee. The beggar when he can beg or steal it — even he is happy too." American consular report.

The dawn had long since broken over the heat-weary cup and slopes of the Mugga Valley, in which lies Hodeidah. In the centre of the city, like a mass of up- turned yellow cups and boxes surrounded by a ring of green and faced by the sea, were the houses, with their streets and among and in them the shop- keepers of streets or ways busy about the labors of the day. Al Hajjaj, the cook, whose place was near the mosque in the centre of the public square, had already set his pots and pans over the fire and washed his saucers and wiped his scales and swept his shop and sprinkled it. And indeed his fats and oils were clear and his spices fragrant, and he himself was standing behind his cooking pots ready to serve customers. Likewise those who dealt in bread, ornaments, dress goods, had put forth such wares as they had to offer. In the mosque a few of the faithful had entered to pray. Over the dust of the ill- swept street, not yet cleared of the rubbish of the day before, the tikka gharries of the better-to-do dragged their way along the road about various errands. The same was speckled with natives in bright or dull attire, some alive with the interest of business, others dull be- cause of a life that offered little.

In his own miserable wattle-covered shed or hut, no more than an abandoned donkey's stall at the edge of the city, behold Ibn Abdullah. Beggar, ne'er-do- well, implorer of charity before the mosque, ex-water-carrier and tobacco seller in Mecca and Medina, from whence he had been driven years before by his extortions and adulterations, he now turned wearily, by no means anxious to rise although it was late. For why rise when you are old and weary and ragged, and life offers at best only a little food and sleep — or not so much food as (best and most loved of all earthly blessings) khat, the poor man's friend? For that, more than food or drink, he craved. Yet how to come by it was a mystery. There was about him not a single anna wherewith to sate his needs — not so much as a pice!

Indeed, as Ibn Abdullah now viewed his state, he had about reached the end of his earthly tether. His career was and had been a failure. Born in the mountain district back of Hodeidah, in the little village of Sabar, source of the finest khat, where formerly his father had been a khat farmer, his mother a farmer's helper, he had wandered far, here and there over Arabia and elsewhere, making a living as best he might: usually by trickery. Once for a little while he had been a herdsman with a Bedouin band, and had married a daughter of the tribe, but, restlessness and a lust of novelty overcoming him, he had, in time, deserted his wife and wandered hence. Thence to Jiddah, the port of de- barkation for pilgrims from Egypt and Central Africa approach- ing Mecca and Medina, the birthplace and the burialplace of the Prophet. Selling trinkets and sacred relics, water and tobacco and fruit and food, and betimes indulging in trickery and rob- bery, he had finally been taken in the toils of the Cadis of both Mecca and Medina, by whose henchmen he had been sadly drubbed on his back and feet and ordered away, never to return. Venturing once more into the barren desert, a trailer of caravans, he had visited Taif, Taraba and Makhwa, but find- ing life tedious in these smaller places he had finally drifted southward along the coast of the Red Sea to the good city of Hodeidah, where, during as many as a dozen years now, he had been eking out a wretched existence, story-telling, selling tobacco (when he could get it) or occasionally false relics to the faithful. Having grown old in this labor, his tales commonplace, his dishonesty and lack of worth and truth well known, he was now weary and helpless, truly one near an unhonored end.

Time was, in his better days and greater strength, as he now bethought him on this particular morning, when he had had his full share of khat, and food too. Ay-ee! There had been some excellent days in the past, to be sure! Not even old Raschid, the khat drunkard, or Al Hajjaj, the cook, who might be seen of a late afternoon before his shop, his pillow and carpets and water chatties about him, his narghili lit, a bunch of khat by his side, his wife and daughter at the window above listening to him and his friends as they smoked or chewed and discoursed, had more of khat and food than had he. By Allah, things were dif- ferent then! He had had his girls, too, his familiar places in the best of the mabrazes, where were lights and delightful strains of song, and dancing betimes. He had sung and applauded and recounted magnificent adventures with the best of them. Ay-ee!

But of late he had not done well — not nearly as well as in times past. He was very, very old now, that was the reason; his bones ached and even creaked. An undue reputation for evil things done in the past — Inshallah! no worse than those of a million others — pursued him wherever he went. It was remembered of him, unfortunately, here in Hodeidah, as in Mecca and Medina (due no doubt to the lying, blasting tongue — may it wither in his mouth! — of Tahrbulu, the carrier, whom he had known in Mecca) — that he had been bastinadoed there for adulterating the tobacco he sold — a little dried goats' and camels' dung, windblown and clean; and as for Taif, to which place he had gone after Mecca, Firaz, the ex-caravan guard who had known him in that place — the dog! — might his bones wither in the sun! — had recalled to various and sundry that at Mecca he had been imprisoned for selling water from a rain-pit as at that of the sacred well of Jezer! Be it so; he was hard pressed at the time; there was no place to turn; business was poor — and great had been his yearning for khat.

But since then he had aged and wearied and all his efforts at an honest livelihood had served him ill. Betimes his craving for khat had grown, the while his ability to earn it — aye, even to beg it with any success! — had decreased. Here in Hodeidah he was too well known (alas, much too well known!), and yet where else was he to go? By sea it was all of three hundred miles to Aden, a great and generous place, so it was said, but how was he to get there at his time of life? No captain would carry him. He would be tossed into the sea like a rat. Had he not begged and been roundly cursed? And to Jiddah, whereby thou- sands came to Mecca, a full five hundred miles north, he dare not return. Were he there, no doubt he would do better: the faithful were generous. . . . But were he caught in the realm of the Grand Sherif — No ; Hodeidah had its advantages.

He arose after a time, and, without ablutions, prostrating himself weakly in the direction of Mecca, adjusted his ragged loin- and shoulder-cloths and prepared to emerge for the day. Although hungry and weak, it was not food but khat that he desired, a few leaves of the green, succulent, life-giving plant that so restored his mood and strength and faculties generally. By Allah, if he had but a little, a handful, his thoughts con- cerning life would be so much more endurable. He might even, though cracked and wretched was his voice, tell a tale or two to idlers and so earn an honest anna. Or he would have more courage to beg, to lie, to mourn before the faithful. Yea, had he not done so often? With it he was as good as any man, as young, as hopeful; without it — well, he was as he was: feeble and worn.

As he went forth finally along the hot, dusty road which led into the city and the public market and mosque, lined on either side by low one-story mud houses of the poor, window- less, and with the roadway in front as yet unswept, his thoughts turned in eager seeking to that khat market, hard by the public square and beyond the mosque, whose pineapple-shaped dome he could even now see rising in the distance over the low roofs before him. Here it was that at about eleven o'clock in the morning the khat camels bearing their succulent loads would come winding along the isthmus road from the interior. He could see them now, hear their bells, the long striding camels, their shouting drivers, the green herb, wet and sweet, piled in refreshing masses upon their backs! How well he knew the process of its arrival — the great rock beyond the Jiddah gate casting a grateful shade, the two little black policemen ready to take custom toll of each load and give a receipt, the huge brutes halting before the door of the low kutcha-thatched inn, there to pick at some wisps of grass while their masters went inside to have a restful pull at a hubbuk (water-pipe) and a drink of kishr, or maybe a bowl of curds. Meanwhile, a flock of shrewd youngsters, bribelings of the merchants of the bazaars within the city, would flit about the loaded animals, seeking to steal a leaf or to thrust an appraising glance into the closely wrapped bundles, in order that they might report as to the sweetness and freshness of their respective loads.

"What, O kowasji, is the quality of your khat to-day? Which beast carries the best, and has thy driver stinted no water on the journey to keep it fresh?"

To find the true answers to these questions had these urchins taken their bribe-money in the bazaars. But the barefoot police- man would chase them away, the refreshed drivers would come out again, fiercely breathing calumnies against the grand- mothers of such brats, and the little caravan would pick its way upward and downward again into the market.

But to-day, too weary to travel so far, even though by sighs and groans and many prayers for their well-being he might obtain so little as a leaf or two from the comfortable drivers, he betook himself slowly toward the market itself. En route, and especially as he neared a better portion of the city, where tikka gharries might be seen, he was not spareful of "Alms, in the name of Allah! Allah! Alms!" or "May thy hours in paradise be endless!" But none threw him so much as a pice. Instead, those who recognized his familiar figure, the sad antithesis of all industry and well-being, turned away or called: "Out of the way, thou laggard! To one side, dog!"

When he reached the market, however, not without having cast a wishful eye at the shining pots and saucers of Al Hajjaj en route, the adjoining bazaar had heard of the coming of the green-laden caravan, and from the dark shops, so silent until now, cheerful cries were beginning to break forth. Indeed the streets were filled with singing and a stream of lean figures all headed one way. Like himself they were going to the khat market, only so much better equipped for the occasion — rupees and anna in plenty for so necessary and delectable an herb. Tikka gharries rattled madly past him, whips were waved and turbans pushed awry; there were flashes of color from rich men's gowns, as they hurried to select the choicest morsels, the clack of oryx-hide sandals, and the blunt beating of tom-toms. As the camels arrived in the near distance, the market was filled with a restless, yelling mob. Bedlam had broken loose, but a merry, good-natured bedlam at that. For khat, once obtained, would ease whatever ill feeling or mourning unrest or weari- ness one might feel.

Although without a pice wherewith to purchase so much as a stalk, still Ibn could not resist the temptation of entering here. What, were none of the faithful merciful? By Allah, impossible! Perchance — who knows? — there might be a stranger, a foreigner, who in answer to his appealing glance, his out- stretched hands, an expression of abject despair which long since he had mastered, would cast him an anna, or even a rupee (it had happened ! ) , or some one, seeing him going away empty- handed or standing at the gate outside, forlorn and cast down, and asking always alms, alms, would cast him a delicious leaf or spray of the surpassing delight.

But no; this day, as on the day previous, and the one before that, he had absolutely no success. What was it — the hand of fate itself? Had Allah truly forsaken him at last? In a happy babel, and before his very eyes, the delicious paradisiacal stimulant was weighed on government scales and taxed again — the Emir must live! And then, divided into delicious bundles the thickness of a man's forearm, it was offered for sale. Ah, the beauty of those bundles — the delight therein contained — the surcease even now! The proud sellers, in turban and shirt, were mounting the small tables or stands about the place and beginning to auction it off, each bundle bringing its own price. "Min kam! Min kam!" Hadji, the son of Dodow, was now crying — Hadji, whom Ibn had observed this many a day as a seller here. He was waving a bunch above the outstretched hands of the crowd. "How much? How much will you give for this flower of paradise, this bringer of happiness, this dispeller of all weakness? Tis as a maiden's eyes. 'Tis like bees' breath for fragrance. 'Tis — "

"That I might buy!" sighed Ibn heavily. "That I might buy! Who will give me so much as a spray?"

"One anna" (two cents), yelled a mirthful and contemptuous voice, knowing full well the sacrilege of the offer.

"Thou scum ! O thou miserable little tick on the back of a sick camel ! " replied the seller irritably. "May my nose grow a beard if it is not worth two rupees at the very least!"

"Bismillah! There is not two rupees' worth in all thy filthy godown, budmashA"

"Thou dog! Thou detractor! But why should one pay atten- tion to one who has not so much as an anna wherewith to ease himself? To those who have worth and many rupees — look, be- hold, how green, how fresh!"

And Al Hajjaj, the cook, and Ahmed, the carpet-weaver, stepped forward and took each a bundle for a rupee, the while Ibn Abdullah, hanging upon the skirt of the throng and pushed contemptuously here and there, eyed it all sadly. Other bundles in the hands of other sellers were held up and quickly disposed of — to Chudi, the baker, Azad Bakht, the barber, Izz-al-Din, the seller of piece goods, and so on, until within the hour all was exhausted and the place deserted. On the floor was now left only the litter and debris of stems and deadened leaves, to be haggled over by the harjis (vendors of firewood), the sweepers, scavengers and beggars generally, of whom he was one ; only for the want of a few pice, an anna at the most, he would not even now be allowed to carry away so much as a stem of this, so ill had been his fortunes these many, many days. In this pell-mell scene, where so many knew him and realized the craving where- with he was beset, not one paused to offer him a sprig. He was as wretched as before, only hungrier and thirstier.

And then, once the place was finally deserted, not a leaf or a stem upon the ground, he betook himself slowly and wearily to his accustomed place in the shadow of one of the six columns which graced the entryway of the mosque (the place of beggars), there to lie and beseech of all who entered or left that they should not forget the adjuration of the Prophet "and give thy kinsman his due and the poor and the son of the road." At noon he entered with others and prayed, for there at least he was wel- come, but alas, his thoughts were little on the five prescribed daily prayers and the morning and evening ablutions — no, not even upon food, but rather upon khat. How to obtain it — a leaf — a stem !

Almost perforce his thoughts now turned to the days of his youth, when as a boy living on the steep terraced slope of the mountains between Taiz and Yerim, he was wont literally to dwell among the small and prosperous plantations of the khat farmers who flourished there in great numbers. Indeed, before his time, his father had been one such, and Sabar and Hirwa, two little villages in the Taiz district, separated only by a small hill, and in the former of which he was born, were famous all over Arabia for the khat that was raised there. Next to that which came from Bokhari, the khat of Sabar, his home town, was and remained the finest in all Yemen. Beside it even that of Hirwa was coarse, thin and astringent, and more than once he had heard his mother, who was a khat-picker, say that one might set out Sabari plants in Hirwa and that they quickly be- came coarse, but remove Hirwa plants to Sabar, and they grew sweet and delicate.

And there as a child he — who could not now obtain even so much as a leaf of life-giving khat! — had aided his mother in picking or cutting the leaves and twigs of khat that constituted the crops of this region — great camel-loads of it! In memory now he could see the tasks of the cooler months, where, when new fields were being planted, they were started from cuttings buried in shallow holes four to six inches apart with space enough between the rows for pickers to pass; how the Yemen cow and the sad-eyed camel, whose maw was never full, had to be guarded against, since they had a nice taste in cuttings, and thorn twigs and spiny cactus leaves had to be laid over the young shoots to discourage the marauders.

At the end of a year the young shrubs, now two feet high, had a spread of thick green foliage eighteen inches in diameter. Be- hold now the farmer going out into the dawn of each morning to gaze at his field and the sky, in the hope of seeing the portents of harvest time. On a given morning the air would be thick with bulbuls, sparrows, weaver birds, shrilly clamoring} they would rise and fall above the plants, picking at the tenderest leaves. "Allah be praised!" would cry the farmer in delight. "The leaves are sweet and ripe for the market!" And now he would call his women and the wives of his neighbors to the crop-picking. Under a bower of jasmine vines, with plumes of the sweet smelling rehan y the farmer and his cronies would gather to drink from tiny cups and smoke the hubbuk, while the womenfolk brought them armfuls of the freshly cut khat leaves. What a joyous time it was for all the village, for always the farmer distributed the whole of his first crop among his neighbors, in the name of Allah, that Allah's blessings might thus be secured on all the succeeding ones. Would that he were in Sabar or Hirwa once more!

But all this availed him nothing. He was sick and weary, with little strength and no money wherewith to return ; besides, if he did, the fame of his evil deeds would have preceded him per- haps. Again, here in Hodeidah, as elsewhere in Arabia, the cities and villages especially, khat-chewing was not only an appetite but a habit, and even a social custom or function, with the many, and required many rupees the year to satisfy. Indeed one of the painful things in connection with all this was that, not unlike eating in other countries, or tea at least, it had come to involve a paraphernalia and a ritual all its own, one might say. At this very noon hour here in Hodeidah, when, because of his luck, he was here before the temple begging instead of having a com- fortable home of his own, hundreds — aye, thousands — who an hour earlier might have been seen wending their way happily homeward from the market, their eyes full of a delicious content, their jaws working, a bundle of the precious leaves under their arms, might now be found in their private or public mabraz making themselves comfortable, chewing and digesting this same, and not until the second hour of the afternoon would they again be seen. They all had this, their delight, to attend to!

Aye, go to the house of any successful merchant, (only the accursed Jews and the outlanders did not use khat) between these hours and say that you had urgent news for him or that you had come to buy a lakh of rupees' worth of skins. . . . His servant would meet you on the verandah (accursed dogs! How well he knew them and their airs!) and offer the profoundest apologies . . . the master would be unutterably sick (here he would begin to weep), or his sister's husband's aunt's mother had died this very morning and full of unutterable woe as he was he would be doing no business; or certainly he had gone to Tawahi but assuredly would return by three. Would the caller wait? And at that very moment the rich dog would be in his mabraz at the top of his house smoking his hubbuk and chewing his leaves — he who only this morning had refused Ibn so much as a leaf. Bismillah! Let him rot like a dead jackal!

Or was it one who was less rich? Behold the public mabraz, such as he — Ibn — dared not even look into save as a wandering teller of tales, or could only behold from afar. For here these prosperous swine could take their ease in the heat of the day, cool behind trellised windows of these same, or at night could dream where were soft lights and faint strains of song, where sombre shadow-steeped figures swayed as though dizzy with the sound of their own voices, chanting benedictions out of the Koran or the Prophets. Had he not told tales for them in his time, the uncharitable dogs? Even now, at this noon hour, one might see them, the habitues of these same well-ventilated and well- furnished public rooms, making off in state for their favorite diversion, their khat tied up in a bright shawl and conspicuously displayed — for whom except himself, so poor or so low that he could not afford a little? — and all most anxious that all the world should know that they went thus to enjoy them- selves. In the mabraz, each one his rug and pillow arranged for him, he would recline, occupying the space assigned him and no more. By his side would be the tall narghili or hubbuk, the two water-pots or chatties on copper stands, and a bowl of sweets. Bismillah, he was no beggar! When the mabraz was comfortably filled with customers a servant would come and light the pipes, some one would produce a Koran or commence a story — not he any more, for they would not have him, such was his state — and the afternoon's pleasure would begin. Occa- sionally the taraba (a kind of three-stringed viol) would be played, or, as it might happen, a favorite singer be present. Then the happy cries of "Taieeb!" or "Marhabba! Marhabba!" (Good! ), or the more approbative "O friend, excellent indeed!" would be heard. How well he remembered his own share in all this in former years, and how little the knowledge of it all profited him now — how little ! Ah, what a sadness to be old and a beggar in the face of so much joy!

But as he mused in the shade, uttering an occasional "Alms, alms, in the name of Allah!" as one or another of the faithful entered or left the mosque, there came from the direction of the Jiddah gate, the regular khat-bearing camel route, shrill cries and yells. Looking up now, he saw a crowd of boys racing toward the town, shouting as they ran: "Al khat aja!" (the khat has come), a thing which of itself boded something unusual — a marriage or special feast of some kind, for at this late hour for what other reason would khat be brought? The market was closed j the chewers of khat already in their mabrazes. From somewhere also, possibly in the house of a bridegroom, came the faint tunk-a-lunk of a tom-tom, which now seemed to take up the glad tidings and beat out its summons to the wedding guests.

"Bismallah! What means this?" commented the old beggar to himself, his eyes straining in the direction of the crowd} then folding his rags about him he proceeded to limp in the direction of the noise. At the turn of a narrow street leading into the square his eye was gladdened truly enough by the sight of a khat-bearing camel, encompassed by what in all likelihood, and as he well knew was the custom on such occasions, a cloud of "witnesses" (seekers of entertainment or food at any feast) to the probable approaching marriage. Swathed round the belly of the camel as it came and over its load of dripping green herbs, was laid a glorious silken cloth, blazing with gold and hung with jasmine sprays j and though tom-toms thumped and fifes squealed a furious music all about him, the solemn beast bore his burden as if it were some majesty of state.

"By Allah," observed the old beggar wearily yet eyeing the fresh green khat with zest, "that so much joy should be and I have not a pice, let alone an anna! Would that I might take a spray — that one might fall ! "

"Friend," he ventured after a moment, turning to a water- carrier who was standing by, one almost as poor as himself if more industrious, "what means this? Has not Ramazan passed and is not Mohorrum yet to come?"

"Dost thou address me, thou bag of bones?" returned the carrier, irritated by this familiarity on the part of one less than himself.

"Sahib," returned the beggar respectfully, using a term which he knew would flatter the carrier, no more entitled to a "Sir" than himself, "use me not ill. I am in sore straits and weak. Is it for a marriage or a dance, perhaps?"

"Thou hast said," replied the carrier irritably, " — of Zeila, daughter of old Bhori, the tin-seller in the bazaar, to Abdul, whose father is jemidar of chaprassies at the burra bungalow."

At the mere mention of marriage there came into the mind of Ibn the full formula for any such in Hodeidah — for had he not attended them in his time, not so magnificent as this perhaps but marriages of sorts? From noon on all the relatives and friends invited would begin to appear in twos and threes in the makhdara, where all preparations for the entertainment of the guests had no doubt been made. Here for them to sit on in so rich a case as this (or so he had heard in the rumored affairs of the rich), would be long benches of stone or teak, and upon them beautiful carpets and pillows. (In all the marriages he had been permitted to attend these were borrowed for the occasion from relatives or friends.) Madayeh, or water-bubbles, would be ready, although those well enough placed in the affairs of this world would prefer to bring their own, carried by a servant. A lot of little chatties for the pipes would be on hand, as well as a number of fire-pots, these latter outside the makhdara with a dozen boys, fan in hand, ready to refill for each guest his pipe with tobacco and fire on the first call of "Ya yi~yall!" How well he remembered his services as a pipe-filler on occasions of this kind in his youth, how well his pleasure as guest or friend, rela- tive even on one occasion, in his earlier and more prosperous years and before he had become an outcast, when his own pipe had been filled. Oh, the music! the bowls of sweets! the hot kishr, the armful of delicious khat, and before and after those little cakes of wheat with butter and curds! When the makhdara was full and all the guests had been solemnly greeted by the father of the bride, as well as by the prospective husband, khat would be distributed, and the pleasure of chewing it begin. Ah! Yes, weddings were wonderful and very well in their way indeed, provided one came by anything through them.

Alas, here, as in the case of the market sales, his opportunities for attending the same with any profit to himself, the privilege of sharing in the delights and comforts of the same, were over. He had no money, no repute, not even respect. Indeed the presence of a beggar such as he on an occasion of this kind, and especially here in Hodeidah where were many rich, would be resented, taken almost as an evil omen. Not only the guests within but those poorer admirers without, such as these who but now followed the camel, would look upon his even so much as distant approach as a vile intrusion, lawless, worthless dog that he was, come to peek and pry and cast a shadow upon what would other- wise be a happy occasion.

Yet he could not resist the desire to follow a portion of the way, anyhow. The escorted khat looked too enticing. Bismillah ! There must be some one who would throw him a leaf on so festal an occasion, surely! By a slow and halting process therefore he came finally before the gate of the residence, into which already the camel had disappeared. Before it was the usual throng of those not so vastly better than himself who had come to rejoice for a purpose, and within, the sound of the tom-tom and voices singing. Over the gate and out of the windows were hung silken carpets and jasmine sprays, for old Bhori was by no means poor in this world's goods.

While recognizing a number who might have been tolerant of him, Ibn Abdullah also realized rather painfully that of the number of these who were most friendly, having known him too long as a public beggar, there were few.

"What ! Ne'er-do-well ! " cried one who recognized him as hav- ing been publicly bastinadoed on one occasion here years before, when he had been younger and healthy enough to be a vendor of tobacco, for adulterating his tobacco. "Do you come here, too?" Then turning to another he called: "Look who comes here — Ibn, the rich man! A friend of the good Bhori, no doubt, mayhap a relative, or at least one of his invited guests!"

"Ay-ee, a friend of the groom at least!" cried another.

"Or a brother or cousin of the bride!" chaffed still a third.

"A rich and disappointed seeker after her hand!" declared a fourth titteringly.

"He brings rich presents, as one can see!" proclaimed a fifth. "But look now at his hands!" A chortle followed, joined in by many.

"And would he be content with so little as a spray of khat in return?" queried a sixth.

"By Allah, an honest tobacco-merchant! Bismillah! One whom the Cadi loves ! " cried a seventh.

For answer Ibn turned a solemn and craving eye upon them, thinking only of khat. "Inshallah! Peace be with thee, good citizens!" he returned. "Abuse not one who is very low in his state. Alms! Alms! A little khat, of all that will soon generously be bestowed upon thee! Alms!"

"Away, old robber!" cried one of them. "If you had ever been honest you would not now be poor."

"What, old jackal, dost thou come here to beg? What brings thee from the steps of the mosque? Are the praying faithful so ungenerous? By Allah! Likely they know thee — not?"

"Peace ! Peace ! And mayst thou never know want and distress such as mine! Food I have not had for three days. My bones yearn for so much as a leaf of khat. Be thou generous and of all that is within, when a portion is given thee give me but a leaf!"

"The Cadi take thee!"

"Dog!"

"Beggar!"

"Come not too near, thou bag of decay!"

So they threatened him and he came no closer, removing rather to a safe distance and eyeing as might a lorn jackal a feast partaken of by lions.

Yet having disposed of this objectionable intruder in this fashion, no khat was as yet forthcoming, the reason being that it was not yet time. Inside, the wedding ceremony and feast, a matter of slow and ordered procedure, was going forward with great care. Kishr was no doubt now being drunk, and there were many felicitations to be extended and received. But, once it was all over and the throng without invited to partake of what was left, Ibn was not one of those included. Rather, he was driven off with curses by a servant, and being thus entirely shut out could only wait patiently in the distance until those who had entered should be satisfied and eventually come forth wiping their lips and chewing khat — in better humor, perchance — or go his way. Then, if he chose to stay, and they were kind —

But, having eaten and drunk, they were in no better mood in regard to him. As they came forth, singly or in pairs, an hour or more later, they saw in him only a pest, one who would take from them a little of that which they themselves had earned with difficulty. Therefore they passed him by unheeding or with jests.

And by now it was that time in the afternoon when the effect on the happy possessor of khat throughout all Arabia was only too plainly to be seen. The Arab servant who in the morning had been surly and taciturn under the blazing sun was now, with a wad of the vivifying leaves in his cheek, doing his various errands and duties with a smile and a light foot. The bale which the ordinary coolie of the waterfront could not lift in the morning was now but a featherweight on his back. The coffee merchant who in the morning was acrid in manner and sharp at a bargain, now received your orders gratefully and with a pleasantry, and even a bid for conversation in his eye. Abdullah, the silk merchant, dealing with his customers in sight of the mosque, bestowed compliments and presents. By Allah, he would buy your horse for the price of an elephant and find no favor too great to do for you. Yussuf, the sambuk- carrier, a three- hundred-weight goatskin on his back, and passing Ibn near the mosque once more, assured Ali, his familiar of the same world and of equal load, as they trudged along together, "Cut off my strong hand, and I will become Hadji, the sweeper" (a despised caste), "but take away my khat, and let me die! " Everywhere the evasive, apathetic atmosphere of the morning had given way to the valor of sentient life. Chewing the life-giving weed, all were sure that they could perform prodigies of energy and strength, that life was a delicious thing, the days and years of their troubles as nothing.

But viewing this and having none, and trudging moodily along toward his waiting-place in front of the mosque, Ibn was truly depressed and out of sorts. The world was not right. Age and poverty should command more respect. To be sure, in his youth perhaps he had not been all that he might have been, but still, for that matter, had many others so been? Were not all men weak, after their kind, or greedy or uncharitable? By Allah, they were, and as he had reason to know! Waidi, the water-seller? A thief really, no whit better than himself, if the world but knew. Hussein, the peddler of firewood ; Haifa, the tobacco tramp — a wretched and swindling pack, all, not a decent loin- or shoulder-cloth among them, possessed of no better places of abode than his own really, yet all, even as the richest of men, had their khat, could go to their coffee places this night and enjoy it for a few anna. Even they! And he!

In Hodeidah there was still another class, the strictly business or merchant class, who, unlike men of wealth or the keepers of the very small shops, wound up their affairs at four in the after- noon and returning to their homes made a kind of public show of their ease and pleasure in khat from then on until the evening prayers. Charpoys, water-pipes and sweetmeats were brought forth into the shade before the street door. The men of the household and their male friends sprawled sociably on the char- poys, the ingredients for the promotion of goodly fellowship ready to their hands. A graybeard or two might sit among them expounding from the sacred book, or conversation lively in char- acter but subdued in tone entertained the company. Then the aged, the palsied, even the dying of the family, their nearest of kin, were brought down on their beds from the top of the house to partake of this feast of reason and flow of wit. Inside the lat- ticed windows the women sat, munching the second-best leaves and listening to the scraps of wisdom that floated up to them from the company below.

It was from this hour on that Ibn found it most difficult to endure life. To see the world thus gay while he was hungry was all but too much. After noting some of this he wandered wearily down the winding market street which led from the mosque to the waterfront, and where in view of the sea were a few of the lowest coffee-houses, frequented by coolies, bhisties and hadjis. Here in some one of them, though without a single pice in his hand, he proposed to make a final effort before night should fall, so that thereafter in some one of them, the very lowest of course, he himself might sit over the little khat he would (if fortunate) be permitted to purchase, and a little kishr. Perhaps in one of these he would receive largess from one of these lowest of mabraz masters or his patrons, or be permitted to tell an old and hoarse and quavering tale. His voice was indeed wretched.

On his way thence, however, via the Street of the Seven Bless- ings, he came once more before the door of Al Hajjaj, the cook, busy among his pots and pans, and paused rather disconsolately in the sight of the latter, who recognized him but made no sign.

"Alms, O Hajjaj, in the name of the Prophet, and mayst thou never look about thy shop but that it shall be full of customers and thy profit large ! " he voiced humbly.

"Be off! Hast thou no other door than mine before which to pause and moan?"

"Ever generous Hajjaj," he continued, " 'tis true thou hast been kind often, and I deserve nothing more of thee. Yet wilt thou believe me that for days I have had neither food nor drink — nor a leaf of khat — nay, not so much as an wheaten cake, a bowl of curds or even a small cup of kishr. My state is low. That I shall not endure another day I know."

"And well enough, dog, since thou hast not made more of thy life than thou hast. Other men have affairs and children, but thou nothing. What of all thy years? Hast thou aught to show? Thou knowest by what steps thou hast come so. There are those as poor as thyself who can sing in a coffee-house or tell a tale. But thou — Come, canst thou think of nothing better than beg- ging? Does not Hussein, the beggar, sing? And Ay-eeb tell tales? Come!"

"Do thou but look upon me! Have I the strength? Or a voice? Or a heart for singing? It is true; I have sung in my time, but now my tales are known, and I have not the strength to gather new ones. Yet who would listen?"

The restaurant-keeper eyed him askance. "Must I therefore provide for thee daily? By Allah, I will not! Here is a pice for thee. Be off, and come not soon again! I do not want thee before my door. My customers will not come here if thou dost!"

With slow and halting steps Ibn now took himself off, but little the better for the small gift made him. There was scarcely any place where for a pice, the smallest of coins, he could obtain anything. What, after all, was to be had for it — a cup of kishr? No. A small bowl of curds? No. A sprig of khat? No. And so great was his need, his distress of mind and body, that little less than a good armful of khat, or at least a dozen or more green succulent sprays, to be slowly munched and the juice allowed to sharpen his brain and nerves, would have served to strengthen and rest him. But how to come by so much now? How?

The character of the places frequented by the coolies, bhisties (water- carriers), hadjis and even beggars like Ibn, while with- out any of the so- called luxuries of these others, and to the fre- quenters of which the frequenters of these were less than the dust under their feet, were still, to these latter, excellent enough. Yea, despised as they were, they contained charpoys on which each could sit with his little water-chatty beside him, and in the centre of the circle one such as even the lowly Ibn, a beggar, sing- ing his loudest or reciting some tale — for such as they. It was in such places as these, before his voice had wholly deserted him, that Ibn had told his tales. Here, then, for the price of a few anna, they could munch the leavings of the khat market, drink kishr and discuss the state of the world and their respective for- tunes. Compared to Ibn in his present state, they were indeed as lords, even princes.

But, by Allah, although having been a carrier and a vendor himself in his day, and although born above them, yet having now no voice nor any tales worth the telling, he was not even now looked upon as one who could stand up and tell of the wonders of the Jinn and demons and the great kings and queens who had reigned of old. Indeed, so low had he fallen that he could not even interest this despised caste. His only gift now was listening, or to make a pathetic picture, or recite the ills that were his.

Nevertheless necessity, a stern master, compelled him to think better of his quondam tale-telling art. Only, being, as he knew, wholly unsuited to recite any tale now, he also knew that the best he could do would be to make the effort, a pretense, in the hope that those present, realizing his age and unfitness, would spare him the spectacle he would make of himself and give him a few anna wherewith to ease himself then and there. Accordingly, the hour having come when the proffered services of a singer or story-teller would be welcomed in any mabraz, he made his way to this region of many of them and where beggars were so common. Only, glancing through the door of the first one, he discovered that there were far too few patrons for his mood. They would be in nowise gay, hence neither kind nor generous as yet, and the keeper would be cold. In a second, a little farther on, a tom-tom was beginning, but the guests were only seven in number and but newly settled in their pleasure. In a third, when the diaphanous sky without was beginning to pale to a deep steel and the evening star was hanging like a solitaire from the pure breast of the western firmament, he pushed aside the veiling cords of beads of one and entered, for here was a large company resting upon their pillows and char- poys, their chatties and hubbuks beside them, but no singer or beater of a tom-tom or teller of tales as yet before them.

"O friends," he began with some diffidence and imaginings, for well he knew how harsh were the moods and cynical the judgments of some of these lowest of life's offerings, "be gener- ous and hearken to the tale of one whose life has been long and full of many unfortunate adventures, one who although he is known to you — "

"What!" called Hussein, the peddler of firewood, reclining at his ease in his corner, a spray of all but wilted khat in his hand. "Is it not even Ibn Abdullah? And has he turned tale-teller once more? By Allah, a great teller of tales — one of rare voice! The camels and jackals will be singing in Hodeidah next!"

"An my eyes deceive me not," cried Waidi, the water- carrier, at his ease also, a cup of kishr in his hands, "this is not Ibn Abdullah, but Sindbad, fresh from a voyage!"

"Or Ali Baba himself," cried Yussuf, the carrier, hoarsely. "Thou hast a bag of jewels somewhere about thee? Now indeed we shall hear things!"

"And in what a voice!" added Haifa the tobacco-tramp, noting the husky, wheezy tones with which Ibn opened his plea. "This is to be a treat, truly. And now we may rest and have wonders upon wonders. Ibn of Mecca and Jiddah, and even of marvelous Hodeidah itself, will now tell us much. A cup of kishr, ho ! This must be listened to ! "

But now Bab-al Oman, the keeper, a stout and cumbrous soul, coming forth from his storeroom, gazed upon Ibn with mingled astonishment and no little disfavor, for it was not customary to permit any of his customers of the past to beg in here, and as for a singer or story-teller he had never thought of Ibn in that light these many years. He was too old, without the slightest power to do aught but begin in a wheezy voice.

"Hearken," he called, coming over and laying a hand on him, the while the audience gazed and grinned, "hast thou either anna or rupee wherewith to fulfill thy account in case thou hast either khat or kishr?" The rags and the mummy-like pallor of the old man offended him.

"Do but let him speak," insisted Hussein the peddler gaily, "or sing," for he was already feeling the effects of his ease and the restorative power of the plant. "This will be wonderful. By the voices of eleven hundred elephants!"

"Yea, a story," called Waidi, "or perhaps that of the good Cadi of Taiz and the sacred waters of Jezer!"

"Or of the Cadi of Mecca and the tobacco that was too pure!"

Ibn heard full well and knew the spectacle he was making of himself. The references were all too plain. Only age and want and a depressing feebleness, which had been growing for days, caused him to forget, or prevented, rather, his generating a natural rage and replying in kind. These wretched enemies of his, dogs lower than himself, had never forgiven him that he had been born out of their caste, or, having been so, that he had per- mitted himself to sink to labor and beg with them. But now his age and weakness were too great. He was too weary to contend.

"O most generous Oman, best of keepers of a mabraz — and thou, O comfortable and honorable guests," he insisted wheezily,

"I have here but one pice, the reward of all my seekings this day. It is true that I am a beggar and that my coverings are rags, yet do but consider that I am old and feeble. This day and the day before and the day before that — "

"Come, come!" said Oman restlessly and feeling that the custom and trade of his mabraz were being injured, "out! Thou canst not sing and thou canst not tell a tale, as thou well knowest. Why come here when thou hast but a single pice wherewith to pay thy way? Beg more, but not here! Bring but so much as half a rupee, and thou shalt have service in plenty!"

"But the pice I have here — may not I — O good sons of the Prophet, a spray of khat, a cup of kishr — suffer me not thus be cast forth! ( — and the poor and the son of the road!' Alms — alms — in the name of Allah ! "

"Out, out!" insisted Oman gently but firmly. "So much as ten anna, and thou mayst rest here; not otherwise."

He turned him forth into the night.

And now, weak and fumbling, Ibn stood there for a time, wondering where else to turn. He was so weak that at last even the zest for search or to satisfy himself was departing. For a moment, a part of his old rage and courage returning, he threw away the pice that had been given him, then turned back, but not along the street of the bazaars. He was too distrait and dis- consolate. Rather, by a path which he well knew, he circled now to the south of the town, passing via the Bet-el-Fakin gate to the desert beyond the walls, where, ever since his days as a pack ser- vant with the Bedouins, he had thought to come in such an hour. Overhead were the stars in that glorious aether, lit with a light which never shines on other soils or seas. The evening star had disappeared, but the moon was now in the west, a thin feather, yet transfiguring and transforming as by magic the homely and bare features of the sands. Out here was something of that beauty which as a herdsman among the Bedouins he had known, the scent of camels and of goats' milk, the memory of low black woolen tents, dotting the lion-tawny sands and gazelle-brown gravels with a warm and human note, and the camp-fire that, like a glowworm, had denoted the village centre. Now, as in a dream, the wild weird songs of the boys and girls of the desert came back, the bleating of their sheep and goats in the gloaming. And the measured chant of the spearsmen, gravely stalking behind their charges, the camels, their song mingling with the bellowing of their humpy herds.

"It is finished," he said, once he was free of the city and far into the desert itself. "I have no more either the skill nor the strength wherewith to endure or make my way. And without khat one cannot endure. What will be will be, and I am too old. Let them find me so. I shall not move. It is better than the other."

Then upon the dry, warm sands he laid himself, his head toward Mecca, while overhead the reremouse circled and cried, its tiny shriek acknowledging its zest for life; and the rave of a jackal, resounding through the illuminated shade beyond, be- spoke its desire to live also. Most musical of all music, the palm trees now answered the whispers of the night breeze with the softest tones of falling water.

"It is done," sighed Ibn Abdullah, as he lay and wearily rested. "Worthless I came, O Allah, and worthless I return. It is well."

2.Free

The large and rather comfortable apartment of Rufus Hay- maker, architect, in Central Park West, was very silent. It was scarcely dawn yet, and at the edge of the park, over the way, looking out from the front windows which graced this abode and gave it its charm, a stately line of poplars was still shrouded in a gray morning mist. From his bedroom at one end of the hall, where, also, a glimpse of the park was to be had, came Mr. Haymaker at this early hour to sit by one of these broader windows and contemplate these trees and a small lake beyond. He was very fond of Nature in its manifold art forms — quite poetic, in fact.

He was a tall and spare man of about sixty, not ungraceful, though slightly stoop-shouldered, with heavy overhanging eye- brows and hair, and a short, professionally cut gray mustache and beard, which gave him a severe and yet agreeable presence. For the present he was clad in a light-blue dressing gown with silver cords, which enveloped him completely. He had thin, pale, long- fingered hands, wrinkled at the back and slightly knotted at the joints, which bespoke the artist, in mood at least, and his eyes had a weary and yet restless look in them.

For only yesterday Doctor Storm, the family physician, who was in attendance on his wife, ill now for these three weeks past with a combination of heart lesion, kidney poisoning and neuritis, had taken him aside and said very softly and affectionately, as though he were trying to spare his feelings: "To-morrow, Mr. Haymaker, if your wife is no better I will call in my friend, Doctor Grainger, whom you know, for a consultation. He is more of an expert in these matters of the heart" — the heart, Mr. Haymaker had time to note ironically — "than I am. To- gether we will make a thorough examination, and then I hope we will be better able to say what the possibilities of her recovery really are. It's been a very trying case, a very stubborn one, I might say. Still, she has a great deal of vitality and is doing as well as could be expected, all things considered. At the same time, though I don't wish to alarm you unnecessarily — and there is no occasion for great alarm yet — still I feel it my duty to warn you that her condition is very serious indeed. Not that I wish you to feel that she is certain to die. I don't think she is. Not at all. Just the contrary. She may get well, and probably will, and live all of twenty years more." (Mentally Mr. Hay- maker sighed a purely spiritual sigh.) "She has fine recuperative powers, so far as I can judge, but she has a bad heart, and this kidney trouble has not helped it any. Just now, when her heart should have the least strain, it has the most.

"She is just at that point where, as I may say, things are in the balance. A day or two, or three or four at the most, ought to show which way things will go. But, as I have said before, I do not wish to alarm you unnecessarily. We are not nearly at the end of our tether. We haven't tried blood transfusion yet, and there are several arrows to that bow. Besides, at any moment she may respond more vigorously to medication than she has heretofore — especially in connection with her kidneys. In that case the situation would be greatly relieved at once.

"However, as I say, I feel it my duty to speak to you in this way in order that you may be mentally prepared for any event, because in such an odd combination as this the worst may happen at any time. We never can tell. As an old friend of yours and Mrs. Haymaker's, and knowing how much you two mean to each other" — Mr. Haymaker merely stared at him vacantly — "I feel it my duty to prepare you in this way. We all of us have to face these things. Only last year I lost my dear Matilda, my youngest child, as you know. Just the same, as I say, I have the feeling that Mrs. Haymaker is not really likely to die soon, and that we — Doctor Grainger and myself — will still be able to pull her through. I really do."

Doctor Storm looked at Mr. Haymaker as though he were very sorry for him — an old man long accustomed to his wife's ways and likely to be made very unhappy by her untimely end; whereas Mr. Haymaker, though staring in an almost sculptural way, was really thinking what a farce it all was, what a dull mix- ture of error and illusion on the part of all. Here he was, sixty ypars of age, weary of all this, of life really — a man who had never been really happy in all the time that he had been mar- ried; and yet here was his wife, who from conventional reasons believed that he was or should be, and who on account of this was serenely happy herself, or nearly so. And this doctor, who imagined that he was. old and weak and therefore in need of this loving woman's care and sympathy and understanding! Unconsciously he raised a deprecating hand.

Also his children, who thought him dependent on her and happy with her; his servants and her and his friends thinking the same thing, and yet he really was not. It was all a lie. He was unhappy. Always he had been unhappy, it seemed, ever since he had been married — for over thirty-one years now. Never in all that time, for even so much as a single day, had he ever done anything but long, long, long, in a pale, constrained way — for what, he scarcely dared think — not to be married any more — to be free — to be as he was before ever he saw Mrs. Haymaker.

And yet being conventional in mood and training and utterly domesticated by time and conditions over which he seemed not to have much control — nature, custom, public opinion, and the like, coming into play as forces — he had drifted, had not taken any drastic action. No, he had merely drifted, wondering if time, accident or something might not interfere and straighten out his life for him, but it never had. Now weary, old, or rapidly becoming so, he condemned himself for his inaction. Why hadn't he done something about it years before? Why hadn't he broken it up before it was too late, and saved his own soul, his longing for life, color? But no, he had not. Why complain so bitterly now?

All the time the doctor had talked this day before he had wanted to smile a wry, dry, cynical smile, for in reality he did not want Mrs. Haymaker to live — or at least at the moment he thought so. He was too miserably tired of it all. And so now, after nearly twenty-four hours of the same unhappy thought, sitting by this window looking at a not distant building which shone faintly in the haze, he ran his fingers through his hair as he gazed, and sighed.

How often in these weary months, and even years, past — ever since he and his wife had been living here, and before — had he come to these or similar windows while she was still asleep, to sit and dream! For some years now they had not even roomed together, so indifferent had the whole state become j though she did not seem to consider that significant, either. Life had become more or less of a practical problem to her, one of position, place, prestige. And yet how often, viewing his life in retrospect, had he wished that his life had been as sweet as his dreams — that his dreams had come true.

After a time on this early morning, for it was still gray, with the faintest touch of pink in the east, he shook his head solemnly and sadly, then rose and returned along the hall to his wife's bedroom, at the door of which he paused to look where she lay seriously ill, and beside her in an armchair, fast asleep, a trained nurse who was supposedly keeping the night vigil ordered by the doctor, but who no doubt was now very weary. His wife was sleeping also — very pale, very thin now, and very weak. He felt sorry for her at times, in spite of his own weariness ; now, for instance. Why need he have made so great a mistake so long ago? Perhaps it was his own fault for not having been wiser in his youth. Then he went quietly on to his own room, to lie down and think.

Always these days, now that she was so very ill and the prob- lem of her living was so very acute, the creeping dawn thus roused him — to think. It seemed as though he could not really sleep soundly any more, so stirred and distrait was he. He was not so much tired or physically worn as mentally bored or dis- appointed. Life had treated him so badly, he kept thinking to himself over and over. He had never had the woman he really wanted, though he had been married so long, had been faithful, respectable and loved by her, in her way. "In her way," he half quoted to himself as he lay there.

Presently he would get up, dress and go down to his office as usual if his wife were not worse. But — but, he asked himself — would she be? Would that slim and yet so durable organism of hers — quite as old as his own, or nearly so — break under the strain of this really severe illness? That would set him free again, and nicely, without blame or comment on him. He could then go where he chose once more, do as he pleased — think of that — without let or hindrance. For she was ill at last, so very ill, the first and really great illness she had endured since their mar- riage. For weeks now she had been lying so, hovering, as it were, between life and death, one day better, the next day worse, and yet not dying, and with no certainty that she would, and yet not getting better either. Doctor Storm insisted that it was a leak in her heart which had suddenly manifested itself which was causing all the real trouble. He was apparently greatly troubled as to how to control it.

During all this period Mr. Haymaker had been, as usual, most sympathetic. His manner toward her was always soft, kindly, apparently tender. He had never really begrudged her anything — nothing certainly that he could afford. He was always glad to see her and the children humanly happy — though they, too, largely on account of her, he thought, had proved a disap- pointment to him — because he had always sympathized with her somewhat unhappy youth, narrow and stinted j and yet he had never been happy himself, either, never in all the time that he had been married. If she had endured much, he kept telling himself when he was most unhappy, so had he, only it was harder perhaps for women to endure things than men — he was always willing to admit that — only also she had had his love, or thought she had, an actual spiritual peace, which he had never had. She knew she had a faithful husband. He felt that he had never really had a wife at all, not one that he could love as he knew a wife should be loved. His dreams as to that!

Going to his office later this same day — it was in one of those tall buildings that face Madison Square — he had looked first, in passing, at the trees that line Central Park West, and then at the bright wall of apartment houses facing it, and meditated sadly, heavily. Here the sidewalks were crowded with nurse- maids and children at play, and in between them, of course, the occasional citizen loitering or going about his errands. The day was so fine, so youthful, as spring days will seem at times. As he looked, especially at the children, and the young men bustling office-ward, mostly in new spring suits, he sighed and wished that he were young once more. Think how brisk and hopeful they were! Everything was before them. They could still pick and choose — no age or established conditions to stay them. Were any of them, he asked himself for the thousandth time, it seemed to him, as wearily connected as he had been at their age? Did they each have a charming young wife to love — one of whom they were passionately fond — such a one as he had never hadj or did they not?

Wondering, he reached his office on one of the topmost floors of one of those highest buildings commanding a wide view of the city, and surveyed it wearily. Here were visible the two great rivers of the city, its towers and spires and far-flung walls. From these sometimes, even yet, he seemed to gain a patience to live, to hope. How in his youth all this had inspired him — or that other city that was then. Even now he was always at peace here, so much more so than in his own home, pleasant as it was. Here he could look out over this great scene and dream or he could lose the memory in his work that his love-life had been a failure. The great city, the buildings he could plan or supervise, the efficient help that always surrounded him — his. help, not hers — aided to take his mind off himself and that deep-seated inner ache or loss.

The care of Mr. Haymaker's apartment during his wife's illness and his present absence throughout the day, devolved upon a middle-aged woman of great seriousness, Mrs. Elfridge by name, whom Mrs. Haymaker had employed years before j and under her a maid of all work, Hester, who waited on table, opened the door, and the like; and also at present two trained nurses, one for night and one for day service, who were in charge of Mrs. Haymaker. The nurses were both bright, healthy, blue-eyed girls, who attracted Mr. Haymaker and sug- gested all the youth he had never had — without really disturbing his poise. It would seem as though that could never be any more.

In addition, of course, there was the loving interest of his son Wesley and his daughter Ethelberta — whom his wife had named so in spite of him — both of whom had long since married and had children of their own and were living in different parts of the great city. In this crisis both of them came daily to learn how things were, and occasionally to stay for the entire after- noon or evening, or both. Ethelberta had wanted to come and take charge of the apartment entirely during her mother's illness, only Mrs. Haymaker, who was still able to direct, and fond of doing so, would not hear of it. She was not so ill but that she could still speak, and in this way could inquire and direct. Besides, Mrs. Elfridge was as good as Mrs. Haymaker in all things that related to Mr. Haymaker's physical comfort, or so she thought.

If the truth will come out — as it will in so many pathetic cases — it was never his physical so much as his spiritual or af- fectional comfort that Mr. Haymaker craved. As said before, he had never loved Mrs. Haymaker, or certainly not since that now long-distant period back in Muskegon, Michigan, where both had been born and where they had lived and met at the ages, she of fifteen, he of seventeen. It had been, strange as it might seem now, a love match at first sight with them. She had seemed so sweet, a girl of his own age or a little younger, the daughter of a local chemist. Later, when he had been forced by poverty to go out into the world to make his own way, he had written her much, and imagined her to be all that she had seemed at fifteen, and more — a dream among fair women. But Fortune, slow in coming to his aid and fickle in fulfilling his dreams, had brought it about that for several years more he had been compelled to stay away nearly all of the time, unable to marry her; during which period, unknown to himself really, his own point of view had altered. How it had happened he could never tell really, but so it was. The great city, larger experiences — while she was still enduring the smaller ones — other faces, dreams of larger things, had all combined to destroy it or her, only he had not quite realized it then. He was always so slow in realizing the full import of the immediate thing, he thought.

That was the time, as he had afterward told himself — how often! — that he should have discovered his mistake and stopped. Later it always seemed to become more and more impossible. Then, in spite of some heartache to her and some distress to himself, no doubt, all would be well for him now. But noj he had been too inexperienced, too ignorant, too bound by all the conventions and punctilio of his simple Western world. He thought an engagement, however unsatisfactory it might come to seem afterward, was an engagement, and binding. An honor- able man would not break one — or so his country moralists argued.

Yes, at that time he might have written her, he might have told her, then. But he had been too sensitive and kindly to speak of it. Afterward it was too late. He feared to wound her, to undo her, to undo her life. But now — now — look at his ! He had gone back on several occasions before marriage, and might have seen and done and been free if he had had but courage and wis- dom — but no; duty, order, the beliefs of the region in which he had been reared, and of America — what it expected and what she expected and was entitled to — had done for him completely. He had not spoken. Instead, he had gone on and married her without speaking of the change in himself, without letting her know how worse than ashes it had all become. God, what a fool he had been ! how often since he had told himself over and over.

Well, having made a mistake it was his duty perhaps, at least according to current beliefs, to stick by it and make the best of it ; — a bargain was a bargain in marriage, if nowhere else — but still that had never prevented him from being unhappy. He could not prevent that himself. During all these long years, therefore, owing to these same conventions — what people would think and say — he had been compelled to live with her, to cherish her, to pretend to be happy with her — "another perfect union," as he sometimes said to himself. In reality he had been unhappy, hor- ribly so. Even her face wearied him at times, and her presence, her mannerisms. Only this other morning Doctor Storm, by his manner indicating that he thought him lonely, in danger of being left all alone and desperately sad and neglected in case she died had irritated him greatly. Who would take care of him? his eyes had seemed to say — and yet he himself wanted nothing so much as to be alone for a time, at least, in this life, to think for himself, to do for himself, to forget this long, dreary period in which he had pretended to be something that he was not.

Was he never to be rid of the dull round of it, he asked him- self now, never before he himself died? And yet shortly after- ward he would reproach himself for these very thoughts, as being wrong, hard, unkind — thoughts that would certainly con- demn him in the eyes of the general public, that public which made reputations and one's general standing before the world.

During all this time he had never even let her know — no, not once — of the tremendous and soul-crushing sacrifice he had made. Like the Spartan boy, he had concealed the fox gnawing at his vitals. He had not complained. He had been, indeed, the model husband, as such things go in conventional walks. If you doubted it look at his position, or that of his children ; or his wife — her mental and physical comfort, even in her illness, her unfailing belief that he was all he should be! Never once apparently, during all these years, had she doubted his love or felt him to be unduly unhappy — or, if not that exactly, if not fully accepting his love as something that was still at a fever heat, the thing it once was — still believing that he found pleasure and happiness in being with her, a part of the home which together they had built up, these children they had reared, comfort in knowing that it would endure to the end! To the end! During all these years she had gone on molding his and her lives — as much as that was possible in his case — and those of their children, to suit herself - y and thinking all the time that she was doing what he wanted or at least what was best for him and them.

How she adored convention! What did she not think she knew in regard to how things ought to be — mainly what her old home surroundings had taught her, the American idea of this, that and the other. Her theories in regard to friends, educa- tion of the children, and so on, had in the main prevailed, even when he did not quite agree with her; her desires for certain types of pleasure and amusement, of companionship, and so on, were conventional types always and had also prevailed. There had been little quarrels, of course, always had been — what happy home is free of them? — but still he had always given in, or nearly always, and had acted as though he were satisfied in so doing.

But why, therefore, should he complain now, or she ever imagine, or ever have imagined, that he was unhappy? She did not, had not. Like all their relatives and friends of the region from which they sprang, and here also — and she had been most careful to regulate that, courting whom she pleased and ignoring all others — she still believed most firmly, more so than ever, that she knew what was best for him, what he really thought and wanted. It made him smile most wearily at times.

For in her eyes — in regard to him, at least, not always so with others, he had found — marriage was a sacrament, sacrosanct, never to be dissolved. One life, one love. Once a man had ac- cepted the yoke or even asked a girl to marry him it was his duty to abide by it. To break an engagement, to be unfaithful to a wife, even unkind to her — what a crime, in her eyes! Such people ought to be drummed out of the world. They were really not fit to live — dogs, brutes!

And yet, look at himself — what of him? What of one who had made a mistake in regard to all this? Where was his compensa- tion to come from, his peace and happiness? Here on earth or only in some mythical heaven — that odd, angelic heaven that she still believed in? What a farce! And all her friends and his would think he would be so miserable now if she died, or at least ought to be. So far had asinine convention and belief in custom carried the world. Think of it!

But even that was not the worst. Noj that was not the worst, either. It had been the gradual realization coming along through the years that he had married an essentially small, narrow woman who could never really grasp his point of view — or, rather, the significance of his dreams or emotions — and yet with whom, nevertheless, because of this original promise or mistake, he was compelled to live. Grant her every quality of goodness, energy, industry, intent — as he did freely — still there was thisj and it could never be adjusted, never. Essentially, as he had long since discovered, she was narrow, ultraconventional, whereas he was an artist by nature, brooding and dreaming strange dreams and thinking of far-off things which she did not or could not understand or did not sympathize with, save in a general and very remote way. The nuances of his craft, the wonders and subtleties of forms and angles — had she ever realized how sig- nificant these were to him, let alone to herself? No, never. She had not the least true appreciation of them — never had had. Architecture? Art? What could they really mean to her, desire as she might to appreciate them? And he could not now go else- where to discover that sympathy. No. He had never really wanted to, since the public and she would object, and he thinking it half evil himself.

Still, how was it, he often asked himself, that Nature could thus allow one conditioned or equipped with emotions and seek- ings such as his, not of an utterly conventional order, to seek out and pursue one like Ernestine, who was not fitted to under- stand him or to care what his personal moods might be? Was love truly blind, as the old saw insisted, or did Nature really plan, and cleverly, to torture the artist mind — as it did the pearl- bearing oyster with a grain of sand — with something seemingly inimical, in order that it might produce beauty? Sometimes he thought so. Perhaps the many interesting and beautiful build- ings he had planned — the world called them so, at least — had been due to the loving care he lavished on them, being shut out from love and beauty elsewhere. Cruel Nature, that cared so little for the dreams of man — the individual man or woman!

At the time he had married Ernestine he was really too young to know exactly what it was he wanted to do or how it was he was going to feel in the years to come; and yet there was no one to guide him, to stop him. The custom of the time was all in favor of this dread disaster. Nature herself seemed to desire it — mere children being the be-all and the end-all of everything everywhere. Think of that as a theory! Later, when it became so clear to him what he had done, and in spite of all the con- ventional thoughts and conditions that seemed to bind him to this fixed condition, he had grown restless and weary, but never really irritable. No, he had never become that.

Instead he had concealed it all from her, persistently, in all kindness; only this hankering after beauty of mind and body in ways not represented by her had hurt so — grown finally almost too painful to bear. He had dreamed and dreamed of something different until it had become almost an obsession. Was it never to be, that something different, never, anywhere, in all time? What a tragedy! Soon he would be dead and then it would never be anywhere — anymore! Ernestine was charming, he would admit, or had been at first, though time had proved that she was not charming to him either mentally or physically in any com- pelling way; but how did that help him now? How could it? He had actually found himself bored by her for more than twenty-seven years now, and this other dream growing, grow- ing, growing — until

But now he was old, and she was dying, or might be, and it could not make so much difference what happened to him or to her j only it could, too, because he wanted to be free for a little while, just for a little while, before he died.

To be free! free!

One of the things that had always irritated him about Mrs. Haymaker was this, that in spite of his determination never to offend the social code in any way — he had felt for so many reasons, emotional as well as practical, that he could not afford so to do — and also in spite of the fact that he had been tortured by this show of beauty in the eyes and bodies of others, his wife, fearing perhaps in some strange psychic way that he might change, had always tried to make him feel or believe — pre- meditatedly and of a purpose, he thought — that he was not the kind of man who would be attractive to women j that he lacked some physical fitness, some charm that other men had, which would cause all young and really charming women to turn away from him. Think of it ! He to whom so many women had turned with questioning eyes!

Also that she had married him largely because she had felt sorry for him! He chose to let her believe that, because he was sorry for her. Because other women had seemed to draw near to him at times in some appealing or seductive way she had insisted he was not even a cavalier, let alone a Lothario ; that he was ungainly, slow, uninteresting — to all women but her!

Persistently, he thought, and without any real need, she had harped on this, fighting chimeras, a chance danger in the future j though he had never given her any real reason, and had never even planned to sin against her in any way — never. She had thus tried to poison his own mind in regard to himself and his art — and yet — and yet Ah, those eyes of other women, their haunting beauty, the flitting something they said to him of in- finite, inexpressible delight. Why had his life been so very hard?

One of the disturbing things about all this was the iron truth which it had driven home, namely, that Nature, unless it were expressed or represented by some fierce determination within, which drove one to do, be, cared no whit for him or any other man or woman. Unless one acted for oneself, upon some stern conclusion nurtured within, one might rot and die spiritually. Nature did not care. "Blessed be the meek" — yes. Blessed be the strong, rather, for they made their own happiness. All these years in which he had dwelt and worked in this knowledge, hoping for something but not acting, nothing had happened, except to him, and that in an unsatisfactory way. All along he had seen what was happening to him j and yet held by convention he had refused to act always, because somehow he was not hard enough to act. He was not strong enough, that was the real truth — had not been. Almost like a bird in a cage, an animal peeping out from behind bars, he had viewed the world of free thought and freer action. In many a drawing-room, on the street, or in his own home even, had he not looked into an eye, the face of someone who seemed to offer understanding, to know, to sympathize, though she might not have, of course j and yet religiously and moralistically, like an anchorite, because of duty and current belief and what people would say and think, Ernestine's position and faith in him, her comfort, his career and that of the children — he had put them all aside, out of his mind, forgotten them almost, as best he might. It had been hard at times, and sad, but so it had been.

And look at him now, old, not exactly feeble yet — no, not that yet, not quite! — but life weary and almost indifferent. All these years he had wanted, wanted — wanted — an understanding mind, a tender heart, the some one woman — she must exist some- where — who would have sympathized with all the delicate shades and meanings of his own character, his art, his spiritual as well as his material dreams And yet look at him! Mrs. Haymaker had always been with him, present in the flesh or the spirit, and — so

Though he could not ever say that she was disagreeable to him in a material way — he could not say that she had ever been that exactly — still she did not correspond to his idea of what he needed, and so Form had meant so much to him, color j the glorious perfectness of a glorious woman's body, for instance, the color of her thought, moods — exquisite they must be, like his own at times j but no, he had never had the opportunity to know one intimately. No, not one, though he had dreamed of her so long. He had never even dared whisper this to any one, scarcely to himself. It was not wise, not socially fit. Thoughts like this would tend to social ostracism in his circle, or rather hers — for had she not made the circle?

And here was the rub with Mr. Haymaker, at least, that he could not make up his mind whether in his restlessness and private mental complaints he were not even now guilty of a great moral crime in so thinking. Was it not true that men and women should be faithful in marriage whether they were happy or not? Was there not some psychic law governing this matter of union — one life, one love — which made the thoughts and the pains and the subsequent sufferings and hardships of the in- dividual, whatever they might be, seem unimportant? The churches said so. Public opinion and the law seemed to accept this. There were so many problems, so much order to be dis- rupted, so much pain caused, many insoluble problems where children were concerned — if people did not stick. Was it not best, more blessed — socially, morally, and in every other way important — for him to stand by a bad bargain rather than to cause so much disorder and pain, even though he lost his own soul emotionally? He had thought so — or at least he had acted as though he thought so — and yet How often had he won- dered over this!

Take, now, some other phases. Granting first that Mrs. Hay- maker had, according to the current code, measured up to the requirements of a wife, good and true, and that at first after marriage there had been just enough of physical and social charm about her to keep his state from becoming intolerable, still there was this old ache ; and then newer things which came with the birth of the several children : First Elwell — named after a cousin of hers, not his — who had died only two years after he was born; and then Wesley; and then Ethelberta. How he had always disliked that name! — largely because he had hoped to call her Ottilie, a favorite name of his ; or Janet, after his mother.

Curiously the arrival of these children and the death of poor little Elwell at two had somehow, in spite of his unrest, bound him to this matrimonial state and filled him with a sense of duty, and pleasure even — almost entirely apart from her, he was sorry to say — in these young lives ; though if there had not been children, as he sometimes told himself, he surely would have broken away from her; he could not have stood it. They were so odd in their infancy, those little ones, so troublesome and yet so amusing — little Elwell, for instance, whose nose used to crinkle with delight when he would pretend to bite his neck, and whose gurgle of pleasure was so sweet and heart-filling that it positively thrilled and lured him. In spite of his thoughts concerning Ernestine — and always in those days they were rigidly put down as unmoral and even evil, a certain unsocial streak in him perhaps which was against law and order and social well- being — he came to have a deep and abiding feeling for Elwell. The latter, in some chemic, almost unconscious way, seemed to have arrived as a balm to his misery, a bandage for his growing wound — sent by whom, by what, how? Elwell had seized upon his imagination, and so his heartstrings — had come, indeed, to make him feel understanding and sympathy in that little child ; to supply, or seem to at least, what he lacked in the way of love and affection from one whom he could truly love. Elwell was never so happy apparently as when snuggling in his arms, not Ernestine's, or lying against his neck. And when he went for a walk or elsewhere there was Elwell always ready, arms up, to cling to his neck. He seemed, strangely enough, inordinately fond of his father, rather than his mother, and never happy with- out him. On his part, Haymaker came to be wildly fond of him — that queer little lump of a face, suggesting a little of himself and of his own mother, not so much of Ernestine, or so he thought, though he would not have objected to that. Not at all. He was not so small as that. Toward the end of the second year, when Elwell was just beginning to be able to utter a word or two, he had taught him that silly old rhyme which ran "There were three kittens," and when it came to "and they shall have no " he would stop and say to Elwell, "What now?" and the latter would gurgle "puh ! " — meaning, of course, pie.

Ah, those happy days with little Elwell, those walks with him over his shoulder or on his arm, those hours in which of an evening he would rock him to sleep in his arms! Always Er- nestine was there, and happy in the thought of his love for little El well and her, her more than anything else perhaps j but it was an illusion — that latter part. He did not care for her even then as she thought he did. All his fondness was for Elwell, only she took it as evidence of his growing or enduring affection for her — another evidence of the peculiar working of her mind. Women were like that, he supposed — some women.

And then came that dreadful fever, due to some invading microbe which the doctors could not diagnose or isolate, infan- tile paralysis perhaps ; and little Elwell had finally ceased to be as flesh and was eventually carried forth to the lorn, disagreeable graveyard near Woodlawn. How he had groaned internally, indulged in sad, despondent thoughts concerning the futility of all things human, when this had happened! It seemed for the time being as if all color and beauty had really gone out of his life for good.

"Man born of woman is of few days and full of troubles," the preacher whom Mrs. Haymaker had insisted upon having into the house at the time of the funeral had read. "He fleeth also as a shadow and continueth not."

Yes j so little Elwell had fled, as a shadow, and in his own deep sorrow at the time he had come to feel the first and only sad, deep sympathy for Ernestine that he had ever felt since marriage j and that because she had suffered so much — had lain in his arms after the funeral and cried so bitterly. It was terrible, her sorrow. Terrible — a mother grieving for her first-born! Why was it, he had thought at the time, that he had never been able to think or make her all she ought to be to him? Ernestine at this time had seemed better, softer, kinder, wiser, sweeter than she had ever seemed} more worthy, more interesting than ever he had thought her before. She had slaved so during the child's illness, stayed awake night after night, watched over him with such loving care — done everything, in short, that a loving human heart could do to rescue her young from the depths ; and yet even then he had not really been able to love her. No, sad and unkind as it might seem, he had not. He had just pitied her and thought her better, worthier! What cursed stars disordered the minds and moods of people so? Why was it that these virtues of people, their good qualities, did not make you love them, did not really bind them to you, as against the things you could not like? Why? He had resolved to do better in his thought, but somehow, in spite of himself, he had never been able to do so.

Nevertheless, at that time he seemed to realize more keenly than ever her order, industry, frugality, a sense of beauty within limits, a certain laudable ambition to do something and be some- body — only, only he could not sympathize with her ambitions, could not see that she had anything but a hopelessly common- place and always unimportant point of view. There was never any flare to her, never any true distinction of mind or soul. She seemed always, in spite of anything he might say or do, hope- lessly to identify doing and being with money and current opinion — neighborhood public opinion, almost — and local social position, whereas he knew that distinguished doing might as well be connected with poverty and shame and disgrace as with these other things — wealth and station, for instance ; a thing which she could never quite understand apparently, though he often tried to tell her, much against her mood always.

Look at the cases of the great artists! Some of the greatest architects right here in the city, or in history, were of peculiar, almost disagreeable, history. But no, Mrs. Haymaker could not understand anything like that, anything connected with history, indeed — she hardly believed in history, its dark, sad pages, and would never read it, or at least did not care to. And as for art and artists— she would never have believed that wisdom and art understanding and true distinction might take their rise out of things necessarily low and evil — never.

Take now, the case of young Zingara. Zingara was an architect like himself, whom he had met more than thirty years before, here in New York, when he had first arrived, a young man struggling to become an architect of significance, only he was very poor and rather unkempt and disreputable-looking. Hay- maker had found him several years before his marriage to Er- nestine in the dark offices of Pyne & Starboard, Architects, and had been drawn to him definitely ; but because he smoked all the time and was shabby as to his clothes and had no money — why, Mrs. Haymaker, after he had married her, and though he had known Zingara nearly four years, would have none of him. To her he was low, and a failure, one who would never succeed. Once she had seen him in some cheap restaurant that she chanced to be passing, in company with a drabby- looking maid, and that was the end.

"I wish you wouldn't bring him here any more, dear," she had insisted; and to have peace he had complied — only, now look. Zingara had since become a great architect, but now o£ course, owing to Mrs. Haymaker, he was definitely alienated. He was the man who had since designed the ^Esculapian Club; and Symphony Hall with its delicate fagade; as well as the tower of the Wells Building, sending its sweet lines so high, like a poetic thought or dream. But Zingara was now a dreamy recluse like himself, very exclusive, as Haymaker had long since come to know, and indifferent as to what people thought or said.

But perhaps it was not just obtuseness to certain of the finer shades and meanings of life, but an irritating aggressiveness at times, backed only by her limited understanding, which caused her to seek and wish to be here, there, and the other place; wherever, in her mind, the truly successful — which meant nearly always the materially successful of a second or third rate char- acter — were, which irritated him most of all. How often had he tried to point out the difference between true and shoddy distinction — the former rarely connected with great wealth.

But no. So often she seemed to imagine such queer people to be truly successful, when they were really not — usually people with just money, or a very little more.

And in the matter of rearing and educating and marrying their two children, Wesley and Ethelberta, who had come after Elwell — what peculiar pains and feelings had not been involved in all this for him. In infancy both of these had seemed sweet enough, and so close to him, though never quite so wonderful as Elwell. But, as they grew, it seemed somehow as though Ernestine had come between him and them. First, it was the way she had raised them, the very stiff and formal manner in which they were sup- posed to move and be, copied from the few new-rich whom she had chanced to meet through him — and admired in spite of his warnings. That was the irony of architecture as a profession — it was always bringing such queer people close to one, and for the sake of one's profession, sometimes, particularly in the case of the young architect, one had to be nice to them. Later, it was the kind of school they should attend. He had half imagined at first that it would be the public school, because they both had begun as simple people j but no, since they were prospering it had to be a private school for each, and not one of his selection, either — or hers, really — but one to which the Barlows and the Wes- tervelts, two families of means with whom Ernestine had become intimate, sent their children and therefore thought excellent !

, The Barlows! Wealthy, but, to him, gross and mediocre people who had made a great deal of money in the manufacture of patent medicines out West, and who had then come to New York to splurge, and had been attracted to Ernestine — not him particularly, he imagined — because Haymaker had built a town house for them, and also because he was gaining a fine reputation. They were dreadful really, so gauche, so truly dull ; and yet somehow they seemed to suit Ernestine's sense of fitness and worth at the time, because, as she said, they were good and kind — like her Western home folks ; only they were not really. She just imagined so. They were worthy enough people in their way, though with no taste. Young Fred Barlow had been sent to the expensive Gaillard School for Boys, near Morristown, where they were taught manners and airs, and little else, as Haymaker always thought, though Ernestine insisted that they were given a religious training as well. And so Wesley had to go there — for a time, anyhow. It was the best school.

And similarly, because Mercedes Westervelt, senseless, vain little thing, was sent to Briarcliff School, near White Plains, Ethelberta had to go there. Think of it! It was all so silly, so pushing. How well he remembered the long, delicate campaign which preceded this, the logic and tactics employed, the im- portance of it socially to Ethelberta, the tears and cajolery. Mrs. Haymaker could always cry so easily, or seem to be on the verge of it, when she wanted anything j and somehow, in spite of the fact that he knew her tears were unimportant, or timed and for a purpose, he could never stand out against them, and she knew it. Always he felt moved or weakened in spite of himself. He had no weapon wherewith to fight them, though he resented them as a part of the argument. Positively Mrs. Haymaker could be as sly and as ruthless as Machiavelli himself at times, and yet believe all the while that she was tender, loving, self- sacrificing, generous, moral and a dozen other things, all of which led to the final achievement of her own aims. Perhaps this was admirable from one point of view, but it irritated him always. But if one were unable to see him- or herself, their actual disturbing inconsistencies, what were you to do?

And again, he had by then been married so long that it was almost impossible to think of throwing her over, or so it seemed at the time. They had reached the place then where they had supposedly achieved position together, though in reality it was all his — and not such position as he was entitled to, at that. Er- nestine — and he was thinking this in all kindness — could never attract the ideal sort. And anyhow, the mere breath of a scandal between them, separation or unfaithfulness, which he never really contemplated, would have led to endless bickering and social and commercial injury, or so he thought. All her strong friends — and his, in a way — those who had originally been his clients, would have deserted him. Their wives, their own social fears, would have compelled them to ostracize him! He would have been a scandal-marked architect, a brute for objecting to so kind and faithful and loving a wife. And perhaps he would have been, at that. He could never quite tell, it was all so mixed and tangled.

Take, again, the marriage of his son Wesley into the De Gaud family — George de Gaud fere being nothing more than a retired real-estate speculator and promoter who had money, but nothing more j and Irma de Gaud, the daughter, being a gross, coarse, sensuous girl, physically attractive no doubt, and financially reasonably secure, or so she had seemed j but what else? Nothing, literally nothing; and his son had seemed to have at least some spiritual ideas at first. Ernestine had taken up with Mrs. George de Gaud — a miserable, narrow creature, so Haymaker thought — largely for Wesley's sake, he presumed. Anyhow, everything had been done to encourage Wesley in his suit and Irma in her toleration, and now look at them ! De Gaud fere had since failed and left his daughter practically nothing. Irma had been in- terested in anything but Wesley's career, had followed what she considered the smart among the new-rich — a smarter, wilder, newer new-rich than ever Ernestine had fancied, or could. To- day she was without a thought for anything besides teas and country clubs and theaters — and what else?

And long since Wesley had begun to realize it himself. He was an engineer now, in the employ of one of the great con- struction companies, a moderately successful man. But even Ernestine, who had engineered the match and thought it wonder- ful, was now down on her. She had begun to see through her some years ago, when Irma had begun to ignore her; only before it was always the De Gauds here, and the De Gauds there. Good gracious, what more could any one want than the De Gauds — Irma de Gaud, for instance? Then came the concealed dissension between Irma and Wesley, and now Mrs. Haymaker insisted that Irma had held, and was holding Wesley back. She was not the right woman for him. Almost — against all her prejudices — she was willing that he should leave her. Only, if Haymaker had broached anything like that in connection with himself!

And yet Mrs. Haymaker had been determined, because of what she considered the position of the De Gauds at that time, that Wesley should marry Irma. Wesley now had to slave at mediocre tasks in order to have enough to allow Irma to run in so-called fast society of a second or third rate. And even at that she was not faithful to him — or so Haymaker believed. There were so many strange evidences. And yet Haymaker felt that he did not care to interfere now. How could he? Irma was tired of Wesley, and that was all there was to it. She was looking elsewhere, he was sure.

Take but one more case, that of Ethelberta. What a name! In spite of all Ernestine's determination to make her so successful and thereby reflect some credit on her had she really succeeded in so doing? To be sure, Ethelberta's marriage was somewhat more successful financially than Wesley's had proved to be, but was she any better placed in other ways? John Kelso — "Jack," as she always called him — with his light ways and lighter mind, was he really any one! — anything more than a waster? His parents stood by him no doubt, but that was all; and so much the worse for him. According to Mrs. Haymaker at the time, he, too, was an ideal boy, admirable, just the man for Ethelberta, because the Kelsos, fere and mere, had money. Horner Kelso had made a kind of fortune in Chicago in the banknote business, and had settled in New York, about the time that Ethelberta was fifteen, to spend it. Ethelberta had met Grace Kelso at school.

And now see ! She was not unattractive, and had some pleasant, albeit highly affected, social ways; she had money, and a com- fortable apartment in Park Avenue ; but what had it all come to? John Kelso had never done anything really, nothing. His parents' money and indulgence and his early training for a better social state had ruined him if he had ever had a mind that amounted to anything. He was idle, pleasure-loving, mentally indolent, like Irma de Gaud. Those two should have met and married, only they could never have endured each other. But how Mrs. Haymaker had courted the Kelsos in her eager and yet diplomatic way, giving teas and receptions and theater parties j and yet he had never been able to exchange ten sig- nificant words with either of them, or the younger Kelsos either. Think of it!

And somehow in the process Ethelberta, for all his early af- fection and tenderness and his still kindly feeling for her, had been weaned away from him and had proved a limited and con- ventional girl, somewhat like her mother, and more inclined to listen to her than to him — though he had not minded that really. It had been the same with Wesley before her. Perhaps, however, a child was entitled to its likes and dislikes, regardless.

But why had he stood for it all, he now kept asking himself. Why? What grand results, if any, had been achieved? Were their children so wonderful? — their lives? Would he not have been better off without her — his children better, even, by a dif- ferent woman? — hers by a different man? Wouldn't it have been better if he had destroyed it all, broken away? There would have been pain, of course, terrible consequences, but even so he would have been free to go, to do, to reorganize his life on an- other basis. Zingara had avoided marriage entirely — wise man. But no, no j always convention, that long list of reasons and terrors he was always reciting to himself. He had allowed him- self to be pulled round by the nose, God only knows why, and that was all there was to it. Weakness, if you will, perhaps; fear of convention; fear of what people would think and say.

Always now he found himself brooding over the dire results to him of all this respect on his part for convention, moral order, the duty of keeping society on an even keel, of not bringing disgrace to his children and himself and her, and yet ruining his own life emotionally by so doing. To be respectable had been so important that it had resulted in spiritual failure for him. But now all that was over with him, and Mrs. Haymaker was ill, near to death, and he was expected to wish her to get well, and be happy with her a long time yet ! Be happy ! In spite of anything he might wish or think he ought to do, he couldn't. He couldn't even wish her to get well.

It was too much to ask. There was actually a haunting satis- faction in the thought that she might die now. It wouldn't be much, but it would be something — a few years of freedom. That was something. He was not utterly old yet, and he might have a few years of peace and comfort to himself still — and — and

That dream — that dream — though it might never come true now — it couldn't really — still — still He wanted to be free to go his own way once more, to do as he pleased, to walk, to think, to brood over what he had not had — to brood over what he had not had ! Only, only, whenever he looked into her pale sick face and felt her damp limp hands he could not quite wish that, either j not quite, not even now. It seemed too hard, too brutal — only — only So he wavered.

No j in spite of her long-past struggle over foolish things and in spite of himself and all he had endured or thought he had, he was still willing that she should live; only he couldn't wish it exactly. Yes, let her live if she could. What matter to him now whether she lived or died? Whenever he looked at her he could not help thinking how helpless she would be without him, what a failure at her age, and so on. And all along, as he wryly repeated to himself, she had been thinking and feeling that she was doing the very best for him and her and the children ! — that she was really the ideal wife for him, making every dollar go as far as it would, every enjoyment yield the last drop for them all, every move seeming to have been made to their general advantage! Yes, that was true. There was a pathos about it, wasn't there? But as for the actual results !

The next morning, the second after his talk with Doctor Storm, found him sitting once more beside his front window in the early dawn, and so much of all this, and much more, was coming back to him, as before. For the thousandth or the ten- thousandth time, as it seemed to him, in all the years that had gone, he was concluding again that his life was a failure. If only he were free for a little while just to be alone and think, per- haps to discover what life might bring him yet; only on this occasion his thoughts were colored by a new turn in the situation. Yesterday afternoon, because Mrs. Haymaker's condition had grown worse, the consultation between Grainger and Storm was held, and to-day sometime transfusion was to be tried, that last grim stand taken by physicians in distress over a case j blood taken from a strong ex- cavalryman out of a position, in this case, and the best to be hoped for, but not assured. In this instance his thoughts were as before wavering. Now supposing she really died, in spite of this? What would he think of himself then? He went back after a time and looked in on her where she was still sleeping. Now she was not so strong as before, or so she seemed j her pulse was not so good, the nurse said. And now as before his mood changed in her favor, but only for a little while. For later, waking, she seemed to look and feel better.

Later he came up to the dining room, where the nurse was taking her breakfast, and seating himself beside her, as was his custom these days, asked: "How do you think she is to-day?"

He and the night nurse had thus had their breakfasts together for days. This nurse, Miss Filson, was such a smooth, pink, graceful creature, with light hair and blue eyes, the kind of eyes and color that of late, and in earlier years, had suggested to him the love time or youth that he had missed.

The latter looked grave, as though she really feared the worst but was concealing it.

"No worse, I think, and possibly a little better," she replied, eyeing him sympathetically. He could see that she too felt that he was old and in danger of being neglected. "Her pulse is a little stronger, nearly normal now, and she is resting easily. Doctor Storm and Doctor Grainger are coming, though, at ten. Then they'll decide what's to be done. I think if she's worse that they are going to try transfusion. The man has been engaged. Doctor Storm said that when she woke to-day she was to be given strong beef tea. Mrs. Elfridge is making it now. The fact that she is not much worse, though, is a good sign in itself, I think."

Haymaker merely stared at her from under his heavy gray eyebrows. He was so tired and gloomy, not only because he had not slept much of late himself but because of this sawing to and fro between his varying moods. Was he never to be able to de- cide for himself what he really wished? Was he never to be done with this interminable moral or spiritual problem? Why could he not make up his mind on the side of moral order, sym- pathy, and be at peace? Miss Filson pattered on about other heart cases, how so many people lived years and years after they were supposed to die of heart lesion j and he meditated as to the grayness and strangeness of it all, the worthlessness of his own life, the variability of his own moods. Why was he so? How queer — how almost evil, sinister — he had become at times ; how weak at others. Last night as he had looked at Ernestine lying in bed, and this morning before he had seen her, he had thought if she only would die — if he were only really free once more, even at this late date. But then when he had seen her again this morning and now when Miss Filson spoke of trans- fusion, he felt sorry again. What good would it do him now? Why should he want to kill her? Could such evil ideas go un- punished either in this world or the next? Supposing his children could guess! Supposing she did die now — and he wished it so fervently only this morning — how would he feel? After all, Ernestine had not been so bad. She had tried, hadn't she? — only she had not been able to make a success of things, as he saw it, and he had not been able to love her, that was all. He reproached himself once more now with the hardness and the cruelty of his thoughts.

The opinion of the two physicians was that Mrs. Haymaker was not much better and that this first form of blood transfusion must be resorted to — injected straight via a pump — which would restore her greatly provided her heart did not bleed it out too freely. Before doing so, however, both men once more spoke to Haymaker, who in an excess of self-condemnation insisted that no expense must be spared. If her life was in danger, save it by any means — all. It was precious to her, to him and to her chil- dren. So he spoke. Thus he felt that he was lending every force which could be expected of him, aside from fervently wishing for her recovery, which even now, in spite of himself, he could not do. He was too weary of it all, the conventional round of duties and obligations. But if she recovered, as her physicians seemed to think she might if transfusion were tried, if she gained even, it would mean that he would have to take her away for the summer to some quiet mountain resort — to be with her hourly during the long period in which she would be recovering. Well, he would not complain now. That was all right. He would do it. He would be bored of course, as usual, but it would be too bad to have her die when she could be saved. Yes, that was true. And yet

He went down to his office again and in the meantime this first form of transfusion was tried, and proved a great success, apparently. She was much better, so the day nurse phoned at three ; very much better. At five-thirty Mr. Haymaker returned, no unsatisfactory word having come in the interim, and there she was, resting on a raised pillow, if you please, and looking so cheerful, more like her old self than he had seen her in some time.

At once then his mood changed again. They were amazing, these variations in his own thoughts, almost chemic, not voli- tional, decidedly peculiar for a man who was supposed to know his own mind — only did one, ever? Now she would not die. Now the whole thing would go on as before. He was sure of it. Well, he might as well resign himself to the old sense of failure. He would never be free now. Everything would go on as before, the next and the next day the same. Terrible! Though he seemed glad — really grateful, in a way, seeing her cheerful and hopeful once more — still the obsession of failure and being once more bound forever returned now. In his own bed at midnight he said to himself: "Now she will really get well. All will be as before. I will never be free. I will never have a day — a day! Never!"

But the next morning, to his surprise and fear or comfort, as his moods varied, she was worse again; and then once more he reproached himself for his black thoughts. Was he not really killing her by what he thought? he asked himself — these constant changes in his mood? Did not his dark wishes have power? Was he not as good as a murderer in his way? Think, i£ he had always to feel from now on that he had killed her by wishing so! Would not that be dreadful — an awful thing really? Why was he this way? Could he not be human, kind?

When Doctor Storm came at nine-thirty, after a telephone call from the nurse, and looked grave and spoke of horses' blood as being better, thicker than human blood — not so easily bled out of the heart when injected as a serum — Haymaker was beside himself with self-reproaches and sad, disturbing fear. His dark, evil thoughts of last night and all these days had done this, he was sure. Was he really a murderer at heart, a dark criminal, plotting her death? — and for what? Why had he wished last night that she would die? Her case must be very desperate.

"You must do your best," he now said to Doctor Storm. "Whatever is needful — she must not die if you can help it."

"No, Mr. Haymaker," returned the latter sympathetically. "All that can be done will be done. You need not fear. I have an idea that we didn't inject enough yesterday, and anyhow human blood is not thick enough in this case. She responded, but not enough. We will see what we can do to-day."

Haymaker, pressed with duties, went away, subdued and sad. Now once more he decided that he must not tolerate these dark ideas any more, must rid himself of these black wishes, whatever he might feel. It was evil. They would eventually come back to him in some dark way, he might be sure. They might be in- fluencing her. She must be allowed to recover if she could without any opposition on his part. He must now make a further sacrifice of his own life, whatever it cost. It was only decent, only human. Why should he complain now, anyhow, after all these years! What difference would a few years make? He returned at evening, consoled by his own good thoughts and a telephone message at three to the effect that his wife was much better. This second injection had proved much more effective. Horses' blood was plainly better for her. She was stronger, and sitting up again. He entered at five, and found her lying there pale and weak, but still with a better light in her eye, a touch of color in her cheeks— or so he thought — more force, and a very faint smile for him, so marked had been the change. How great and kind Doctor Storm really was! How resourceful! If she would only get well now! If this dread siege would only abate! Doctor Storm was coming again at eight.

"Well, how are you, dear?" she asked, looking at him sweetly and lovingly, and taking his hand in hers.

He bent and kissed her forehead — a Judas kiss, he had thought up to now, but not so to-night. To-night he was kind, generous — anxious, even for her to live.

"All right, dearest; very good indeed. And how are you? It's such a fine evening out. You ought to get well soon so as to enjoy these spring days."

"I'm going to," she replied softly. "I feel so much better. And how have you been? Has your work gone all right?"

He nodded and smiled and told her bits of news. Ethelberta had phoned that she was coming, bringing violets. Wesley had said he would be here at six, with Irma! Such-and-such people had asked after her. How could he have been so evil, he now asked himself, as to wish her to die? She was not so bad — really quite charming in her way, an ideal wife for some one, if not him. She was as much entitled to live and enjoy her life as he was to enjoy his; and after all she was the mother of his children, had been with him all these years. Besides, the day had been so fine — it was now — a wondrous May evening. The air and sky were simply delicious. A lavender haze was in the air. The tele- phone bell now ringing brought still another of a long series of inquiries as to her condition. There had been so many of these during the last few days, the maid said, and especially to-day — and she gave Mr. Haymaker a list of names. See, he thought, she had even more friends than he, being so good, faithful, worthy. Why should he wish her ill?

He sat down to dinner with Ethelberta and Wesley when they arrived and chatted quite gayly — more hopefully than he had in weeks. His own varying thoughts no longer depressing him, for the moment he was happy. How were they? What were the children all doing? At eight-thirty Doctor Storm came again, and announced that he thought Mrs. Haymaker was doing very well indeed, all things considered.

"Her condition is fairly promising, I must say," he said. "If she gets through another night or two comfortably without falling back I think she'll do very well from now on. Her strength seems to be increasing a fraction. However, we must not be too optimistic. Cases of this kind are very treacherous. To-morrow we'll see how she feels, whether she needs any more blood."

He went away, and at ten Ethelberta and Wesley left for the night, asking to be called if she grew worse, thus leaving him alone once more. He sat and meditated. At eleven, after a few moments at his wife's bedside — absolute quiet had been the doctor's instructions these many days — he himself went to bed. He was very tired. His varying thoughts had afflicted him so much that he was always tired, it seemed — his evil conscience, ne called it — but to-night he was sure he would sleep. He felt better about himself, about life. He had done better, to-day. He should never have tolerated such dark thoughts. And yet — and yet — and yet

He lay on his bed near a window which commanded a view of a small angle of the park, and looked out. There were the spring trees, as usual, silvered now by the light, a bit of lake showing at one end. Here in the city a bit of sylvan scenery such as this was so rare and so expensive. In his youth he had been so fond of water, any small lake or stream or pond. In his youth, also, he had loved the moon, and to walk in the dark. It had all, always, been so suggestive of love and happiness, and he had so craved love and happiness and never had it. Once he had designed a yacht club, the base of which suggested waves. Once, years ago, he had thought of designing a lovely cottage or country house for himself and some new love — that wonderful one — if ever she came and he were free. How wonderful it would all have been. Now — now — the thought at such an hour and especially when it was too late, seemed sacrilegious, hard, cold, unmoral, evil. He turned his face away from the moonlight and sighed, deciding to sleep and shut out these older and darker and sweeter thoughts if he could, and did.

Presently he dreamed, and it was as if some lovely spirit of beauty — that wondrous thing he had always been seeking — came and took him by the hand and led him out, out by dimpling streams and clear rippling lakes and a great, noble highway where were temples and towers and figures in white marble. And it seemed as he walked as if something had been, or were, promised him — a lovely fruition to something which he craved — only the world toward which he walked was still dark or shadowy, with something sad and repressing about it, a haunt- ing sense of a still darker distance. He was going toward beauty apparently, but he was still seeking, seeking, and it was dark there when

"Mr. Haymaker! Mr. Haymaker!" came a voice — soft, almost mystical at first, and then clearer and more disturbing, as a hand was laid on him. "Will you come at once? It's Mrs. Haymaker!"

On the instant he was on his feet seizing the blue silk dressing gown hanging at his bed's head, and adjusting it as he hurried. Mrs. Elfridge and the nurse were behind him, very pale and distrait, wringing their hands. He could tell by that that the worst was at hand. When he reached the bedroom — her bedroom — there she lay as in life — still, peaceful, already limp, as though she were sleeping. Her thin, and as he sometimes thought, cold, lips were now parted in a faint, gracious smile, or trace of one. He had seen her look that way, too, at times ; a really gracious smile, and wise, wiser than she was. The long, thin, graceful hands were open, the fingers spread slightly apart as though she were tired, very tired. The eyelids, too, rested wearily on tired eyes. Her form, spare as always, was outlined clearly under the thin coverlets. Miss Filson, the night nurse, was saying something about having fallen asleep for a moment, and waking only to find her so. She was terribly depressed and disturbed, possibly because of Doctor Storm.

Haymaker paused, greatly shocked and moved by the sight — more so than by anything since the death of little Elwell. After all, she had tried, according to her light. But now she was dead — and they had been together so long! He came for- ward, tears of sympathy springing to his eyes, then sank down beside the bed on his knees so as not to disturb her right hand where it lay.

"Ernie, dear," he said gently, "Ernie — are you really gone?" His voice was full of sorrow} but to himself it sounded false, traitorous.

He lifted the hand and put it to his lips sadly, then leaned his head against her, thinking of his long, mixed thoughts these many days, while both Mrs. Elfridge and the nurse began wip- ing their eyes. They were so sorry for him, he was so old now!

After a while he got up — they came forward to persuade him at last — looking tremendously sad and distrait, and asked Mrs. Elfridge and the nurse not to disturb his children. They could not aid her now. Let them rest until morning. Then he went back to his own room and sat down on the bed for a moment, gazing out on the same silvery scene that had attracted him before. It was dreadful. So then his dark wishing had come true at last? Possibly his black thoughts had killed her after all. Was that possible? Had his voiceless prayers been answered in this grim way? And did she know now what he had really thought? Dark thought. Where was she now? What was she thinking now if she knew? Would she hate him — haunt him? It was not dawn yet, only two or three in the morning, and the moon was still bright. And in the next room she was lying, pale and cool, gone forever now out of his life.

He got up after a time and went forward into that pleasant front room where he had so often loved to sit, then back into her room to view the body again. Now that she was gone, here more than elsewhere, in her dead presence, he seemed better able to collect his scattered thoughts. She might see or she might not — might know or not. It was all over now. Only he could not help but feel a little evil. She had been so faithful, if nothing more, so earnest in behalf of him and of his children. He might have spared her these last dark thoughts of these last few days. His feelings were so jumbled that he could not place them half the time. But at the same time the ethics of the past, of his own irritated feelings and moods in regard to her, had to be adjusted somehow before he could have peace. They must be adjusted, only how — how? He and Mrs. Elfridge had agreed not to disturb Doctor Storm any more to-night. They were all agreed to get what rest they could against the morning.

After a time he came forward once more to the front room to sit and gaze at the park. Here, perhaps, he could solve these mysteries for himself, think them out, find out what he did feel. He was evil for having wished all he had, that he knew and felt. And yet there was his own story, too — his life. The dawn was breaking by nowj a faint grayness shaded the east and dimly lightened this room. A tall pier mirror between two windows now revealed him to himself — spare, angular, disheveled, his beard and hair astray and his eyes weary. The figure he made here as against his dreams of a happier life, once he were free, now struck him forcibly. What a farce! What a failure! Why should he, of all people, think of further happiness in love, even if he were free? Look at his reflection here in this mirror. What a picture — old, grizzled, done for! Had he not known that for so long? Was it not too ridiculous? Why should he have tolerated such vain thoughts? What could he of all people hope for now? No thing of beauty would have him now. Of course not. That glorious dream of his youth was gone forever. It was a mirage, an ignis fatuus. His wife might just as well have lived as died, for all the difference it would or could make to him. Only, he was really free just the same, almost as it were in spite of his varying moods. But he was old, weary, done for, a recluse and ungainly.

Now the innate cruelty of life, its blazing ironic indifference to him and so many grew rapidly upon him. What had he had? What all had he not missed? Dismally he stared first at his dark wrinkled skin; the crow's-feet at the sides of his eyes; the wrinkles across his forehead and between the eyes ; his long, dark, wrinkled hands — handsome hands they once were, he thought; his angular, stiff body. Once he had been very much of a person- age, he thought, striking, forceful, dynamic — but now! He turned and looked out over the park where the young trees were, and the lake, to the pinking dawn — just a trace now — a significant thing in itself at this hour surely — the new dawn, so wondrously new for younger people — then back at himself. What could he wish for now — what hope for?

As he did so his dream came back to him — that strange dream of seeking and being led and promised and yet always being led forward into a dimmer, darker land. What did that mean? Had it any real significance? Was it all to be dimmer, darker still? Was it typical of his life? He pondered.

"Free! " he said after a time. "Free! I know now how that is. I am free now, at last! Free! . . . Free! . . . Yes — free ... to die!"

So he stood there ruminating and smoothing his hair and his beard.

3.St. Columba and the River

The first morning that McGlathery saw the great river stretch- ing westward from the point where the initial shaft had been sunk he was not impressed by it — or, rather, he was, but not favorably. It looked too gray and sullen, seeing that he was viewing it through a driving, sleety rain. There were many ferry boats and craft of all kinds, large and small, streaming across its choppy bosom, giant steamers, and long projecting piers, great and mysterious, and clouds of gulls, and the shriek of whistles, and the clang of fog-bells, . . . but he did not like water. It took him back to eleven wretched seasick days in which he had crossed on the steamer from Ireland. But then, glory be, once freed from the mysteries of Ellis Island, he had marched out on dry land at the Battery, cloth bags in hand, and exclaimed, "Thanks be, I'm shut av it!"

And he thought he was, for he was mortally afraid of water. But fate, alas! had not decreed it as a permanent thing. As a matter of fact, water in one form or another had persistently seemed to pursue him since. In Ireland, County Clare, from whence he hailed, he had been a ditcher — something remotely connected with water. Here in America, and once safely settled in Brooklyn, he had no sooner sought work than the best he could seemingly get was a job in connection with a marsh which was being drained, a very boggy and pool-y one — water again, you see. Then there was a conduit being dug, a great open sewer which once when he and other members of the construc- tion gang were working on it, was flooded by a cloudburst, a tremendous afternoon rain- storm which drove them from it with a volume of water which threatened to drown them all. Still later, he and thirty others were engaged in cleaning out a two- compartment reservoir, old and stone-rotten, when, one-half being empty and the other full, the old dividing wall broke, and once more he barely escaped with his life by scrambling up a steep bank. It was then that the thought first took root in his mind that water — any kind of water, sea or fresh — was not favorable to him. Yet here he was, facing this great river on a gray rainy November morning, and with the avowed object of going to work in the tunnel which was about to be dug under it.

Think of it! In spite of his prejudices and fears, here he was, and all due to one Thomas Cavanaugh, a fellow churchman and his foreman these last three years, who had happened to take a fancy to him and had told him that if he came to work in the tunnel and prosecuted his new work thoroughly, and showed himself sufficiently industrious and courageous, it might lead to higher things — viz, bricklaying, or plastering, in the guise of cement moulding, down in this very tunnel, or timber- ing, or better yet, the steel-plate- joining trade, which was a branch of the ironworkers' guild and was rewarded by no less a compensation than twelve dollars a day. Think of it — twelve dollars a day! Men of this class and skill were scarce in tunnel work and in great demand in America. This same Cavanaugh was to be one of the foremen in this tunnel, his foreman, and would look after him. Of course it required time and patience. One had to begin at the bottom — the same being seventy-five feet under the Hudson River, where some very careful pre- liminary digging had to be done. McGlathery had surveyed his superior and benefactor at the time with uncertain and yet ambi- tious eyes.

"Is it as ye tell me now?" he commented at one place.

"Yis. Av course. What d'ye think I'm taalkin' to ye about?"

"Ye say, do ye?"

"Certainly."

"Well! Well! Belike it's a fine job. I dunno. Five dollars a day, ye say, to begin with?"

"Yis, five a day."

"Well, a man in my line could git no more than that, eh? It wouldn't hurt me fer once, fer a little while anyway, hey?"

"It would be the makin' av ye."

"Well, I'll be with ye. Yis, I'll be with ye. It's not five I can git everywhere. When is it ye'll be wantin' me?"

The foreman, a Gargantuan figure in yellow jeans and high rubber boots smeared to the buttocks with mud, eyed him genially and amiably, the while McGlathery surveyed his superior with a kind of reverence and awe, a reverence which he scarcely felt for any other man, unless perchance it might be his parish priest, for he was a good Catholic, or the political backer of his district, through whom he had secured his job. What great men they all were, to be sure, leading figures in his life.

So here he was on this particular morning shortly after the work had been begun, and here was the river, and down below in this new shaft, somewhere, was Thomas Cavanaugh, to whom he had to report before he could go to work.

"Sure, it's no colleen's job," he observed to a fellow worker who had arrived at the mouth of the shaft about the same time as himself, and was beginning to let himself down the ladder which sank darkly to an intermediate platform, below which again was another ladder and platform, and below that a yellow light. "Ye say Mr. Cavanaugh is below there?"

"He is," replied the stranger without looking up. "Ye'll find him inside the second lock. Arr ye workin' here?"

"Yis."

"Come along, then."

With a bundle which consisted of his rubber boots, a worn suit of overalls, and with his pick and shovel over his shoulder, he followed. He reached the bottom of the pit, boarded as to the sides with huge oak planks sustained by cross beams, and there, with several others who were waiting until the air pres- sure should be adjusted, entered the lock. The comparatively small and yet massive chamber, with its heavy iron door at either end, responding so slowly to pressure, impressed him. There was only a flickering light made by a gasoline torch here. There was a whistling sound from somewhere.

"Ever work under air pressure before, Paddy?" inquired a great hulking ironworker, surveying him with a genial leer.

"Air what?" asked McGlathery without the slightest compre- hension of what was meant, but not to be outdone by mere words. "No, I never did."

"Well, ye're under it now, two thousand pounds to the square inch. Don't ye feel it?"

Dennis, who had been feeling an odd sensation about his ear- drums and throat, but had no knowledge that it was related to this, acknowledged that he did. " 'Tis air, is it?" he inquired. " 'Tis a quare feeling I have." The hissing ceased.

"Yuh want to look out fer that, new man," volunteered an- other, a skimpy, slithery, genial American. "Don't let 'em rush that stuff on yuh too fast. Yuh may git the 'bends.' "

Dennis, ignorant as to the meaning of "bends," made no reply.

"D'yuh know what the 'bends' is, new man?" persisted the other provocatively.

"Naw," replied Dennis awkwardly after a time, feeling him- self the centre of a fire of curious observation and solicitation.

"Well, yuh will if yuh ever git 'em — haw! haw!" this from a waggish lout, a bricklayer who had previously not spoken. The group in the lock was large. "It comes from them lettin' the pres- sure be put on or took off too fast. It twists yer muscles all up, an' does sumpin' to yer nerves. Yuh'll know it if yuh ever git it."

"Member Eddie Slawder?" called another gaily. "He died of it over here in Bellevue, after they started the Fourteenth Street end. Gee, yuh oughta heerd him holler! I went over to see him."

Good news, indeed! So this was his introduction to the tunnel, and here was a danger not commented on by Cavanaugh. In his dull way McGlathery was moved by it. Well, he was here now, and they were forcing open the door at the opposite side of the lock, and the air pressure had not hurt him, and he was not killed yet j and then, after traversing a rather neatly walled section of tunnel, albeit badly littered with beams and plates and bags of cement and piles of brick, and entering another lock like the first and coming out on the other side — there, amid an intri- cate network of beams and braces and a flare of a half dozen great gasoline lamps which whistled noisily, and an overhanging mass of blackness which was nothing less than earth under the great river above, was Cavanaugh, clad in a short red sweater and great rubber boots, an old yellowish-brown felt hat pulled jauntily over one ear. He was conversing with two other fore- men and an individual in good clothes, one of those mighties — an engineer, no doubt.

Ah, how remote to McGlathery were the gentlemen in smooth fitting suits! He viewed them as you might creatures from an- other realm.

Beyond this lock also was a group of night workers left over from the night before and under a strange foreman (ditchers, joiners, earth carriers, and steel-plate riveters), all engaged in the rough and yet delicate risk of forcing and safeguarding a passage under the river, and only now leaving. The place was full. It was stuffy from the heat of the lamps, and dirty from the smear of the black muck which was over everything. Cava- naugh spied Dennis as he made his way forward over the widely separated beams.

"So here ye arr! These men are just after comin' out," and he waved a hand toward the forward end of the tunnel. "Git in there, Dennis, and dig out that corner beyond the post there. Jerry here'll help ye. Git the mud up on this platform so we can git these j'ists in here."

McGlathery obeyed. Under the earthy roof whose surface he could see but dimly at the extreme forward end of the tunnel beyond that wooden framework, he took his position. With a sturdy arm and a sturdy back and a sturdy foot and leg, he pushed his spade into the thick mud, or loosened it with his pick when necessary, and threw it up on the crude platform, where other men shoveled it into a small car which was then trundled back over the rough boards to the lock, and so on out. It was slow, dirty, but not difficult work, so long as one did not think of the heavy river overhead with its ships and its choppy waves in the rain, and the gulls and the bells. Somehow, Dennis was fearfully disturbed as to the weight of this heavy volume of earth and water overhead. It really terrified him. Perhaps he had been overpersuaded by the lure of gold? Suppose it should break through, suppose the earth over his head should suddenly drop and bury him — that dim black earth overhead, as heavy and thick as this he was cutting with his shovel now.

"Come, Dennis, don't be standin' there lookin' at the roof.

The roof's not goin' to hurt ye. Ye're not down here to be lookin' after the roof. I'll be doin' that. Just ye 'tend to yer shovelin'."

It was the voice of Cavanaugh near at hand. Unconsciously McGlathery had stopped and was staring upward. A small piece of earth had fallen and struck him on the back. Suppose! Sup- pose!

Know, O reader, that the business of tunneling is one of the most hazardous and dramatic, albeit interesting, of all known fields of labor. It consists, in these latter days at least, in so far as under-water tunneling is concerned, of sinking huge shafts at either end or side of a river, lake or channel (one hundred feet, perhaps, within the shore line) to a depth of, say, thirty feet below the water level, and from these two points tunneling out- ward under the bottom of the river until the two ends meet somewhere near the middle. The exact contact and precise joining of these outer ends is considered one of the true tests of skilful engineering. McGlathery personally understood all this but dimly. And even so it could not cheer him any.

And it should be said here that the safety of the men who did the work, and the possibility of it, depended first on the introduction at either end, just at the base of the shafts and then at about every hundred or so feet, as the tunnel progressed out- ward, of huge cylindrical chambers, or locks, of heavy iron — air locks, no less — fifteen feet in diameter, and closed at each end by massive doors swinging inward toward the shore line, so that the amazing and powerful pressure of air constantly forced outward from the shore by huge engines could not force them open. It was only by the same delicate system which causes water locks to open and close that they could be opened at all. That is, workingmen coming down into the shaft and desiring to pass into the head of the tunnel beyond the lock, would have to first enter one of these locks, which would then gradually be filled with air compressed up to the same pressure as that maintained in the main portion of the tunnel farther in. When this pressure had been reached they could easily open the inward swinging door and pass into the tunnel proper. Here, provided that so much had been completed, they might walk, say, so much as a hundred or more feet, when they would encounter another lock.

The pressure in the lock, according to who had last used it, would be either that of the section of the tunnel toward the shore, or of the section beyond, toward the centre of the river. At first, bell cords, later telephones, and then electric signals controlled this — that is, the lowering or raising of the pressure of air in the locks so that one door or the other might be opened. If the pressure in the lock was different from that in your section, and you could not open the door (which you could not), you pulled the cord or pushed the button so many times, accord- ing to your position, and the air in the lock was adjusted to the section of the tunnel in which you stood. Then you could open the door. Once in, as in a water lock, the air was raised or lowered, according to your signal, and you could enter the next section outward or inward. All these things had been adjusted to a nicety even in those days, which was years ago.

The digging of this particular tunnel seemed safe enough — for McGlathery at least, once he began working here. It moved at the rate of two and even three feet a day, when things were going well, only there were days and days when, owing to the need of shoring and timbering and plate setting, to say nothing of the accidental encountering of rock in front which had to be drilled away, the men with picks and shovels had to be given a rest, or better yet, set to helping the joiners in erect- ing those cross beams and supports which made the walls safe. It was so that Dennis learned much about joining and even drilling.

Nevertheless, in spite of the increased pay, this matter of working under the river was a constant source of fear to him. The earth in which he worked was so uncertain. One day it would be hard black mud, another soft, another silt, another sand, according as the tunnel sloped further and further under the bed. In addition, at times great masses of it fell, not enough to make a hole in the roof above, but enough, had it chanced to fall on one of the workers, to break his back or half bury him in mud. Usually it was broken by the beams overhead. Only one day, some seven months after he had begun and when he was becoming fairly accustomed to the idea of working here, and when his skill had increased to such an extent that he was con- sidered one of the most competent workers in his limited field, the unexpected happened.

He had come down one morning at eight with the rest of his gang and was working about the base of two new supports which had just been put in place, when he noticed, or thought he did, that the earth seemed wetter than usual, sticky, watery, and hard to manage. It could not have been much worse had a subterranean spring been encountered. Besides, one of the gaso- line lamps having been brought forward and hung close by, he noticed by its light that the ceiling seemed to look silvery gray and beady. He spoke of it to Cavanaugh, who stood by.

"Yis," said his foreman dubiously, staring upward, " 'tis wet. Maybe the air pumps is not workin' right. I'll just make sure," and he sent word to the engineer.

The shaft superintendent himself appeared.

"Everything's all right up above," he said. "Two thousand pounds to the square inch. I'll just put on a little more, if you say so."

"Ye'd better," replied Cavanaugh. "The roof's not actin' right. And if ye see Mr. Henderson, send him down. I'd like to talk to him."

"All right," and off he went.

McGlathery and the others, at first nervous, but now slightly reassured, worked on. But the ground under their feet became sloppy, and some of the silvery frosting on the roof began to drop and even trickle as water. Then a mass of sloppy mud fell.

"Back, men!"

It was the voice of Cavanaugh, but not quicker than the scam- pering of the men who, always keenly alive to the danger of a situation, had taken note of the dripping water and the first flop of earth. At the same time, an ominous creak from one of the beams overhead gave warning of the imminence of a catas- trophe. A pell-mell rush for the lock some sixty feet away en- sued. Tools were dropped, precedence disregarded. They fell and stumbled over the beams and between, pushing each other out of the way into the water and mud as they ran, McGlathery a fair second to none.

"Open the door! Open the door!" was the cry as they reached the lock, for some one had just entered from the other side — the engineer. "For Christ's sake, open the door!" But that could not be done so quickly. A few moments at least had to elapse.

"It's breakin' in ! " cried some one in a panicky voice, an iron- worker.

"Great God, it's coming down ! " this from one of the masons, as three lamps in the distance were put out by the mud. . McGlathery was almost dying of fear. He was sweating a cold sweat. Five dollars a day indeed! He should stay away from water, once and for all. Didn't he know that? It was always bad luck to him.

"What's the trouble? What's the trouble?" called the amazed engineer as, unconscious of what was happening outside, he pushed open the door.

"Git out of the way!"

"Fer God's sake, let us in!"

"Shut the door!" this from a half dozen who had already reached safety assuming that the door could be instantly closed.

"Wait! Cavanaugh's outside!" This from some one — not McGlathery, you may be sure, who was cowering in a corner. He was so fearful that he was entirely unconscious of his superior's fate.

"To hell with Cavanaugh! Shut the door!" screamed another, a great ironworker, savage with fear.

"Let Cavanaugh in, I say ! " this from the engineer.

At this point McGlathery, for the first time on this or any other job, awoke to a sense of duty, but not much at that. He was too fearful. This was what he got for coming down here at all. He knew Cavanaugh — Cavanaugh was his friend, indeed. Had he not secured him this and other jobs? Surely. But then Cavanaugh had persuaded him to come down here, which was wrong. He ought not to have done it. Still, even in his fear he had manhood enough to feel that it was not quite right to shut Cavanaugh out. Still, what could he do — he was but one. But even as he thought, and others were springing forward to shut Cavanaugh out, so eager were they to save themselves, they faced a gleaming revolver in the steady hand of the big fore- man.

"I'll shoot down the first damned man that tries to shut the door before me and Kelly are in," the big foreman was calling, the while he was pulling this same Kelly from the mud and slime outside. Then fairly throwing him into the lock, and leap- ing after him, he turned and quietly helped close the door.

McGlathery was amazed at this show of courage. To stop and help another man like that in the face of so much danger! Cavanaugh was even a better and kinder man than he had thought — really a great man — no coward like himself. But why had Cavanaugh persuaded him to come down here when he knew that he was afraid of water ! And now this had happened. Inside as they cowered — all but Cavanaugh — they could hear the sound of crushing timber and grinding brick outside, which made it quite plain that where a few moments before had been beams and steel and a prospective passageway for men, was now dark- ness and water and the might of the river, as it had been since the beginning.

McGlathery, seeing this, awoke to the conviction that in the first place he was a great coward, and in the second that the tunnel digging was no job for him. He was by no means fitted for it, he told himself. " 'Tis the last," he commented, as he climbed safely out with the others after a distressing wait of ten minutes at the inward lock. "Begob, I thought we was all lost. 'Twas a close shave. But I'll go no more below. I've had enough." He was thinking of a small bank account — six hun- dred dollars in all — which he had saved, and of a girl in Brook- lyn who was about to marry him. "No more!" in

But, at that, as it stood, there was no immediate danger of work being offered. The cave-in had cost the contractors thou- sands and in addition had taught them that mere air pressure and bracing as heretofore followed were not sufficient for suc- cessful tunneling. Some new system would have to be devised. Work on both halves of the tunnel was suspended for over a year and a half, during which time McGlathery married, a baby was born to him, and his six hundred had long since diminished to nothing. The difference between two and five dollars a day is considerable. Incidentally, he had not gone near his old foreman in all this time, being somehow ashamed of himself, and in conse- quence he had not fared so well. Previously Cavanaugh had kept him almost constantly employed, finding him faithful and hard- working, but now owing to stranger associates there were weeks when he had no work at all and others when he had to work for as little as one-fifty a day. It was not so pleasant. Besides, he had a sneaking feeling that if he had behaved a little more courageously at that time, gone and talked to his old foreman afterwards or at the time, he might now be working for good pay. Alas, he had not done so, and if he went now Cavanaugh would be sure to want to know why he had disappeared so utterly. Then, in spite of his marital happiness, poverty began to press him so. A second and a third child were born — only they were twins.

In the meantime, Henderson, the engineer whom Cavanaugh had wanted to consult with at the time, had devised a new system of tunneling, namely, what subsequently came to be known as the pilot tunnel. This was an iron tube ten feet in length and fifteen feet in diameter — the width of the tunnel, which was car- ried forward on a line with the axis of the tunnel into the ground ahead. When it was driven in far enough to be completely con- cealed by the earth about, then the earth within was removed. The space so cleared was then used exactly as a hub is used on a wagon wheel. Beams like spokes were radiated from its sides to its centre, and the surrounding earth sustained by heavy iron plates. On this plan the old company had decided to undertake the work again.

One evening, sitting in his doorway thumbing his way through an evening paper which he could barely read, Mc- Glathery had made all this out. Mr. Henderson was to be in charge as before. Incidentally it was stated that Thomas Cav- anaugh was going to return as one of the two chief foremen. Work was to be started at once. In spite of himself, McGlathery was impressed. If Cavanaugh would only take him back! To be sure, he had come very near losing his life, as he thought, but then he had not. No one had, not a soul. Why should he be so fearful if Cavanaugh could take such chances as he had? Where else could he make five dollars a day? Still, there was this haunt- ing sensation that the sea and all of its arms and branches, wherever situated, were inimical to him and that one day one of them would surely do him a great injury — kill him, perhaps. He had a recurring sensation of being drawn up into water or down, he could not tell which, and of being submerged in ooze and choking slowly. It was horrible.

But five dollars a day as against one-fifty or two or none at all (seven, once he became very proficient) and an assured future as a tunnel worker, a "sand- hog," as he had now learned such men as himself were called, was a luring as well as a dis- turbing thought. After all, he had no trade other than this he had begun to learn under Cavanaugh. Worse he was not a union man, and the money he had once saved was gone, and he had a wife and three children. With the former he had various and sundry talks. To be sure, tunneling was dangerous, but still! She agreed with him that he had better not, but — after all, the difference that five, maybe seven, instead of two a day would make in their living expenses was in both their minds. McGlath- ery saw it. He decided after a long period of hesitation that per- haps he had best return. After all, nothing had happened to him that other time, and might it ever again, really? He meditated.

As has been indicated, a prominent element in McGlathery's nature was superstition. While he believed in the inimical nature of water to him, he also believed in the power of various saints, male and female, to help or hinder. In the Catholic Church of St. Columba of South Brooklyn, at which McGlathery and his young wife were faithful attendants, there was a plaster statue of a saint of this same name, a co-worker with St. Patrick in Ireland, it appears, who in McGlathery's native town of Kilrush, County of Clare, on the water's edge of Shannon, had been worshipped for centuries past, or at least highly esteemed, as having some merit in protecting people at sea, or in adventures connected with water. This was due, perhaps, to the fact that Kilrush was directly on the water and had to have a saint of that kind. At any rate, among other things, he had occasionally been implored for protection in that realm when McGlathery was a boy. On his setting out for America, for instance, some few years before at the suggestion of his mother, he had made a novena before this very saint, craving of him a safe conduct in crossing the sea, as well as prosperity once he had arrived in America. Well, he had crossed in safety, and prospered well enough, he thought. At least he had not been killed in any tunnel. In consequence, on bended knees, two blessed candles burning before him in the rack, a half dollar deposited in the box labeled "St. Columba's Orphans," he finally asked of this saint whether, in case he returned to this underground tunnel work, seeing that necessity was driving him, would he be so kind as to protect him? He felt sure that Cavanaugh, once he applied to him, and seeing that he had been a favorite worker, would not begrudge him a place if he had one. In fact he knew that Cavanaugh had always favored him as a good useful helper.

After seven "Our Fathers" and seven "Hail Marys," said on his knees, and a litany of the Blessed Virgin for good measure, he crossed himself and arose greatly refreshed. There was a pleasant conviction in his mind now, newly come there before this image, that he would never come to real harm by any power of water. It was a revelation — a direct communication, perhaps. At any rate, something told him to go and see Cavanaugh at once, before the work was well under way, and not be afraid, as no harm would come to him, and besides, he might not get anything even though he desired it so much if he delayed. He bustled out of the church and over to the waterfront where the deserted shaft was still standing, and sure enough, there was Cavanaugh, conversing with Mr. Henderson.

"Yis — an' what arr ye here fer?" he now demanded to know of McGlathery rather amusedly, for he had sensed the cause of his desertion.

"I was readin' that ye was about to start work on the tunnel again."

"An' so we arr. What av it?"

"I was thinkin' maybe ye'd have a place fer me. I'm married now an' have three children."

"An' ye're thinkin' that's a reason fer givin' ye something, is it?" demanded the big foreman rather cynically, with a trace of amusement. "I thought ye said ye was shut av the sea — that ye was through now, once an' fer all?"

"So I did, but I've changed me mind. It's needin' the work I am."

"Very well, then," said Cavanaugh. "We're beginnin' in the mornin'. See that ye're here at seven sharp. An' mind ye, no worryin' or lookin' around. We've a safe way now. It's different. There's no danger."

McGlathery gratefully eyed his old superior, then departed, only to return the next morning a little dubious but willing. St. Columba had certainly indicated that all would be well with him — but still A man is entitled to a few doubts even when under the protection of the best of saints. He went down with the rest of the men and began cleaning out that nearest section of the tunnel where first water and then earth had finally oozed and caked. That done he helped install the new pilot tunnel which was obviously a great improvement over the old system. It seemed decidedly safe. McGlathery attempted to explain its merits to his wife, who was greatly concerned for him, and inci- dentally each morning and evening on his way to and from his task he dropped in at St. Columba's to offer up a short silent prayer. In spite of his novena and understanding with the saint he was still suspicious of this dread river above him, and of what might happen to him in spite of St. Columba. The good saint, due to some error on the part of McGlathery, might change his mind.

Nothing happened, of course, for days and weeks and months. Under Cavanaugh's direction the work progressed swiftly, and McGlathery and he, in due time, became once more good friends, and the former an expert bracer or timberer, one of the best, and worth seven a day really, which he did not get. Incidentally, they were all shifted from day to night work, which somehow was considered more important. There were long conversations now and again between Cavanaugh and Henderson, and Cav- anaugh and other officials of the company who came down to see, which enlightened McGlathery considerably as to the nature and danger of the work. Just the same, overhead was still the heavy river — he could feel it pushing at him at times, pushing at the thick layer of mud and silt above him and below which with the aid of this new pilot shield they were burrowing.

Yet nothing happened for months and months. They cleared a thousand feet without a hitch. McGlathery began to feel rather comfortable about it all. It certainly seemed reasonably safe under the new system. Every night he went down and every morning came up, as hale and healthy as ever, and every second week, on a Tuesday, a pay envelope containing the handsome sum of seventy-two dollars was handed him. Think of it! Seventy-two dollars! Naturally, as a token of gratitude to St. Columba, he contributed liberally to his Orphan's Home, a dol- lar a month, say, lit a fresh candle before his shrine every Sunday morning after high mass, and bought two lots out on the Goose Creek waterfront — on time — on which some day, God will- ing, he proposed to build a model summer and winter cottage. And then — ! Well, perhaps, as he thought afterward, it might have been due to the fact that his prosperity had made him a little more lax than he should have been, or proud, or not quite as thoughtful of the saint as was his due. At any rate, one night, in spite of St. Columba — or could it have been with his aid and consent in order to show McGlathery his power? — the wretched sneaky river did him another bad turn, a terrible turn, really.

It was this way. While they were working at midnight under the new form of bracing, based on the pilot tunnel, and with an air pressure of two thousand pounds to the square inch which had so far sufficed to support the iron roof plates which were being put in place behind the pilot tunnel day after day, as fast as space permitted, and with the concrete men following to put in a form of arch which no river weight could break, the very worst happened. For it was just at this point where the iron roof and the mud of the river bottom came in contact behind the pilot tunnel that there was a danger spot ever since the new work began. Cavanaugh had always been hovering about that, watching it, urging others, to be careful — "taking no chances with it," as he said.

"Don't be long, men!" was his constant urge. "Up with it now! Up with it! In with the bolts! Quick, now, with yer riveter — quick! quick!"

And the men! How they worked there under the river when- ever there was sufficient space to allow a new steel band to be segmentally set! For at that point it was, of course, that the river might break through. How they tugged, sweated, grunted, cursed, in this dark muddy hole, lit by a few glittering electric arcs — the latest thing in tunnel work! Stripped to the waist, in mud-soaked trousers and boots, their arms and backs and breasts mud-smeared and wet, their hair tousled, their eyes bleary — an artist's dream of bedlam, a heavenly inferno of toil — so they labored. And overhead was the great river, Atlantic liners rest- ing upon it, thirty or fifteen or ten feet of soil only, sometimes, between them and this thin strip of mud sustained, supposedly, by two thousand pounds of air pressure to the square inch — all they had to keep the river from bleeding water down on them and drowning them like rats!

"Up with it! Up with it! Up with it! Now the bolts! Now the riveter! That's it! In with it, Johnny! Once more now!"

Cavanaugh's voice urging them so was like music to them, their gift of energy, their labor song, their power to do, their Ei Uchnam.

But there were times also, hours really, when the slow for- ward movement of the pilot tunnel, encountering difficult earth before it, left this small danger section unduly exposed to the rotary action of the water overhead which was constantly oper- ating in the bed of the river. Leaks had been discovered from time to time, small tricklings and droppings of earth, which brought Cavanaugh and Henderson to the spot and caused the greatest tension until they had been done away with. The air had a tendency to bore holes upward through the mud. But these were invariably stanched with clay, or, if growing serious, bags of shavings or waste, the air pressure blowing outward from be- low being sufficient to hold these in place, provided the breach was not too wide. Even when "all hands" were working directly under a segment wide enough for a ring of plates, one man was told off to "kape an eye on it."

On the evening in question, however, after twenty-eight men, including Cavanaugh and McGlathery, had entered at six and worked until midnight, pushing the work as vigorously as usual, seven of the men (they were told off in lots of seven to do this) were allowed to go up to the mouth of the tunnel to a nearby all-night saloon for a drink and a bite of food. A half hour to each lot was allowed, when another group would depart. There was always a disturbing transition period every half hour between twelve and two, during which one group was going and another coming, which resulted at times in a danger- ous indifference which Cavanaugh had come to expect at just about this time and in consequence he was usually watching for it.

On the other hand, John Dowd, ditcher, told off to keep an eye on the breach at this time, was replaced on this particular night by Patrick Murtha, fresh from the corner saloon, a glass of beer and the free lunch counter still in his mind. He was supposed to watch closely, but having had four glasses in rapid succession and meditating on their excellence as well as that of the hot frankfurters, the while he was jesting with the men who were making ready to leave, he forgot about it. What now — was a man always to keep his eye on the blanked thing! What was going to happen anyway? What could happen? Nothing, of course. What had ever happened in the last eight months?

"Sssst!"

What was that? A sound like the blowing off of steam. All at once Cavanaugh, who was just outside the pilot tunnel in- dicating to McGlathery and another just where certain braces were to be put, in order that the pilot tunnel might be pushed forward a few inches for the purpose of inserting a new ring of plates, heard it. At a bound he was back through the pilot hub, his face aflame with fear and rage. Who had neglected the narrow breach?

"Come now! What the hell is this?" he was about to ex- claim, but seeing a wide breach suddenly open and water pour down in a swift volume, his spirit sank and fear over- came him.

"Back men! Stop the leak!"

It was the cry of a frightened and yet courageous man at bay. There was not only fear, but disappointment, in it. He had certainly hoped to obviate anything like this this time. But where a moment before had been a hole that might have been stopped with a bag of sawdust (and Patrick Murtha was there attempting to do it) was now a rapidly widening gap through which was pouring a small niagara of foul river water, ooze and slime. As Cavanaugh reached it and seized a bag to stay it, another mass of muddy earth fell, striking both him and Murtha, and half blinding them both. Murtha scrambled away for his life. McGlathery, who had been out in the front of the fatal tunnel with others, now came staggering back horribly frightened, scarcely knowing what to do.

"Quick, Dennis! Into the lock!" Cavanaugh called to him, while he himself held his ground. "Hurry ! " and realizing the hopelessness of it and his own danger, Dennis thought to run past, but was stopped by the downpour of water and mud.

"Quick! Quick! Into the lock! For Christ's sake, can't ye see what's happenin'? Through with ye!"

McGlathery, hesitating by his chief's side, fearful to move lest he be killed, uncertain this time whether to leave his chief or not, was seized by Cavanaugh and literally thrown through, as were others after him, the blinding ooze and water choking them, but placing them within range of safety. When the last man was through Cavanaugh himself plunged after, wading knee-deep in mud and water.

"Quick! Quick! Into the lock!" he called, and then seeing McGlathery, who was now near it but waiting for him, added, "In, in!" There was a mad scramble about the door, floating timbers and bags interfering with many, and then, just as it seemed as if all would reach safety, an iron roof plate over- head, loosened by the breaking of plates beyond, gave way, felling one man in the half-open doorway of the lock and blocking and pinning it in such a way that it could be neither opened nor closed. Cavanaugh and others who came up after were shut out. McGlathery, who had just entered and saw it, could do nothing. But in this emergency, and unlike his previous attitude, he and several others on the inside seized upon the dead man and tried to draw him in, at the same time calling to Cavanaugh to know what to do. The latter, dumbfounded, was helpless. He saw very clearly and sadly that very little if anything could be done. The plate across the dead man was too heavy, and besides, the ooze was already pouring over him into the lock. At the same time the men in the lock, conscious that although they were partially on the road to safety they were still in danger of losing their lives, were frantic with fear.

Actually there were animal roars of terror. At the same time

McGlathery, once more realizing that his Nemesis, water, had overtaken him and was likely to slay him at last, was completely paralyzed with fear. St. Columba had promised him, to be sure, but was not this that same vision that he had had in his dreams, that awful sense of encroaching ooze and mud? Was he not now to die this way, after all? Was not his patron saint truly deserting him? It certainly appeared so.

"Holy Mary! Holy St. Columba!" he began to pray, "what shall I do now? Mother of God! Our Father, who art in Heaven! Bejasus, it's a tight place I'm in now! I'll never get out of this! Tower of Ivory! House of Gold! Can't we git him in, boys? Ark of the Covenant! Gate of Heaven!"

As he gibbered and chattered, the others screaming about him, some pulling at the dead man, others pulling at the other door, the still eye of Cavanaugh outside the lock waist-deep in mud and water was surveying it all.

"Listen to me, men!" came his voice in rich, heavy, gut- tural tones. "You, McGlathery! Dennis! Arr ye all crazy! Take aaf your clothes and stop up the doorway! It's yer only chance! Aaf with yer clothes, quick! And those planks there — stand them up! Never mind us. Save yerselves first. Maybe ye can do something for us afterwards."

As he argued, if only the gap in the door could be closed and the compressed air pushing from the tunnel outward toward the river allowed to fill the chamber, it would be possible to open the other door which gave into the next section shore- ward, and so they could all run to safety.

His voice, commanding, never quavering, even in the face of death, subsided. About and behind him were a dozen men hud- dled like sheep, waist-deep in mud and water, praying and crying. They had got as close to him as might be, still trying to draw upon the sustaining force of his courage, but moaning and praying just the same and looking at the lock.

"Yis! Yis!" exclaimed McGlathery of a sudden, awakening at last to a sense of duty and that something better in conduct and thought which he had repeatedly promised himself and his saint that he would achieve. He had been forgetting. But now it seemed to him once more that he had been guilty of that same great wrong to his foreman which had marked his atti- tude on the previous occasion — that is, he had not helped him or any one but himself. He was a horrible coward. But what could he do? he asked himself. What could he do? Tearing off his coat and vest and shirt as commanded, he began pushing them into the opening, calling to the others to do the same. In a twinkling, bundles were made of all as well as of the sticks and beams afloat in the lock, and with these the gap in the door was stuffed, sufficiently to prevent the air from escaping, but shutting out the foreman and his men completely.

"It's awful. I don't like to do it," McGlathery kept crying to his foreman but the latter was not so easily shaken.

"It's all right, boys," he kept saying. "Have ye no courage at aal?" And then to the others outside with him, "Can't ye stand still and wait? They may be comin' back in time. Kape still. Say yer prayers if ye know any, and don't be afraid."

But, although the air pressing outward toward Cavanaugh held the bundles in place, still was not sufficient to keep all the air in or all the water out. It poured about the dead man and between the chinks, rising inside to their waists also. Once more it threatened their lives and now their one hope was to pull open the shoreward door and so release themselves into the chamber beyond, but this was not to be done unless the escaping air was completely blocked or some other method devised.

Cavanaugh, on the outside, his whole mind still riveted on the men whom he was thus aiding to escape, was the only one who realized what was to be done. In the panel of the door which confronted him, and the other, which they were trying to break open, were thick glass plates, or what were known as bull's eyes, through which one could see, and it was through the one at his end that Cavanaugh was peering. When it be- came apparent to him that the men were not going to be able to open the farthest door, a new thought occurred to him. Then it was that his voice was heard above the tumult, shouting:

"Break open the outside bull's eye! Listen to me, Dennis! Listen to me! Break open the outside bull's eye!"

Why did he call to Dennis, the latter often asked himself afterwards. And why did Dennis hear him so clearly? Through a bedlam of cries within, he heard, but also realized that if he or they knocked out the bull's eye in the other door, and the air escaped through it inward, the chances of their opening it would be improved, but the life of Cavanaugh and his helpless companions would certainly be destroyed. The water would rush inward from the river filling up this chamber and the space in which stood Cavanaugh. Should he? So he hesitated.

"Knock it out!" came the muffled voice of his foreman from within where he was eyeing him calmly. "Knock it out, Dennis! It's yer only chance! Knock it out!" And then, for the first time in all the years he had been working for him, McGlathery heard the voice of his superior waver slightly: "If ye're saved," it said, "try and do what ye can fer the rest av us."

In that moment McGlathery was reborn spiritually. Although he could have wept, something broke in him — fear. He was not afraid now for himself. He ceased to tremble, almost to hurry and awoke to a new idea, one of undying, unfaltering courage. What! There was Cavanaugh outside there, unafraid, and here was he, Dennis McGlathery, scrambling about like a hare for his life! He wanted to go back, to do something, but what could he? It was useless. Instead, he assumed partial command in here. The spirit of Cavanaugh seemed to come over to him and possess him. He looked about, saw a great stave, and seized it.

"Here, men!" he called with an air of command. "Help knock it out ! " and with a will born of terror and death a dozen brawny hands were laid on it. With a mighty burst of energy they assaulted the thick plate and burst it through. Air rushed in, and at the same time the door gave way before them, caus- ing them to be swept outward by the accumulated water like straws. Then, scrambling to their feet, they tumbled into the next lock, closing the door behind them. Once in, they heaved a tremendous sigh of relief, for here they were safe enough — for the time being anyhow. McGlathery, the new spirit of Cavanaugh in him, even turned and looked back through the bull's eye into the chamber they had just left. Even as they waited for the pressure here to lower sufficiently to permit them to open the inner door he saw this last chamber they had left his foreman and a dozen fellow workers buried beyond. But what could he do? Only God, only St. Columba, could tell him, perhaps, and St. Columba had saved him — or had he? — him and fifteen other men, the while he had chosen to allow Cavanaugh and twelve men to perish! Had St. Columba done that — or God — or who?

" 'Tis the will av God," he murmured humbly — but why had God done that?

But somehow, the river was not done with him yet, and that, seemingly, in spite of himself. Although he prayed con- stantly for the repose of the soul of Thomas Cavanaugh and his men, and avoided the water, until five years later, still there was a sequel. By now McGlathery was the father of eight chil- dren and as poor as any average laborer. With the death of Cavanaugh and this accident, as has been said, he had forsworn the sea — or water — and all its works. Ordinary house shoring and timbering were good enough for him, only — only — it was so hard to get enough of this at good pay. He was never faring as well as he should. And then one day when he was about as hard up as ever and as earnest, from somewhere was wafted a new scheme in connection with this same old tunnel.

A celebrated engineer of another country— England, no less — had appeared on the scene with a new device, according to the papers. Greathead was his name, and he had invented what was known as "The Greathead Shield," which finally, with a few changes and adaptations, was to rid tunnel work of all its dangers. McGlathery, sitting outside the door of his cottage overlooking Bergen Bay, read it all in the Evening Clarion, and wondered whether it could be true. He did not understand very much about this new shield idea even now, but even so, and in spite of himself, some of the old zest for tunneling came back to him. What times he had had, to be sure! What a life it had been, if a dog's one — and Cavanaugh-— what a foreman! And his body was still down there entombed — erect, no doubt, as he was left. He wondered. It would be only fair to dig him out and honor his memory with a decent grave if it could be done. His wife and children were still living in Flatbush. It stirred up all the memories, old fears, old enthusiasms, but no particular desire to return. Still, here he was now, a man with a wife and eight children, earning three a day, no less — mostly less—whereas tunneling paid seven and eight to such as himself, and he kept thinking that if this should start up again and men were advertised for, why shouldn't he go? His life had been almost miraculously saved these two times — but would it be again? — that was the great question. Almost unceasingly he referred the matter to his saint on Sundays in his church, but receiving no definite advice as yet and there being no work doing on the tunnel, he did nothing.

' But then one day the following spring the papers were full of the fact that work would soon actually be resumed, and shortly thereafter, to his utter amazement, McGlathery received a note from that same Mr. Henderson under whom Cavanaugh had worked, asking him to call and see him. Feeling sure that it was the river that was calling him, he went over to St. Columba's and prayed before his saint, putting a dollar in his Orphan's box and a candle on his shrine, and then arising greatly refreshed and reassured, and after consulting with his wife, journeyed over to the river, where he found the old supervisor as before in a shed outside, considering one important matter and another.

What he wanted to know was this — did McGlathery want to take an assistant- foremanship under a new foreman who was going to be in charge of the day work here, one Michael Laverty by name, an excellent man, at seven dollars a day, seeing that he had worked here before and understood the difficulties, etc.? McGlathery stared in amazement. He an assistant-foreman in charge of timbering! And at seven dollars a day! He!

Mr. Henderson neglected to say that because there had been so much trouble with the tunnel and the difficulties so widely advertised, it was rather difficult to get just the right sort of men at first, although McGlathery was good enough any time. But the new shield made everything safe, he said. There could be no calamity this time. The work would be pushed right through. Mr. Henderson even went so far as to explain the new shield to him, its excellent points.

But McGlathery, listening, was dubious, and yet he was not thinking of the shield exactly now, nor of the extra pay he would receive, although that played a big enough part in his calcula- tions, but of one Thomas Cavanaugh, mason foreman, and his twelve men, buried down below there in the ooze, and how he had left him, and how it would only be fair to take his bones out, his and the others', if they could be found, and give them a decent Christian burial. For by now he was a better Catholic than ever, and he owed that much to Cavanaugh, for certainly Cavanaugh had been very good to him — and anyhow, had not St. Columba protected him so far? And might he not in the future, seeing the position he was in? Wasn't this a call, really? He felt that it was.

Just the same, he was nervous and troubled, and went home and consulted with his wife again, and thought of the river and went over and prayed in front of the shrine of St. Columba. Then, once more spiritualized and strengthened, he returned and told Mr. Henderson that he would come back. Yes, he would come.

He felt actually free of fear, as though he had a mission, and the next day began by assisting Michael Laverty to get out the solid mass of earth which filled the tunnel from the second lock outward. It was slow work, well into the middle of the summer before the old or completed portion was cleared and the bones of Cavanaugh and his men reached. That was a great if solemn occasion — the finding of Cavanaugh and his men. They could recognize him by his big boots, his revolver, his watch, and a bunch of keys, all in position near his bones. These same bones and boots were then reverently lifted and transferred to a cemetery in Brooklyn, McGlathery and a dozen workers accom- panying them, after which everything went smoothly. The new shield worked like a charm. It made eight feet a day in soft mud, and, although McGlathery, despite his revived courage, was intensely suspicious of the river, he was really no longer afraid of it in the old way. Something kept telling him that from now on he would be all right — not to fear. The river could never hurt him any more, really.

But just the same, a few months later — eight, to be exact — the river did take one last slap at him, but not so fatally as might have appeared on the surface, although in a very peculiar way, and whether with or without St. Columba's aid or consent, he never could make out. The circumstances were so very odd. This new cutting shield, as it turned out, was a cylinder thirteen feet long, twenty feet in diameter, and with a hardened steel cutting edge out on front, an apron, fifteen inches in length and three inches thick at the cutting edge. Behind this came what was known as an "outside diaphragm," which had several openings to let in the mud displaced by the shield's advance.

Back of these openings were chambers four feet in length, one chamber for each opening, through which the mud was passed. These chambers in turn had hinged doors, which regulated the quantity of mud admitted, and were water tight and easily closed. It was all very shipshape.

Behind these little chambers, again, were many steel jacks, fifteen to thirty, according to the size of the shield, driven by an air pressure of five thousand pounds to the square inch, which were used to push the shield forward. Back of them came what was known as. the tail end of the shield, which reached back into the completed tunnel and was designed to protect the men who were at work putting in the new plates (at that danger point which had killed Cavanaugh) whenever the shield had been driven sufficiently forward to permit of a new ring of them.

The only danger involved in this part of the work lay in the fact that between this lining and the tail end of the shield was always a space of an inch to an inch and a half which was left unprotected. This small opening would, under ordinary circumstances, be insignificant, but in some instances where the mud covering at the top was very soft and not very thick, there was danger of the compressed air from within, pushing at the rate of several thousand pounds to the square inch, blowing it away and leaving the aperture open to the direct action of the water above. This was not anticipated, of course, not even thought of. The shield was going rapidly forward and it was predicted by Henderson and Laverty at intervals that the tunnel would surely go through within the year.

Some time the following winter, however, when the shield was doing such excellent work, it encountered a rock which turned its cutting edge and, in addition, necessitated the drilling out of the rock in front. A bulkhead had to be built, once suffi- cient stone had been cut away, to permit the repairing of the edge. This took exactly fifteen days. In the meantime, at the back of the shield, at the little crevice described, compressed air, two thousand pounds to the square inch, was pushing away at the mud outside, gradually hollowing out a cup-like depression eighty-five feet long (Mr. Henderson had soundings taken afterwards), which extended backward along the top of the completed tunnel toward the shore. There was then nothing but water overhead.

It was at this time that the engineers, listening to the river, which, raked by the outpouring of air from below, was rolling gravel and stones above the tunnel top and pounding on it like a drum, learned that such was the case. It was easy enough to fix it temporarily by stuffing the crevice with bags, but one of these days when the shield was repaired it would have to be moved forward to permit the insertion of a new ring of plates, and then, what?

At once McGlathery scented trouble. It was the wretched river again (water), up to its old tricks with him. He was seriously disturbed, and went to pray before St. Columba, but incidentally, when he was on duty, he hovered about this par- ticular opening like a wasp. He wanted to know what was doing there every three minutes in the day, and he talked to the night foreman about it, as well as Laverty and Mr. Henderson. Mr. Henderson, at Laverty's and McGlathery's request, came down and surveyed it and meditated upon it.

"When the time comes to move the shield," he said, "you'll just have to keep plenty of bags stuffed around that opening, everywhere, except where the men are putting in the plates. We'll have extra air pressure that day, all we can stand, and I think that'll fix everything all right. Have plenty of men here to keep those bags in position, but don't let 'em know there's anything wrong, and we'll be all right. Let me know when you're ready to start, and I'll come down."

When the shield was eventually repaired and the order given to drive it just twenty-five inches ahead in order to permit the insertion of a new ring of plates, Mr. Henderson was there, as well as Laverty and McGlathery. Indeed, McGlathery was in charge of the men who were to stuff the bags and keep out the water. If you have ever seen a medium-sized red-headed Irish- man when he is excited and determined, you have a good picture of McGlathery. He was seemingly in fifteen places at once, commanding, exhorting, persuading, rarely ever soothing — and worried. Yes, he was worried, in spite of St. Columba.

The shield started. The extra air pressure was put on, the water began to pour through the crevice, and then the bags were put in place and stopped most of it, only where the ironworkers were riveting on the plates it poured, poured so heavily at times that the workers became frightened.

"Come now! What's the matter wid ye! What arr ye standin' there fer? What arr ye afraid av? Give me that bag! Up with it! That's the idea! Do ye think ye're goin' to be runnin' away now?"

It was McGlathery's voice, if you please, commanding! — McGlathery, after his two previous experiences! Yet in his vitals he was really afraid of the river at this very moment.

What was it that happened? For weeks after, he himself, writhing with "bends" in a hospital, was unable to get it straight. For four of the bags of sawdust burst and blew through, he remembered that — it was a mistake to have sawdust bags at all. And then (he remembered that well enough), in stuffing others in, they found that they were a bag short, and until something was secured to put in its place, for the water was streaming in like a waterfall and causing a flood about their ankles, he, Mc- Glathery, defiant to the core, not to be outdone by the river this time, commanded the great thing to be done.

"Here ! " he shouted, "the three av ye," to three gaping men near at hand, "up with me! Put me there! I'm as good as a bag of sawdust any day. Up with me!"

Astonished, admiring, heartened, the three of them jumped forward and lifted him. Against the small breach, through which the water was pouring, they held him, while others ran off for more bags. Henderson and Laverty and the ironworkers, amazed and amused and made braver themselves because of this very thing — filled with admiration, indeed, by the sheer resourceful- ness of it, stood by to help. But then, if you will believe it, while they were holding him there, and because now there was nothing but water above it, one end of the shield itself — yes, that great iron invention — was lifted by the tremendous air pressure below — eleven or thirteen or fourteen inches, whatever space you can imagine a medium sized man being forced through — and out he went, McGlathery, and all the bags, up into the river above, the while the water poured down, and the men fled for their lives.

A terrific moment, as you can well imagine, not long in dura- tion, but just long enough to swallow up McGlathery, and then the shield, having responded at first to too much air pressure, now responding to too little (the air pressure having been les- sened by the escape), shut down like a safety valve, shutting off most of the water and leaving the tunnel as it was before.

But McGlathery!

Yes, what of him?

Reader — a miracle !

A passing tug captain, steaming down the Hudson at three one bright December afternoon was suddenly astonished to see a small geyser of water lift its head some thirty feet from his boat, and at the top of it, as it were lying on it, a black object which at first he took to be a bag or a log. Later he made it out well enough, for it plunged and bellowed.

"Fer the love av God! Will no one take me out av this? Git me out av this! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

It was McGlathery right enough, alive and howling lustily and no worse for his blow-out save that he was suffering from a fair case of the "bends" and suffering mightily. He was able to scream, though, and was trying to swim. That old haunting sensation! — he had had it this time, sure enough. For some thirty or forty seconds or more he had been eddied swiftly along the top of the tunnel at the bottom of the river, and then coming to where the air richocheted upward had been hustled upward like a cork and literally blown through the air at the top of the great volume of water, out into space. The sudden shift from two thousand pounds of air pressure to none at all, or nearly none, had brought him down again, and in addition induced the severe case of "bends" from which he was now suffering. But St. Columba had not forgotten him entirely. Although he was suffering horribly, and was convinced that he was a dead man, still the good saint must have placed the tug conveniently near, and into this he was now speedily lifted.

"Well, of all things!" exclaimed Captain Hiram Knox, seeing him thoroughly alive, if not well, and eyeing him in astonish- ment. "Where do you come from?"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" bawled McGlathery. "Me arms! Me ribs! Oh! Oh! Oh! The tunnel! The tunnel below, av course! Quick! Quick! It's dyin' av the bends I am! Git me to a hospital, quick!"

The captain, truly moved and frightened by his groans, did as requested. He made for the nearest dock. It took him but a few moments to call an ambulance, and but a few more before McGlathery was carried into the nearest hospital.

· The house physician, having seen a case of this same disease two years before, and having meditated on it, had decided that the hair of the dog must be good for the bite. In consequence of this McGlathery was once more speedily carted off to one of the locks of this very tunnel, to the amazement of all who had known of him (his disappearance having aroused general excite- ment), and he was stared at as one who had risen from the grave. But, what was better yet, under the pressure of two thousand pounds now applied he recovered himself sufficiently to be host here and tell his story — another trick of his guardian saint, no doubt — and one rather flattering to his vanity, for he was now in no least danger of dying.

The whole city, if not the whole country, indeed, was astounded by the accident, and he was a true nine days' wonder, for the papers were full of the strange adventure. And with large pictures of McGlathery ascending heavenward, at the top of a geyser of water. And long and intelligent explanations as to the way and why of it all.

But, better yet, four of the happiest weeks of his life were subsequently spent in that same hospital to which he had first been taken relating to all and sundry his amazing adventure, he being interviewed by no less than five representatives of Sunday editors and eleven reporters for city dailies, all anxious to dis- cover just how it was that he had been blown through water and air up through so great a thing as a river, and how he felt while en route. A triumph.

Rivers may be smart, but saints are smarter, thanks be.

And, to top it all, seeing that his right hand and arm might possibly be crippled for life, or at least an indefinite period (the doctors did not know), and in grateful appreciation of the fact that he had refused to deal with various wolfish lawyers who had now descended on him and urged him to sue for a large sum, he was offered a substantial pension by the company, or its equiv- alent, work with the company, no less, at good pay for the rest of his life, and a cash bonus into the bargain, a thing which seemed to solve his very uncertain future for him and put him at his ease. Once more the hand of the saint, you will certainly admit.

But, lastly, there was the peculiar spiritual consolation that comes with the feeling that you have done your duty and that a great saint is on your side. For if all these things did not prove that the good St. Columba had kept faith with him, what could? To be sure the river had attempted to do its worst, and had caused him considerable fear and pain, and perhaps St. Columba did not have as much control over the river as he should or as he might like to have, or — and this was far more likely — it was en- tirely possible that he (McGlathery) had not at all times de- served the good saint's support. But none the less, in the final extremity, had he not acted? And if not, how would you explain the fact that the tug Mary Baker was just at hand as he arose out of the water two thousand feet from shore? And why was it, if the saint had not been trying to help him, that the hospital doc- tor had seen to it that he was hustled off to a lock just in time — had seen, indeed, just such a case as this before, and known how to handle it? Incontrovertible facts all, aren't they? — or if not, why not?

At any rate McGlathery thought so, and on Sundays and holidays, whether there was or was not anything of importance being celebrated in his church, he might have been seen there kneeling before his favorite saint and occasionally eyeing him with both reverence and admiration. For, "Glory be," as he frequently exclaimed in narrating the wonderful event afterward,

"I wasn't stuck between the shield and the tunnel, as I might 'a' been, and killed entirely, and sure, I've aaften thought 'tis a miracle that not enough water come in, just then, to drown 'em aal. It lifted up just enough to let me go out like a cork, and up I went, and then, God be praised, it shut down again. But, glory be, here I am, and I'm no worse fer it, though it do be that me hand wrenches me now and then."

And as for the good St. Columba —

Well, what about the good St. Columba?

4.McEwen of the Shining Slave Makers

It was a hot day in August. The parching rays of a summer sun had faded the once sappy green leaves of the trees to a dull and dusty hue. The grass, still good to look upon in shady places, spread sere and dry where the light had fallen unbroken. The roads were hot with thick dust, and wherever a stone path led, it reflected heat to weary body and soul.

Robert McEwen had taken a seat under a fine old beech tree whose broad arms cast a welcome shade. He had come here out of the toil of the busy streets.

For a time he gave himself over to blank contemplation o£ the broad park and the occasional carriages that jingled by. Presently his meditation was broken by an ant on his trousers, which he flipped away with his finger. This awoke him to the thought that there might be more upon him. He stood up, shaking and brushing himself. Then he noticed an ant running along the walk in front of him. He stamped on it.

"I guess that will do for you," he said, half aloud, and sat down again.

Now only did he really notice the walk. It was wide and hard and hot. Many ants were hurrying about, and now he saw that they were black. At last, one more active than the others fixed his eye. He followed it with his glance for more than a score of feet.

This particular ant was progressing urgently, now to the right, now to the left, stopping here and there, but never for more than a second. Its energy, the zig-zag course it pursued, the frequency with which it halted to examine something, en- listed his interest. As he gazed, the path grew in imagination until it assumed immense proportions.

Suddenly he bestirred himself, took a single glance and then jumped, rubbing his eyes. He was in an unknown world, strange in every detail. The branched and many-limbed trees had dis- appeared. A forest of immense flat swords of green swayed in the air above him. The ground between lacked its carpet of green and was roughly strewn with immense boulders of clay. The air was strong with an odor which seemed strange and yet familiar. Only the hot sun streaming down and a sky of faultless blue betokened a familiar world. In regard to himself McEwen felt peculiar and yet familiar. What was it that made these surroundings and himself seem odd and yet usual? He could not tell. His three pairs of limbs and his vigorous mandibles seemed natural enough. The fact that he sensed rather than saw things was natural and yet odd. Forthwith moved by a sense of duty, necessity, and a kind of tribal obligation which he more felt than understood, he set out in search of food and prey and presently came to a broad plain, so wide that his eye could scarce command more than what seemed an immediate portion of it. He halted and breathed with a feeling of relief. Just then a voice startled him.

"Any thing to eat hereabout?" questioned the newcomer in a friendly and yet self-interested tone.

McEwen drew back.

"I do not know," he said, "I have just "

"Terrible," said the stranger, not waiting to hear his answer. "It looks like famine. You know the Sanguines have gone to war."

"No," answered McEwen mechanically.

"Yes," said the other, "they raided the Fuscse yesterday. They'll be down on us next."

With that the stranger made off. McEwen was about to exclaim at the use of the word us when a ravenous craving for food, brought now forcibly to his mind by the words of the other, made him start in haste after him.

Then came another who bespoke him in passing.

"I haven't found a thing to-day, and Fve been all the way to the Pratensis region. I didn't dare go any further without having some others with me. They're hungry, too, up there, though they've just made a raid. You heard the Sanguines went to war, didn't you?"

· "Yes, he told me," said McEwen, indicating the retreating figure of the stranger.

"Oh, Ermi. Yes, he's been over in their territory. Well, I'll be going now."

McEwen hastened after Ermi at a good pace, and soon over- took him. The latter had stopped and was gathering in his mandibles a jagged crumb, almost as large as himself.

"Oh! " exclaimed McEwen eagerly, "where did you get that?"

"Here," said Ermi.

"Will you give me a little?"

"I will not," said the other, and a light came in his eye that was almost evil.

"All right," said McEwen, made bold by hunger and yet cautious by danger, "which way would you advise me to look?"

"Wherever you please," said Ermi, "why ask me? You are not new at seeking," and strode off.

"The forest was better than this," thought McEwen; "there I would not die of the heat, anyhow, and I might find food. Here is nothing," and he turned and glanced about for a sight of the jungle whence he had come.

Far to the left and rear of him he saw it, those great up-stand- ing swords. As he gazed, revolving in his troubled mind whether he should return or not, he saw another like himself hurrying toward him out of the distance.

He eagerly hailed the newcomer, who was yet a long way off.

"What is it?" asked the other, coming up rapidly.

"Do you know where I can get something to eat?"

"Is that why you called me?" he answered, eyeing him angrily. "Do you ask in time of famine? Certainly not. If I had anything for myself, I would not be out here. Go and hunt for it like the rest of us. Why should you be asking?"

"I have been hunting," cried McEwen, his anger rising. "I have searched here until I am almost starved."

"No worse off than any of us, are you?" said the other. "Look at me. Do you suppose I am feasting?"

He went off in high dudgeon, and McEwen gazed after him in astonishment. The indifference and sufficiency were at once surprising and yet familiar. Later he found himself falling rapidly into helpless lassitude from both hunger and heat, when a voice, as of one in pain, hailed him.

"Ho!" it cried.

"Hello ! " he answered.

"Come, come!" was the feeble reply.

McEwen started forward at once. When he was still many times his own length away he recognized the voice as that of his testy friend of a little while before, but now sadly changed. He was stretched upon the earth, working his mandibles feebly.

"What is it?" asked McEwen solicitously. "What ails you? How did this happen?"

"I don't know," said the other. "I was passing along here when that struck me," indicating a huge boulder. "I am done for, though. You may as well have this food now, since you are one of us. The tribe can use what you do not eat," he sighed.

"Oh, nothing of the sort," said McEwen solicitously, the while he viewed the crushed limbs and side of the sufferer. "You'll be all right. Why do you speak of death? Just tell me where to take you, or whom to go for."

"No," said the other, "it would be no use. You see how it is. They could do nothing for me. I did not want your aid. I merely wanted you to have this food here. I shall not want it now."

"Don't say that," returned McEwen. "You mustn't talk about dying. There must be something I can do. Tell me. I don't want your food."

"No, there isn't anything you could do. There isn't any cure, you know that. Report, when you return, how I was killed. Just leave me now and take that with you. They need it, if you do not."

McEwen viewed him silently. This reference to a colony or tribe or home seemed to clarify many things for him. He re- membered now apparently the long road he had come, the im- mense galleries of the colony to which he belonged under the earth, the passages by which he had made his way in and out, the powerful and revered ant mother, various larvae to be fed and eggs to be tended. To be sure. That was it. He was a part of this immense colony or group. The heat must have affected his sensory powers. He must gather food and return there — kill spiders, beetles, grubs, and bring them back to help provision the colony. That was it. Only there were so few to be found here, for some reason.

The sufferer closed his eyes in evident pain, and trembled con- vulsively. Then he fell back and died.

McEwen gazed upon the now fast stiffening body, with all but indifference, and wondered. The spectacle seemed so familiar as to be all but commonplace. Apparently he had seen so many die that way. Had he not, in times past, reported the deaths of hundreds?

"Is he dead?" asked a voice at his side.

"Yes," said McEwen, scarcely bringing himself out of his meditation sufficiently to observe the newcomer.

"Well, then, he will not need this, I guess," said the other, and he seized upon the huge lump with his mandibles, but McEwen was on the alert and savage into the bargain, on the instant. He, too, gripped his mandibles upon it.

"I was called by him to have this, before he died," he shouted "and I propose to have it. Let go."

"That I will not," said the other with great vigor and energy. "I'll have some of it at least," and, giving a mighty wrench, which sent both himself and McEwen sprawling, he tore off a goodly portion of it and ran, gaining his feet so quickly that he was a good length off before McEwen arose. The latter was too hungry, however, to linger in useless rage, and now fell to and ate before any other should disturb him. Then, feeling partially satisfied, he stretched himself languorously and continued more at his leisure. After a time he shook himself out of his torpor which had seized on him with his eating, and made off for the distant jungle, in which direction, as he now felt, lay the colony home.

He was in one of the darkest and thickest portions of the route thither when there was borne to him from afar the sound of feet in marching time, and a murmuring as of distant voices. He stopped and listened. Presently the sounds grew louder and more individual. He could now tell that a great company was nearing him. The narrow path which he followed was clear for some distance, and open to observation. Not knowing what creatures he was about to meet, he stepped out of it into a thicket, at one side and took up a position behind a great boulder. The tramp of many feet was now so close as to bode contact and discovery, and he saw, through the interstices of green stalks, a strange column filing along the path he had left. They were no other than a company of red warriors — slave makers like himself, only of a different species, the fierce Sanguinese that Ermi had spoken of as having gone to war.

To war they certainly had been, and no doubt were going again. Nearly every warrior carried with him some mark of plunder or of death. Many bore in their mandibles dead bodies of the enemy or their larvae captured from a Fuscan colony. Others bore upon their legs the severed heads of the poor blacks who had been slain in the defense of their home, and whose jaws still clung to their foes, fixed in the rigor of death. Still others dragged the bodies of their victims, and shouted as they went, making the long, lonely path to ring with uncanny sounds as they disappeared in the distance.

McEwen came furtively out after a time and looked after them. He had gotten far to the left of the warriors and somewhat to the front of them, and was just about to leave the shadow of one clump of bushes to hurry to a neighboring stone, when there filed out from the very shelter upon which he had his eye fixed, the figure of one whom he immediately recognized as Ermi. The latter seemed to await a favorable opportunity when he should not be observed, and then started running. McEwen followed. In the distance could be seen a group of the San- guineas, who had evidently paused for something, moving about in great excitement, in groups of two or three, gesticulating and talking. Some of those not otherwise engaged displayed a sensibility of danger or a lust of war by working their jaws and sawing at heavy stones with their mandibles. Presently one gazed in the direction of Ermi, and shouted to the others.

Immediately four warriors set out in pursuit. McEwen hastened after Ermi, to see what would become of him. Dis- creetly hidden himself, he could do this with considerable equanimity. As he approached, he saw Ermi moving backward and forward, endeavoring to close the entrance to a cave in which he had now taken refuge. Apparently that warrior had become aware that no time was to be lost, since he also could see the pursuing Sanguines. With a swiftness born of daring and a keen realization of danger, he arranged a large boulder at the very edge of the portal as a key, and then others in such position that when the first should topple in the others would follow. Then he crawled deftly inside the portal, and pulling the keystone, toppled the whole mass in after him.

This was hardly done when the Sanguinese were upon him. They were four cruel, murderous fighters, deeply scarred. One, called by the others Og, had a black's head at his thigh. One of his temples bore a scar, and the tip of his left antenna was broken. He was a keen old warrior, however, and scented the prey at once.

"Hi, you!" he shouted to the others. "Here's the place."

Just then another drew near to the portal which Ermi had barricaded. He looked at it closely, walked about several times, sounded with his antennae and then listened. There was no answer.

"Hist!" he exclaimed to the others.

Now they came up. They also looked, but so well had Ermi done his work that they were puzzled.

"I'm not sure," said Og, "it looks to me more like an aban- doned cave than an entrance."

"Tear it open, anyway," advocated Ponan, the second of the quartette, speaking for the first time. "There may be no other exit."

"Aha!" cried Og, "Good! We will see anyhow."

"Come on!" yelled Maru, a third, seizing the largest boulder, "Mandibles to!"

"Out with him!" cried Om, jumping eagerly to work. "We will have him out in a jiffy!"

It was not an easy task, as the boulders were heavy and deep, but they tore them out. Later they dragged forth Ermi, who, finding himself captured, seized the head of Maru with his mandibles. Og, on the other hand, seized one of Ermi's legs in his powerful jaws. The others also had taken hold. The antennas of all were thrown back, and the entire mass went pushing and shoving, turning and tumbling in a whirl.

McEwen gazed, excited and sympathetic. At first he thought to avoid it all, having a horror of death, but a moment later decided to come to his friend's rescue, a feeling of tribal relation- ship which was overwhelming coming over him. Springing forward, he clambered upon the back of Og, at whose neck he began to saw with his powerful teeth. Og, realizing a new ad- versary, released his hold upon Ermi's limb and endeavored to shake off his new enemy. McEwen held tight, however. The others, however, too excited to observe the newcomer, still struggled to destroy Ermi. The latter had stuck steadily to his labor of killing Maru, and now, when Og's hold was loosened, he gave a powerful crush and Maru breathed his last. This advantaged him little, however, for both Ponan and Om were attacking his sides.

"Take that!" shouted Om, throwing himself violently upon Ermi and turning him over. "Saw off his head, Ponan."

Ponan released his hold and sprang for Ermi's head. There was a kicking and crushing of jaws, and Ponan secured his grip.

"Kill him!" yelled Om. "Come, Og! Come!"

At this very moment Og's severed head fell to the ground, and McEwen leaping from his back, sprang to the aid of Ermi.

"Come!" he shouted at Ponan, who was sawing at Ermi's head. "It's two to two now," and McEwen gave such a wrench to Ponan's side that he writhed in pain, and released his hold on Ermi.

But recovering himself he leaped upon McEwen, and bore him down, sprawling.

The fight was now more desperate than ever. The combatants rolled and tossed. McEwen's right antenna was broken by his fall, and one of his legs was injured. He could seem to get no hold upon his adversary, whom he now felt to be working toward his neck.

"Let go ! " he yelled, gnashing at him with his mandibles, but Ponan only tightened his murderous jaws.

Better fortune was now with Ermi, however, who was a more experienced fighter. Getting a grip upon Om's body, he hurled him to the ground and left him stunned and senseless.

Seeing McEwen's predicament, he now sprang to his aid. The latter was. being sadly worsted and but for the generous aid of Ermi, would have been killed. The latter struck Ponan a terrific blow with his head and having stunned him, dragged him off. The two, though much injured, now seized upon the unfortunate Sanguinese and tore him in two, and would have done as much for Om, had they not discovered that that bedraggled warrior had recovered sufficiently to crawl away and hide.

McEwen and Ermi now drew near to each other in warm admiration.

"Come with me," said Ermi. "They are all about here now and that coward who escaped will have them upon us. There is a corridor into our home from here, only I was not able to reach it before they caught me. Help me barricade this entrance."

Together they built up the stones more effectually than before, and then entered, toppling the mass in behind them. With con- siderable labor, they built up another barricade below.

"You watch a moment, now," said Ermi to McEwen, and then hurried down a long passage through which he soon re- turned bringing with him a sentinel, who took up guard duty at the point where the fight had occurred. "He will stay here and give the alarm in case another attack is made," he commented.

"Come now," he added, touching McEwen affectionately with his antennas. Leading the way, Ermi took him along a long winding corridor with which, somehow, he seemed to be familiar, and through various secret passages into the colony house.

"You see," he said to McEwen familiarly, as they went, "they could not have gotten in here, even if they had killed me, without knowing the way. Our passageways are too intricate. But it is as well to keep a picket there, now that they are about.

Where have you been? You do not belong to our colony, do you?"

McEwen related his experiences since their meeting in the desert, without explaining where he came from. He knew that he was a member of some other colony of this same tribe without being sure of which one. A strange feeling of wandering con- fusion possessed him, as though he had been injured in some way, somewhere, and was lost for the moment.

"Well, you might as well stay with us, now," said Ermi. "Are you hungry?"

"Very," said McEwen.

"Then we will eat at once."

McEwen now gazed upon a domed chamber of vast propor- tions, with which, also, he seemed familiar, an old inhabitant of one such, no less. It had several doors that opened out into galleries, and corridors leading to other chambers and store rooms, a home for thousands.

Many members of this allied family now hurried to meet them, all genially enough.

"You have had an encounter with them?" asked several at once.

"Nothing to speak of," said Ermi, who, fighter that he was, had also a touch of vanity. "Look after my friend here, who has saved my life."

"Not I!" cried McEwen warmly.

They could not explain, however, before they were seized by their admirers and carried into a chamber where none of the din of preparation penetrated, and where was a carpet of soft grass threads upon which they might lie.

Injured though they were, neither could endure lying still for long, and were soon poking about, though unable to do any- thing. McEwen was privileged to idle and listlessly watch an attack on one portal of the cave which lasted an entire day, result- ing in failure for the invaders. It was a rather broken affair, the principal excitement occurring about the barricaded portals and secret exits at the end of the long corridors, where McEwen often found himself in the way. The story of his prowess had been well told by Ermi, and he was a friend and hero whom many served. A sort of ambulance service was established which not only looked to the bringing in of the injured, but also to the removal of the dead. A graveyard was prepared just outside one of the secret entrances, far from the scene of the siege, and here the dead were laid in orderly rows.

The siege having ended temporarily the same day it began, the household resumed its old order. Those who had remained within went forth for forage. The care of the communal young, which had been somewhat interrupted, was now resumed. Larvae and chrysalis, which had been left almost unattended in the vast nurseries, were moved to and fro between the rooms where the broken sunlight warmed, and the shadow gave them rest.

"There is war ahead," said Ermi to McEwen one day not long after this. "These Sanguines will never let us alone until we give them battle. We shall have to stir up the whole race of Shining Slave Makers and fight all the Sanguineae before we have peace again."

"Good," said McEwen. "I am ready."

"So am I," answered Ermi, "but it is no light matter. They are our ancient enemy and as powerful as we. If we meet again you will see war that is war."

Not long after this McEwen and Ermi, foraging together, encountered a Sanguinea, who fought with them and was slain. Numerous Lucidi, of which tribe he found himself to be a mem- ber, left the community of a morning to labor and were never heard of again. Encounters between parties of both camps were frequent, and orderly living ceased.

At last the entire community was in a ferment, and a council was called. It was held in the main saloon of the formicary, a vast chamber whose hollowed dome rose like the open sky above them. The queen of the community was present, and all the chief warriors, including Ermi and McEwen. Loud talking and fierce comment were indulged in to no point, until Yumi, long a light in the councils of the Lucidi, spoke. He was short and sharp of speech.

"We must go to war," he said. "Our old enemies will give us no peace. Send couriers to all the colonies of the Shining Slave Makers. We will meet the Red Slave Makers as we did before."

"Ah," said an old Lucidi, who stood at McE wen's side, "that was a great battle. You don't remember. You were too young.

There were thousands and thousands in that. I could not walk for the dead."

"Are we to have another such?" asked McEwen.

"If the rest of us come. We are a great people. The Shining Slave Makers are numberless."

Just then another voice spoke, and Ermi listened.

"Let us send for them to come here. When the Sanguines again lay siege let us pour out and destroy them. Let none escape."

"Let us first send couriers and hear what our people say," broke in Ermi loudly. "The Sanguines are a vast people also. We must have numbers. It must be a decisive battle."

"Ay, ay," answered many. "Send the couriers!"

Forthwith messengers were dispatched to all parts, calling the hordes of the Shining Slave Makers to war. In due course they returned, bringing information that they were coming. Their colonies also had been attacked. Later the warriors of the allied tribes began to put in an appearance.

It was a gathering of legions. The paths in the forests about resounded with their halloos. With the arrival of the first cohorts of these friendly colonies, there was a minor encounter with an irritant host of the Sanguines foraging hereabout, who were driven back and destroyed. Later there were many minor en- counters and deaths before the hosts were fully assembled, but the end was not yet. All knew that. The Sanguines had fled, but not in cowardice. They would return.

The one problem with this vast host, now that it was as- sembled, was food. Eventually they expected to discover this in the sacked homes of the Sanguines, but temporarily other provision must be made. The entire region had to be scoured. Colonies of Fuses and Schauffusi living in nearby territory were attacked and destroyed. Their storehouses were ransacked and the contents distributed. Every form of life was attacked and still there was not enough.

Both McEwen and Ermi, now inseparable, joined in one of these raids. It was upon a colony of Fuses, who had their home in a neighboring forest. The company went singing on their way until within a short distance of the colony, when they became silent.

"Let us not lose track of one another," said McEwen.

"No," said Ermi, "but they are nothing. We will take all they possess without a struggle. See them running."

As he said this, he motioned in the direction of several Fuscas that were fleeing toward their portals in terror. The Lucidi set up a shout, and darted after, plunging into the open gates, striking and slaying as they went. In a few minutes those first in came out again carrying their booty. Others were singly en- gaged in fiercest battle with large groups of the weaker Fuscse. Only a few of the latter were inclined to fight. They seemed for the most part dazed by their misfortunes. Numbers hung from the topmost blades of the towering sword-trees, and the broad, floor-like leaves of the massive weeds, about their caves where they had taken refuge, holding in their jaws baby larvae and cocoons rescued from the invaders, with which they had hurriedly fled to these nearest elevated objects.

Singly, McEwen pursued a dozen, and reveled in the sport of killing them. He tumbled them with rushes of his body, crushed them with his mandibles, and poisoned them with his formic sting.

"Do you need help?" called Ermi once, who was always near and shouting.

"Yes," called McEwen scornfully, "bring me more of them."

Soon the deadly work was over and the two comrades, gather- ing a mass of food, joined the returning band, singing as they went.

"To-morrow," said Ermi, as they went along, "we will meet the Sanguines. It is agreed. The leaders are conferring now."

McEwen did not learn where these latter were, but somehow he was pleased. An insane lust of combat was now upon him.

"They will not be four to two this time," he laughed exult- ingly.

"No, and we will not be barricading against them, either," laughed Ermi, the lust of war simmering in his veins.

As they came near their camp, however, they found a large number of the assembled companies already in motion. Thou- sands upon thousands of those who had arrived were already assembled in one group or another and were prepared for action.

There were cries and sounds of fighting, and long lines of Lucidi hurrying hither and thither.

"What's the matter?" asked Ermi excitedly.

"The Sanguines," was the answer. "They are returning."

Instantly McEwen became sober. Ermi turned to him af- fectionately.

"Now," he said solemnly, "courage. We're in for it."

A tremendous hubbub followed. Already vast legions of the Lucidi were bearing away to the east. McEwen and Ermi, not being able to find their own, fell in with a strange company.

"Order!" shouted a voice in their ears. "Fall in line. We are called."

The twain mechanically obeyed, and dropped behind a regular line. Soon they were winding along with other long lines of warriors through the tall sword trees, and in a little while reached a huge, smooth, open plain where already the actual fighting had begun. Thousands were here, apparently hundreds of thousands. There was little order, and scarcely any was needed apparently, since all contacts were individual or between small groups. It all depended now on numbers, and the results of the contests between individuals, or at the most, these small groups. Ermi, McEwen, and several other Lucidi were about to seize upon one Sanguinea, who was approaching them, when an amazing rush of the latter broke them, and McEwen found himself separated from Ermi with a red demon snapping at his throat. Dazed by the shock and clamor, he almost fell a prey to this first charge. A moment later, however, his courage and daring returned. With a furious bound, he recovered him- self and forced himself upon his adversary, snapping his jaws in his neck.

"Take that!" he said to the tumbling carcass.

He had no sooner ended one foe, however, than another clutched him. They were on every hand, hard, merciless fighters like himself and Ermi who rushed and tore and sawed with amazing force. McEwen faced his newest adversary swiftly. While the latter was seeking for McEwen's head and antennas with his mandibles, the former with a quick snap seized his foe by the neck. Turning up his abdomen, he ejected formic acid into the throat of the other. That finished him.

Meanwhile the battle continued on every hand with the same mad vehemence. Already the dead clogged the ground. Here, single combatants struggled — there, whole lines moved and swayed in deadly combat. Ever and anon new lines were formed, and strange hosts of friends or enemies came up, falling upon the combatants of both sides with murderous enthusiasm. Mc- Ewen, in a strange daze and lust of death, seemed to think nothing of it. He was alone now — lost in a tossing sea of war, and terror seemed to have forsaken him. It was wonderful, he thought, mysterious

As enemy after enemy assailed him, he fought them as he best knew, an old method to him, apparently, and as they died, he wished them to die — broken, poisoned, sawed in two. He began to count and exult in the numbers he had slain. It was at last as though he were dreaming, and all around was a vain, dark, surging mass of enemies.

Finally, four of the Sanguines seized upon him in a group, and he went down before them, almost helpless. Swiftly they tore at his head and body, endeavoring to dispose of him quickly. One seized a leg, another an antenna. A third jumped and sawed at his neck. Still he did not care. It was all war, and he would struggle to the last shred of his strength, eagerly, enthusiasti- cally. At last he seemed to lose consciousness.

When he opened his eyes again, Ermi was beside him.

"Well?" said Ermi.

"Well?" answered McEwen.

"You were about done for, then."

"Was I?" he answered. "How are things going?"

"I cannot tell yet," said Ermi. "All I know is that you were faring badly when I came up. Two of them were dead, but the other two were killing you."

"You should have left me to them," said McEwen, noticing now for the first time Ermi's wounds. "It does not matter so much — one Lucidi more or less — what of it? But you have been injured."

"I — oh, nothing. You are the one to complain. I fear you are badly injured."

"Oh, I," returned McEwen heavily, feeling at last the weight of death upon him, "I am done for. I cannot live. I felt myself dying some time ago."

He closed his eyes and trembled. In another moment

McEwen opened his eyes. Strangely enough he was looking out upon jingling carriages and loitering passersby in the great city park. It was all so strange, by comparison with that which he had so recently seen, the tall buildings in the distance, instead of the sword trees, the trees, the flowers. He jumped to his feet in astonishment, then sank back again in equal amaze, a passerby eyeing him curiously the while.

"I have been asleep," he said in a troubled way. "I have been dreaming. And what a dream!"

He shut his eyes again, wishing, for some strange reason — charm, sympathy, strangeness — to regain the lost scene. An odd longing filled his heart, a sense of comradeship lost, of some friend he knew missing. When he opened his eyes again he seemed to realize something more of what had been happening but it was fading, fading.

At his feet lay the plain and the ants with whom he had recently been — or so he thought. Yes, there, only a few feet away in the parched grass, was an arid spot, over-run with insects. He gazed upon it, in amazement, searching for the details of a lost world. Now, as he saw, coming closer, a giant battle was in progress, such a one, for instance, as that in which he had been engaged in his dream. The ground was strewn with dead ants. Thousands upon thousands were sawing and striking at each other quite in the manner in which he had dreamed. What was this? — a revelation of the spirit and significance of a lesser life or of his own — or what? And what was life if the strange pas- sions, moods and necessities which conditioned him here could condition those there on so minute a plane?

"Why, I was there," he said dazedly and a little dreamfully, "a little while ago. I died there — or as well as died there — in my dream. At least I woke out of it into this or sank from that into this."

Stooping closer he could see where lines were drawn, how in places the forces raged in confusion, and the field was cluttered with the dead. At one moment an odd mad enthusiasm such as he had experienced in his dream-world lay hold of him, and he looked for the advantage of the Shining Slave Makers — the blacks — as he thought of the two warring hosts as against the reds. But finding it not, the mood passed, and he stood gazing, lost in wonder. What a strange world ! he thought. What worlds within worlds, all apparently full of necessity, contention, bind- ing emotions and unities — and all with sorrow, their sorrow — a vague, sad something out of far-off things which had been there, and was here in this strong bright city day, had been there and would be here until this odd, strange thing called life had ended.

McEwen of the Shining Slave Makers

It was a hot day in August. The parching rays of a summer sun had faded the once sappy green leaves of the trees to a dull and dusty hue. The grass, still good to look upon in shady places, spread sere and dry where the light had fallen unbroken. The roads were hot with thick dust, and wherever a stone path led, it reflected heat to weary body and soul.

Robert McEwen had taken a seat under a fine old beech tree whose broad arms cast a welcome shade. He had come here out of the toil of the busy streets.

For a time he gave himself over to blank contemplation o£ the broad park and the occasional carriages that jingled by. Presently his meditation was broken by an ant on his trousers, which he flipped away with his finger. This awoke him to the thought that there might be more upon him. He stood up, shaking and brushing himself. Then he noticed an ant running along the walk in front of him. He stamped on it.

"I guess that will do for you," he said, half aloud, and sat down again.

Now only did he really notice the walk. It was wide and hard and hot. Many ants were hurrying about, and now he saw that they were black. At last, one more active than the others fixed his eye. He followed it with his glance for more than a score of feet.

This particular ant was progressing urgently, now to the right, now to the left, stopping here and there, but never for more than a second. Its energy, the zig-zag course it pursued, the frequency with which it halted to examine something, en- listed his interest. As he gazed, the path grew in imagination until it assumed immense proportions.

Suddenly he bestirred himself, took a single glance and then jumped, rubbing his eyes. He was in an unknown world, strange in every detail. The branched and many-limbed trees had dis- appeared. A forest of immense flat swords of green swayed in the air above him. The ground between lacked its carpet of green and was roughly strewn with immense boulders of clay. The air was strong with an odor which seemed strange and yet familiar. Only the hot sun streaming down and a sky of faultless blue betokened a familiar world. In regard to himself McEwen felt peculiar and yet familiar. What was it that made these surroundings and himself seem odd and yet usual? He could not tell. His three pairs of limbs and his vigorous mandibles seemed natural enough. The fact that he sensed rather than saw things was natural and yet odd. Forthwith moved by a sense of duty, necessity, and a kind of tribal obligation which he more felt than understood, he set out in search of food and prey and presently came to a broad plain, so wide that his eye could scarce command more than what seemed an immediate portion of it. He halted and breathed with a feeling of relief. Just then a voice startled him.

"Any thing to eat hereabout?" questioned the newcomer in a friendly and yet self-interested tone.

McEwen drew back.

"I do not know," he said, "I have just "

"Terrible," said the stranger, not waiting to hear his answer. "It looks like famine. You know the Sanguines have gone to war."

"No," answered McEwen mechanically.

"Yes," said the other, "they raided the Fuscse yesterday. They'll be down on us next."

With that the stranger made off. McEwen was about to exclaim at the use of the word us when a ravenous craving for food, brought now forcibly to his mind by the words of the other, made him start in haste after him.

Then came another who bespoke him in passing.

"I haven't found a thing to-day, and Fve been all the way to the Pratensis region. I didn't dare go any further without having some others with me. They're hungry, too, up there, though they've just made a raid. You heard the Sanguines went to war, didn't you?"

· "Yes, he told me," said McEwen, indicating the retreating figure of the stranger.

"Oh, Ermi. Yes, he's been over in their territory. Well, I'll be going now."

McEwen hastened after Ermi at a good pace, and soon over- took him. The latter had stopped and was gathering in his mandibles a jagged crumb, almost as large as himself.

"Oh! " exclaimed McEwen eagerly, "where did you get that?"

"Here," said Ermi.

"Will you give me a little?"

"I will not," said the other, and a light came in his eye that was almost evil.

"All right," said McEwen, made bold by hunger and yet cautious by danger, "which way would you advise me to look?"

"Wherever you please," said Ermi, "why ask me? You are not new at seeking," and strode off.

"The forest was better than this," thought McEwen; "there I would not die of the heat, anyhow, and I might find food. Here is nothing," and he turned and glanced about for a sight of the jungle whence he had come.

Far to the left and rear of him he saw it, those great up-stand- ing swords. As he gazed, revolving in his troubled mind whether he should return or not, he saw another like himself hurrying toward him out of the distance.

He eagerly hailed the newcomer, who was yet a long way off.

"What is it?" asked the other, coming up rapidly.

"Do you know where I can get something to eat?"

"Is that why you called me?" he answered, eyeing him angrily. "Do you ask in time of famine? Certainly not. If I had anything for myself, I would not be out here. Go and hunt for it like the rest of us. Why should you be asking?"

"I have been hunting," cried McEwen, his anger rising. "I have searched here until I am almost starved."

"No worse off than any of us, are you?" said the other. "Look at me. Do you suppose I am feasting?"

He went off in high dudgeon, and McEwen gazed after him in astonishment. The indifference and sufficiency were at once surprising and yet familiar. Later he found himself falling rapidly into helpless lassitude from both hunger and heat, when a voice, as of one in pain, hailed him.

"Ho!" it cried.

"Hello ! " he answered.

"Come, come!" was the feeble reply.

McEwen started forward at once. When he was still many times his own length away he recognized the voice as that of his testy friend of a little while before, but now sadly changed. He was stretched upon the earth, working his mandibles feebly.

"What is it?" asked McEwen solicitously. "What ails you? How did this happen?"

"I don't know," said the other. "I was passing along here when that struck me," indicating a huge boulder. "I am done for, though. You may as well have this food now, since you are one of us. The tribe can use what you do not eat," he sighed.

"Oh, nothing of the sort," said McEwen solicitously, the while he viewed the crushed limbs and side of the sufferer. "You'll be all right. Why do you speak of death? Just tell me where to take you, or whom to go for."

"No," said the other, "it would be no use. You see how it is. They could do nothing for me. I did not want your aid. I merely wanted you to have this food here. I shall not want it now."

"Don't say that," returned McEwen. "You mustn't talk about dying. There must be something I can do. Tell me. I don't want your food."

"No, there isn't anything you could do. There isn't any cure, you know that. Report, when you return, how I was killed. Just leave me now and take that with you. They need it, if you do not."

McEwen viewed him silently. This reference to a colony or tribe or home seemed to clarify many things for him. He re- membered now apparently the long road he had come, the im- mense galleries of the colony to which he belonged under the earth, the passages by which he had made his way in and out, the powerful and revered ant mother, various larvae to be fed and eggs to be tended. To be sure. That was it. He was a part of this immense colony or group. The heat must have affected his sensory powers. He must gather food and return there — kill spiders, beetles, grubs, and bring them back to help provision the colony. That was it. Only there were so few to be found here, for some reason.

The sufferer closed his eyes in evident pain, and trembled con- vulsively. Then he fell back and died.

McEwen gazed upon the now fast stiffening body, with all but indifference, and wondered. The spectacle seemed so familiar as to be all but commonplace. Apparently he had seen so many die that way. Had he not, in times past, reported the deaths of hundreds?

"Is he dead?" asked a voice at his side.

"Yes," said McEwen, scarcely bringing himself out of his meditation sufficiently to observe the newcomer.

"Well, then, he will not need this, I guess," said the other, and he seized upon the huge lump with his mandibles, but McEwen was on the alert and savage into the bargain, on the instant. He, too, gripped his mandibles upon it.

"I was called by him to have this, before he died," he shouted "and I propose to have it. Let go."

"That I will not," said the other with great vigor and energy. "I'll have some of it at least," and, giving a mighty wrench, which sent both himself and McEwen sprawling, he tore off a goodly portion of it and ran, gaining his feet so quickly that he was a good length off before McEwen arose. The latter was too hungry, however, to linger in useless rage, and now fell to and ate before any other should disturb him. Then, feeling partially satisfied, he stretched himself languorously and continued more at his leisure. After a time he shook himself out of his torpor which had seized on him with his eating, and made off for the distant jungle, in which direction, as he now felt, lay the colony home.

He was in one of the darkest and thickest portions of the route thither when there was borne to him from afar the sound of feet in marching time, and a murmuring as of distant voices. He stopped and listened. Presently the sounds grew louder and more individual. He could now tell that a great company was nearing him. The narrow path which he followed was clear for some distance, and open to observation. Not knowing what creatures he was about to meet, he stepped out of it into a thicket, at one side and took up a position behind a great boulder. The tramp of many feet was now so close as to bode contact and discovery, and he saw, through the interstices of green stalks, a strange column filing along the path he had left. They were no other than a company of red warriors — slave makers like himself, only of a different species, the fierce Sanguinese that Ermi had spoken of as having gone to war.

To war they certainly had been, and no doubt were going again. Nearly every warrior carried with him some mark of plunder or of death. Many bore in their mandibles dead bodies of the enemy or their larvae captured from a Fuscan colony. Others bore upon their legs the severed heads of the poor blacks who had been slain in the defense of their home, and whose jaws still clung to their foes, fixed in the rigor of death. Still others dragged the bodies of their victims, and shouted as they went, making the long, lonely path to ring with uncanny sounds as they disappeared in the distance.

McEwen came furtively out after a time and looked after them. He had gotten far to the left of the warriors and somewhat to the front of them, and was just about to leave the shadow of one clump of bushes to hurry to a neighboring stone, when there filed out from the very shelter upon which he had his eye fixed, the figure of one whom he immediately recognized as Ermi. The latter seemed to await a favorable opportunity when he should not be observed, and then started running. McEwen followed. In the distance could be seen a group of the San- guineas, who had evidently paused for something, moving about in great excitement, in groups of two or three, gesticulating and talking. Some of those not otherwise engaged displayed a sensibility of danger or a lust of war by working their jaws and sawing at heavy stones with their mandibles. Presently one gazed in the direction of Ermi, and shouted to the others.

Immediately four warriors set out in pursuit. McEwen hastened after Ermi, to see what would become of him. Dis- creetly hidden himself, he could do this with considerable equanimity. As he approached, he saw Ermi moving backward and forward, endeavoring to close the entrance to a cave in which he had now taken refuge. Apparently that warrior had become aware that no time was to be lost, since he also could see the pursuing Sanguines. With a swiftness born of daring and a keen realization of danger, he arranged a large boulder at the very edge of the portal as a key, and then others in such position that when the first should topple in the others would follow. Then he crawled deftly inside the portal, and pulling the keystone, toppled the whole mass in after him.

This was hardly done when the Sanguinese were upon him. They were four cruel, murderous fighters, deeply scarred. One, called by the others Og, had a black's head at his thigh. One of his temples bore a scar, and the tip of his left antenna was broken. He was a keen old warrior, however, and scented the prey at once.

"Hi, you!" he shouted to the others. "Here's the place."

Just then another drew near to the portal which Ermi had barricaded. He looked at it closely, walked about several times, sounded with his antennae and then listened. There was no answer.

"Hist!" he exclaimed to the others.

Now they came up. They also looked, but so well had Ermi done his work that they were puzzled.

"I'm not sure," said Og, "it looks to me more like an aban- doned cave than an entrance."

"Tear it open, anyway," advocated Ponan, the second of the quartette, speaking for the first time. "There may be no other exit."

"Aha!" cried Og, "Good! We will see anyhow."

"Come on!" yelled Maru, a third, seizing the largest boulder, "Mandibles to!"

"Out with him!" cried Om, jumping eagerly to work. "We will have him out in a jiffy!"

It was not an easy task, as the boulders were heavy and deep, but they tore them out. Later they dragged forth Ermi, who, finding himself captured, seized the head of Maru with his mandibles. Og, on the other hand, seized one of Ermi's legs in his powerful jaws. The others also had taken hold. The antennas of all were thrown back, and the entire mass went pushing and shoving, turning and tumbling in a whirl.

McEwen gazed, excited and sympathetic. At first he thought to avoid it all, having a horror of death, but a moment later decided to come to his friend's rescue, a feeling of tribal relation- ship which was overwhelming coming over him. Springing forward, he clambered upon the back of Og, at whose neck he began to saw with his powerful teeth. Og, realizing a new ad- versary, released his hold upon Ermi's limb and endeavored to shake off his new enemy. McEwen held tight, however. The others, however, too excited to observe the newcomer, still struggled to destroy Ermi. The latter had stuck steadily to his labor of killing Maru, and now, when Og's hold was loosened, he gave a powerful crush and Maru breathed his last. This advantaged him little, however, for both Ponan and Om were attacking his sides.

"Take that!" shouted Om, throwing himself violently upon Ermi and turning him over. "Saw off his head, Ponan."

Ponan released his hold and sprang for Ermi's head. There was a kicking and crushing of jaws, and Ponan secured his grip.

"Kill him!" yelled Om. "Come, Og! Come!"

At this very moment Og's severed head fell to the ground, and McEwen leaping from his back, sprang to the aid of Ermi.

"Come!" he shouted at Ponan, who was sawing at Ermi's head. "It's two to two now," and McEwen gave such a wrench to Ponan's side that he writhed in pain, and released his hold on Ermi.

But recovering himself he leaped upon McEwen, and bore him down, sprawling.

The fight was now more desperate than ever. The combatants rolled and tossed. McEwen's right antenna was broken by his fall, and one of his legs was injured. He could seem to get no hold upon his adversary, whom he now felt to be working toward his neck.

"Let go ! " he yelled, gnashing at him with his mandibles, but Ponan only tightened his murderous jaws.

Better fortune was now with Ermi, however, who was a more experienced fighter. Getting a grip upon Om's body, he hurled him to the ground and left him stunned and senseless.

Seeing McEwen's predicament, he now sprang to his aid. The latter was. being sadly worsted and but for the generous aid of Ermi, would have been killed. The latter struck Ponan a terrific blow with his head and having stunned him, dragged him off. The two, though much injured, now seized upon the unfortunate Sanguinese and tore him in two, and would have done as much for Om, had they not discovered that that bedraggled warrior had recovered sufficiently to crawl away and hide.

McEwen and Ermi now drew near to each other in warm admiration.

"Come with me," said Ermi. "They are all about here now and that coward who escaped will have them upon us. There is a corridor into our home from here, only I was not able to reach it before they caught me. Help me barricade this entrance."

Together they built up the stones more effectually than before, and then entered, toppling the mass in behind them. With con- siderable labor, they built up another barricade below.

"You watch a moment, now," said Ermi to McEwen, and then hurried down a long passage through which he soon re- turned bringing with him a sentinel, who took up guard duty at the point where the fight had occurred. "He will stay here and give the alarm in case another attack is made," he commented.

"Come now," he added, touching McEwen affectionately with his antennas. Leading the way, Ermi took him along a long winding corridor with which, somehow, he seemed to be familiar, and through various secret passages into the colony house.

"You see," he said to McEwen familiarly, as they went, "they could not have gotten in here, even if they had killed me, without knowing the way. Our passageways are too intricate. But it is as well to keep a picket there, now that they are about.

Where have you been? You do not belong to our colony, do you?"

McEwen related his experiences since their meeting in the desert, without explaining where he came from. He knew that he was a member of some other colony of this same tribe without being sure of which one. A strange feeling of wandering con- fusion possessed him, as though he had been injured in some way, somewhere, and was lost for the moment.

"Well, you might as well stay with us, now," said Ermi. "Are you hungry?"

"Very," said McEwen.

"Then we will eat at once."

McEwen now gazed upon a domed chamber of vast propor- tions, with which, also, he seemed familiar, an old inhabitant of one such, no less. It had several doors that opened out into galleries, and corridors leading to other chambers and store rooms, a home for thousands.

Many members of this allied family now hurried to meet them, all genially enough.

"You have had an encounter with them?" asked several at once.

"Nothing to speak of," said Ermi, who, fighter that he was, had also a touch of vanity. "Look after my friend here, who has saved my life."

"Not I!" cried McEwen warmly.

They could not explain, however, before they were seized by their admirers and carried into a chamber where none of the din of preparation penetrated, and where was a carpet of soft grass threads upon which they might lie.

Injured though they were, neither could endure lying still for long, and were soon poking about, though unable to do any- thing. McEwen was privileged to idle and listlessly watch an attack on one portal of the cave which lasted an entire day, result- ing in failure for the invaders. It was a rather broken affair, the principal excitement occurring about the barricaded portals and secret exits at the end of the long corridors, where McEwen often found himself in the way. The story of his prowess had been well told by Ermi, and he was a friend and hero whom many served. A sort of ambulance service was established which not only looked to the bringing in of the injured, but also to the removal of the dead. A graveyard was prepared just outside one of the secret entrances, far from the scene of the siege, and here the dead were laid in orderly rows.

The siege having ended temporarily the same day it began, the household resumed its old order. Those who had remained within went forth for forage. The care of the communal young, which had been somewhat interrupted, was now resumed. Larvae and chrysalis, which had been left almost unattended in the vast nurseries, were moved to and fro between the rooms where the broken sunlight warmed, and the shadow gave them rest.

"There is war ahead," said Ermi to McEwen one day not long after this. "These Sanguines will never let us alone until we give them battle. We shall have to stir up the whole race of Shining Slave Makers and fight all the Sanguineae before we have peace again."

"Good," said McEwen. "I am ready."

"So am I," answered Ermi, "but it is no light matter. They are our ancient enemy and as powerful as we. If we meet again you will see war that is war."

Not long after this McEwen and Ermi, foraging together, encountered a Sanguinea, who fought with them and was slain. Numerous Lucidi, of which tribe he found himself to be a mem- ber, left the community of a morning to labor and were never heard of again. Encounters between parties of both camps were frequent, and orderly living ceased.

At last the entire community was in a ferment, and a council was called. It was held in the main saloon of the formicary, a vast chamber whose hollowed dome rose like the open sky above them. The queen of the community was present, and all the chief warriors, including Ermi and McEwen. Loud talking and fierce comment were indulged in to no point, until Yumi, long a light in the councils of the Lucidi, spoke. He was short and sharp of speech.

"We must go to war," he said. "Our old enemies will give us no peace. Send couriers to all the colonies of the Shining Slave Makers. We will meet the Red Slave Makers as we did before."

"Ah," said an old Lucidi, who stood at McE wen's side, "that was a great battle. You don't remember. You were too young.

There were thousands and thousands in that. I could not walk for the dead."

"Are we to have another such?" asked McEwen.

"If the rest of us come. We are a great people. The Shining Slave Makers are numberless."

Just then another voice spoke, and Ermi listened.

"Let us send for them to come here. When the Sanguines again lay siege let us pour out and destroy them. Let none escape."

"Let us first send couriers and hear what our people say," broke in Ermi loudly. "The Sanguines are a vast people also. We must have numbers. It must be a decisive battle."

"Ay, ay," answered many. "Send the couriers!"

Forthwith messengers were dispatched to all parts, calling the hordes of the Shining Slave Makers to war. In due course they returned, bringing information that they were coming. Their colonies also had been attacked. Later the warriors of the allied tribes began to put in an appearance.

It was a gathering of legions. The paths in the forests about resounded with their halloos. With the arrival of the first cohorts of these friendly colonies, there was a minor encounter with an irritant host of the Sanguines foraging hereabout, who were driven back and destroyed. Later there were many minor en- counters and deaths before the hosts were fully assembled, but the end was not yet. All knew that. The Sanguines had fled, but not in cowardice. They would return.

The one problem with this vast host, now that it was as- sembled, was food. Eventually they expected to discover this in the sacked homes of the Sanguines, but temporarily other provision must be made. The entire region had to be scoured. Colonies of Fuses and Schauffusi living in nearby territory were attacked and destroyed. Their storehouses were ransacked and the contents distributed. Every form of life was attacked and still there was not enough.

Both McEwen and Ermi, now inseparable, joined in one of these raids. It was upon a colony of Fuses, who had their home in a neighboring forest. The company went singing on their way until within a short distance of the colony, when they became silent.

"Let us not lose track of one another," said McEwen.

"No," said Ermi, "but they are nothing. We will take all they possess without a struggle. See them running."

As he said this, he motioned in the direction of several Fuscas that were fleeing toward their portals in terror. The Lucidi set up a shout, and darted after, plunging into the open gates, striking and slaying as they went. In a few minutes those first in came out again carrying their booty. Others were singly en- gaged in fiercest battle with large groups of the weaker Fuscse. Only a few of the latter were inclined to fight. They seemed for the most part dazed by their misfortunes. Numbers hung from the topmost blades of the towering sword-trees, and the broad, floor-like leaves of the massive weeds, about their caves where they had taken refuge, holding in their jaws baby larvae and cocoons rescued from the invaders, with which they had hurriedly fled to these nearest elevated objects.

Singly, McEwen pursued a dozen, and reveled in the sport of killing them. He tumbled them with rushes of his body, crushed them with his mandibles, and poisoned them with his formic sting.

"Do you need help?" called Ermi once, who was always near and shouting.

"Yes," called McEwen scornfully, "bring me more of them."

Soon the deadly work was over and the two comrades, gather- ing a mass of food, joined the returning band, singing as they went.

"To-morrow," said Ermi, as they went along, "we will meet the Sanguines. It is agreed. The leaders are conferring now."

McEwen did not learn where these latter were, but somehow he was pleased. An insane lust of combat was now upon him.

"They will not be four to two this time," he laughed exult- ingly.

"No, and we will not be barricading against them, either," laughed Ermi, the lust of war simmering in his veins.

As they came near their camp, however, they found a large number of the assembled companies already in motion. Thou- sands upon thousands of those who had arrived were already assembled in one group or another and were prepared for action.

There were cries and sounds of fighting, and long lines of Lucidi hurrying hither and thither.

"What's the matter?" asked Ermi excitedly.

"The Sanguines," was the answer. "They are returning."

Instantly McEwen became sober. Ermi turned to him af- fectionately.

"Now," he said solemnly, "courage. We're in for it."

A tremendous hubbub followed. Already vast legions of the Lucidi were bearing away to the east. McEwen and Ermi, not being able to find their own, fell in with a strange company.

"Order!" shouted a voice in their ears. "Fall in line. We are called."

The twain mechanically obeyed, and dropped behind a regular line. Soon they were winding along with other long lines of warriors through the tall sword trees, and in a little while reached a huge, smooth, open plain where already the actual fighting had begun. Thousands were here, apparently hundreds of thousands. There was little order, and scarcely any was needed apparently, since all contacts were individual or between small groups. It all depended now on numbers, and the results of the contests between individuals, or at the most, these small groups. Ermi, McEwen, and several other Lucidi were about to seize upon one Sanguinea, who was approaching them, when an amazing rush of the latter broke them, and McEwen found himself separated from Ermi with a red demon snapping at his throat. Dazed by the shock and clamor, he almost fell a prey to this first charge. A moment later, however, his courage and daring returned. With a furious bound, he recovered him- self and forced himself upon his adversary, snapping his jaws in his neck.

"Take that!" he said to the tumbling carcass.

He had no sooner ended one foe, however, than another clutched him. They were on every hand, hard, merciless fighters like himself and Ermi who rushed and tore and sawed with amazing force. McEwen faced his newest adversary swiftly. While the latter was seeking for McEwen's head and antennas with his mandibles, the former with a quick snap seized his foe by the neck. Turning up his abdomen, he ejected formic acid into the throat of the other. That finished him.

Meanwhile the battle continued on every hand with the same mad vehemence. Already the dead clogged the ground. Here, single combatants struggled — there, whole lines moved and swayed in deadly combat. Ever and anon new lines were formed, and strange hosts of friends or enemies came up, falling upon the combatants of both sides with murderous enthusiasm. Mc- Ewen, in a strange daze and lust of death, seemed to think nothing of it. He was alone now — lost in a tossing sea of war, and terror seemed to have forsaken him. It was wonderful, he thought, mysterious

As enemy after enemy assailed him, he fought them as he best knew, an old method to him, apparently, and as they died, he wished them to die — broken, poisoned, sawed in two. He began to count and exult in the numbers he had slain. It was at last as though he were dreaming, and all around was a vain, dark, surging mass of enemies.

Finally, four of the Sanguines seized upon him in a group, and he went down before them, almost helpless. Swiftly they tore at his head and body, endeavoring to dispose of him quickly. One seized a leg, another an antenna. A third jumped and sawed at his neck. Still he did not care. It was all war, and he would struggle to the last shred of his strength, eagerly, enthusiasti- cally. At last he seemed to lose consciousness.

When he opened his eyes again, Ermi was beside him.

"Well?" said Ermi.

"Well?" answered McEwen.

"You were about done for, then."

"Was I?" he answered. "How are things going?"

"I cannot tell yet," said Ermi. "All I know is that you were faring badly when I came up. Two of them were dead, but the other two were killing you."

"You should have left me to them," said McEwen, noticing now for the first time Ermi's wounds. "It does not matter so much — one Lucidi more or less — what of it? But you have been injured."

"I — oh, nothing. You are the one to complain. I fear you are badly injured."

"Oh, I," returned McEwen heavily, feeling at last the weight of death upon him, "I am done for. I cannot live. I felt myself dying some time ago."

He closed his eyes and trembled. In another moment

McEwen opened his eyes. Strangely enough he was looking out upon jingling carriages and loitering passersby in the great city park. It was all so strange, by comparison with that which he had so recently seen, the tall buildings in the distance, instead of the sword trees, the trees, the flowers. He jumped to his feet in astonishment, then sank back again in equal amaze, a passerby eyeing him curiously the while.

"I have been asleep," he said in a troubled way. "I have been dreaming. And what a dream!"

He shut his eyes again, wishing, for some strange reason — charm, sympathy, strangeness — to regain the lost scene. An odd longing filled his heart, a sense of comradeship lost, of some friend he knew missing. When he opened his eyes again he seemed to realize something more of what had been happening but it was fading, fading.

At his feet lay the plain and the ants with whom he had recently been — or so he thought. Yes, there, only a few feet away in the parched grass, was an arid spot, over-run with insects. He gazed upon it, in amazement, searching for the details of a lost world. Now, as he saw, coming closer, a giant battle was in progress, such a one, for instance, as that in which he had been engaged in his dream. The ground was strewn with dead ants. Thousands upon thousands were sawing and striking at each other quite in the manner in which he had dreamed. What was this? — a revelation of the spirit and significance of a lesser life or of his own — or what? And what was life if the strange pas- sions, moods and necessities which conditioned him here could condition those there on so minute a plane?

"Why, I was there," he said dazedly and a little dreamfully, "a little while ago. I died there — or as well as died there — in my dream. At least I woke out of it into this or sank from that into this."

Stooping closer he could see where lines were drawn, how in places the forces raged in confusion, and the field was cluttered with the dead. At one moment an odd mad enthusiasm such as he had experienced in his dream-world lay hold of him, and he looked for the advantage of the Shining Slave Makers — the blacks — as he thought of the two warring hosts as against the reds. But finding it not, the mood passed, and he stood gazing, lost in wonder. What a strange world ! he thought. What worlds within worlds, all apparently full of necessity, contention, bind- ing emotions and unities — and all with sorrow, their sorrow — a vague, sad something out of far-off things which had been there, and was here in this strong bright city day, had been there and would be here until this odd, strange thing called life had ended.

5.The Shadow

What had given him his first hint that all might not be as well at home as he imagined was the incident of the automobile. Up to that time he had not had a troubled thought about her, not one. But after — Well, it was a year and a half now and although suspicion still lingered it was becoming weaker. But it had not been obliterated even though he could not help being fond of Beryl, especially since they had Tickles to look after between them. But anyhow, in spite of all his dark thoughts and subtle efforts to put two and two together, he had not been able to make anything of it. Perhaps he was being unjust to her to go on brooding about it. . . . But how was it possible that so many sus- picious-looking things could happen in a given time, and one never be able to get the straight of them?

The main thing that had hampered him was his work. He was connected with the Tri-State Paper Company, at the City Order desk, and as a faithful employe he was not supposed to leave dur- ing working hours without permission, and it was not always easy to get permission. It was easy to count the times he had been off — once to go to the dentist, and two or three times to go home when Beryl was ill. Yet it just happened that on that particular afternoon his superior, Mr. Baggott, had suggested that he, in the place of Naigly who always attended to such matters but was away at the time, should run out to the Detts-Scanlon store and ask Mr. Pierce just what was wrong with that last order that had been shipped. There was a mix-up somewhere, and it had been impossible to get the thing straight over the telephone.

Well, just as he was returning to the office, seated in one of those comfortable cross seats of the Davenant Avenue line and looking at the jumble of traffic out near Blakely Avenue, and just as the car was nearing the entrance to Briscoe Park he saw a tan-and-chocolate-colored automobile driven by a biggish man in a light tan overcoat and cap swing into view, cross in front of the car, and enter the park. It was all over in a flash. But just as the car swung near him who should he see sitting beside the man but Beryl, or certainly a woman who was enough like her to be her twin sister. He would have sworn it was Beryl. And what was more, and worse, she was smiling up at this man as though they were on the best of terms and had known each other a long time! Of course he had only had a glimpse, and might have been mistaken. Beryl had told him that morning that she was going to spend the afternoon with her mother. She often did that, sometimes leaving Tickles there while she did her mother's marketing. Or, she and her mother, or she and her sister Alice, if she chanced to be there, would take the baby for a walk in the park. Of course he might have been mis- taken.

But that hat with the bunch of bright green grapes on the side. . . . And that green-and-white striped coat. . . . And that peculiar way in which she always held her head when she was talking. Was it really Beryl? If it wasn't, why should he have had such a keen conviction that it was?

Up to that time there never had been anything of a doubtful character between them — that is, nothing except that business of the Raskoffsky picture, which didn't amount to much in itself. Anybody might become interested in a great violinist and write him for his photo, though even that couldn't be proved against Beryl. It was inscribed to Alice. But even if she had written him, that wasn't a patch compared to this last, her driving about in a car with a strange man. Certainly that would justify him in any steps that he chose to take, even to getting a divorce.

But what had he been able to prove so far? Nothing. He had tried to find her that afternoon, first at their own house, then at her mother's, and then at Winton & Marko's real estate office, where Alice sometimes helped out, but he couldn't find a trace of her. Still, did that prove anything once and for all? She might have been to the concert as she said, she and Alice. It must be dull to stay in the house all day long, anyhow, and he couldn't blame her for doing the few things she did within their means. Often he tried to get in touch with her of a morning or after- noon, and there was no answer, seeing that she was over to her mother's or out to market, as she said. And up to the afternoon of the automobile it had never occurred to him that there was anything queer about it. When he called up Beryl's mother she had said that Beryl and Alice had gone to a concert and it wasn't believable that Mrs. Dana would lie to him about anything. Maybe the two of them were doing something they shouldn't, or maybe Alice was helping Beryl to do something she shouldn't, without their mother knowing anything about it. Alice was like that, sly. It was quite certain that if there had been any cor- respondence between Beryl and that man Raskoffsky, that time he 'had found the picture inscribed to Alice, it had been Alice who had been the go-between. Alice had probably allowed her name and address to be used for Beryl's pleasure — that is, if there was anything to it at all. It wasn't likely that Beryl would have attempted anything like that without Alice's help.

But just the same he had never been able to prove that they had been in league, at that time or any other. If there was any- thing in it they were too clever to let him catch them. The day he thought he had seen her in the car he had first tried to get her by telephone and then had gone to the office, since it was on his way, to get permission to go home for a few minutes. But what had he gained by it? By the time he got there, Beryl and her mother were already there, having just walked over from Mrs. Dana's home, according to Beryl. And Beryl was not wear- ing the hat and coat he had seen in the car, and that was what he wanted to find out. But between the time he had called up her mother and the time he had managed to get home she had had time enough to return and change her clothes and go over to her mother's if there was any reason why she should. That was what had troubled him and caused him to doubt ever since. She would have known by then that he had been trying to get her on the telephone and would have had any answer ready for him. And that may have been exactly what happened, assuming that she had been in the car and gotten home ahead of him, and presuming her mother had lied for her, which she would not do — not Mrs. Dana. For when he had walked in, a little flushed and excited, Beryl had exclaimed: "Whatever is the matter, Gil?" And then: "What a crazy thing, to come hurrying home just to ask me about this! Of course I haven't been in any car. How ridiculous! Ask Mother. You wouldn't expect her to fib for me, would you?" And then to clinch the matter she had added: "Alice and I left Tickles with her and went to the concert after going into the park for a while. When we returned, Alice stopped home so Mother could walk over here with me. What are you so excited about." And for the life of him, he had not been able to say anything except that he had seen a woman going into Briscoe Park in a tan-and-chocolate car, seated beside a big man who looked like — well, he couldn't say exactly whom he did look like. But the woman beside him certainly looked like Beryl. And she had had on a hat with green grapes on one side and a white-and-green striped sports coat, just like the one she had. Taking all that into consideration, what would any one think? But she had laughed it off, and what was he to say? He certainly couldn't accuse Mrs. Dana of not knowing what she was talking about, or Beryl of lying, unless he was sure of what he was saying. She was too strong-minded and too strong- willed for that. She had only married him after a long period of beg- ging on his part; and she wasn't any too anxious to live with him now unless they could get along comfortably together.

Yet taken along with that Raskoffsky business of only a few months before, and the incident of the Hotel Deming of only the day before (but of which he had thought nothing until he had seen her in the car), and the incident of the letters in the ashes, which followed on the morning after he had dashed home that day, and then that business of the closed car in Bergley Place, just three nights afterwards — well, by George! when one put such things together —

It was very hard to put these things in the order of their effect on him, though it was easy to put them in their actual order as to time. The Hotel Deming incident had occurred only the day before the automobile affair and taken alone, meant nothing, just a chance encounter with her on the part of Naigly, who had chosen to speak of it. But joined afterwards with the business of the partly burned letters and after seeing her in that car or thinking he had — Well — After that, naturally his mind had gone back to that Hotel Deming business, and to the car, too. Naigly, who had been interested in Beryl before her mar- riage (she had been Baggott's stenographer), came into the office about four — the day before he had seen Beryl, or thought he had, in the car, and had said to him casually: "I saw your wife just now, Stoddard." "That so? Where?" "She was coming out of the Deming ladies' entrance as I passed just now." Well, taken by itself, there was nothing much in that, was there? There was an arcade of shops which made the main entrance to the Deming, and it was easy to go through that and come out of one of the other entrances. He knew Beryl had done it before, so why should he have worried about it then? Only, for some reason, when he came home that evening Beryl didn't mention that she had been downtown that day until he asked her. "What were you doing about four to-day?" "Downtown, shopping. Why? Did you see me? I went for Mother." "Me? No. Who do you know in the Deming?" "No one" — this without a trace of self- consciousness, which was one of the things that made him doubt whether there had been anything wrong. "Oh, yes; I remember now. I walked through to look at the hats in Anna McCarty's window, and came out the ladies' entrance. Why?" "Oh, nothing. Naigly said he saw you, that's all. You're getting to be a regular gadabout these days." "Oh, what nonsense! Why shouldn't I go through the Deming Arcade? I would have stopped in to see you, only I know you don't like me to come bothering around there."

And so he had dismissed it from his mind — until the incident of the car.

And then the matter of the letters . . . and Raskoffsky . . .

Beryl was crazy about music, although she couldn't play except a little by ear. Her mother had been too poor to give her any- thing more than a common school education, which was about all that he had had. But she was crazy about the violin and any- body who could play it, and when any of the great violinists came to town she always managed to afford to go. Raskoffsky was a big blond Russian who played wonderfully, so she said. She and Alice had gone to hear him, and for weeks afterward they had raved about him. They had even talked of writing to him, just to see if he would answer, but he had frowned on such a proceeding because he didn't want Beryl writing to any man. What good would it do her? A man like that wouldn't bother about answering her letter, especially if all the women were as crazy about him as the papers said. Yet later he had found Raskoffsky's picture in Beryl's room, only it was inscribed to Alice. . . . Still, Beryl might have put Alice up to it, might even have sent her own picture under Alice's name, just to see if he would answer. They had talked of sending a picture. Besides, if Alice had written and secured this picture, why wasn't it in her rather than Beryl's possession. He had asked about that. Yet the one flaw in that was that Alice wasn't really good-looking enough to send her picture and she knew it. Yet Beryl had sworn that she hadn't written. And Alice had insisted that it was she and not Beryl who had written. But there was no way of proving that she hadn't or that Beryl had.

Yet why all the secrecy? Neither of them had said anything more about writing Raskoffsky after that first time. And it was only because he had come across Raskoffsky's picture in one of Beryl's books that he had come to know anything about it at all. "To my fair little western admirer who likes my 'Dance Macabre' so much. The next time I play in your city you must come and see me." But Alice wasn't fair or good-looking. Beryl was. And it was Beryl and not Alice, who had first raved over that dance j Alice didn't care so much for music. And wasn't it Beryl, and not Alice, who had proposed writing him. Yet it was Alice who had received the answer. How was that? Very likely it was Beryl who had persuaded Alice to write for her, sending her own instead of Alice's picture, and getting Alice to receive Raskoffsky's picture for her when it came. Something in their manner the day he had found the picture indicated as much. Alice had been so quick to say: "Oh yes. I wrote him." But Beryl had looked a little queer when she caught him looking at her, had even flushed slightly, although she had kept her indifferent manner. At that time the incident of the car hadn't occurred. But afterwards, — after he had imagined he had seen Beryl in the car — it had occurred to him that maybe it was Raskoffsky with whom she was with that day. He was playing in Columbus, so the papers said, and he might have been passing through the city. He was a large man too, as he now recalled, by George! If only he could find a way to prove that!

Still, even so and when you come right down to it, was there anything so terrible about her writing a celebrity like that and asking for his picture, if that was all she had done. But was it? Those long-enveloped gray letters he had found in the fireplace that morning, after that day in which he had seen her in the car (or thought he had) — or at least traces of them. And the queer way she had looked at him when he brought them up in connection with that closed car in Bergley Place. She had squinted her eyes as if to think, and had then laughed rather shakily when he charged her with receiving letters from Ras- koffsky, and with his having come here to see her. His finding them had been entirely by accident. He always got up early to "start things," for Beryl was a sleepyhead, and he would start the fire in the grate and put on the water to boil in the kitchen. And this morning as he was bending over the grate to push away some scraps of burnt wood so as to start a new fire, he came across five or six letters, or the ashes of them, all close together as though they might have been tied with a ribbon or something. What was left of them looked as though they had been written on heavy stationery such as a man of means might use, the envelopes long and thick. The top one still showed the address

— "Mrs. Beryl Stoddard, Care of " He was bending over to see the rest when a piece of wood toppled over and destroyed it. He rescued one little scrap, the half-charred corner of one page, and the writing on this seemed to be like that on Raskoffsky's picture, or so he thought, and he read: "to see you." Just that and nothing more, part of a sentence that ended the page and went to the next. And that page was gone, of course!

But it was funny wasn't it, that at sight of them the thought of Raskoffsky should have come to him? And that ride in the park. Come to think of it, the man in the car had looked a little like RaskofFsky's picture. And for all he knew, Raskoffsky might have then been in town — returned for this especial purpose — and she might have been meeting him on the sly. Of course. At the Deming. That was it. He had never been quite able to believe her. All the circumstances at the time pointed to some- thing of the kind, even if he had never been able to tie them to- gether and make her confess to the truth of them.

But how he had suffered after that because of that thought! Things had seemed to go black before him. Beryl unfaithful? Beryl running around with a man like that, even if he was a great violinist? Everybody knew what kind of a man he was — all those men. The papers were always saying how crazy women were over him, and yet that he should come all the way to

C to make trouble between him and Beryl! (If only he could prove that!) But why should she, with himself and Tickles to look after, and a life of her own which was all right — why should she be wanting to run around with a man like that, a man who would use her for a little while and then drop her. And when she had a home of her own? And her baby?

And her mother and sister right here in C ? And him? And working as hard as he was and trying to make things come out right for them? That was the worst of it. That was the misery of it. And all for a little notice from a man who was so far above her or thought he was, anyhow, that he couldn't care for her or any one long. The papers had said so at the time. But that was the whole secret. She was so crazy about people who did anything in music or painting or anything like that, that she couldn't reason right about them. And she might have done a thing like that on that account. Personally he wouldn't give a snap of his finger for the whole outfit. They weren't ordinary, decent people anyhow. But making herself as common as that!

And right here in C , too, where they were both known, Oh, if only he had been able to prove that! If only he had been able to at that time!

When he had recovered himself a little that morning after he had found the traces of the letters in the ashes he had wanted to go into the bedroom where she was still asleep and drag her out by the hair and beat her and make her confess to these things. Yes, he had. There had been all but murder in his heart that morning. He would show her. She couldn't get away with any such raw stuff as that even if she did have her mother and sister to help her. (That sly little Alice, always putting her sister up to something and never liking him from the first, anyhow.) But then the thought had come to him that after all he might be wrong. Supposing the letters weren't from Raskoffsky? And supposing she had told the truth when she said she hadn't been in the car? He had nothing to go on except what he imagined, and up to then everything had been as wonderful as could be between them. Still . . .

Then another thought had come: if the letters weren't from Raskoffsky who were they from? He didn't know of anybody who would be writing her on any such paper as that. And if not Raskoffsky whom did she know? And why should she throw them in the fire, choosing a time when he wasn't about? That was strange, especially after the automobile incident of the day before. But when he taxed her with this the night of the Bergley Place car incident — she had denied everything and said they were from Claire Haggerty, an old chum who had moved to New York just about the time they were married and who had been writing her at her mother's because at that time he and she didn't have a home of their own and that was the only address she could give. She had been meaning to destroy them but had been putting it off. But only the night before she had come across them in a drawer and had tossed them in the fire, and that was all there was to that.

But was that all there was to it?

For even as he had been standing there in front of the grate wondering what to do the thought had come to him that he was not going about this in the right way. He had had the thought that he should hire a detective at once and have her shadowed and then if she were doing anything, it might be possible to find it out. That would have been better. That was really the way. Yet instead of doing that he had gone on quarreling with her, had burst in on her with everything that he suspected or saw, or thought he saw, and that it was, if anything, that had given her warning each time and had allowed her to get the upper hand of him, if she had got the upper hand of him. That was it. Yet he had gone on and quarreled with her that day just the same, only, after he had thought it all over, he had decided to consult the Sol Cohn Detective Service and have her watched. But that very night, coming back from the night conference with Mr. Harris Cohn, which was the only time he could get to give it, was the night he had seen the car in Bergley Place, and Beryl near it.

Bergley Place was a cross street two doors from where they lived on Winton. And just around the corner in Bergley, was an old vacant residence with a deal of shrubbery and four over- arching trees in front, which made it very dark there at night. That night as he was coming home from Mr. Harris Cohn's — (he had told Beryl that he was going to the lodge, in order to throw her off and had come home earlier in order to see what he might see) and just as he was stepping off the Nutley Avenue car which turned into Marko Street, about half a block above where they lived whom should he see — But, no, let us put it this way. Just at that moment or a moment later as he turned toward his home an automobile that had been going the same way he was along Winton swung into Bergley Place and threw its exceptionally brilliant lights on a big closed automobile that was standing in front of the old house aforementioned. There were two vacant corner lots opposite the old house at Bergley and Winton and hence it was that he could see what was going on. Near the rear of the automobile, just as though she had stepped out of it and was about to leave, stood Beryl — or, he certainly thought it was Beryl, talking to some one in the car, just as one would before parting and returning into the house. She had on a hooded cape exactly like the one she wore at times though not often. She did not like hooded capes any more. They were out of style. Just the same so sure had he been that it was Beryl and that at last he had trapped her that he hurried on to the house or, rather, toward the car. But just as he neared the corner the lights of the car that had been standing there lightless flashed on for a second — then off and then sped away. Yet even with them on there had not been enough light to see whether it was Beryl, or who. Or what the number on the license plate was. It was gone and with it Beryl, presumably up the alley way and into the back door or so he had believed. So sure was he that she had gone that way that he himself had gone that way. Yet when he reached the rear door following her, as he chose to do, it was locked and the kitchen was dark. And he had to rap and pound even before she came to let him in. And when she did there she was looking as though she had not been out at all, undressed, ready for bed and wanting to know why he chose to come that way! And asking him not to make so much noise for fear of waking Tickles. . . .!

Think of it. Not a trace of excitement. No cape with a hood on. The light up in the dining-room and a book on the table as though she might have been reading — one of those novels by that fellow Barclay. And not a sign about anywhere that she might have been out — that was the puzzling thing. And denying that she had been out or that she had seen any car, or anything. Now what would you make of that!

Then it was, though, that he had burst forth in a fury of suspicion and anger and had dealt not only with this matter of the car in Bergley Place but the one in Briscoe Park, the let- ters in the ashes and the matter of Naigly seeing her come out of the Deming, to say nothing of her writing to Raskoffsky for his picture. For it was Raskoffsky, of course, if it was anybody. He was as positive as to that as any one could be. Who else could it have been? He had not even hesitated to insist that he knew who it was — Raskoffsky, of course — and that he had seen him and had been able to recognize him from his pictures. Yet she had denied that vehemently — even laughingly — or that he had seen any one, or that there had been a car there for her. And she did show him a clipping a week later which said that Raskoffsky was in Italy.

But if it wasn't Raskoffsky then who was it — if it was any one. "For goodness' sake, Gil," was all she would say at that or any other time, "I haven't been out with Raskoffsky or any one and I don't think you ought to come in here and act as you do. It seems to me you must be losing your mind. I haven't seen or heard of any old car. Do you think I could stand here and say that I hadn't if I had? And I don't like the way you have of rushing in here of late every little while and accusing me of some- thing that I haven't done. What grounds have you for thinking that I have done anything wrong anyhow? That silly picture of Raskoffsky that Alice sent for. And that you think you saw me in an automobile. Not another thing. If you don't stop now and let me alone I will leave you I tell you and that is all there is to it. I won't be annoyed in this way and especially when you have nothing to go on." It was with that type of counter-argument that she had confronted him.

Besides, at that time — the night that he thought he saw her in Bergley Place — and as if to emphasize what she was saying, Tickles in the bedroom had waked up and begun to call "Mama, Mama." And she had gone in to him and brought him out even as she talked. And she had seemed very serious and defiant, then — very much more like her natural self and like a person who had been injured and was at bay. So he had become downright doubt- ful, again, and had gone back into the dining-room. And there, was the light up and the book that she had been reading. And in the closet as he had seen when he had hung up his own coat was her hooded cape on the nail at the back where it always hung.

And yet how could he have been mistaken as to all of those things? Surely there must have been something to some of them. He could never quite feel, even now, that there hadn't been. Yet outside of just that brief period in which all of these things had occurred there had never been a thing that he could put his hands on, nothing that he could say looked even suspicious before or since. And the detective agency had not been able to find out anything about her either — not a thing. That had been money wasted: one hundred dollars. Now how was that?

The trouble with Gil was that he was so very suspicious by nature and not very clever. He was really a clerk, with a clerk's mind and a clerk's point of view. He would never rise to bigger things, because he couldn't, and yet she could not utterly dislike him either. He was always so very much in love with her, so generous— to her, at least — and he did the best he could to sup- port her and Tickles which was something, of course. A lot of the trouble was that he was too affectionate and too clinging. He was always hanging around whenever he was not working. And with never a thought of going any place without her except to. his lodge or on a business errand that he couldn't possibly escape. And if he did go he was always in such haste to get back! Before she had ever thought of marrying him, when he was shipping clerk at the Tri-State and she was Mr. Baggott's stenographer, she had seen that he was not very remarkable as a man. He hadn't the air or the force of Mr. Baggott, for whom she worked then and whose assistant Gil later became. Indeed, Mr. Baggott had once said: "Gilbert is all right, energetic and faithful enough, but he lacks a large grasp of things." And yet in spite of all that she had married him.

Why?

Well, it was hard to say. He was not bad-looking, rather hand- some, in fact, and that had meant a lot to her then. He had fine, large black eyes and a pale forehead and pink cheeks, and such nice clean hands. And he always dressed so well for a young man in his position. He was so faithful and yearning, a very dog at her heels. But she shouldn't have married him, just the same. It was all a mistake. He was not the man for her. She knew that now. And, really, she had known it then, only she had not allowed her common sense to act. She was always too sentimental then — not practical enough as she was now. It was only after she was married and surrounded by the various problems that marriage includes that she had begun to wake up. But then it was too late.

Yes, she had married, and by the end of the first year and a half, during which the original glamour had had time to sub- side, she had Tickles, or Gilbert, Jr., to look after. And with him had come a new mood such as she had never dreamed of in connection with herself. Just as her interest in Gil had begun to wane a little her interest in Tickles had sprung into flame. And for all of three years now it had grown stronger rather than weaker. She fairly adored her boy and wouldn't think of doing anything to harm him. And yet she grew so weary at times of the humdrum life they were compelled to live. Gil only made forty-five dollars a week, even now. And on that they had to clothe and feed and house the three of them. It was no easy matter. She would rather go out and work. But it was not so easy with a three-year-old baby. And besides Gil would never hear of such a thing. He was just one of those young husbands who thought the wife's place was in the home, even when he couldn't provide a very good home for her to live in.

Still, during these last few years she had had a chance to read and think, two things which up to that time she had never seemed to have time for. Before that it had always been beaux and other girls. But most of the girls were married now and so there was an end to them. But reading and thinking had gradu- ally taken up all of her spare time, and that had brought about such a change in her. She really wasn't the same girl now that Gil had married at all. She was wiser. And she knew so much more about life now than he did. And she thought so much more, and so differently. He was still at about the place mentally that he had been when she married him, interested in making a better place for himself in the Tri-State office and in playing golf or tennis out at the country club whenever he could afford the time to go out there. And he expected her to curry favor with Dr. and Mrs. Realk, and Mr. and Mrs. Stofft, because they had a car and because Mr. Stofft and Gil liked to play cards together. But beyond that he thought of nothing, not a thing.

But during all of this time she had more and more realized that Gil would never make anything much of himself. Alice had cautioned her against him before ever they had married. He was not a business man in any true sense. He couldn't think of a single thing at which he could make any money except in the paper business, and that required more capital than ever he would have. Everybody else they knew was prospering. And perhaps it was that realization that had thrown her back upon books and pictures and that sort of thing. People who did things in those days were so much more interesting than people who just made money, anyhow.

Yet she would never have entered upon that dangerous affair with Mr. Barclay if it hadn't been for the awful mental dol- drums she found herself in about the time Tickles was two years old and Gil was so worried as to whether he would be able to keep his place at the Tri-State any longer. He had put all the money they had been able to save into that building and loan scheme, and when that had failed they were certainly up against it for a time. There was just nothing to do with, and there was no prospect of relief. To this day she had no clothes to speak of. And there wasn't much promise of getting them now. And she wasn't getting any younger. Still, there was Tickles, and she was brushing up on her shorthand again. If the worst came —

But she wouldn't have entered upon that adventure that had come so near to ending disastrously for herself and Tickles — for certainly if Gil had ever found out he could have taken Tickles away from her — if it hadn't been for that book Heyday which Mr. Barclay wrote and which she came across just when she was feeling so out of sorts with life and Gil and everything. That had pictured her own life so keenly and truly ; indeed, it seemed to set her own life before her just as it was and as though some one were telling her about herself. It was the story of a girl somewhat like herself who had dreamed her way through a rather pinched girlhood, having to work for a living from the age of fourteen. And then just as she was able to make her own way had made a foolish marriage with a man of no import in any way — a clerk, just like Gil. And he had led her through more years of meagre living, until at last, very tired of it all, she had been about to yield herself to another man who didn't care very much about her but who had money and could do the things for her that her husband couldn't. Then of a sudden in this story her husband chose to disappear and leave her to make her way as best she might. The one difference between that story and her own life was that there was no little Tickles to look after. And Gil would never disappear, of course. But the heroine of the story had returned to her work without compromising her- self. And in the course of time had met an architect who had the good sense or the romance to fall in love with and marry her. And so the story, which was so much like hers, except for Tickles and the architect, had ended happily.

But hers — well —

But the chances she had taken at that time! The restless and yet dreamy mood in which she had been and moved and which eventually had prompted her to write Mr. Barclay, feeling very doubtful as to whether he would be interested in her and yet drawn to him because of the life he had pictured. Her thought had been that if he could take enough interest in a girl like the one in the book to describe her so truly he might be a little interested in her real life. Only her thought at first had been not to entice him j she had not believed that she could. Rather, it was more the feeling that if he would he might be of some help to her, since he had written so sympathetically of Lila, the heroine. She was faced by the problem of what to do with her life, as Lila had been, but at that she hadn't expected him to solve it for her — merely to advise her.

But afterwards, when he had written to thank her, she feared that she might not hear from him again and had thought of that picture of herself, the one Dr. Realk had taken of her laughing so heartily, the one that everybody liked so much. She had felt that that might entice him to further correspondence with her, since his letters were so different and interesting, and she had sent it and asked him if his heroine looked anything like her, just as an excuse for sending it. Then had come that kindly letter in which he had explained his point of view and advised her, unless she were very unhappy, to do nothing until she should be able to look after herself in the great world. Life was an economic problem. As for himself, he was too much the rover to be more than a passing word to any one. His work came first. Apart from that, he said he drifted up and down the world trying to make the best of a life that tended to bore him. How- ever if ever he came that way he would be glad to look her up and advise her as best he might, but that she must not let him compromise her in any way. It was not advisable in her very difficult position.

Even then she had not been able to give him up, so interested had she been by all he had written. And besides, he had even- tually come to U only a hundred and fifty miles away, and

had written from there to know if he might come over to see her. She couldn't do other than invite him, although she had known at the time that it was. a dangerous thing to do. There was no solution, and it had only caused trouble — and how much trouble! And yet in the face of her mood then, anything had been welcome as a relief. She had been feeling that unless some- thing happened to break the monotony she would do something desperate. And then something did happen. He had come, and there was nothing but trouble, and very much trouble, until he had gone again.

You would have thought there was some secret unseen force attending her and Gil at that time and leading him to wherever she was at just the time she didn't want him to be there. Take for example, that matter of Gil finding Mr. Barclay's letters in the fire after she had taken such care to throw them on the live coals behind some burning wood. He had evidently been able to make out a part of the address, anyhow, for he had said they were addressed to her in care of somebody he couldn't make out. And yet he was all wrong, as to the writer, of course. He had the crazy notion, based on his having found that picture of Raskoffsky inscribed to Alice, some months before, that they must be from him, just because he thought she had used Alice to write and ask Raskoffsky for his picture — which she had. But that was before she had ever read any of Mr. Barclay's books. Yet if it hadn't been for Gil's crazy notion that it was Raskoffsky she was inter- ested in she wouldn't have had the courage to face it out the way she had, the danger of losing Tickles, which had come to her the moment Gil had proved so suspicious and watchful, fright- ening her so. Those three terrible days! And imagine him finding those bits of letters in the ashes and making something out of them! The uncanniness of it all.

And then that time he saw her speeding through the gate into Briscoe Park. They couldn't have been more than a second passing there, anyhow, and yet he had been able to pick her out ! Worse, Mr. Barclay hadn't even intended coming back that way j they had just made the mistake of turning down Ridgley instead of Warren. Yet, of course, Gil had to be there, of all places, when as a rule he was never out of the office at any time. Fortunately for her she was on her way home, so there was no chance of his getting there ahead of her as, plainly, he planned afterwards. Still, if it hadn't been for her mother whom every- body believed, and who actually believed that she and Alice had been to the concert, she would never have had the courage to face him. She hadn't expected him home in the first place, but when he did come and she realized that unless she faced him out then and there in front of her mother who believed in her, that she as well as he would know, there was but one thing to do — brave it. Fortunately her mother hadn't seen her in that coat and hat which Gil insisted that she had on. For before going she and Alice had taken Tickles over to her mother's and then she had returned and changed her dress. And before Gil had arrived Alice had gone on home and told her mother to bring over the baby, which was the thing that had so confused Gil really. For he didn't know about the change and neither did her mother. And her mother did not believe that there had been any, which made her think that Gil was a little crazy, talking that way. And her mother didn't know to this day — she was so unsuspecting.

And then that terrible night on which he thought he had seen her in Bergley Place and came in to catch her. Would she ever forget that? Or that evening, two days before, when he had come home and said that Naigly had seen her coming out of the Deming. She could tell by his manner that time that he thought nothing of that then — he was so used to her going downtown in the daytime anyhow. But that Naigly should have seen her just then when of all times she would rather he would not have!

To be sure it had been a risky thing — going there to meet Mr. Barclay in that way, only from another point of view it had not seemed so. Every one went through the Deming Arcade for one reason or another and that made any one's being seen there rather meaningless. And in the great crowd that was always there it was the commonest thing for any one to meet any one else and stop and talk for a moment anyhow. That was all she was there for that day — to see Mr. Barclay on his arrival and make an appointment for the next day. She had done it because she knew she couldn't stay long and she knew Gil wouldn't be out at that time and that if any one else saw her she could say that it was almost any one they knew casually between them. Gil was like that, rather easy at times. But to think that Naigly should have been passing the Deming just as she was coming out — alone, fortunately — and should have run and told Gil. That was like him. It was pure malice. He had never liked her since she had turned him down for Gil. And he would like to make trouble for her if he could, that was all. That was the way people did who were disappointed in love.

But the worst and the most curious thing of all was that last evening in Bergley Place, the last time she ever saw Mr. Bar- clay anywhere. That was odd. She had known by then, of course, that Gil was suspicious and might be watching her and she hadn't intended to give him any further excuse for com- plaint. But that was his lodge night and he had never missed a meeting since they had been married — not one. Besides she had only intended to stay out about an hour and always within range of the house so that if Gil got off the car or any one else came she would know of it. She had not even turned out the light in the dining-room, intending to say if Gil came back un- expectedly or any one else called, that she had just run around the corner in the next block to see Mrs. Stofft. And in order that that statement might not be questioned, she had gone over there for just a little while before Mr. Barclay was due to arrive with his car. She had even asked Mr. Barclay to wait in the shadow of the old Dalrymple house in Bergley Place, under the trees, in order that the car might not be seen. So few people went up that street, anyhow. And it was always so dark in there. Besides it was near to raining which made it seem safer still. And yet he had seen her. And just as she was about to leave. And when she had concluded that everything had turned out so well.

But how could she have foreseen that a big car with such powerful lights as that would have turned in there just then. Or that Gil would step off the car and look up that way? Or that he would be coming home an hour earlier when he never did — not from lodge meeting. And besides she hadn't intended to go out that evening at all until Mr. Barclay called up and said he must leave the next day, for a few days anyhow, and wanted to see her before he went. She had thought that if they stayed somewhere in the neighborhood in a closed car, as he suggested, it would be all right. But, no. That big car had to turn to there just when it did, and Gil had to be getting off the car and looking up Bergley Place just when it did, and she had to be standing there saying good- bye, just as the lights flashed on that spot. Some people might be lucky, but certainly she was not one of them. The only thing that had saved her was the fact that she had been able to get in the house ahead of Gil, hang up her cape and go in to her room and undress and see if Tickles was still asleep. And yet when he did burst in she had felt that she could not face him — he was so desperate and angry. And yet, good luck, it had ended in his doubting whether he had really seen her or not, though even to this day he would never admit that he doubted.

But the real reason why she hadn't seen Mr. Barclay since (and that in the face of the fact that he had been here in the city once since, and that, as he wrote, he had taken such a fancy to her and wanted to see her and help her in any way she chose), was not that she was afraid of Gil or that she liked him more than she did Mr. Barclay (they were too different in all their thoughts and ways for that) or that she would have to give up her life here and do something else, if Gil really should have found out (she wouldn't have minded that at all) — but because only the day before Mr. Barclay's last letter she had found out that under the law Gil would have the power to take Tickles away from her and not let her see him any more if he caught her in any wrongdoing. That was the thing that had frightened her more than anything else could have and had decided her, then and there, that whatever it was she was thinking she might want to do, it could never repay her for the pain and agony that the loss of Tickles would bring her. She had not really stopped to think of that before. Besides on the night of that quarrel with Gil, that night he thought he saw her in Bergley Place and he had sworn that if ever he could prove anything he would take Tickles away from her, or, that he would kill her and Tickles and himself and Raskoffsky (Raskoffsky! ), it was then really that she had realized that she couldn't do without Tickles — no, not for a time even. Her dream of a happier life would be noth- ing without him — she knew that. And so it was that she had fought there as she had to make Gil believe he was mistaken* even in the face of the fact that he actually knew he had seen her. It was the danger of the loss of Tickles that had given her the courage and humor and calmness, the thought of what the loss of him would mean, the feeling that life would be colorless and blank unless she could take him with her wherever she went, whenever that might be, if ever it was.

And so when Gil had burst in as he did she had taken up Tickles and faced him, after Gil's loud talk had waked him. And Tickles had put his arms about her neck and called "Mama! Mama!" even while she was wondering how she was ever ta get out of that scrape. And then because he had fallen asleep again, lying close to her neck, even while Gil was quarreling, she had told herself then that if she came through that quarrel safely she would never do anything more to jeopardize her claim to Tickles, come what might. And with that resolution she had been able to talk to Gil so convincingly and defiantly that he had finally begun to doubt his own senses, as she could see. And so it was that she had managed to face him out and to win completely.

And then the very next day she had called up Mr. Barclay and told him that she couldn't go on with that affair, and why — that Tickles meant too much to her, that she would have to wait and see how her life would work out. And he had been so nice about it then and had sympathized with her and had told her that, all things considered, he believed she was acting wisely and for her own happiness. And so she had been. Only since he had written her and she had had to say no to him again. And now he had gone for good. And she admired him so much. And she never heard from him since, for she had asked him not to write to her unless she first wrote to him.

But with how much regret she had done that! And how com- monplace and humdrum this world looked at times now, even with the possession of Tickles. Those few wonderful days. . . . And that dream that had mounted so high. Yet she had Tickles. And in the novel the husband had gone away and the architect had appeared

6.Nigger Jeff

The city editor was waiting for one of his best reporters, Elmer Davies by name, a vain and rather self-sufficient youth who was inclined to be of that turn of mind which sees in life only a fixed and ordered process of rewards and punishments. If one did not do exactly right, one did not get along well. On the contrary, if one did, one did. Only the so-called evil were really punished, only the good truly rewarded — or Mr. Davies had heard this so long in his youth that he had come nearly to believe it. Presently he appeared. He was dressed in a new spring suit, a new hat and new shoes. In the lapel of his coat was a small bunch of violets. It was one o'clock of a sunny spring afternoon, and he was feeling exceedingly well and good-natured — quite fit, indeed. The world was going unusually well with him. It seemed worth singing about.

"Read that, Davies," said the city editor, handing him the clipping. "I'll tell you afterward what I want you to do."

The reporter stood by the editorial chair and read:

Pleasant Valley, Ko., April 16. "A most dastardly crime has just been reported here. Jeff Ingalls, a negro, this morning assaulted Ada Whitaker, the nineteen-year-old daughter of Morgan Whitaker, a well-to-do farmer, whose home is four miles south of this place. A posse, headed by Sheriff Mathews, has started in pursuit. If he is caught, it is thought he will be lynched."

The reporter raised his eyes as he finished. What a terrible crime! What evil people there were in the world! No doubt such a creature ought to be lynched, and that quickly.

"You had better go out there, Davies," said the city editor. "It looks as if something might come of that. A lynching up here would be a big thing. There's never been one in this state."

Davies smiled. He was always pleased to be sent out of town. It was a mark of appreciation. The city editor rarely sent any of the other men on these big stories. What a nice ride he would have!

As he went along, however, a few minutes later he began to meditate on this. Perhaps, as the city editor had suggested, he might be compelled to witness an actual lynching. That was by no means so pleasant in itself. In his fixed code of rewards and punishments he had no particular place for lynchings, even for crimes of the nature described, especially if he had to witness the lynching. It was too horrible a kind of reward or punish- ment. Once, in line of duty, he had been compelled to witness a hanging, and that had made him sick — deathly so — even though carried out as a part of the due process of law of his day and place. Now, as he looked at this fine day and his ex- cellent clothes, he was not so sure that this was a worthwhile assignment. Why should he always be selected for such things — just because he could write? There were others — lots of men on the staff. He began to hope as he went along that nothing really serious would come of it, that they would catch the man before he got there and put him in jail — or, if the worst had to be — painful thought! — that it would be all over by the time he got there. Let's see — the telegram had been filed at nine a.m. It was now one-thirty and would be three by the time he got out there, all of that. That would give him time enough, and then, if all were well, or ill, as it were, he could just gather the details of the crime and the — aftermath — and return. The mere thought of an approaching lynching troubled him greatly, and the farther he went the less he liked it.

He found the village of Pleasant Valley a very small affair indeed, just a few dozen houses nestling between green slopes of low hills, with one small business corner and a rambling array of lanes. One or two merchants of K , the city from which he had just arrived, lived out here, but otherwise it was very rural. He took notes o£ the whiteness of the little houses, the shimmering beauty of the small stream one had to cross in going from the depot. At the one main corner a few men were gathered about a typical village barroom. Davies headed for this as being the most likely source of information.

In mingling with this company at first he said nothing about his being a newspaper man, being very doubtful as to its effect upon them, their freedom of speech and manner.

The whole company was apparently tense with interest in the crime which still remained unpunished, seemingly craving ex- citement and desirous of seeing something done about it. No such opportunity to work up wrath and vent their stored-up animal propensities had probably occurred here in years. He took this occasion to inquire into the exact details of the attack, where it had occurred, where the Whitakers lived. Then, seeing that mere talk prevailed here, he went away thinking that he had best find out for himself how the victim was. As yet she had not been described, and it was necessary to know a little some- thing about her. Accordingly, he sought an old man who kept a stable in the village, and procured a horse. No carriage was to be had. Davies was not an excellent rider, but he made a shift of it. The Whitaker home was not so very far away — about four miles out — and before long he was knocking at its front door, set back a hundred feet from the rough country road.

"I'm from the Times" he said to the tall, rawboned woman who opened the door, with an attempt at being impressive. His position as reporter in this matter was a little dubious ; he might be welcome, and he might not. Then he asked if this were Mrs. Whitaker, and how Miss Whitaker was by now.

"She's doing very well," answered the woman, who seemed decidedly stern, if repressed and nervous, a Spartan type. "Won't you come in? She's rather feverish, but the doctor says she'll probably be all right later on." She said no more.

Davies acknowledged the invitation by entering. He was very anxious to see the girl, but she was sleeping under the influence of an opiate, and he did not care to press the matter at once.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"About eight o'clock this morning," said the woman. "She started to go over to our next door neighbor here, Mr. Edmonds, and this negro met her. We didn't know anything about it until she came crying through the gate and dropped down in here."

"Were you the first one to meet her?" asked Davies.

"Yes, I was the only one," said Mrs. Whitaker. "The men had all gone to the fields."

Davies listened to more of the details, the type and history of the man, and then rose to go. Before doing so he was allowed to have a look at the girl, who was still sleeping. She was young and rather pretty. In the yard he met a country man who was just coming to get home news. The latter imparted more in- formation.

"They're lookin' all around south of here," he said, speaking of a crowd which was supposed to be searching. "I expect they'll make short work of him if they get him. He can't get away very well, for he's on foot, wherever he is. The sheriff's after him too, with a deputy or two, I believe. He'll be tryin' to save him an' take him over to Clayton, but I don't believe he'll be able to do it, not if the crowd catches him first."

So, thought Davies, he would probably have to witness a lynching after all. The prospect was most unhappy.

"Does any one know where this negro lived?" he asked heavily, a growing sense of his duty weighing upon him.

"Oh, right down here a little way," replied the farmer. "Jeff Ingalls was his name. We all know him around here. He worked for one and another of the farmers hereabouts, and don't appear to have had such a bad record, either, except for drinkin' a little now and then. Miss Ada recognized him, all right. You follow this road to the next crossing and turn to the right. It's a little log house that sets back off the road — something like that one you see down the lane there, only it's got lots o' chips scattered about."

Davies decided to go there first, but changed his mind. It was growing late, and he thought he had better return to the village. Perhaps by now developments in connection with the sheriff or the posse were to be learned.

Accordingly, he rode back and put the horse in the hands of its owner, hoping that all had been concluded and that he might learn of it here. At the principal corner much the same company was still present, arguing, fomenting, gesticulating. They seemed parts of different companies that earlier in the day had been out searching. He wondered what they had been doing since, and then decided to ingratiate himself by telling them he had just come from the Whitakers and what he had learned there of the present condition of the girl and the movements of the sheriff.

Just then a young farmer came galloping up. He was coatless, hatless, breathless.

"They've got him! " he shouted excitedly. "They've got him! "

A chorus of "whos," "wheres" and "whens" greeted this information as the crowd gathered about the rider.

"Why, Mathews caught him up here at his own house!" ex- claimed the latter, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. "He must V gone back there for something. Mathews's takin' him over to Clayton, so they think, but they don't project he'll ever get there. They're after him now, but Mathews says he'll shoot the first man that tries to take him away."

"Which way'd he go?" exclaimed the men in chorus, stirring as if to make an attack.

" 'Cross Sellers' Lane," said the rider. "The boys think he's goin' by way of Baldwin."

"Whoopee!" yelled one of the listeners. "We'll get him away from him, all right! Are you goin', Sam?"

"You bet!" said the latter. "Wait'll I get my horse!"

"Lord!" thought Davies. "To think of being (perforce) one of a lynching party — a hired spectator!"

He delayed no longer, however, but hastened to secure his horse again. He saw that the crowd would be off in a minute to catch up with the sheriff. There would be information in that quarter, drama very likely.

"What's doin'?" inquired the liveryman as he noted Davies' excited appearance.

"They're after him," replied the latter nervously. "The sheriff's caught him. They're going now to try to take him away from him, or that's what they say. The sheriff is taking him over to Clayton, by way of Baldwin. I want to get over there if I can. Give me the horse again, and I'll give you a couple of dollars more."

The liveryman led the horse out, but not without many provisionary cautions as to the care which was to be taken of him, the damages which would ensue if it were not. He was not to be ridden beyond midnight. If one were wanted for longer than that Davies must get him elsewhere or come and get an- other, to all of which Davies promptly agreed. He then mounted and rode away.

When he reached the corner again several of the men who had gone for their horses were already there, ready to start. The young man who had brought the news had long since dashed off to other parts.

Davies waited to see which road this new company would take. Then through as pleasant a country as one would wish to see, up hill and down dale, with charming vistas breaking upon the gaze at every turn, he did the riding of his life. So disturbed was the reporter by the grim turn things had taken that he scarcely noted the beauty that was stretched before him, save to note that it was so. Death! Death! The proximity of involuntary and en- forced death was what weighed upon him now.

In about an hour the company had come in sight of the sheriff, who, with two other men, was driving a wagon he had borrowed along a lone country road. The latter was sitting at the back, a revolver in each hand, his face toward the group, which at sight of him trailed after at a respectful distance. Excited as every one was, there was no disposition, for the time being at least, to halt the progress of the law.

"He's in that wagon," Davies heard one man say. "Don't you see they've got him in there tied and laid down?"

Davies looked.

"That's right," said another. "I see him now."

"What we ought to do," said a third, who was riding near the front, "is to take him away and hang him. That's just what he deserves, and that's what he'll get before we're through to-day."

"Yes!" called the sheriff, who seemed to have heard this. " You're not goin' to do any hangin' this day, so you just might as well go on back." He did not appear to be much troubled by the appearance of the crowd.

"Where's old man Whitaker?" asked one of the men who seemed to feel that they needed a leader. "He'd get him quick enough ! "

"He's with the other crowd, down below Olney," was the reply.

"Somebody ought to go an' tell him."

"Clark's gone," assured another, who hoped for the worst.

Davies rode among the company a prey to mingled and singular feelings. He was very much excited and yet depressed by the character of the crowd which, in so far as he could see, was largely impelled to its jaunt by curiosity and yet also able under sufficient motivation on the part of some one — any one, really — to kill too. There was not so much daring as a desire to gain daring from others, an unconscious wish or impulse to or- ganize the total strength or will of those present into one strength or one will, sufficient to overcome the sheriff and inflict death upon his charge. It was strange — almost intellectually incompre- hensible — and yet so it was. The men were plainly afraid of the determined sheriff. They thought something ought to be done, but they did not feel like getting into trouble.

Mathews, a large solemn, sage, brown man in worn clothes and a faded brown hat, contemplated the recent addition to his trailers with apparent indifference. Seemingly he was determined to protect his man and avoid mob justice, come what may. A mob should not have him if he had to shoot, and if he shot it would be to kill. Finally, since the company thus added to did not dash upon him, he seemingly decided to scare them off. Ap- parently he thought he could do this, since they trailed like calves.

"Stop a minute!" he called to his driver.

The latter pulled up. So did the crowd behind. Then the sheriff stood over the prostrate body of the negro, who lay in the jolting wagon beneath him, and called back:

"Go 'way from here, you people! Go on, now! I won't have you f ollerin' after me ! "

"Give us the nigger!" yelled one in a half-bantering, half- derisive tone of voice.

"I'll give ye just two minutes to go on back out o' this road," returned the sheriff grimly, pulling out his watch and looking at it. They were about a hundred feet apart. "If you don't, I'll clear you out!"

"Give us the nigger!"

"I know you, Scott," answered Mathews, recognizing the voice. "I'll arrest every last one of ye tomorrow. Mark my word!"

The company listened in silence, the horses champing and twisting.

"We've got a right to roller," answered one of the men.

"I give ye fair warning," said the sheriff, jumping from his wagon and leveling his pistols as he approached. "When I count five I'll begin to shoot!"

He was a serious and stalwart figure as he approached, and the crowd fell back a little.

"Git out o' this now!" he yelled. "One — Two "

The company turned completely and retreated, Davies among them.

"We'll foller him when he gits further on," said one of the men in explanation.

"He's got to do it," said another. "Let him git a little ways ahead."

The sheriff returned to his wagon and drove on. He seemed, however, to realize that he would not be obeyed and that safety lay in haste alone. His wagon was traveling fast. If only he could lose them or get a good start he might possibly get to Clayton and the strong county jail by morning. His followers, however, trailed him swiftly as might be, determined not to be left behind.

"He's goin' to Baldwin," said one of the company of which Davies was a member.

"Where's that?" asked Davies.

"Over west o' here, about four miles."

"Why is he going there?"

"That's where he lives. I guess he thinks if he kin git 'im over there he kin purtect 'im till he kin get more help from Clayton. I cal'late he'll try an' take 'im over yet to-night, or early in the mornin' shore."

Davies smiled at the man's English. This country-side lingo always fascinated him.

Yet the men lagged, hesitating as to what to do. They did not want to lose sight of Mathews, and yet cowardice con- trolled them. They did not want to get into direct altercation with the law. It wasn't their place to hang the man, although plainly they felt that he ought to be hanged, and that it would be a stirring and exciting thing if he were. Consequently they desired to watch and be on hand — to get old Whitaker and his son Jake, if they could, who were out looking elsewhere. They wanted to see what the father and brother would do.

The quandary was solved by one of the men, who suggested that they could get to Baldwin by going back to Pleasant Valley and taking the Sand River Pike, and that in the meantime they might come upon Whitaker and his son en route, or leave word at his house. It was a shorter cut than this the sheriff was taking, although he would get there first now. Possibly they could beat him at least to Clayton, if he attempted to go on. The Clayton road was back via Pleasant Valley, or near it, and easily inter- cepted. Therefore, while one or two remained to trail the sheriff and give the alarm in case he did attempt to go on to Clayton, the rest, followed by Davies, set off at a gallop to Pleasant Valley. It was nearly dusk now when they arrived and stopped at the corner store — supper time. The fires of evening meals were marked by upcurling smoke from chimneys. Here, somehow, the zest to follow seemed to depart. Evidently the sheriff had worsted them for the night. Morg Whitaker, the father, had not been found ; neither had Jake. Perhaps they had better eat. Two or three had already secretly fallen away.

They were telling the news of what had occurred so far to one of the two storekeepers who kept the place, when suddenly Jake Whitaker, the girl's brother, and several companions came riding up. They had been scouring the territory to the north of the town, and were hot and tired. Plainly they were unaware of the developments of which the crowd had been a part.

"The sheriff's got 'im!" exclaimed one of the company, with that blatance which always accompanies the telling of great news in small rural companies. "He taken him over to Baldwin in a wagon a coupla hours ago."

"Which way did he go?" asked the son, whose hardy figure, worn, hand-me-down clothes and rakish hat showed up pic- turesquely as he turned here and there on his horse.

" 'Cross Seller Lane. You won't git 'em that-a-way, though, Jake. He's already over there by now. Better take the short cut."

A babble of voices now made the scene more interesting. One told how the negro had been caught, another that the sheriff was defiant, a third that men were still tracking him or over there watching, until all the chief points of the drama had been spoken if not heard.

Instantly suppers were forgotten. The whole customary order of the evening was overturned once more. The company started off on another excited jaunt, up hill and down dale, through the lovely country that lay between Baldwin and Pleasant Valley.

By now Davies was very weary of this procedure and of his saddle. He wondered when, if ever, this story was to culminate, let alone he write it. Tragic as it might prove, he could never- theless spend an indefinite period trailing a possibility, and yet, so great was the potentiality of the present situation, he dared not leave. By contrast with the horror impending, as he now noted, the night was so beautiful that it was all but poignant. Stars were already beginning to shine. Distant lamps twinkled like yellow eyes from the cottages in the valleys and on the hillsides. The air was fresh and tender. Some pea- fowls were crying afar off, and the east promised a golden moon.

Silently the assembled company trotted on — no more than a score in all. In the dusk, and with Jake ahead, it seemed too grim a pilgrimage for joking. Young Jake, riding silently toward the front, looked as if tragedy were all he craved. His friends seemed considerately to withdraw from him, seeing that he was the aggrieved.

After an hour's riding Baldwin came into view, lying in a sheltering cup of low hills. Already its lights were twinkling softly and there was still an air of honest firesides and cheery suppers about it which appealed to Davies in his hungry state. Still, he had no thought now of anything save this pursuit.

Once in the village, the company was greeted by calls of recognition. Everybody seemed to know what they had come for. The sheriff and his charge were still there, so a dozen citizens volunteered. The local storekeepers and loungers followed the cavalcade up the street to the sheriff's house, for the riders had now fallen into a solemn walk.

"You won't get him though, boys," said one whom Davies later learned was Seavey, the village postmaster and telegraph operator, a rather youthful person of between twenty-five and thirty, as they passed his door. "He's got two deputies in there with him, or did have, and they say he's going to take him over to Clayton."

At the first street corner they were joined by the several men who had followed the sheriff.

"He tried to give us the slip," they volunteered excitedly, "but he's got the nigger in the house, there, down in the cellar. The deputies ain't with him. They've gone somewhere for help — Clayton, maybe."

"We saw 'em go out that back way. We think we did, anyhow."

A hundred feet from the sheriff's little white cottage, which backed up against a sloping field, the men parleyed. Then Jake announced that he proposed to go boldly up to the sheriff's door and demand the negro.

"If he don't turn him out I'll break in the door an' take him!" he said.

"That's right! We'll stand by you, Whitaker," commented several.

By now the throng of unmounted natives had gathered. The whole village was up and about, its one street alive and running with people. Heads appeared at doors and windows. Riders pranced up and down, hallooing. A few revolver shots were heard. Presently the mob gathered even closer to the sheriff's gate, and Jake stepped forward as leader. Instead, however, of going boldly up to the door as at first it appeared he would, he stopped at the gate, calling to the sheriff.

"Hello, Mathews!"

"Eh, eh, eh ! " bellowed the crowd.

The call was repeated. Still no answer. Apparently to the sheriff delay appeared to be his one best weapon.

Their coming, however, was not as unexpected as some might have thought. The figure of the sheriff was plainly to be seen close to one of the front windows. He appeared to be holding a double-barreled shotgun. The negro, as it developed later, was cowering and chattering in the darkest corner of the cellar, hearkening no doubt to the voices and firing of the revolvers outside.

Suddenly, and just as Jake was about to go forward, the front door of the house flew open, and in the glow of a single lamp inside appeared first the double-barreled end of the gun, followed immediately by the form of Mathews, who held the weapon poised ready for a quick throw to the shoulder. All except Jake fell back.

"Mr. Mathews," he called deliberately, "we want that nigger!"

"Well, you can't git 'em!" replied the sheriff. "He's not here."

"Then what you got that gun fer?" yelled a voice.

Mathews made no answer.

"Better give him up, Mathews," called another, who was safe in the crowd, "or we'll come in an' take him!"

"No you won't," said the sheriff defiantly. "I said the man wasn't here. I say it ag'in. You couldn't have him if he was, an' you can't come in my house! Now if you people don't want trouble you'd better go on away."

"He's down in the cellar ! " yelled another.

"Why don't you let us see?" asked another.

Mathews waved his gun slightly.

"You'd better go away from here now," cautioned the sheriff. "I'm tellin' ye! I'll have warrants out for the lot o' ye, if ye don't mind ! "

The crowd continued to simmer and stew, while Jake stood as before. He was very pale and tense, but lacked initiative.

"He won't shoot," called some one at the back of the crowd. "Why don't you go in, Jake, an' git him?"

"Sure! Rush in. That's it!" observed a second.

"He won't, eh?" replied the sheriff softly. Then he added in a lower tone, "The first man that comes inside that gate takes the consequences."

No one ventured inside the gate; many even fell back. It seemed as if the planned assault had come to nothing.

"Why not go around the back way?" called some one else.

"Try it!" replied the sheriff. "See what you find on that side! I told you you couldn't come inside. You'd better go away from here now before ye git into trouble," he repeated. "You can't come in, an' it'll only mean bloodshed."

There was more chattering and jesting while the sheriff stood on guard. He, however, said no more. Nor did he allow the banter, turmoil and lust for tragedy to disturb him. Only, he kept his eye on Jake, on whose movements the crowd seemed to hang.

Time passed, and still nothing was done. The truth was that young Jake, put to the test, was not sufficiently courageous himself, for all his daring, and felt the weakness of the crowd behind him. To all intents and purposes he was alone, for he did not inspire confidence. He finally fell back a little, observ- ing, "I'll git 'im before mornin', all right," and now the crowd itself began to disperse, returning to its stores and homes or standing about the postoffice and the one village drugstore. Finally, Davies smiled and came away. He was sure he had the story of a defeated mob. The sheriff was to be his great hero. He proposed to interview him later. For the present, he meant to seek out Seavey, the telegraph operator, and arrange to file a message, then see if something to eat was not to be had somewhere.

After a time he. found the operator and told him what he wanted — to write and file a story as he wrote it. The latter indicated a table in the little postoffice and telegraph station which he could use. He became very much interested in the reporter when he learned he was from the Times, and when Davies asked where he could get something to eat said he would run across the street and tell the proprietor of the only boarding house to fix him something which he could consume as he wrote. He appeared to be interested in how a newspaper man would go about telling a story of this kind over a wire.

"You start your story," he said, "and I'll come back and see if I can get the Times on the wire."

Davies sat down and began his account. He was intent on describing things to date, the uncertainty and turmoil, the ap- parent victory of the sheriff. Plainly the courage of the latter had won, and it was all so picturesque. "A foiled lynching," he began, and as he wrote the obliging postmaster, who had by now returned, picked up the pages and carefully deciphered them for himself.

"That's all right. I'll see if I can get the Times now," he com- mented.

"Very obliging postmaster," thought Davies as he wrote, but he had so often encountered pleasant and obliging people on his rounds that he soon dropped that thought.

The food was brought, and still Davies wrote on, munching as he did so. In a little while the Times answered an often- repeated call.

"Davies at Baldwin," ticked the postmaster, "get ready for quite a story!"

"Let 'er go!" answered the operator at the Times, who had been expecting this dispatch.

As the events of the day formulated themselves in his mind, Davies wrote and turned over page after page. Between whiles he looked out through the small window before him where afar off he could see a lonely light twinkling against a hillside. Not infrequently he stopped his work to see if anything new was happening, whether the situation was in any danger of changing, but apparently it was not. He then proposed to remain until all possibility of a tragedy, this night anyhow, was eliminated. The operator also wandered about, waiting for an accumulation of pages upon which he could work but making sure to keep up with the writer. The two became quite friendly.

Finally, his dispatch nearly finished, he asked the postmaster to caution the night editor at K to the effect, that if anything more happened before one in the morning he would file it, but not to expect anything more as nothing might happen. The reply came that he was to remain and await developments. Then he and the postmaster sat down to talk.

About eleven o'clock, when both had about convinced them- selves that all was over for this night anyhow, and the lights in the village had all but vanished, a stillness of the purest, sum- mery-est, country-est quality having settled down, a faint beating of hoofs, which seemed to suggest the approach of a large caval- cade, could be heard out on the Sand River Pike as Davies by now had come to learn it was, back or northwest of the post- office. At the sound the postmaster got up, as did Davies, both stepping outside and listening. On it came, and as the volume increased, the former said, "Might be help for the sheriff, but I doubt it. I telegraphed Clayton six times to-day. They wouldn't come that way, though. It's the wrong road." Now, thought Davies nervously, after all there might be something to add to his story, and he had so wished that it was all over! Lynchings, as he now felt, were horrible things. He wished people wouldn't do such things — take the law, which now more than ever he respected, into their own hands. It was too brutal, cruel. That negro cowering there in the dark probably, and the sheriff all taut and tense, worrying over his charge and his duty, were not happy things to contemplate in the face of such a thing as this. It was true that the crime which had been committed was dread- ful, but still why couldn't people allow the law to take its course? It was so much better. The law was powerful enough to deal with cases of this kind.

"They're comin' back, all right," said the postmaster solemnly, as he and Davies stared in the direction of the sound which grew louder from moment to moment.

"It's not any help from Clayton, I'm afraid."

"By George, I think you're right!" answered the reporter, something telling him that more trouble was at hand. "Here they come!"

As he spoke there was a clattering of hoofs and crunching of saddle girths as a large company of men dashed up the road and turned into the narrow street of the village, the figure of Jake Whitaker and an older bearded man in a wide black hat riding side by side in front.

"There's Jake," said the postmaster, "and that's his father riding beside him there. The old man's a terror when he gets his dander up. Sompin's sure to happen now."

Davies realized that in his absence writing a new turn had been given to things. Evidently the son had returned to Pleasant Valley and organized a new posse or gone out to meet his father.

Instantly the place was astir again. Lights appeared in door- ways and windows, and both were thrown open. People were leaning or gazing out to see what new movement was afoot. Davies noted at once that there was none of the brash enthusiasm about this company such as had characterized the previous descent. There was grimness everywhere, and he now began to feel that this was the beginning of the end. After the cavalcade had passed down the street toward the sheriff's house, which was quite dark now, he ran after it, arriving a few moments after the former which was already in part dismounted. The towns- people followed. The sheriff, as it now developed, had not re- laxed any of his vigilance, however ; he was not sleeping, and as the crowd reappeared the light inside reappeared.

By the light of the moon, which was almost overhead, Davies was able to make out several of his companions of the afternoon, and Jake, the son. There were many more, though, now, whom he did not know, and foremost among them this old man.

The latter was strong, iron-gray, and wore a full beard. He looked very much like a blacksmith.

"Keep your eye on the old man," advised the postmaster, who had by now come up and was standing by.

While they were still looking, the old man went boldly for- ward to the little front porch of the house and knocked at the door. Some one lifted a curtain at the window and peeped out.

"Hello, in there!" cried the old man, knocking again.

"What do you want?" asked a voice.

"I want that nigger!"

"Well, you can't have him! I've told you people that once."

"Bring him out or I'll break down the door!" said the old man.

"If you do it's at your own risk. I know you, Whitaker, an' you know me. I'll give ye two minutes to get off that porch!"

"I want that nigger, I tell ye!"

"If ye don't git off that porch I'll fire through the door," said the voice solemnly. "One — Two "

The old man backed cautiously away.

"Come out, Mathews!" yelled the crowd. "You've got to give him up this time. We ain't goin' back without him."

Slowly the door opened, as if the individual within were very well satisfied as to his power to handle the mob. He had done it once before this night, why not again? It revealed his tall form, armed with his shotgun. He looked around very stolidly, and then addressed the old man as one would a friend.

"Ye can't have him, Morgan," he said. "It's ag'in' the law. You know that as well as I do."

"Law or no law," said the old man, "I want that nigger!"

"I tell you I can't let you have him, Morgan. It's ag'in' the law. You know you oughtn't to be comin' around here at this time o' night actin' so."

"Well, I'll take him then," said the old man, making a move.

"Stand back!" shouted the sheriff, leveling his gun on the instant. "I'll blow ye into kingdom come, sure as hell!"

A noticeable movement on the part of the crowd ceased. The sheriff lowered his weapon as if he thought the danger were once more over.

"You-all ought to be ashamed of yerselves," he went on, his voice sinking to a gentle neighborly reproof, "tryin' to upset the law this way."

"The nigger didn't upset no law, did he?" asked one deris- ively.

"Well, the law's goin' to take care of the nigger now," Ma- thews made answer.

"Give us that scoundrel, Mathews ; you'd better do it," said the old man. "It'll save a heap o' trouble."

"I'll not argue with ye, Morgan. I said ye couldn't have him, an' ye can't. If ye want bloodshed, all right. But don't blame me. I'll kill the first man that tries to make a move this way."

He shifted his gun handily and waited. The crowd stood outside his little fence murmuring.

Presently the old man retired and spoke to several others. There was more murmuring, and then he came back to the dead line.

"We don't want to cause trouble, Mathews," he began ex- planatively, moving his hand oratorically, "but we think you ought to see that it won't do any good to stand out. We think that "

Davies and the postmaster were watching young Jake, whose peculiar attitude attracted their attention. The latter was standing poised at the edge of the crowd, evidently seeking to remain un- observed. His eyes were on the sheriff, who was hearkening to the old man. Suddenly, as the father talked and when the sheriff seemed for a moment mollified and unsuspecting, he made a quick run for the porch. There was an intense movement all along the line as the life and death of the deed became apparent. Quickly the sheriff drew his gun to his shoulder. Both triggers were pressed at the same time, and the gun spoke, but not before Jake was in and under him. The latter had been in sufficient time to knock the gun barrel upward and fall upon his man. Both shots blazed harmlessly) over the heads of the crowd in red puffs, and then followed a general onslaught. Men leaped the fence by tens and crowded upon the little cottage. They swarmed about every side of the house and crowded upon the porch, where four men were scuffling with the sheriff. The latter soon gave up, vowing vengeance and the law. Torches were brought, and a rope. A wagon drove up and was backed into the yard. Then began the calls for the negro.

As Davies contemplated all this he could not help thinking of the negro who during all this turmoil must have been crouch- ing in his corner in the cellar, trembling for his fate. Now indeed he must realize that his end was near. He could not have dozed or lost consciousness during the intervening hours, but must have been cowering there, wondering and praying. All the while he must have been terrified lest the sheriff might not get him away in time. Now, at the sound of horses' feet and the new murmurs of contention, how must his body quake and his teeth chatter!

"I'd hate to be that nigger," commented the postmaster grimly, "but you can't do anything with 'em. The county oughta sent help."

"It's horrible, horrible ! " was all Davies could say.

He moved closer to the house, with the crowd, eager to observe every detail of the procedure. Now it was that a number of the men, as eager in their search as bloodhounds, appeared at a low cellar entryway at the side of the house carrying a rope. Others followed with torches. Headed by father and son they began to descend into the dark hole. With impressive daring, Davies, who was by no means sure that he would be allowed but who was also determined if possible to see, followed.

Suddenly, in the farthest corner, he espied Ingalls. The latter in his fear and agony had worked himself into a crouching position, as if he were about to spring. His nails were appar- ently forced into the earth. His eyes were rolling, his mouth foaming.

"Oh, my Lawd, boss," he moaned, gazing almost as one blind, at the lights, "oh, my Lawd, boss, don't kill me! I won't do it no mo'. I didn't go to do it. I didn't mean to dis time. I was just drunk, boss. Oh, my Lawd! My Lawd!" His teeth chattered the while his mouth seemed to gape open. He was no longer sane really, but kept repeating monotonously, "Oh, my Lawd!"

"Here he is, boys! Pull him out," cried the father.

The negro now gave one yell of terror and collapsed, falling prone. He quite bounded as he did so, coming down with a dead chug on the earthen floor. Reason had forsaken him. He was by now a groveling, foaming brute. The last gleam of intelligence was that which notified him of the set eyes of his pursuers.

Davies, who by now had retreated to the grass outside before this sight, was standing but ten feet back when they began to reappear after seizing and binding him. Although shaken to the roots of his being, he still had all the cool observing powers of the trained and relentless reporter. Even now he noted the color values of the scene, the red, smoky heads of the torches, the disheveled appearance of the men, the scuffling and pulling. Then all at once he clapped his hands over his mouth, almost unconscious of what he was doing.

"Oh, my God!" he whispered, his voice losing power.

The sickening sight was that of the negro, foaming at the mouth, bloodshot as to his eyes, his hands working convulsively, being dragged up the cellar steps feet foremost. They had tied a rope about his waist and feet, and so had hauled him out, leaving his head to hang and drag. The black face was distorted beyond all human semblance.

"Oh, my God!" said Davies again, biting his fingers un- consciously.

The crowd gathered about now more closely than ever, more horror-stricken than gleeful at their own work. None apparently had either the courage or the charity to gainsay what was being done. With a kind of mechanical deftness now the negro was rudely lifted and like a sack of wheat thrown into the wagon. Father and son now mounted in front to drive and the crowd took to their horses, content to clatter, a silent cavalcade, behind. As Davies afterwards concluded, they were not so much hardened lynchers perhaps as curious spectators, the majority of them, eager for any variation — any excuse for one — to the dreary commonplaces of their existences. The task to most —all indeed — was entirely new. Wide-eyed and nerve-racked, Davies ran for his own horse and mounting followed. He was so excited he scarcely knew what he was doing.

Slowly the silent company now took its way up the Sand River pike whence it had come. The moon was still high, pouring down a wash of silvery light. As Davies rode he wondered how he was to complete his telegram, but decided that he could not. When this was over there would be no time. How long would it be before they would really hang him? And would they? The whole procedure seemed so unreal, so barbaric that he could scarcely believe it — that he was a part of it. Still they rode on.

"Are they really going to hang him?" he asked of one who rode beside him, a total stranger who seemed however not to resent his presence.

"That's what they got 'im fer," answered the stranger.

And think, he thought to himself, to-morrow night he would be resting in his own good bed back in K !

Davies dropped behind again and into silence and tried to recover his nerves. He could scarcely realize that he, ordinarily accustomed to the routine of the city, its humdrum and at least outward social regularity, was a part of this. The night was so soft, the air so refreshing. The shadowy trees were stirring with a cool night wind. Why should any one have to die this way? Why couldn't the people of Baldwin or elsewhere have bestirred themselves on the side of the law before this, just let it take its course? Both father and son now seemed brutal, the injury to the daughter and sister not so vital as all this. Still, also, custom seemed to require death in this way for this. It was like some axiomatic, mathematic law — hard, but custom. The silent com- pany, an articulated, mechanical and therefore terrible thing, moved on. It also was axiomatic, mathematic. After a time he drew near to the wagon and looked at the negro again.

The latter, as Davies was glad to note, seemed still out of his sense. He was breathing heavily and groaning, but probably not with any conscious pain. His eyes were fixed and staring, his face and hands bleeding as if they had been scratched or trampled upon. He was crumpled limply.

But Davies could stand it no longer now. He fell back, sick at heart, content to see no more. It seemed a ghastly, murderous thing to do. Still the company moved on and he followed, past fields lit white by the moon, under dark, silent groups of trees, through which the moonlight fell in patches, up low hills and down into valleys, until at last a little stream came into view, the same little stream, as it proved, which he had seen earlier to-day and for a bridge over which they were heading. Here it ran now, sparkling like electricity in the night. After a time the road drew closer to the water and then crossed directly over the bridge, which could be seen a little way ahead.

Up to this the company now rode and then halted. The wagon was driven up on the bridge, and father and son got out. All the riders, including Davies, dismounted, and a full score of them gathered about the wagon from which the negro was lifted, quite as one might a bag. Fortunately, as Davies now told him- self, he was still unconscious, an accidental mercy. Nevertheless he decided now that he could not witness the end, and went down by the waterside slightly above the bridge. He was not, after all, the utterly relentless reporter. From where he stood, how- ever, he could see long beams of iron projecting out over the water, where the bridge was braced, and some of the men fasten- ing a rope to a beam, and then he could see that they were fixing the other end around the negro's neck.

Finally the curious company stood back, and he turned his face away.

"Have you anything to say?" a voice demanded.

There was no answer. The negro was probably lolling and groaning, quite as unconscious as he was before.

Then came the concerted action of a dozen men, the lifting of the black mass into the air, and then Davies saw the limp form plunge down and pull up with a creaking sound of rope. In the weak moonlight it seemed as if the bodywure struggling, but he could not tell. He watched, wide-mouthed and silent, and then the body ceased moving. Then after a time he heard the company making ready to depart, and finally it did so, leav- ing him quite indifferently to himself and his thoughts. Only the black mass swaying in the pale light over the glimmering water seemed human and alive, his sole companion.

He sat down upon the bank and gazed in silence. Now the horror was gone. The suffering was ended. He was no longer afraid. Everything was summery and beautiful. The whole cavalcade had disappeared j the moon finally sank. His horse, tethered to a sapling beyond the bridge, waited patiently. Still he sat. He might now have hurried back to the small postoffice in Baldwin and attempted to file additional details of this story, providing he could find Seavey, but it would have done no good. It was quite too late, and anyhow what did it matter? No other reporter had been present, and he could write a fuller, sadder, more colorful story on the morrow. He wondered idly what had become of Seavey? Why had he not followed? Life seemed so sad, so strange, so mysterious, so inexplicable.

As he still sat there the light of morning broke, a tender lavender and gray in the east. Then came the roseate hues of dawn, all the wondrous coloring of celestial halls, to which the waters of the stream responded. The white pebbles shone pinkily at the bottom, the grass and sedges first black now gleamed a translucent green. Still the body hung there black and limp against the sky, and now a light breeze sprang up and stirred it visibly. At last he arose, mounted his horse and made his way back to Pleasant Valley, too full of the late tragedy to be much interested in anything else. Rousing his liveryman, he adjusted his difficulties with him by telling him the whole story, assuring him of his horse's care and handing him a five-dollar bill. Then he left, to walk and think again.

Since there was no train before noon and his duty plainly called him to a portion of another day's work here, he decided to make a day of it, idling about and getting additional details as to what further might be done. Who would cut the body down? What about arresting the lynchers — the father and son, for instance? What about the sheriff now? Would he act as he threatened? If he telegraphed the main fact of the lynching his city editor would not mind, he knew, his coming late, and the day here was so beautiful. He proceeded to talk with citizens and officials, rode out to the injured girl's home, rode to Baldwin to see the sheriff. There was a singular silence and placidity in that corner. The latter assured him that he knew nearly all of those who had taken part, and proposed to swear out warrants for them, but just the same Davies noted that he took his defeat as he did his danger, philosophically. There was no real activity in that corner later. He wished to remain a popular sheriff, no doubt.

It was sundown again before he remembered that he had not discovered whether the body had been removed. Nor had he heard why the negro came back, nor exactly how he was caught. A nine o'clock evening train to the city giving him a little more time for investigation, he decided to avail himself of it. The negro's cabin was two miles out along a pine-shaded road, but so pleasant was the evening that he decided to walk. En route, the last rays of the sinking sun stretched long shadows of budding trees across his path. It was not long before he came upon the cabin, a one-story affair set well back from the road and sur- rounded with a few scattered trees. By now it was quite dark. The ground between the cabin and the road was open, and strewn with the chips of a woodpile. The roof was sagged, and the windows patched in places, but for all that it had the glow of a home. Through the front door, which stood open, the blaze of a wood-fire might be seen, its yellow light filling the interior with a golden glow.

Hesitating before the door, Davies finally knocked. Receiving no answer he looked in on the battered cane chairs and aged furniture with considerable interest. It was a typical negro cabin, poor beyond the need of description. After a time a door in the rear of the room opened and a little negro girl entered carrying a battered tin lamp without any chimney. She had not heard his knock and started perceptibly at the sight of his figure in the doorway. Then she raised her smoking lamp above her head in order to see better, and approached.

There was something ridiculous about her unformed figure and loose gingham dress, as he noted. Her feet and hands were so large. Her black head was strongly emphasized by little pig- tails of hair done up in white twine, which stood out all over her head. Her dark skin was made apparently more so by con- trast with her white teeth and the whites of her eyes.

Davies looked at her for a moment but little moved now by the oddity which ordinarily would have amused him, and asked, "Is this where Ingalls lived?"

The girl nodded her head. She was exceedingly subdued, and looked as if she might have been crying.

"Has the body been brought here?"

"Yes, suh," she answered, with a soft negro accent.

"When did they bring it?"

"Dis moanin"

"Are you his sister?"

"Yes, suh."

"Well, can you tell me how they caught him? When did he come back, and what for?" He was feeling slightly ashamed to intrude thus.

"In de afternoon, about two."

"And what for?" repeated Davies.

"To see us," answered the girl. "To see my motha'."

"Well, did he want anything? He didn't come just to see her, did he?"

"Yes, suh," said the girl, "he come to say good-by. We doan know when dey caught him." Her voice wavered.

"Well, didn't he know he might get caught?" asked Davies sympathetically, seeing that the girl was so moved.

"Yes, suh, I think he did."

She still stood very quietly holding the poor battered lamp up, and looking down.

"Well, what did he have to say?" asked Davies.

"He didn' have nothin' much to say, suh. He said he wanted to see motha'. He was a-goin' away."

The girl seemed to regard Davies as an official of some sort, and he knew it.

"Can I have a look at the body?" he asked.

The girl did not answer, but started as if to lead the way.

"When is the funeral?" he asked.

"Tomorra'."

The girl then led him through several bare sheds of rooms strung in a row to the furthermost one of the line. This last seemed a sort of storage shed for odds and ends. It had several windows, but they were quite bare of glass and open to the moonlight save for a few wooden boards nailed across from the outside. Davies had been wondering all the while where the body was and at the lonely and forsaken air of the place. No one but this little pig-tailed girl seemed about. If they had any colored neighbors they were probably afraid to be seen here.

Now, as he stepped into this cool, dark, exposed outer room, the desolation seemed quite complete. It was very bare, a mere shed or wash-room. There was the body in the middle of the room, stretched upon an ironing board which rested on a box and a chair, and covered with a white sheet. All the corners of the room were quite dark. Only its middle was brightened by splotches of silvery light.

Davies came forward, the while the girl left him, still carry- ing her lamp. Evidently she thought the moon lighted up the room sufficiently, and she did not feel equal to remaining. He lifted the sheet quite boldly, for he could see well enough, and looked at the still, black form. The face was extremely distorted, even in death, and he could see where the rope had been tight- ened. A bar of cool moonlight lay just across the face and breast. He was still looking, thinking soon to restore the covering, when a sound, half sigh, half groan, reached his ears.

At it he started as if a ghost had made it. It was so eerie and unexpected in this dark place. His muscles tightened. Instantly his heart went hammering like mad. His first impression was that it must have come from the dead.

"Oo-o-ohh!" came the sound again, this time whimpering, as if some one were crying.

Instantly he turned, for now it seemed to come from a corner of the room, the extreme corner to his right, back of him. Greatly disturbed, he approached, and then as his eyes strained he seemed to catch the shadow of something, the figure of a woman, per- haps, crouching against the walls, huddled up, dark, almost in- distinguishable.

"Oh, oh, oh!" the sound now repeated itself, even more plaintively than before.

Davies began to understand. He approached slowly, then more swiftly desired to withdraw, for he was in the presence of an old black mammy, doubled up and weeping. She was in the very niche of the two walls, her head sunk on her knees, her body quite still. "Oh, oh, oh!" she repeated, as he stood there near her.

Davies drew silently back. Before such grief his intrusion seemed cold and unwarranted. The guiltlessness of the mother — her love — how could one balance that against the other? The sensation of tears came to his eyes. He instantly covered the dead and withdrew.

Out in the moonlight he struck a brisk pace, but soon stopped and looked back. The whole dreary cabin, with its one golden eye, the door, seemed such a pitiful thing. The weeping mammy, alone in her corner — and he had come back to say "Good-by ! " Davies swelled with feeling. The night, the tragedy, the grief, he saw it all. But also with the cruel instinct of the budding artist that he already was, he was beginning to meditate on the character of story it would make — the color, the pathos. The knowledge now that it was not always exact justice that was meted out to all and that it was not so much the business of the writer to indict as to interpret was borne in on him with distinct- ness by the cruel sorrow of the mother, whose blame, if any, was infinitesimal.

"I'll get it all in ! " he exclaimed feelingly, if triumphantly at last. "I'll get it all in!"

7.The Old Neighborhood

He came to it across the new bridge, from the south where the greater city lay — the older portion — and where he had left his car, and paused at the nearer bridgehead to look at it — the eddying water of the river below, the new docks and piers built on either side since he had left, twenty years before j the once grassy slopes on the farther shore, now almost completely covered with factories, although he could see too, among them, even now, traces of the old, out-of-the-way suburb which he and Marie had known. Chadds Bridge, now an integral part of the greater city, connected by car lines and through streets, was then such a simple, unpretentious affair, a little suburban village just on the edge of this stream and beyond the last straggling northward streets of the great city below, where the car lines stopped and from which one had to walk on foot across this bridge in order to take advantage of the rural quiet and the cheaper — much cheaper — rents, so all-important to him then.

Then he was poor — he and Marie — a mere stripling of a mechanic and inventor, a student of aeronautics, electricity, engineering, and what not, but newly married and without a dollar, and no clear conception of how his future was to even- tuate, whereas now — but somehow he did not want to think of now. Now he was so very rich, comparatively speaking, older, wiser, such a forceful person commercially and in every other way, whereas then he was so lean and pathetic and worried and wistful — a mere uncertain stripling, as he saw himself now, with ideas and ambitions and dreams which were quite out of accord with his immediate prospects or opportunities. It was all right to say, as some one had — Emerson, he believed — "hitch your wagon to a star." But some people hitched, or tried to, before they were ready. They neglected some of the slower moving vehicles about them, and so did not get on at all — or did not seem to, for the time being.

And that had been his error. He was growing at the time, of course, but he was so restless, so dissatisfied with himself, so unhappy. All the world was apparently tinkling and laughing by, eating, drinking, dancing, growing richer, happier, every minutej whereas he — he and Marie, and the two babies which came a little later — seemed to make no progress at all. None. They were out of it, alone, hidden away in this little semi-rural realm, and it was all so disturbing when elsewhere was so much — to him, at least, if not to her — of all that was worth while — ■ wealth, power, gayety, repute. How intensely, savagely almost, he had craved all of those things in those days, and how far off they still were at that time!

Marie was not like him, soft, clinging little thing that she was, inefficient in most big ways, and yet dear and helpful enough in all little ones — oh, so very much so.

When first he met her in Philadelphia, and later when he brought her over to New York, it seemed as though he could not possibly have made a better engagement for himself. Marie was so sweet, so gentle, with her waxy white pallor, delicately tinted cheeks, soft blackish brown eyes that sought his so gently always, as if seeming to ask, "And what can I do for my dearie now? What can he teach me to do for him?" She was never his equal, mentally or spiritually — that was the dreadful discovery he had made a few months after the first infatuation had worn off, after the ivory of her forehead, the lambent sweetness of her eyes, her tresses, and her delicately rounded figure, had ceased to befuddle his more poetical grain. But how delightful she seemed then in her shabby little clothes and her shabbier little home — all the more so because her delicate white blossom of a face was such a contrast to the drear surroundings in which it shone. Her father was no more than a mechanic, she a little store clerk in the great Rand department store in Phila- delphia when he met her, he nothing more than an experimental assistant with the Culver Electrical Company, with no technical training of any kind, and only dreams of a technical course at some time or other. The beginnings of his career were so very vague.

His parents were poor too, and he had had to begin to earn his own living, or share, at fourteen. And at twenty-four he had contracted this foolish marriage when he was just beginning to dream of bigger things, to see how they were done, what steps were necessary, what studies, what cogitations and hard, grinding sacrifices even, before one finally achieved anything, especially in the electrical world. The facts which had begun to rise and take color and classify themselves in his mind had all then to develop under the most advantageous conditions thereafter. His salary did not rise at once by any means, just because he was be- ginning to think of bigger things. He was a no better practical assistant in a laboratory or the equipment department of the several concerns for which he worked, because in his brain were already seething dim outlines of possible improvements in con- nection with arms, the turbine gun, electro-magnetic distance control, and the rotary excavator. He had ideas, but also he realized at the time he would have to study privately and long in order to make them real j and his studies at night and Sundays and holidays in the libraries and everywhere else, made him no more helpful, if as much so, in his practical, everyday corpora- tion labors. In fact, for a long time when their finances were at the lowest ebb and the two children had appeared, and they all needed clothes and diversion, and his salary had not been raised, it seemed as though he were actually less valuable to everybody.

But in the meantime Marie had worked for and with him, dear little thing, and although she had seemed so wonderful at first, patient, enduring, thoughtful, later because of their poverty and so many other things which hampered and seemed to inter- fere with his work, he had wearied of her a little. Over in Philadelphia, where he had accompanied her home of an evening and had watched her help her mother, saw her set the table, wash the dishes, straighten up the house after dinner, and then if it were pleasant go for a walk with him, she seemed ideal, just the wife for him, indeed. Later as he sensed the world, its hardness, its innate selfishness, the necessity for push, courage, unwillingness to be a slave and a drudge, these earlier qualities and charms were the very things that militated against her in his mind. Poor little Marie!

But in other ways his mind was not always on his work, either. Sometimes it was on his dreams of bigger things. Sometimes it was on his silly blindness in wanting to get married so soon, in being betrayed by the sweet innocence and beauty of Marie into saddling himself with this burden when he was scarcely pre- pared, as he saw after he was married, to work out his own life on a sensible, economic basis. A thought which he had encoun- tered somewhere in some book of philosophy or other (he was always reading in those days) had haunted him — "He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune" — and that painful thought seemed to grow with each succeeding day. Why had he been so foolish, why so very foolish, as to get married when he was so unsuitably young! That was a thing the folly of which irritated him all the time.

Not that Marie was not all she should be — far from it! — nor the two little boys (both boys, think of that!), intensely precious to him at first. No, that was not it, but this, that what- ever the values and the charms of these (and they were wonder- ful at first), he personally was not prepared to bear or enjoy them as yet. He was too young, too restless, too nebulous, too inventively dreamful. He did not, as he had so often thought since, know what he wanted — only, when they began to have such a very hard time, he knew he did not want that. Why, after the first year of their marriage, when Peter was born, and because of better trade conditions in the electrical world, they had moved over here (he was making only twenty-two dollars a week at the time), everything had seemed to go wrong. Indeed, nothing ever seemed to go right any more after that, not one thing.

First it was Marie's illness after Peter's birth, which kept him on tenterhooks and took all he could rake and scrape and save to pay the doctor's bill, and stole half her beauty, if not more. She always looked a little pinched and weak after that. (And he had charged that up to her, too!) Then it was some ailment which affected Peter for months and which proved to be undernourishment, due to a defect in Marie's condition even after she had seemingly recovered. Then, two years later, it was the birth of Frank, due to another error, of course, he being not intended in Marie's frail state j and then his own difficulties with the manager of the insulating department of the Inter- national Electric, due to his own nervous state, his worries, his consciousness of error in the manipulation of his own career — and Marie's. Life was slipping away, as he saw it then and he kept thinking he was growing older, was not getting on as he had thought he should, was not achieving his technical education j he was saddled with a family which would prevent him from ever getting on. Here, in this neighborhood, all this had occurred — this quiet, run-down realm, so greatly changed since he had seen it last. Yes, it had all happened here.

But how peaceful it was to-day, although changed. How the water ran under this bridge now, as then, eddying out to sea. And how this late October afternoon reminded him of that other October afternoon when they had first walked up here — warm, pleasant, colorful. Would he ever forget that afternoon? He had thought he was going to do so much better — was praying that he would, and they had done so much worse. He, person- ally, had grown so restless and dissatisfied with himself and her and life. And things seemed to be almost as bad as they could be, drifting indefinitely on to nothing. Indeed, life seemed to gather as a storm and break. He was discharged from the Inter- national Electric, due supposedly to his taking home for a night a battery for an experiment he was making but in reality because of the opposition of his superior, based on the latter's contempt for his constantly (possibly) depressed and dissatisfied air, his brooding mien, and some minor inattentions due to the state of his mind at the time.

Then, quite as swiftly (out of black plotting or evil thoughts of his own, perhaps), Peter had died of pneumonia. And three days later Frank. There were two funerals, two dreary, one- carriage affairs — he remembered that so well! — for they had no money j and his pawned watch, five dollars from Marie's mother, and seven chemical and electrical works sold to an old book man had provided the cash advance required by the under-

188 BEST SHORT STORIES OF THEODORE DREISER

taker! Then, spiritually, something seemed to break within him. He could not see this world, this immediate life in which he was involved, as having any significance in it for himself or any one after that. He could not stand it any more, the weariness, the boredom, the dissatisfaction with himself, the failure of himself, the sickening chain of disasters which had befallen this earlier adventure. And so —

But that was why he was here to-day, after all these years — twenty-four, to be exact — with his interest in this old region so keen, if so sad. Why, there — there! — was a flock of pigeons, just like those of old Abijah Hargot's, flying around the sky now, as then. And a curl of smoke creeping up from Tanzer's blacksmith shop, or the one that had succeeded it, just one block from this bridge. How well he remembered old Tanzer and his forge, his swelling muscles and sooty face! He had always nodded in such a friendly way as he passed and talked of the pest of flies and heat in summer. That was why he was pausing on this bridge to-day, just to see once more, to feel, standing in the pleasant afternoon sun of this October day and gazing across the swirling waters below at the new coal-pockets, the enlarged lamp works of the George C. Woodruff Company, once a mere shed hidden away at a corner of this nearest street and rented out here no doubt because it was cheap and Woodruff was just beginning — just as he did twenty-four years before. Time had sped by so swiftly. One's ideals and ideas changed so. Twenty years ago he would have given so much to be what he was now — rich and fairly powerful — and now — now — The beauty of this old neighborhood, to-day, even.

The buff school which crowned the rise beyond, and the broad asphalt of Edgewood Avenue leading up to the old five-story flat building — the only one out here, and a failure financially — in which he and Marie had had their miserable little apartment — here it was, still to be seen. Yes, it and so many other things were all here; that group of great oaks before old Hargot's door; the little red — if now rusted — weather-vane over his carriage house; the tall romantic tower of St. George's Episcopal Church — so far to the west over the river, and the spars and masts of vessels that still docked here for a while. But dark memories they generated, too, along with a certain idyllic sweetness, which had seemed to envelop the whole at first. For though it had had sweetness and peace at first, how much that had been bitter and spiritually destroying had occurred here, too.

How well he recalled, for instance, the day he and Marie had wandered up here, almost hand in hand, across this very bridge and up Edgewood Avenue, nearly twenty-four years before! They had been so happy at first, dreaming their little dream of a wonderful future for them — and now — well, his secret agency had brought him all there was to know of her and her mother and her little world after he had left. They had suffered so much, apparently, and all on account of him. But somehow he did not want to think of that now. It was not for that he had come to-day, but to see, to dream over the older, the better, the first days.

He crossed over, following the old road which had then been a cobble wagon trail, and turned into Edgewood Avenue which led up past the line of semi- country homes which he used to dread so much, homes which because of their superior pros- perity, wide lawns, flowers and walks, made the life which he and Marie were compelled to lead here seem so lean and meagre by contrast. Why, yes, here was the very residence of Gatewood, the dentist, so prosperous then and with an office downtown; and that of Dr. Newton, whom he had called in when Peter and Frank were taken ill that last time; and Temple, the druggist, and Stoutmeyer, the grocer — both of whom he had left owing money; and Dr. Newton, too, for that matter — although all had subsequently been paid. Not a sign of the names of either Gatewood or Newton on their windows or gates now; not a trace of Temple's drug store. But here was Stoutmeyer's grocery just the same. And Buchspiel, the butcher. (Could he still Jje alive, by any chance — was that his stout, aged figure within?) And Ortman, the baker — not a sign of change there. And over the way the then village school, now Public School No. 261, as he could see. And across from it, beyond, the slim little, almost accidental (for this region) five-story apartment house — built because of an error in judgment, of course, when they thought the city was going to grow out this way — a thing of grayish-white brick. On the fifth floor of this, in the rear, he and Marie had at last found a tiny apartment of three rooms and bath, cheap enough for them to occupy in the growing city and still pay their way. What memories the mere sight of the building evoked! Where were all the people now who used to bustle about here of a summer evening when he and Marie were here, boys and girls, grown men and women of the neigh- borhood? It had all been so pleasant at first, Marie up there preparing dinner and he coming home promptly at seven and sometimes whistling as he came! He was not always unhappy, even here.

Yes, all was exactly as it had been in the old days in regard to this building and this school, even — as he lived! — a "For Rent" sign in that very same apartment, four flights up, as it had been that warm October day when they had first come up here seeking.

But what a change in himself — stouter, so much older, gray now. And Marie — dying a few years after in this very region without his ever seeing her again or she him — and she had written him such pathetic letters. She had been broken, no doubt, spiritually and in every other way when he left her, — no pointless vanity in that, alas — it was too sad to involve vanity. Yes, he had done that. Would it ever be forgiven him? Would his error of ambition and self-dissatisfaction be seen anywhere in any kindly light — on earth or in heaven? He had suffered so from remorse in regard to it of late. Indeed, now that he was rich and so successful the thought of it had begun to torture him. Some time since — five years ago — he had thought to make amends, but then — well, then he had found that she wasn't any more. Poor little Marie!

But these walls, so strong and enduring (stone had this advantage over human flesh!), were quite as he had left them, quite as they were the day he and Marie had first come here — hopeful, cheerful, although later so depressed, the two of them. (And he had charged her spiritually with it all, or nearly so — its fatalities and gloom, as though she could have avoided them!)

The ruthlessness of it!

The sheer brutality!

The ignorance!

If she could but see him now, his great shops and factories, his hundreds of employes, his present wife and children, his great new home — and still know how he felt about her! If he could only call her back and tell her, apologize, explain, make some amends ! But no j life did not work that way. Doors opened and doors closed. It had no consideration for eleventh-hour repentances. As though they mattered to life, or anything else! He could tell her something now, of course, explain the psychology, let her know how pathetically depressed and weary he had felt then. But would she understand, care, forgive? She had been so fond of him, done so much for him in her small, sweet way. And yet, if she only knew, he could scarcely have helped doing as he did then, so harried and depressed and eager for advancement had he been, self-convinced of his own error and failure before ever his life had a good start. If she could only see how little all his later triumphs mattered now, how much he would be glad to do for her now! if only — only — he could. Well, he must quit these thoughts. They did not help at all, nor his coming out here and feeling this way!

But life was so automatic and unconsciously cruel at times. One's disposition drove one so, shutting and bolting doors behind one, driving one on and on like a harried steer up a narrow runway to one's fate. He could have been happy right here with Marie and the children — as much so as he had ever been since. Or, if he had only taken Marie along, once the little ones were gone — they might have been happy enough together. They might have been! But no, noj something in him at that time would not let him. Really, he was a victim of his own grim impulses, dreams, passions, mad and illogical as that might seem. He was crazy for success, wild with a desire for a superior, con- temptuous position in the world. People were so, at times. He had been. He had to do as he did, so horribly would he have suf- fered mentally if he had not, all the theories of the moralists to the contrary notwithstanding. The notions of one's youth were not necessarily those of age, and that was why he was here to-day in this very gloomy and contrite mood.

He went around the corner now to the side entrance of the old apartment house, and paused. For there, down the street, almost — not quite — as he had left it, was the residence of the quondam old Abijah Hargot, he of the pigeons, — iron manu- facturer and Presbyterian, who even in his day was living there in spite of the fact that the truly princely residence suburbs had long since moved much farther out and he was being entirely sur- rounded by an element of cheaper life which could not have been exactly pleasant to him. In those days he and Marie had heard of the hardwood floors, the great chandeliers, the rugs and pictures of the house that had faced a wide sward leading down to the river's edge itself. But look at it now ! A lumber-yard between it and the river! And some sort of a small shop or factory on this end of the lawn! And in his day, Abijah had kept a pet Jersey cow nibbling the grass under the trees and fantailed pigeons on the slate roof of his barn, at the corner where now was this small factory, and at the back of his house an immense patch of golden glow just outside the conservatory facing the east, and also two pagodas down near the river. But all gone! all gone, or nearly so. Just the house and a part of the lawn. And occupied now by whom? In the old days he had never dared dream, or scarcely so, that some day, years later — when he would be much older and sadder, really, and haunted by the ghosts of these very things — he would be able to return here and know that he had far more imposing toys than old Hargot had ever dreamed of, as rich as he was.

Toys!

Toys!

Yes, they were toys, for one played with them a little while, as with so many things, and then laid them aside forever.

Toys!

Toys!

But then, as he had since come to know, old Hargot had not been without his troubles, in spite of all his money. For, as rumor had it then, his oldest son, Lucien, his pride, in those days, a slim, artistic type of boy, had turned out a drunkard, gambler, night-life lover ; had run with women, become afflicted with all sorts of ills, and after his father had cut him ofF and driven him out (refusing to permit him even to visit the home), had hung about here, so the neighbors had said, and stolen in to see his mother, especially on dark or rainy nights, in order to get aid from her. And, like all mothers, she had aided him secretly, or so they said, in spite of her fear of her husband. Mothers were like that — his mother, too. Neighbors testified that they had seen her whispering to him in the shade of the trees of the lawn or around the corner in the next street — a sad, brooding, care- worn woman, always in black or dark blue. Yes, life held its disappointments for every one, of course, even old Abijah and himself.

He went on to the door and paused, wondering whether to go up or not, for the atmosphere of this building and this neigh- borhood was very, very sad now, very redolent of old, sweet, dead and half-forgotten things. The river there, running so freshly at the foot of the street j the school where the children used to play and shout, while he worked on certain idle days when there was no work at the factory j the little church up the street to which so many commonplace adherents used to make their way on Sunday; the shabby cabin of the plumber farther up this same street, who used to go tearing off every Saturday and Sunday in a rattle-trap car which he had bought second-hand and which squeaked and groaned, for all the expert repairing he had been able to do upon it.

The color, the humor, the sunshine of those old first days, in spite of their poverty!

He hesitated as to whether to ring the bell or no — just as he and Marie had, twenty-odd years before. She was so gay then, so hopeful, so all-unconscious of the rough fate that was in store for her here. . . . How would it be inside? Would Marie's little gas stove still be near the window in the combined kitchen, dining-room and laundry — almost general living-room — which that one room was? Would the thin single gas jet still be hang- ing from the ceiling over their small dining-room table (or the ghost of it) where so often after their meals, to save heat in the other room — because there was no heat in the alleged radiator, and their oil stove cost money — he had sat and read or worked on plans of some of the things he hoped to perfect — and had since, years since, but long after he had left her and this place? How sad! He had never had one touch of luck or opportunity with her here, — not one. Yet, if only she could, and without pain because of it, know how brilliantly he had finished some of them, how profitably they had resulted for him if not her.

But he scarcely looked like one who would be wanting to see so small an apartment, he now felt, tall and robust and prosper- ous as he was. Still might he not be thinking of buying this place? Or renting quarters for a servant or a relative? Who should know? What difference did it make? Why should he care?

He rang the bell, thinking of the small, stupid, unfriendly and self-defensive woman who, twenty or more years before, had come up from the basement below, wiping her hands on a gingham apron and staring at them querulously. How well he remembered her — and how unfriendly she had always remained in spite of their efforts to be friendly, because they had no tips to give her. She could not be here any longer, of course j no, this one coming was unlike her in everything except stupidity and grossness. But they were alike in that, well enough. This one was heavy, beefy. She would make almost two of the other one.

"The rooms," he had almost said "apartment," "on the top floor — may I see them?"

"Dey are only t'ree an' bat' — fourteen by der mont'."

"Yes, I know," he now added almost sadly. So they had not raised the rent in all this time, although the city had grown so. Evidently this region had become worse, not better. "I'll look at them, if you please, just the same," he went on, feeling that the dull face before him was wondering why he should be looking at them at all.

"Vait j I getcha der key. You can go up py yerself ."

He might have known that she would never climb any four flights save under compulsion.

She returned presently, and he made his way upward, remembering how the fat husband of the former janitress had climbed up promptly every night at ten, if you please, putting out the wee lights of gas on the return trip (all but a thin flame on the second floor: orders from the landlord, of course), and exclaiming as he did so, at each landing, "Ach Gott, I go me up py der secon' floor ant make me der lights out. Ach Gott, I go me py der t'ird floor ant make me der lights out. Ach Gott, I go me py der fourt' floor ant make me der lights out," and so on until he reached the fifth, where they lived. How often he had listened to him, puffing and moaning as he came !

Yes, the yellowish-brown paper that they had abhorred then, or one nearly as bad, covered all these hall walls today. The stairs squeaked, just as they had then. The hall gas jets were just as small and surmounted by shabby little pink imitation glass candles — to give the place an air, no doubt! He and Marie would never have taken this place at all if it had depended on the hall, or if the views from its little windows had not been so fine. In the old days he had trudged up these steps many a night, winter and summer, listening, as he came, for sounds of Marie in the kitchen, for the prattle of the two children after they were with them, for the glow of a friendly light (always shining at six in winter) under the door and through the key- hole. His light! His door! In those early dark winter days, when he was working so far downtown and coming home this way regularly, Marie, at the sound of his key in the lock, would always come running, her heavy black hair done in a neat braid about her brow, her trim little figure buttoned gracefully into a house-dress of her own making. And she always had a smile and a "Hello, dearie ; back again?" no matter how bad things were with them, how lean the little larder or the family purse. Poor little Marie!

It all came back to him now as he trudged up the stairs and neared the door. God!

And here was the very door, unchanged — yellow, painted to imitate the natural grain of oak, but the job having turned out a dismal failure as he had noted years before. And the very lock the same! Could he believe? Scarcely any doubt of it. For here was that old hole, stuffed with putty and painted over, which he and Marie had noted as being the scar of some other kind of a lock or knob that had preceded this one. And still stuffed with paper! Marie had thought burglars (!) might make their way in via that, and he had laughed to think what they would steal if they should. Poor little Marie!

But now, now — well, here he was all alone, twenty-four years later, Marie and Peter and Frank gone this long time, and he the master of so many men and so much power and so much important property. What was life, anyhow? What was it?

Ghosts! Ghosts!

Were there ghosts?

Did spirits sometimes return and live and dream over old, sad scenes such as this? Could Marie? Would she? Did she?

Oh, Marie! . . . Marie! Poor little weak, storm-beaten, life- beaten soul. And he the storm, really.

Well, here was the inside now, and things were not a bit different from what they had been in his and her day, when they had both been so poor. No, just the same. The floor a little more nail-marked, perhaps, especially in the kitchen here, where no doubt family after family had tacked down oil-cloth in place of other pieces taken up — theirs, for instance. And here in the parlor — save the mark! — the paper as violent as it had ever been! Such paper — red, with great bowls of pinkish flowers arranged in orderly rows ! But then they were paying so little rent that it was ridiculous for them to suggest that they wanted anything changed. The landlord would not have changed it anyhow.

And here on the west wall, between the two windows, over- looking Abijah Hargot's home and the river and the creeping city beyond, was where he had hung a wretched little picture, a print of an etching of a waterscape which he had admired so much in those days and had bought somewhere second-hand for a dollar — a house on an inlet near the sea, such a house as he would have liked to have occupied, or thought he would — then. Ah, these windows! The northernmost one had always been preferred by him and her because of the sweep of view west and north. And how often he had stood looking at a soft, or bleak, or reddening, sunset over the river 5 or, of an early night in winter, at the lights on the water below. And the outpost apart- ments and homes of the great city beyond. Life had looked very dark then, indeed. At times, looking, he had been very sad. He was like some brooding Hamlet of an inventor as he stood there then gazing at the sweet little river, the twinkling stars in a steely black sky overhead j or, in the fall when it was still light, some cold red island of a cloud in the sky over the river and the city, and wondering what was to become of him — what was in store for him! The fallacy of such memories as these! Their futility!

But things had dragged and dragged — here! In spite of the fact that his mind was full of inventions, inventions, inventions, and methods of applying them in some general way which would earn him money, place, fame — as they subsequently did — the strange mysteries of ironic or electronic action, for instance, of motion, of attraction and polarity, of wave lengths and tensile strengths and adhesions in metals, woods and materials of all kinds — his apparent error in putting himself in a position where failure might come to him had so preyed on his mind here, that he could do nothing. He could only dream, and do common, ordinary day labor — skeleton wiring and insulating, for instance, electrical mapping, and the like. Again, later, but while still here, since he had been reading, reading, reading after marriage, and working and thinking, life had gone off into a kind of welter of conflicting and yet organized and plainly directed powers which was confusing to him, which was not to be explained by anything man could think of and which no inventor had as yet fully used, however great he was — Edison, Kelvin, or Bell. Everything as he knew then and hoped to make use of in some way was alive, everything full of force, even so-called dead or decaying things. Life was force, that strange, seemingly (at times) intelligent thing, and there was apparently nothing but force — everywhere — amazing, perfect, indestructible. (He had thought of all that here in this little room and on the roof overhead where he made some of his experiments, watching old Hargot's pigeons flying about the sky, the sound of their wings coming so close at times that they were like a whisper of the waves of the sea, dreams in themselves.)

But the little boundaries of so-called health and decay, strength and weakness, as well as all alleged -fixity or change- lessness of things, — how he had brooded on all that, at that time. And how all thought of fixity in anything had disappeared as a ridiculous illusion intended, maybe, by something to fool man into the belief that his world here, his physical and mental state, was real and enduring, a greater thing than anything else in the universe, when so plainly it was not. But not himself. A mere shadow — an illusion — nothing. On this little roof, here, sitting alone at night or by day in pleasant weather or gray, Saturdays and Sundays when it was warm and because they had no money and no particular place to go, and looking at the stars or the lights of the city or the sun shining on the waters of the little river below, — he had thought of all this. It had all come to him, the evanescence of everything, its slippery, protean changefulness. Everything was alive, and everything was noth- ing, in so far as its seeming reality was concerned. And yet every- thing was everything but still capable of being undermined, changed, improved, or come at in some hitherto undreamed-of way — even by so humble a creature as himself, an inventor — and used as chained force, if only one knew how. And that was why he had become a great inventor since — because he had thought so — had chained force and used it — even he. He had become conscious of anterior as well as ulterior forces and immensities and fathomless wells of wisdom and energy, and had enslaved a minute portion of them, that was all. But not here! Oh, no. Later!

The sad part of it, as he thought of it now, was that poor little Marie could not have understood a thing of all he was thinking, even if he had explained and explained, as he never attempted to do. Life was all a mystery to Marie — deep, dark, strange — as it was to him, only he was seeking and she was not. Sufficient to her to be near him, loving him in her simple, dumb way, not seeking to understand. Even then he had realized that and begun to condemn her for it in his mind, to feel that she was no real aid and could never be — just a mother-girl, a house- wife, a social fixture, a cook, destined to be shoved back if ever he were really successful j and that was sad even then, however obviously true.

But to her, apparently, he was so much more than just a mere man — a god, really, a dream, a beau, a most wonderful person, dreaming strange dreams and thinking strange thoughts which would lead him heaven knows where j how high or how strange, though, she could never guess, nor even he then. And for that very reason — her blind, non-understanding adoration — she had bored him then, horribly at times. All that he could think of then, as he looked at her at times — after the first year or two or three, when the novelty of her physical beauty and charm had worn off and the children had come, and cares and worries due to his non-success were upon them — was that she was an honest, faithful, patient, adoring little drudge, but no more, and that was all she would ever be. Think of that! That was the way life was — the way it rewarded love! He had not begun to dislike her — no, that was not it — but it was because, as the philosopher had said, that in and through her and the babies he had given hostages to fortune, and that she was not exactly the type of woman who could further him as fast as he wished — that he had begun to weary of her. And that was practically the whole base of his objection to her, — not anything she did.

Yes, yes — it was that, that, that had begun to plague him as though he had consciously fastened a ball and chain on one foot and now never any more could walk quickly or well or be really free. Instead of being able to think on his inventions he was constantly being compelled to think on how he would make a living for her and them, or find ten more dollars, or get a new dress for Marie and shoes for the children ! Or how increase his salary. That was the great and enduring problem all the time, and over and over here. Although healthy, vigorous and savagely ambitious, at that time, it was precisely because he was those things that he had rebelled so and had desired to be free. He was too strong and fretful as he could see now to endure so mean a life. It was that that had made him savage, curt, remote, indifferent so much of the time in these later days — here — And to her. And when she could not help it at all — poor little thing — did not know how to help it and had never asked him to marry her! Life had tinkled so in his ears then. It had called and called. And essentially, in his own eyes then, he was as much of a failure as a husband as he was at his work, and that was killing him. His mind had been too steadily depressed by his mistake in getting married, in having children so soon, as well as by his growing knowledge of what he might be fitted to do if only he had a chance to go off to a big technical school somewhere and work his way through alone and so get a new and better position somewhere else — to have a change of scene. For once, as he knew then, and with all his ideas, he was technically fitted for his work, with new light and experience in his mind, what wonders might he not accomplish ! Sitting in this little room, or working or dreaming upstairs in the air, how often he had thought of all that!

But no; nothing happened for ever so long here. Days and weeks and months, and even years went by without perceptible change. Nature seemed to take a vicious delight in torturing him, then, in so far as his dreams were concerned, his hopes. Hard times came to America, blasting ones — a year and a half of panic really — in which every one hung on to his pathetic little place, and even he was afraid to relinquish the meagre one he had, let alone ask for more pay. At the same time his dreams, the passing of his youth, this unconscionable burden of a family, tortured him more and more. Marie did not seem to mind anything much, so long as she was with him. She suffered, of course, but more for him than for herself, for his unrest, and his dissatisfaction, which she feared. Would he ever leave her? Was he becoming unhappy with her? Her eyes so often asked what her lips feared to frame.

Once they had seventy dollars saved toward some inventive work of his. But then little Peter fell from the top of the wash- tub, where he had climbed for some reason, and broke his arm. Before it was healed and all the bills paid, the seventy was gone. Another time Marie's mother was dying, or so she thought, and she had to go back home and help her father and brother in their loneliness. Again, it was brother George who, broke, arrived from Philadelphia and lived with them a while because he had no place else to go. Also once he thought to better himself by leaving the International Electric, and joining the Winston Castro Generator Company. But when he had left the first, the manager of the second, to whom he had applied and by whom he had been engaged, was discharged ("let out," as he phrased it), and the succeeding man did not want him. So for three long months he had been without anything, and, like Job, finally, he had been ready to curse God and die.

And then — right here in these rooms it was — he had rebelled, spiritually, as he now recalled, and had said to himself that he could not stand this any longer, that he was ruining his life, and that however much it might torture Marie — ruin her even — he must leave and do something to better his state. Yes, quite definitely, once and for all, then, he had wished that he had not married Marie, that they had never been so foolish as to have children, that Marie was not dependent on him any more, that he was free to go, be, do, all the things he felt that he could go do, be — no matter where, so long as he went and was free. Yes, he had wished that in a violent, rebellious, prayerful way, and then —

Of all the winters of his life, the one that followed that was the blackest and bleakest, that last one with Marie. It seemed to bring absolutely nothing to either him or her or the children save disaster. Twenty-five dollars was all he had ever been able to make, apparently, while he was with her. The children were growing and constantly requiring more; Marie needed many things, and was skimping along on God knows what. Once she had made herself some corset slips and other things out of his cast-off underwear — bad as that was! And then once, when he was crossing Chadds Bridge, just below here, and had paused to meditate and dream, a new hat — his very best, needless to say, for he had worn his old one until it was quite gone — had blown off into the water, a swift wind and some bundles he was com- pelled to carry home aiding, and had been swiftly carried out by the tide. So much had he been harried in those days by one thing and another that at first he had not even raged, although he was accustomed so to do. Instead then he had just shut his teeth and trudged on in the biting wind, in danger of taking cold and dying of something or other — as he had thought at the time — only then he had said to himself that he did not really mind now. What difference did it make to himself or anybody whether he died or not? Did anybody care really, God or any- body else, what became of him? Supposing he did it? What of it? Could it be any worse than this? To hell with life itself, and its Maker, — this brutal buffeting of winds and cold and harrying hungers and jealousies and fears and brutalities, arranged to drive and make miserable these crawling, beggarly creatures — men! Why, what had he ever had of God or any creative force so far? What had God ever done for him or his life, or his wife and children?

So he had defiantly raged.

And then life — or God, or what you will — had seemed to strike at last. It was as if some Jinnee of humane or inhuman power had said, "Very well, then, since you are so dissatisfied and unhappy, so unworthy of all this (perhaps) that I have given you, you shall have your will, your dreams. You have prayed to be free. Even so — this thing that you see here now shall pass away. You have sinned against love and faith in your thoughts. You shall be free! Look! Behold! You shall be! Your dreams shall come true ! "

And then, at once, as if in answer to this command of the Jinnee, as though, for instance, it had waved its hand, the final storm began which blew everything quite away. Fate struck. It was as if black angels had entered and stationed themselves at his doors and windows, armed with the swords of destruction, of death. Harpies and furies beset his path and perched on his roof. One night — it was a month before Peter and Frank died, only three days before they contracted their final illness — he was crossing this same bridge below here and was speculating, as usual, as to his life and his future, when suddenly, in spite of the wind and cold and some dust flying from a coal barge below, his eye was attracted by two lights which seemed to come danc- ing down the hill from the direction of his apartment and passed out over the river. They rose to cross over the bridge in front of him and disappeared on the other side. They came so close they seemed almost to brush his face, and yet he could not quite accept them as real. There was something too eerie about them. From the moment he first laid eyes on them in the distance they seemed strange. They came so easily, gracefully, and went so. From the first moment he saw them there below Tegetmiller's paint shop, he wondered about them. What were they? What could they mean? They were so bluish clear, like faint, grey stars, so pale and watery. Suddenly it was as if something whispered to him, "Behold ! These are the souls of your children. They are going — never to return! See! Your prayers are being answered ! "

And then it was that, struck with a kind of horror and numb despair, he had hurried home, quite prepared to ask Marie if the two boys were dead or if anything had happened to them. But, finding them up and playing as usual he had tried to put away all thought of this fact as a delusion, to say nothing. But the lights haunted him. They would not stay out of his mind. Would his boys really die? Yet the first and the second day went without change. But on the third both boys took sick, and he knew his dread was well founded.

For on the instant, Marie was thrown into a deep, almost inexplicable, depression, from which there was no arousing her, although she attempted to conceal it from him by waiting on and worrying over them. They had to put the children in the one little bedroom (theirs), while they used an extension cot in the "parlor," previously occupied by the children. Young Dr. New- ton, the one physician of repute in the neighborhood, was called in, and old Mrs. Wertzel, the German woman in front, who, being old and lonely and very fond of Marie, had volunteered her services. And so they had weathered along, God only knows how. Marie prepared the meals — or nearly all of them — as best she could. He had gone to work each day, half in a dream, wondering what the end was to be.

And then one night, as he and Marie were lying on the cot pretending to sleep, he felt her crying. And taking her in his arms he had tried to unwish all the dark things he had wished, only apparently then it was too late. Something told him it was. It was as though in some dark mansion somewhere — some supernal court or hall of light or darkness — his prayer had been registered and answered, a decision made, and that that decision could not now be unmade. No. Into this shabby little room where they lay and where she was crying had come a final black emissary, scaled, knightly, with immense arms and wings and a glittering sword, all black, and would not leave until all this should go before him. Perhaps he had been a little deranged in his mind at the time, but so it had seemed.

And then, just a few weeks after he had seen the lights and a few days after Marie had cried so, Peter had died — poor weak little thing that he was — and, three days later, Frank. Those terrible hours! For by then he was feeling so strange and sad and mystical about it all that he could neither eat nor sleep nor weep nor work nor think. He had gone about, as indeed had Marie, in a kind of stupor of misery and despair. True, as he now told himself — and then too, really, — he had not loved the children with all the devotion he should have or he would never have had the thoughts he had had — or so he had reasoned afterward. Yet then as now he suffered because of the love he should have given them, and had not — and now could not any more, save in memory. He recalled how both boys looked in those last sad days, their pinched little faces and small weak hands! Marie was crushed, and yet dearer for the time being than ever before. But the two children, once gone, had seemed the victims of his own dark thoughts as though his own angry, resentful wishes had slain them. And so, for the time, his mood changed. He wished, if he could, that he might undo it all, go on as before with Marie, have other children to replace these lost ones in her affection — but no. It was apparently not to be, not ever any more.

For, once they were gone, the cords which had held him and Marie together were weaker, not stronger — almost broken, really. For the charm which Marie had originally had for him had mostly been merged in the vivacity and vitality and interest of these two prattling curly-headed boys. Despite the financial burden, the irritation and drain they had been at times, they had also proved a binding chain, a touch of sweetness in the relation- ship, a hope for the future, a balance which had kept even this uneven scale. With them present he had felt that however black the situation it must endure because of them, their growing interests ; with them gone, it was rather plain that some modifica- tion of their old state was possible — just how, for the moment, he scarcely dared think or wish. It might be that he could go away and study for awhile now. There was no need of his staying here. The neighborhood was too redolent now of the miseries they had endured. Alone somewhere else, perhaps, he could collect his thoughts, think out a new program. If he went away he might eventually succeed in doing better by Marie. She could return to her parents in Philadelphia for a little while and wait for him, working there at something as she had before until he was ready to send for her. The heavy load of debts could wait until he was better able to pay them. In the meantime, also, he could work and whatever he made over and above his absolute necessities might go to her — or to clearing off these debts.

So he had reasoned.

But it had not worked out so of course. No. In the broken mood in which Marie then was it was not so easy. Plainly, since he had run across her that April day in Philadelphia when he was wiring for the great dry goods store, her whole life had become identified with his, although his had not become merged with hers. No. She was, and would be, as he could so plainly see, then, nothing without him, whereas he — he — Well, it had long since been plain that he would be better off without her — materially, anyhow. But what would she do if he stayed away a long time — or never came back? What become? Had he thought of that then? Yes, he had. He had even thought that once away he might not feel like renewing this situation which had proved so disastrous. And Marie had seemed to sense that, too. She was so sad. True he had not thought of all these things in any bold outright fashion then. Rather they were as sly, evasive shadows skulking in the remote recesses of his brain, things which scarcely dared show their faces to the light, although later, once safely away — they had come forth boldly enough. Only at that time, and later — even now, he could not help feeling that however much Marie might have lacked originally, or then, the fault for their might was his, — that if he himself had not been so dull in the first instance all these black things would not have happened to him or to her. But could she go on without him? Would she? he had asked himself then. And answered that it would be better for him to leave and build him- self up in a different world, and then return and help her later. So he fretted and reasoned.

But time had solved all that, too. In spite of the fact that he could not help picturing her back there alone with her parents in Philadelphia, their poor little cottage in Leigh Street in which she and her parents had lived — not a cottage either, but a minute little brick pigeon-hole in one of those long lines of red, treeless, smoky barracks flanking the great mills of what was known as the Reflington District, where her father worked — he had gone. He had asked himself what would she be doing there? What thinking, all alone without him — the babies dead? But he had gone.

He recalled so well the day he left her — she to go to Philadelphia, he to Boston, presumably — the tears, the depres- sion, the unbelievable sadness in her soul and his. Did she sus- pect? Did she foreknow? She was so gentle, even then, so trustful, so sad. "You will come back to me, dearie, won't you, soon?" she had said, and so sadly. "We will be happy yet, won't we?" she had asked between sobs. And he had promised. Oh yes; he had done much promising in his life, before and since. That was one of the darkest things in his nature, his power of promising.

But had he kept that?

However much in after months and years he told himself that he wanted to, that he must, that it was only fair, decent, right, still he had not gone back. No. Other things had come up with the passing of the days, weeks, months, years, other forces, other interests. Some plan, person, desire had always intervened, interfered, warned, counseled, delayed. Were there such counselors? There had been times during the first year when he had written her and sent her a little money — money he had needed badly enough himself. Later there was that long period in which he felt that she must be getting along well enough, being with her parents and at work, and he had not written. A second woman had already appeared on the scene by then as a friend. And then —

The months and years since then in which he had not done so! After his college course — which he took up after he left

Marie, working his way — he had left Boston and gone to K

to begin a career as an assistant plant manager and a developer of ideas of his own, selling the rights to such things as he invented to the great company with which he was connected. And then it was that by degrees the idea of a complete indepen- dence and a much greater life had occurred to him. He found himself so strong, so interesting to others. Why not be free, once and for all? Why not grow greater? Why not go forward and work out all the things about which he had dreamed? The thing from which he had extricated himself was too confining, too narrow. It would not do to return. The old shell could not now contain him. Despite her tenderness, Marie was not significant enough. So — He had already seen so much that he could do, be, new faces, a new world, women of a higher social level.

But even so, the pathetic little letters which still followed from time to time — not addressed to him in his new world (she did not know where he was), but to him in the old one — saying how dearly she loved him, how she still awaited his return, that she knew he was having a hard time, that she prayed always, and that all would come out right yet, that they would be able to be together yet! — she was working, saving, praying for him! True, he had the excuse that for the first four years he had not really made anything much, but still he might have done something for her, — might he not have? — gone back, persuaded her to let him go, made her comfortable, brought her somewhat nearer him even? Instead he had feared, feared, reasoned, argued.

Yes, the then devil of his nature, his ambition, had held him completely. He was seeing too clearly the wonder of what he might be, and soon, what he was already becoming. Everything as he argued then and saw now would have had to be pushed aside for Marie, whereas what he really desired was that his great career, his greater days, his fame, the thing he was sure to be now — should push everything aside. And so — Perhaps he had become sharper, colder, harder, than he had ever been, quite ready to sacrifice everything and everybody, or nearly, until he should be the great success he meant to be. But long before this he might have done so much. And he had not — had not until very recently decided to revisit this older, sweeter world.

But in the meantime, as he had long since learned, how the tragedy of her life had been completed. All at once in those earlier years all letters had ceased, and time slipping by — ten years really — he had begun to grow curious. Writing back to a neighbor of hers in Philadelphia in a disguised hand and on nameless paper, he had learned that nearly two years before her father had died and that she and her mother and brother had moved away, the writer could not say where. Then, five years later, when he was becoming truly prosperous, he had learned, through a detective agency, that she and her mother and her ne 'er-do-well brother had moved back into this very neighborhood — this old neighborhood of his and hers! — or, rather, a little farther out near the graveyard where their two boys were buried. The simplicity of her! The untutored homing instinct!

But once here, according to what he had learned recently, she and her mother had not prospered at all. They had occupied the most minute of apartments farther out, and had finally been com- pelled to work in a laundry in their efforts to get along — and he was already so well-to-do, wealthy, really! Indeed three years before his detectives had arrived, her mother had died, and two years after that, she herself, of pneumonia, as had their children. Was it a message from her that had made him worry at that time? Was that why, only six months since, although married and rich and with two daughters by this later marriage, he had not been able to rest until he had found this out, returned here now to see? Did ghosts still stalk the world?

Yes, to-day he had come back here, but only to realize once and for all now how futile this errand was, how cruel he had been, how dreary her latter days must have been in this poor, out-of-the-way corner where once, for a while at least, she had been happy — he and she.

"Been happy!"

"By God," he suddenly exclaimed, a passion of self-reproach and memory overcoming him, "I can't stand this! It was not right, not fair. I should not have waited so long. I should have acted long, long since. The cruelty — the evil! There is some- thing cruel and evil in it all, in all wealth, all ambition, in love of fame — too cruel. I must get out! I must think no more — see no more."

And hurrying to the door and down the squeaking stairs, he walked swiftly back to the costly car that was waiting for him a few blocks away below the bridge — that car which was so representative of the realm of so-called power and success of which he was now the master — that realm which, for so long, had taken its meaningless lustre from all that had here preceded it — the misery, the loneliness, the shadow, the despair. And in it he was whirled swiftly and gloomily away.

8.Phantom Gold

You would have to have seen it to have gathered a true impression — the stubby roughness of the country, the rocks, the poverty of the soil, the poorness of the houses, barns, agricultural implements, horses and cattle and even human beings, in con- sequence — especially human beings, for why should they, any more than any other product of the soil, flourish where all else was so poor?

It was old Judge Blow who first discovered that "Jack," or zinc, was the real riches of Taney, if it could be said to have had any before "Jack" was discovered. Months before the boom began he had stood beside a smelter in far- off K one late winter afternoon and examined with a great deal of care the ore which the men were smelting, marveling at its resemblance to certain rocks or boulders known as "slug lumps" in his home county.

"What is this stuff?" he asked of one of the bare-armed men who came out from the blazing furnace after a time to wipe his dripping face.

"Zinc," returned the other, as he passed his huge, soiled palm over his forehead.

"We have stuff down in our county that looks like that," said the judge as he turned the dull-looking lump over and considered for a while. "I'm sure of it — any amount." Then he became suddenly silent, for a thought struck him.

"Well, if it's really 'Jack,' " said the workman, using the trade or mining name for it, "there's money in it, all right. This here comes from St. Francis."

The old judge thought of this for a little while and quietly turned away. He knew where St. Francis was. If this was so valuable that they could ship it all the way from southeast B , why not from Taney? Had he not many holdings in Taney?

The result was that before long a marked if secret change began to manifest itself in Taney and regions adjacent thereto. Following the private manipulations and goings to and fro of the judge one or two shrewd prospectors appeared, and then after a time the whole land was rife with them. But before that came to pass many a farmer who had remained in ignorance of the value of his holdings was rifled of them.

Old Bursay Queeder, farmer and local ne'er-do-well in the agricultural line, had lived on his particular estate or farm for forty years, and at the time that Judge Blow was thus mysteri- ously proceeding to and fro and here and there upon the earth, did not know that the rocks against which his pair of extra large feet were being regularly and bitterly stubbed contained the very wealth of which he had been idly and rather wistfully dreaming all his life. Indeed, the earth was a very mysterious thing to Bursay, containing, as it did, everything he really did not know. This collection of seventy acres, for instance — which individually and collectively had wrung more sweat from his brow and more curses from his lips than anything else ever had — contained, unknown to him, the possibility of the fulfil- ment of all his dreams. But he was old now and a little queer in the head at times, having notions in regard to the Bible, when the world would come to an end, and the like, although still able to contend with nature, if not with man. Each day in the spring and summer and even fall seasons he could be seen on some portion or other of his barren acres, his stubby beard and sparse hair standing out roughly, his fingers like a bird's claws clutching his plough handles, turning the thin and meagre furrows of his fields and rattling the stony soil, which had long ceased to yield him even a modicum of profit. It was a bare living now which he expected, and a bare living which he received. The house, or cabin, which he occupied with his wife and son and daughter, was dilapidated beyond the use or even need of care. The fences were all decayed save for those which had been built of these same impediments of the soil which he had always considered a queer kind of stone, useless to man or beast — a "hendrance," as he would have said. His barn was a mere accumulation of patchboards, shielding an old wagon and some few scraps of machinery. And the alleged corn crib was soaged and lopsided that it was ready to fall. Weeds and desola- tion, bony horses and as bony children, stony fields and thin trees, and withal solitude and occasional want — such was the world of his care and his ruling.

Mrs. Queeder was a fitting mate for the life to which he was doomed. It had come to that pass with her that the monotony of deprivation was accepted with indifference. The absence or remoteness of even a single modest school, meeting house or town hall, to say nothing of convenient neighbors, had left her and hers all but isolated. She was irascible, cantankerous, peculiar j her voice was shrill and her appearance desolate. Queeder, whom she understood or misunderstood thoroughly, was a source of comfort in one way — she could "nag at him," as he said, and if they quarreled frequently it was in a fitting and harmonious way. Amid such a rattletrap of fields and fences bickering was to be expected.

"Why don't yuh take them thar slug lumps an' make a fence over thar?" she asked of Queeder for something like the thou- sandth time in ten years, referring to as many as thirty-five piles of the best and almost pure zinc lying along the edges of the nearest field, and piled there by Bursay, — this time because two bony cows had invaded one of their corn patches. The "slug lumps" to which she referred could not have been worth less than $2,000.

For as many as the thousandth time he had replied:

"Well, fer the land sakes, hain't I never got nuthin' else tuh do? Yuh'd think them thar blame-ding rocks wuz wuth more nor anythin' else. I do well enough ez 'tis to git 'em outen the sile, I say, 'thout tryin' tuh make fences outen 'em."

"So yuh say — yuh lazy, good-fer-nuthin' ole tobacco-chewin'," here a long list of expletives which was usually succeeded by a stove lid or poker or a fair-sized stick of wood, propelled by one party or the other, and which was as deftly dodged. Love and family affection, you see, due to unbroken and unbreakable propinquity, as it were.

But to proceed : The hot and rainy seasons had come and gone in monotonous succession during a period of years, and the lumps still lay in the field. Dode, the eldest child and only son — a huge, hulking, rugged and yet bony ignoramus, who had not in- herited an especially delicate or agreeable disposition from his harried parents — might have removed them had he not been a "consarned lazy houn'," his father said, or like his father, as his mother said, and Jane, the daughter, might have helped, but these two partook of the same depressed indifference which characterized the father. And why not, pray? They had worked long, had had little, seen less and hoped for no particular outlet for their lives in the future, having sense enough to know that if fate had been more kind there might have been. Useless contention with an unyielding soil had done its best at hardening their spirits.

"I don't see no use ploughin' the south patch," Dode had now remarked for the third time this spring. "The blamed thing don't grow nuthin'."

"Ef yuh only half 'tended it instid o' settin' out thar under them thar junipers pickin' yer teeth an' meditatin', mebbe 'twould," squeaked Mrs. Queeder, always petulant or angry or waspish — a nature soured by long and hopeless and useless contention.

"No use shakin' up a lot uv rocks, ez I see," returned Dode, wearily and aimlessly slapping at a fly. "The hull place ain't wuth a hill o' beans," and from one point of view he was right.

"Why don't yuh git off'n hit then?" suggested Queeder in a tantalizing voice, with no particular desire to defend the farm, merely with an idle wish to vary the monotony. "Ef hit's good enough tuh s'port yuh, hit's good enough to work on, I say."

"S'port!" sniffed the undutiful Dode, wearily, and yet hu- morously and scornfully. "I ain't seed much s'port, ez I kin remember. Mebbe ye're thinkin' uv all the fine schoolin' I've had, er the places I've been." He slapped at another fly.

Old Queeder felt the sneer, but as he saw it it was scarcely his fault. He had worked. At the same time he felt the futility of quarreling with Dode, who was younger and stronger and no longer, owing to many family quarrels, bearing him any filial respect. As a matter of fact it was the other way about. From having endured many cuffs and blows in his youth Dode was now much the more powerful physically, and in any contest could easily outdo his father j and Queeder, from at first having ruled and seen his word law, was now compelled to take second, even third and fourth, place, and by contention and all but useless snarling gain the very little consideration that he received.

But in spite of all this they lived together indifferently. And day after day — once Judge Blow had returned to Taney — time was bringing nearer and nearer the tide of mining and the amazing boom that went with it. Indeed every day, like a gather- ing storm cloud, it might have been noted by the sensitive as ap- proaching closer and closer, only these unwitting holders were not sensitive. They had not the slightest inkling as yet of all that was to be. Here in this roadless, townless region how was one to know. Prospectors passed to the north and the south of them; but as yet none had ever come directly to this wonderful patch upon which Queeder and his family rested. It was in too out-of-the-way a place — a briary, woodsy, rocky corner.

Then one sunny June morning —

"Hi, thar!" called Cal Arnold, their next neighbor, who lived some three miles further on, who now halted his rickety wagon and bony horses along the road opposite the field in which Queeder was working. "Hyur the news?" He spoke briskly, shifting his cud of tobacco and eyeing Queeder with the chirpi- ness of one who brings diverting information.

"No; what?" asked Queeder, ceasing his "cultivating" with a worn one-share plough and coming over and leaning on his zinc fence, rubbing a hand through his sparse hair the while.

"OP Dunk Porter down here to Newton's sold his farm," replied Cal, shrewdly and jubilantly, as though he were relating the tale of a great battle or the suspected approach of the end of the world. "An' he got three thousan' dollars iet it." He rolled the sum deliciously under his tongue.

"Yuh don't say ! " said Queeder quietly but with profound and amazed astonishment. "Three thousan'?" He stirred as one who hears of the impossible being accomplished and knows it can't be true. "Whut fer?"

"They 'low now ez how thar's min'l onto it," went on the farmer wisely. "They 'low ez how now this hyur hull kentry round hyur is thick an' spilin' with it. Hit's uvry-whar. They tell me ez how these hyur slug lumps" — and he flicked at one of the large piles of hitherto worthless zinc against which Queeder was leaning — "is this hyur min'l — er 'Jack,' ez they call hit — an' that hit's wuth two cents a pound when it's swelted" ("smelted," he meant) "an' even more. I see yuh got quite a bit uv hit. So've I. Thar's a lot layin' down around my place. I alius 'lowed ez how 'twant wuth much o' anythin,' but they say 'tis. I hyur from some o' the boys 'at's been to K that when hit's fixed up, swelted and like o' that, that hit's good fer lots of things."

He did not know what exactly, so he did not stop to explain. Instead he cocked a dreamful eye, screwed up his mouth prepara- tory to expectorating and looked at Queeder. The latter, unable to adjust his thoughts to this new situation, picked up a piece of the hitherto despised "slug" and looked at it. To think that through all these years of toil and suffering he should have be- lieved it worthless and now all of a sudden it was worth two cents a pound when "swelted" and that neighbors were beginning to sell their farms for princely sums! — and his farm was covered with this stuff, this gold almost! Why, there were whole hum- mocks of it raising slaty-gray backs to the hot sun further on, a low wall in one place where it rose sheer out of the ground on this "prupetty," as he always referred to it. Think of that! Think of that! But although he thought much he said nothing, for in his starved and hungry brain was beginning to sprout and flourish a great and wondrous idea. He was to have money, wealth — ease, no less! Think of it! Not to toil and sweat in the summer sun any more, to loaf and dream at his ease, chew all the tobacco he wished, live in town, visit far-off, mysterious K , see all there was to see!

"Well, I guess I'll be drivin' on," commented Arnold after a time, noting Queeder's marked abstraction. "I cal'late tuh git over tuh Bruder's an' back by sundown. He's got a little hay I traded him a pig fer hyur a while back," and he flicked his two bony horses and was off up the rubbly, dusty road.

For a time Queeder was scarcely satisfied to believe his senses. Was it really true? Had Porter really sold his place? For days thereafter, although he drove to Arno — sixteen miles away — to discover the real truth, he held his own counsel, nursing a won- derful fancy. This property was his, not his wife's, nor his two children's. Years before he had worked and paid for it, a few lone dollars at a time, or their equivalent in corn, pigs, wheat, before he had married. Now — now — soon one of those strange creatures — a "prowspector," Arnold had called him — who went about with money would come along and buy up his property. Wonderful! Wonderful! What would he get for it? — surely five thousand dollars, considering that Porter had received three for forty acres, whereas he had seventy. Four thousand, anyhow — a little more than Dunk. He could not figure it very well, but it would be more than Dunk's, whatever it was — probably five thousand!

The one flaw in all this though — and it was a great flaw — was the thought of his savage and unkindly family — the recalcitrant Dode, the angular Jane and his sour better half, Emma — who would now probably have to share in all this marvelous pros- perity, might even take it away from him and push him into that background where he had been for so long. They were so much more dogmatic, forceful than he. He was getting old, feeble even, from long years of toil. His wife had done little this long time but sneer and jeer at him, as he now chose most emphatically to remember ; his savage son the same. Jane, the indifferent, who looked on him as a failure and a ne'er-do-well, had done nothing but suggest that he work harder. Love, family tenderness, family unity — if these had ever existed they had long since withered in the thin, unnourishing air of this rough, poverty-stricken world. What did he owe any of them? Nothing. And now they would want to share in all this, of course. Having lived so long with them, and under such disagreeable conditions, he now wondered how they would dare suggest as much, and still he knew they would. Fight him, nag him, that's all they had ever done. But now that wealth was at his door they would be running after him, fawning upon him — demanding it of him, perhaps! What should he do? How arrange for all of this? — for wealth was surely close to his hands. It must be. Like a small, half-intelligent rat he peeked and perked. His demeanor changed to such an extent that even his family noticed it and began to wonder, although (knowing nothing of all that had transpired as yet) they laid it to the increasing queerness of age.

"Have yuh noticed how Pap acts these hyur days?" Dode inquired of Jane and his mother one noontime after old Queeder had eaten and returned to the fields. "He's all the time standin' out thar at the fence lookin' aroun' ez if he wuz a-waitin' fer somebody er thinkin' about somepin. Mebbe he's gittin' .a little queer, huh? Y' think so?"

Dode was most interested in anything which concerned his father — or, rather, his physical or mental future — for once he died this place would have to be divided or he be called upon to run it, and in that case he would be a fitting catch for any neighborhood farming maiden, and as such able to broach and carry through the long-cherished dream of matrimony, now attenuated and made all but impossible by the grinding neces- sities he was compelled to endure.

"Yes, I've been noticin' somepin," returned Mrs. Queeder. "He hain't the same ez he wuz a little while back. Some new notion he's got into his mind, I reckon, somepin he wants tuh do an' kain't, er somepin new in 'ligion, mebbe. Yuh kain't ever tell whut's botherin' him."

Jane " 'lowed" as much and the conversation ended. But still Queeder brooded, trying to solve the knotty problem, which depended, of course, on the open or secret sale of the land — secret, if possible, he now finally decided, seeing that his family had always been so unkind to him. They deserved nothing better. It was his — why not?

In due time appeared a prospector, mounted on horseback and dressed for rough travel, who, looking over the fields of this area and noting the value of these particular acres, the surface outcropping of a thick vein, became intensely interested. Queeder was not to be seen at the time, having gone to some remote portion of the farm, but Mrs. Queeder, wholly ignorant of the value of the land and therefore of the half-suppressed light in the stranger's eye, greeted him pleasantly enough.

"Would you let me have a drink of water?" inquired the stranger when she appeared at the door.

"Sartinly," she replied with a tone of great respect. Even comparatively well- dressed strangers were so rare here.

Old Queeder in a distant field observing him at the well, now started for the house.

"What is that stuff you make your fences out of?" asked the stranger agreeably, wondering if they knew.

"Well, now, I dunno," said Mrs. Queeder. "It's some kind 'o stone, I reckon — slug lumps, we uns always call hit aroun' hyur."

The newcomer suppressed a desire to smile and stooped to pick up a piece of the zinc with which the ground was scattered. It was the same as he had seen some miles back, only purer and present in much greater quantities. Never had he seen more and better zinc near the surface. It was lying everywhere exposed, cultivation, frosts and rains having denuded it, whereas in the next county other men were digging for it. The sight of these dilapidated holdings, the miserable clothing, old Queeder toiling out in the hot fields, and all this land valueless for agriculture because of its wondrous mineral wealth, was almost too much for him.

"Do you own all this land about here?" he inquired.

" 'Bout seventy acres," returned Mrs. Queeder.

"Do you know what it sells at an acre?"

"No. It ain't wuth much, though, I reckon. I ain't heerd o' none bein' sold aroun' hyur fer some time now."

The prospector involuntarily twitched at the words "not wuth much." What would some of his friends and rivals say if they knew of this particular spot? What if some one should tell these people? If he could buy it now for a song, as he well might! Already other prospectors were in the neighborhood. Had he not eaten at the same table at Arno with three whom he suspected as such? He must get this, and get it now.

"I guess I'll stroll over and talk to your husband a moment," he remarked and ambled off, the while Mrs. Queeder and Jane, the twain in loose blue gingham bags of dresses much blown by the wind, stood in the tumbledown doorway and looked after him.

"Funny, ain't he?" said the daughter. "Wonder whut he wants o' Paw?"

Old Queeder looked up quizzically from his ploughing, to which he had returned, as he saw the stranger approaching, and now surveyed him doubtfully as he offered a cheery "Good morning."

"Do you happen to know if there is any really good farming land around here for sale?" inquired the prospector after a few delaying comments about the weather.

"Air yuh wantin' it fer farmin'?" replied Queeder cynically and casting a searching look upon the newcomer, who saw at once by Queeder's eye that he knew more than his wife. "They're buyin' hit now mostly fer the min'l ez is onto it, ez I hyur." At the same time he perked like a bird to see how this thrust had been received.

The prospector smiled archly if wisely. "I see," he said. "You think it's good for mining, do you? What would you hold your land at as mineral land then if you had a chance to sell it?"

Queeder thought for a while. Two wood doves cooed mourn- fully in the distance and a blackbird squeaked rustily before he answered.

"I dunno ez I keer tuh sell yit." He had been getting notions of late as to what might be done if he were to retain his land, bid it up against the desires of one and another, only also the thought of how his wife and children might soon learn and insist on dividing the profits with him if he did sell it was haunt- ing him. Those dreams of getting out in the world and seeing something, of getting away from his family and being happy in some weird, free way, were actually torturing him.

"Who owns the land just below here, then?" asked the stranger, realizing that his idea of buying for little or nothing might as well be abandoned. But at this Queeder winced. For after all, the land adjoining had considerable mineral on it, also, as he well knew.

"Why, let me see," he replied waspishly, with mingled feel- ings of opposition and indifference. "Marradew," he finally added, grudgingly. It was no doubt true that this stranger or some other could buy of other farmers if he refused to sell. Still,

PHANTOM GOLD 2I<)

land around here anywhere must be worth something, his as much as any other. If Dunk Porter had received $3000 —

"If you don't want to sell, I suppose he might," the prospector continued pleasantly. The idea was expressed softly, medita- tively, indifferently almost.

There was a silence, in which Queeder calmly leaned on his plough handles thinking. The possibility of losing this long- awaited opportunity was dreadful. But he was not floored yet, for all his hunger and greed. Arnold had said that the metal alone, these rocks, was worth two cents a pound, and he could not get it out of his mind that somehow the land itself, the space of soil aside from the metal, must be worth something. How could it be otherwise? Small crops of sorts grew on it.

"I dunno," he replied defiantly, if internally weakly. "Yuh might ast. I ain't heerd o' his wantin' to sell." He was determined to risk this last if he had to run after the stranger afterward and beg him to compromise, although he hoped not to have to do that, either. There were other prospectors.

"I don't know yet whether I want this," continued the pro- spector heavily and with an air of profound indifference, "but I'd like to have an option on it, if you'd like to sell. What'll you take for an option at sixty days on the entire seventy acres?"

The worn farmer did not in the least understand what was meant by the word option, but he was determined not to admit it. "Whut'll yuh give?" he asked finally, in great doubt as to what to say.

"Well, how about $200 down and $5,000 more at the end of sixty days if we come to terms at the end of that time?" He was offering the very lowest figure that he imagined Queeder would take, if any, for he had heard of other sales in this vicinity this very day.

Queeder, not knowing what an option was, knew not what to say. Five thousand was what he had originally supposed he might be offered, but sixty days! What did he mean by that? Why not at once if he wanted the place — cash — as Dunk Porter, accord- ing to Arnold, had received? He eyed the stranger feverishly, fidgeted with his plough handles, and finally observed almost aimlessly: "I 'low ez I could git seven thousan' any day ef I wanted to wait. The feller hyur b'low me a ways got three thousand an' he's got thirty acres less'n I got. Thar's been a feller aroun' hyur offerin' me six thousan'."

"Well, I might give you $6,000, providing I found the ground all right," he said.

"Cash down?" asked Queeder amazedly, kicking at a clod.

"Within sixty days," answered the prospector.

"Oh!" said Queeder, gloomily. "I thort yuh wanted tuh buy t'day."

"Oh, no," said the other. "I said an option. If we come to terms I'll be back here with the money within sixty days or before, and we'll close the thing up — six thousand in cash, minus the option money. Of course I don't bind myself absolutely to buy — just get the privilege of buying at any time within sixty days, and if I don't come back within that time the money I turn over to you to-day is yours, see, and you're free to sell the land to some one else."

"Huh!" grunted Queeder. He had dreamed of getting the money at once and making off all by himself, but here was this talk of sixty days, which might mean something or nothing.

"Well," said the prospector, noting Queeder's dissatisfaction and deciding that he must do something to make the deal seem more attractive, "suppose we say seven thousand, then, and I put down $500 cash into your hands now? How's that? Seven thousand in sixty days and five hundred in cash right now. What do you say?"

He reached in his pocket and extracted a wallet thick with bills, which excited Queeder greatly. Never had so much ready money, which he might quickly count as his if he chose, been so near him. After all, $500 in cash was an amazing amount in itself. With that alone what could he not do? And then the re- mainder of the seven thousand within sixty days! Only, there were his wife and two children to consider. If he was to carry out his dream of decamping there must be great secrecy. If they learned of this — his possession of even so much as five hundred in cash — what might not happen? Would not Dode or his wife or Jane, or all three, take it away from him — steal it while he was asleep? It might well be so. He was so silent and puzzled that the stranger felt that he was going to reject his offer.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, as though he were making a grand concession. "I'll make it eight thousand and put up eight hundred. How's that? If we can't arrange it on that basis we'll have to drop the matter, for I can't offer to pay any more," and at that he returned the wallet to his pocket.

But Queeder still gazed, made all but dumb by his good fortune and the difficulties it presented. Eight thousand! Eight hundred in cash down! He could scarcely understand. " "T'day?" he asked.

"Yes, to-day — only you'll have to come with me to Arno. I want to look into your title. Maybe you have a deed, though — have you?"

Queeder nodded.

"Well, if it's all right I'll pay the money at once. I have a form of agreement here and we can get some one to witness it, I suppose. Only we'll have to get your wife to sign, too."

Queeder's face fell. Here was the rub — his wife and two children! "She's gotta sign, hez she?" he inquired grimly, sadly even. He was beside himself with despair, disgust. To work and slave so all these years ! Then, when a chance came, to have it all come to nothing, or nearly so !

"Yes," said the prospector, who saw by his manner and tone that his wife's knowledge of it was not desired. "We'll have to get her signature, too. I'm sorry if it annoys you, but the law compels it. Perhaps you could arrange all that between you in some way. Why not go over and talk to her about it?"

Queeder hesitated. How he hated it — this sharing with his wife and son! He didn't mind Jane so much. But now if they heard of it they would quarrel with him and want the larger share. He would have to fight — stand by his "rights." And once he had the money — if he ever got it — he would have to watch it, hide it, to keep it away from them.

"What's the matter?" asked the prospector, noting his per- turbation. "Does she object to your selling?"

" 'Tain't that. She'll sell, well enough, once she hyurs. I didn't 'low ez I'd let 'er know at fust. She'll be wantin' the most uv it — her and Dode — an' hit ain't ther'n, hit's mine. I wuz on hyur fust. I owned this hyur place fust, fore ever I saw 'er. She don't do nuthin' but fuss an' fight, ez 'tis."

"Supposing we go over to the house and talk to her. She may not be unreasonable. She's only entitled to a third, you know, if you don't want to give her more than that. That's the law. That would leave you nearly five thousand. In fact, if you want it, I'll see that you get five thousand whatever she gets." He had somehow gathered the impression that five thousand, for him- self, meant a great deal to Queeder.

And true enough, at that the old farmer brightened a little. For five thousand? Was not that really more than he had ex- pected to get for the place as a whole but an hour before! And supposing his wife did get three thousand? What of it? Was not his own dream coming true? He agreed at once and decided to accompany the prospector to the house. But on the way the farmer paused and gazed about him. He was as one who scarcely knew what he was doing. All this money — this new order of things — if it went through ! He felt strange, different, confused. The mental ills of his many years plus this great fortune with its complications and possibilities were almost too much for him. The stranger noted a queer metallic and vacant light in the old farmer's eyes as he now turned slowly about from west to east, staring.

"What's the matter?" he asked, a suspicion of insanity coming to him.

The old man seemed suddenly to come to. " 'Tain't nuthin'," he said. "I wuz just thinkin'."

The prospector meditated on the validity of a contract made with a lunatic, but the land was too valuable to bother about trifles. Once a contract was made, even with a half-wit, the legal difficulties which could be made over any attempt to break the agreement would be very great.

In the old cabin Jane and her mother wondered at the mean- ing of the approaching couple, but old Queeder shooed off the former as he would have a chicken. Once inside the single room, which served as parlor, sitting-room, bedroom and all else convenient, Queeder nervously closed the door leading into the kitchen, where Jane had retired.

"Go on away, now," he mumbled, as he saw her there hanging about. "We want a word with yer Maw, I tell yuh."

Lank Jane retired, but later clapped a misshapen ear to the door until she was driven away by her suspicious father. Then the farmer began to explain to his wife what it was all about.

"This hyur stranger — I don't know your name yit — "

"Crawford ! Crawford ! " put in the prospector.

"Crawford — Mr. Crawford — is hyur tuh buy the place ef he kin. I thought, seem' ez how yuh've got a little int'est in it — third" — he was careful to add — "we'd better come an' talk tuh yuh."

"Int'est!" snapped Mrs. Queeder, sharply and suspiciously, no thought of the presence of the stranger troubling her in her expression of her opinion, "I should think I had — workin' an' slavin' on it'fer twenty-four year! Well, whut wuz yuh thinkin' uv payin' fer the place?" she asked of the stranger sharply.

A nervous sign from Queeder, whose acquisitiveness was so intense that it was almost audible, indicated that he was not to say.

"Well, now what do you think it would be worth?"

"Dunno ez I kin say exackly," replied the wife slyly and greedily, imagining that Queeder, because of his age and various mental deficiencies was perhaps leaving these negotiations to her. "Thar's ben furms aroun' hyur ez big's this sold fer nigh onto two thousan' dollars." She was quoting the topmost figure of which she had ever heard.

"Well, that's pretty steep, isn't it?" asked Crawford solemnly but refusing to look at Queeder. "Ordinarily land around here is not worth much more than twenty dollars an acre and you have only seventy, as I understand."

"Yes, but this hyur land ain't so pore ez some, nuther," re- joined Mrs. Queeder, forgetting her original comment on it and making the best argument she could for it. "Thar's a spring on this hyur one, just b'low the house hyur."

"Yes," said Crawford, "I saw it as I came in. It has some value. So you think two thousand is what it's worth, do you?" He looked at Queeder wisely, as much as to say, "This is a good joke, Queeder."

Mrs. Queeder, fairly satisfied that hers was to be the dominant mind in this argument, now turned to her husband for counsel. "What do you think, Bursay?" she asked.

Queeder, shaken by his duplicity, his fear of discovery, his greed and troublesome dreams, gazed at her nervously. "I sartinly think hit's wuth that much anyhow."

Crawford now began to explain that he only wanted an option on it at present, an agreement to sell within a given time, and if this were given, a paper signed, he would pay a few dollars to bind the bargain — and at this looked wisely at Queeder and half closed one eye, by which the latter understood that he was to receive the sum originally agreed upon.

"If you say so we'll close this right now," he said ingratiat- ingly, taking from his pockets a form of agreement and opening it. "I'll just fill this in and you two can sign it." He went to the worn poplar table and spread out his paper, the while Queeder and his wife eyed the proceeding with intense interest. Neither could read or write but the farmer, not knowing how he was to get his eight hundred, could only trust to the ingenuity of the prospector to solve the problem. Besides, both were hyp- notized by the idea of selling this worthless old land so quickly and for so much, coming into possession of actual money, and moved and thought like people in a dream. Mrs. Queeder's eyelids had narrowed to thin, greedy lines.

"How much did yuh cal'late yuh'd give tuh bind this hyur?" she inquired tensely and with a feverish gleam in her eye.

"Oh," said the stranger, who was once more looking at Queeder with an explanatory light in his eye, "about a hundred dollars, I should say. Wouldn't that be enough?"

A hundred dollars! Even that sum in this lean world was a fortune. To Mrs. Queeder, who knew nothing of the value of the mineral on the farm, it was unbelievable, an unexplainable windfall, an augury of better things. And besides, the two thou- sand to come later! But now came the question of a witness and how the paper was to be signed. The prospector, having filled in (in pencil) a sample acknowledgment of the amount paid — $100 — and then having said, "Now you sign here, Mr. Queeder," the latter replied, "But I kain't write an' nuther kin my wife."

"Thar wuzn't much chance fer schoolin' around' hyur when I wuz young," simpered his better half.

"Well then, we'll just have to let you make your marks, and get some one to witness them. Can your son or daughter write?"

Here was a new situation and one most unpleasant to both, for Dode, once called, would wish to rule, being so headstrong and contrary. He could write his name anyhow, read a little bit also — but did they want him to know yet? Husband and wife looked at each dubiously and with suspicion. What now? The difficulty was solved by the rumble of a wagon on the nearby road.

"Maybe that is some one who could witness for you?" sug- gested Crawford.

Queeder looked out. "Yes, I b'lieve he kin write," he com- mented. "Hi, thar, Lester!" he called. "Come in hyur a minute! We wantcha fer somepin."

The rumbling ceased and in due time one Lester Botts, a farmer, not so much better in appearance than Queeder, arrived at the door. The prospector explained what was wanted and the agreement was eventually completed, only Botts, not knowing of the mineral which Queeder's acres represented, was anxious to tell the prospector of better land than this, from an agri- cultural view, which could be had for less money, but he did not know how to go about it. Before she would sign, Mrs. Queeder made it perfectly clear where she stood in the matter.

"I git my sheer uv this money now, don't I," she demanded, "paid tuh me right hyur?"

Crawford, uncertain as to Queeder's wishes in this, looked at him j and he, knowing his wife's temper and being moved by greed, exclaimed, "Yuh don't git nuthin' 'ceptin' I die. Yuh ain't entitled tuh no sheer unless'n we're separating which we hain't."

"Then I don't sign nuthin'," said Mrs. Queeder truculently.

"Of course I don't want to interfere," commented the pro- spector, soothingly, "but I should think you'd rather give her her share of this — thirty-three dollars," he eyed Queeder persua- sively — "and then possibly a third of the two thousand — that's only six hundred and sixty — rather than stop the sale now, wouldn't you? You'll have to agree to do something like that. It's a good bargain. There ought to be plenty for everybody."

The farmer hearkened to the subtlety of this. After all, six hundred and sixty out of eight thousand was not so much. Rather than risk delay and discovery he pretended to soften, and finally consented. The marks were made and their validity attested by Botts, the one hundred in cash being counted out in two piles, according to Mrs. Queeder's wish, and the agreement pocketed. Then the prospector accompanied by Mr. Botts, was off — only Queeder, following and delaying him, was finally handed over in secret the difference between the hundred and the sum originally agreed upon. When he saw all the money the old farmer's eyes wiggled as if magnetically operated. Trembling with the agony of greed he waited, and then his hard and knotted fingers closed upon the bills like the claws of a gripping hawk.

"Thank yuh," he said aloud. "Thank you," and he jerked doorward in distress. "See me alone fust when yuh come ag'in. We gotta be mighty keerful er she'll find out, an' ef she does she'll not sign nuthin', an' raise ol' Harry, too."

"Oh, that's all right," replied the prospector archly. He was thinking how easy it would be, in view of all the dishonesty and chicanery already practised, to insist that the two thousand written in in pencil was the actual sale price and efface old Queeder by threatening to expose his duplicity. However, there were sixty days yet in which to consider this. "In sixty days, maybe less, I'll show up." And he slipped gracefully away, leaving the old earth-scraper to brood alone.

But all was not ended with the payment of this sum, as any one might have foretold. For Dode and Jane, hearing after a little while from their mother of the profitable sale of the land, were intensely moved. Money — any money, however small in amount — conjured up visions of pleasure and ease, and who was to get it, after all the toil here on the part of all? Where was their share in all this? They had worked, too. They demanded it in repeated ways, but to no avail. Their mother and father were obdurate, insisting that they wait until the sale was completed before any further consideration was given the matter.

While they were thus arguing, however, quarreling over even so small a sum as $100, as they thought, a new complication was added by Dode learning, as he soon did, that this was all mineral land, that farms were being sold in Adair — the next township — and even here; that it was rumored that Queeder had already sold his land for $5,000, and that if he had he had been beaten, for the land was worth much more — $200 an acre even, or $14,000. At once he suspected his father and mother of some treachery in connection with the sale — that there had been no option given, but a genuine sale made, and that Queeder or his mother, or both, were concealing a vast sum from himself and Jane. An atmosphere of intense suspicion and evil will was at once introduced.

"They've sold the furm fer $5,000 'stid uv $ 2,000 j that's whut they've gone an' done," insisted Dode one day to Jane in the presence of his father and mother. "Ev'rybody aroun' hyur knows now what this hyur land's wuth, an' that's whut they got, yuh kin bet."

"Yuh lie ! " shrieked Queeder shrilly, who was at once struck by the fact that if what Dode said was true he had walked into a financial as well as a moral trap from which he could not well extricate himself. "I hain't sold nuthin'," he went on angrily. "Lester Botts wuz hyur an' seed whut we done. He signed onto it."

"Ef the land's wuth more'n $2,000, that feller 'twuz hyur didn' agree tuh pay no more'n that fer it in hyur," put in Mrs. Queeder explanatorily, although, so little did she trust her husband, she was now beginning to wonder if there might not have been some secret agreement between him and this stranger. "Ef he had any different talk with yer Paw," and here she eyed old Queeder suspiciously, beginning to recall the prospector's smooth airs and ways, "he didn' say nuthin' 'bout it tuh me. I do rec'leck yer Paw'n him talkin' over by the fence yander near an hour afore they come in hyur. I wondered then whut it wuz about." She was beginning to worry as to how she was to get more seeing that the price agreed upon was now, apparently, inconsequential.

And as for Dode, he now eyed his father cynically and sus- piciously. "I cal'late he got somepin more fer it than he's tellin' us about," he insisted. "They ain't sellin' land down to Arno right now fer no $200 an acre an' him not knowin' it — an' land not ez good ez this, nuther. Ye're hidin' the money whut yuh got fer it, that's whut ! "

Mrs. Queeder, while greatly disturbed as to the possibility of duplicity on her husband's part in connection with all this, still considered it policy to call Heaven to witness that in her case at least no duplicity was involved. If more had been offered or paid she knew nothing of it. For his part Queeder boiled with fear, rage, general opposition to all of them and their share in this.

"Yuh consarned varmint ! " he squealed, addressing Dode and leaping to his feet and running for a stick of stovewood, "I'll show yuh whuther we air er not! Yuh 'low I steal, do yuh?"

Dode intercepted him, however, and being the stronger, pushed him off. It was always so easy so to do — much to Quee- der's rage. He despised his son for his triumphant strength alone, to say nothing of his dour cynicism in regard to himself. The argument was ended by the father being put out of the house and the mother pleading volubly that in so far as she knew it was all as she said, that in signing the secret agreement with her husband she had meant no harm to her children, but only to protect them and herself.

But now, brooding over the possibility of Queeder's deception, she began to lay plans for his discomfiture in any way that she might — she and Dode and Jane. Queeder himself raged secretly between fear and hatred of Dode and what might follow because of his present knowledge. How was he to prevent Dode from being present at the final transaction, and if so how would the secret difference be handed him? Besides, if he took the sum mentioned, how did he know that he was not now being over- reached? Every day nearly brought new rumors of new sales at better prices than he had been able to fix. In addition, each day Mrs. Queeder cackled like an irritable hen over the possible duplicity of her husband, although that creature in his secretive greed and queerness was not to be encompassed. He fought shy of the house the greater part of each day, jerked like a rat at every sound or passing stranger and denied himself words to speak or explain, or passed the lie if they pressed him too warmly. The seven hundred extra he had received was wrapped in paper and hidden in a crevice back of a post in the barn, a tin can serving as an outer protection for his newly acquired wealth. More than once during the day he returned to that spot, listened and peeked before he ventured to see whether it was still safe.

Indeed, there was something deadly in the household order from now on, little short o£ madness in fact, for now mother and children schemed for his downfall while all night long old Queeder wakened, jerking in the blackness and listening for any sounds which might be about the barn. On more than one occasion he changed the hiding place, even going so far as to keep the money on his person for a time. Once he found an old rusty 7 butcher knife and, putting that in his shirt bosom, he slept with it and dreamed of trouble.

Into the heart of this walked another prospector one morning rejoicing, like the first one, at his find. Like all good business men he was concerned to see the owner only and demanded that Queeder be called.

"Oh, Paw!" called Jane from the rickety doorway. "Thar's some one hyur wants tuh see yuh ! "

Old Queeder looked warily up from his hot field, where he had been waiting these many days, and beheld the stranger. He dropped his weed fighting and came forward. Dode drifted in from somewhere.

"Pretty dry weather we're having, isn't it?" remarked the stranger pleasantly meeting him halfway in his approach.

"Yes," he replied vacantly, for he was very, very much worn these days, mentally and physically. "It's tol'able dry! Tol'able dry-!" He wiped his leathery brow with his hand.

"You don't know of any one about here, do you, who has any land for sale?"

"Ye're another one uv them min'l prowspecters, I projeck, eh?" inquired Queeder, now quite openly. There was no need to attempt to conceal that fact anv longer.

The newcomer was taken aback, for he had not expected so much awareness in this region so soon. "I am," he said frankly.

"I thought so," said Queeder.

"Have you ever thought of selling the land here:" he in- quired.

"Well, I dunno," began the farmer shrewdly. "Thar've been fellers like ;yuh aroun' hyar afore now lookin' at the place. Whut do yuh cal-late it might be wuth tuh yuh:" He eyed him sharply the while they strolled still further away from the spot where Dode, Jane and the mother formed an audience in the doorway.

The prospector ambled about the place examining the surface lumps, so plentiful everywhere.

"This looks like fairly good land to me," he said quietly after a time. "You haven't an idea how much you'd want an acre for it, have you?"

"Well, I hyur they're gettin' ez much ez three hundred down to Arno," replied Queeder, exaggerating fiercely. Now that a second purchaser had appeared he was eager to learn how much more, if any, than the original offer would be made.

"Yes — well, that's a little steep, don't you think, considering the distance the metal would have to be hauled to the railroad? It'll cost considerable to get it over here."

"Not enough, I 'low, tuh make it wuth much less'n three hundred, would it?" observed Queeder, sagely.

"Well, I don't know about that. Would you take two hundred an acre for as much as forty acres of it?"

Old Queeder pricked his ears at the sound of bargain. As near as he could figure, two hundred an acre for forty acres would bring him as much as he was now to get for the entire seventy, and he would still have thirty to dispose of. The defi- niteness of the proposition thrilled him, boded something large for his future — eight thousand for forty, and all he could wring from the first comer had been eight thousand for seventy!

"Huh!" he said, hanging on the argument with ease and leisure. "I got an offer uv a option on the hull uv it fer twelve thousan' now."

"What!" said the stranger, surveying him critically. "Have you signed any papers in the matter?"

Queeder looked at him for the moment as if he suspected treachery, and then seeing the gathered family surveying them from the distant doorway he made the newcomer a cabalistic sign.

"Come over hyur," he said, leading off to a distant fence. At the safe distance they halted. "I tell yuh just how 'tis," he ob- served very secretively. "Thar wuz a feller come along hyur three er four weeks ago an' at that time I didn't know ez how this hyur now wuz min'l, see? An' he ast me, 'thout savin' nuthin' ez tuh whut he knowed, whut I'd take for it, acre fer acre. Well, thar wuz anuther feller, a neighbor o' mine, had been along hyur an' he wuz sayin' ez how a piece o' land just below, about forty acres, wuz sold fer five thousan' dollars. Seein' ez how my land wuz the same kind o' land, only better, I 'lowed ez how thar bein' seventy acres hyur tuh his forty I oughta git nearly twicet ez much, an' I said so. He didn't 'low ez I ought at fust, but later on he kind o' come roun' an' we agreed ez how I bein' the one that fust had the place — I wuz farmin' hyur 'fore ever I married my wife — that ef any sale wuz made I orter git the biggest sheer. So we kind o' fixed it up b'tween us, quiet-like an' not lettin' anybody else know, that when it come tuh makin' out the papers an' sich at the end uv the sixty days he was to gimme a shade the best o' the money afore we signed any papers. Course I wouldn't do nuthin' like that ef the place hadn't b'longed tuh me in the fust place, an' ef me an' my wife an' chil'un got along ez well's we did at fust, but she's allers a-fightin' an' squallin'. Ef he come back hyur, ez he 'lowed he would, I wuz t' have eight thousan' fer myself, an' me an' my wife wuzta divide the rest b'tween us ez best we could, her to have her third, ez the law is."

The stranger listened with mingled astonishment, amuse- ment and satisfaction at the thought that the contract, if not exactly illegal, could at least to Queeder be made to appear so.

For an appeal to the wife must break it, and besides because of the old man's cupidity he might easily be made to annul the original agreement. For plainly even now this farmer did not know the full value of all that he had so foolishly bartered away. About him were fields literally solid with zinc under the surface. Commercially $6o,000 would be a mere bagatelle to give for it, when the East was considered. One million dollars would be a ridiculously low capitalization for a mine based on this property. A hundred thousand might well be his share for his part in the transaction. Good heavens, the other fellow had bought a fortune for a song! It was only fair to try to get it away from him.

"I'll tell you how this is, Mr. Queeder," he said after a time. "It looks to me as though this fellow, whoever he is, has given you a little the worst end of this bargain. Your land is worth much more than that, that's plain enough. But you can get out of that easily enough on the ground that you really didn't know

232 BEST SHORT STORIES OF THEODORE DREISER

what you were selling at the time you made this bargain. That's the law, I believe. You don't have to stick by an agreement if it's made when you don't understand what you're doing. As a matter of fact, I think I could get you out of it if you wanted me to. All you would have to do would be to refuse to sign any other papers when the time comes and return the money that's been paid you. Then when the time came I would be glad to take over your whole farm at three hundred dollars an acre and pay cash down. That would make you a rich man. I'd give you three thousand cash in hand the day you signed an agreement to sell. The trouble is you were just taken in. You and your wife really didn't know what you were doing."

"That's right," squeaked Queeder, "we wuz. We didn't 'low ez they wuz any min'l on this when we signed that air contrack."

Three hundred dollars an acre, as he dumbly figured it out, meant $21,000 — twenty-one instead of a wretched eight thou- sand ! For the moment he stood there quite lost as to what to do, say, think, a wavering, element-worn figure. His bent and shriveled body, raked and gutted by misfortune, fairly quivered with the knowledge that riches were really his for the asking, yet also that now, owing to his early error and ignorance in regard to all this, he might not be able to arrange for their reception. His seared and tangled brain, half twisted by solitude, balanced unevenly with the weight of this marvelous possibility. It crossed the wires of his mind and made him see strabismically.

The prospector, uncertain as to what his silence indicated, added: "I might even do a little better than that, Mr. Queeder — say, twenty-five thousand. You could have a house in the city for that. Your wife could wear silk dresses ; you yourself need never do another stroke of work; your son and daughter could go to college if they wanted to. All you have to do is to refuse to sign that deed when he comes back — hand him the money or get his address and let me send it to him."

"He swindled me, so he did ! " Queeder almost shouted now, great beads of sweat standing out upon his brow. "He tried tuh rob me! He shan't have an acre, by God — not an acre!"

"That's right," said the newcomer, and before he left he again insinuated into the farmer's mind the tremendous and unfair disproportion between twelve (as he understood Queeder was receiving) and twenty-five thousand. He pictured the dif- ference in terms of city or town opportunities, the ease of his future life.

Unfortunately, the farmer possessed no avenue by which to escape from his recent duplicity. Having deceived his wife and children over so comparatively small a sum as eight thousand, this immensely greater sum offered many more difficulties — -bickering, quarreling, open fighting, perhaps, so fierce were Dode and his wife in their moods, before it could be attained. And was he equal to it? At the same time, although he had never had anything, he was now feeling as though he had lost a great deal, as if some one were endeavoring to take something immense away from him, something which he had always had!

During the days that followed he brooded over this, avoiding his family as much as possible, while they, wondering when the first prospector would return and what conversation or arrange- ment Queeder had had with the second, watched him closely. At last he was all but unbalanced mentally, and by degrees his mind came to possess but one idea, and that was that his wife, his children, the world, all were trying to rob him, and that his one escape lay in flight with his treasure if only he could once gain possession of it. But how? How? One thing was sure. They should not have it. He would fight first ; he would die. And alone in his silent field, with ragged body and mind, he brooded over riches and felt as if he already had them to defend.

In the meanwhile the first prospector had been meditating as to the ease, under the circumstances, with which Queeder's land could be taken from him at the very nominal price of two thousand, considering the secrecy which, according to Queeder's own wish, must attach to the transfer of all moneys over that sum. Once the deed was signed — the same reading for two thousand — in the presence of the wife and a lawyer who should accompany him, how easy to walk off and pay no more, standing calmly on the letter of the contract!

It was nearing that last day now and the terrible suspense was telling. Queeder was in no mental state to endure anything. His hollow eyes showed the wondering out of which nothing had come. His nervous strolling here and there had lost all sem- blance of reason. Then on the last of the sixty allotted days there rode forward the now bane of his existence, the original prospector, accompanied by Attorney Giles, of Arno, a veritable scamp and rascal of a lawyer.

At first on seeing them Queeder felt a strong impulse to run away, but on second consideration he feared so to do. The land was his. If he did not stay Dode and Mrs. Queeder might enter on some arrangement without his consent — something which would leave him landless, moneyless — or they might find out something about the extra money he had taken and contracted for, the better price he was now privately to receive. It was es- sential that he stay, and yet he had no least idea as to how he would solve it all.

Jane, who was in the doorway as they entered the yard, was the one to welcome them, although Dode, watchful and working in a nearby patch, saluted them next. Then Mrs. Queeder examined them cynically and with much opposition. These, then, were the twain who were expecting to misuse her finan- cially!

"Where's your father, Dode?" asked Attorney Giles famil- iarly, for he knew them well.

"Over thar in the second 'tater patch," answered Dode sourly. A moment later he added with rough calculation, "Ef ye're comin' about the land, though, I 'low ez 'twon't do yuh no good. Maw an' Paw have decided not tuh sell. The place is wuth a heap more'n whut you all're offerin'. They're sellin' land roun' Arno with not near ez much min'l onto hit ez this hez for three hundred now, an' yuh all only wanta give two thousan' fer the hull place, I hyur. Maw'n Paw'd be fools ef they'd agree tuh that."

"Oh, come now," exclaimed Giles placatively and yet ir- ritably — a very wasp who was always attempting to smooth over the ruffled tempers of people on just such trying occasions as this. "Mr. Crawford here has an option on this property signed by your mother and father and witnessed by a Mr." — he considered the slip — "a Mr. Botts — oh, yes, Lester Botts. You cannot legally escape that. All Mr. Crawford has to do is to offer you the money — leave it here, in fact — and the property is his. That is the law. An option is an option, and this one has a witness. I don't see how you can hope to escape it, really."

"They wuzn't nuthin' said about no min'l when I signed that air," insisted Mrs. Queeder, "an' I don't 'low ez no paper whut I didn't know the meanin' uv is goin' tuh be good anywhar. Leastways, I won't put my name onto nuthin' else."

"Well, well!" said Mr. Giles fussily. "We'd better get Mr. Queeder in here and see what he says to this. I'm sure he'll not take any such unreasonable and illegal view."

In the meantime old Queeder, called for lustily by Jane, came edging around the house corner like some hunted animal — dark, fearful, suspicious — and at sight of him the prospector and lawyer, who had seated themselves, arose.

"Well, here we are, Mr. Queeder," said the prospector, but stopped, astonished at the weird manner in which Queeder passed an aimless hand over his brow and gazed almost dully before him. He had more the appearance of a hungry bird than a human being. He was yellow, emaciated, all but wild.

"Look at Paw!" whispered Jane to Dode, used as she was to all the old man's idiosyncrasies.

"Yes, Mr. Queeder," began the lawyer, undisturbed by the whisper of Jane and anxious to smooth over a very troublesome situation, "here we are. We have come to settle this sale with you according to the terms of the option. I suppose you're ready?"

"Whut?" asked old Queeder aimlessly, then, recovering himself slightly, began, "I hain't goin' tuh sign nuthin' ! Nuthin' 'tall! That's whut I hain't! Nuthin'!" He opened and closed his fingers and twisted and craned his neck as though physically there were something very much awry with him.

"What's that?" queried the lawyer incisively, attempting by his tone to overawe him or bring him to his senses, "not sign? What do you mean by saying you won't sign? You gave an option here for the sum of $100 cash in hand, signed by you and your wife and witnessed by Lester Botts, and now you say you won't sign! I don't want to be harsh, but there's a definite contract entered into here and money passed, and such things can't be handled in any such light way, Mr. Queeder. This is a contract, a very serious matter before the law, Mr. Queeder, a very serious matter. The law provides a very definite remedy in a case of this kind. Whether you want to sign or not, with this option we have here and what it calls for we can pay over the money before witnesses and enter suit for possession and win it."

"Not when a feller's never knowed whut he wuz dour* when he signed," insisted Dode, who by now, because of his self- interest and the appearance of his father having been misled, was coming round to a more sympathetic or at least friendly attitude.

"I'll not sign nuthin'," insisted Queeder grimly. "I hain't a-goin' tuh be swindled out o' my prupetty. I never knowed they wuz min'l onto hit, like they is — leastways not whut it wuz wuth — an' I won't sign, an' yuh ain't a-goin' tuh make me. Ye're a-tryin' tuh get it away from me fur nuthin', that's whut yere a-tryin' tuh do. I won't sign nuthin'!"

"I had no idee they wuz min'l onto hit when I signed," whimpered Mrs. Queeder.

"Oh, come, come ! " put in Crawford sternly, deciding to deal with this eccentric character and believing that he could overawe him by referring to the secret agreement between them, "don't forget, Mr. Queeder, that I had a special agreement with you concerning all this." He was not quite sure now as to what he would have to pay — the two or the eight. "Are you going to keep your bargain with me or not? You want to decide quick now. Which is it?"

"Git out!" shouted Queeder, becoming wildly excited and waving his hands and jumping backward. "Yuh swindled me, that's whutcha done ! Yuh thort yuh'd git this place f er nuthin'. Well, yuh won't — yuh kain't. I won't sign nuthin'. I won't sign nuthin'." His eyes were red and wild from too much brooding.

Now it was that Crawford, who had been hoping to get it all for two thousand, decided to stick to his private agreement to pay eight, only instead of waiting to adjust it with Queeder in private he decided now to use it openly in an attempt to suborn the family to his point of view by showing them how much he really was to have and how unjust Queeder had planned to be to himself and them. In all certainty the family understood it as only two. If he would now let them know how matters stood, perhaps that would make a difference in his favor.

"You call eight thousand for this place swindling, and after you've taken eight hundred dollars of my money and kept it for sixty days?"

"Whut's that?" asked Dode, edging nearer, then turning and glaring at his father and eyeing his mother amazedly. This surpassed in amount and importance anything he had imagined had been secured by them, and of course he assumed that both were lying. "Eight thousan' ! I thort yuh said it wuz two ! " He looked at his mother for confirmation.

The latter was a picture of genuine surprise. "That's the fust I hearn uv any eight thousan'," she replied dumbly, her own veracity in regard to the transaction being in question.

The picture that Queeder made under the circumstances was remarkable. Quite upset by this half-unexpected and yet feared revelation, he was now quite beside himself with rage, fear, the insolvability of the amazing tangle into which he had worked himself. The idea that after he had made an agreement with this man, which was really unfair to himself, he should turn on him in this way was all but mentally upsetting. Besides, the fact that his wife and son now knew how greedy and selfish he had been weakened him to the point of terror.

"Well, that's what I offered him, just the same," went on Crawford aggressively and noting the extreme effect, "and that's what he agreed to take, and that's what I'm here to pay. I paid him $800 in cash to bind the bargain, and he has the money now somewhere. His saying now that I tried to swindle him is too funny! He asked me not to say anything about it because the land was all his and he wanted to adjust things with you three in his own way."

"Git outen hyur!" shouted Queeder savagely, going all but mad, "before I kill yuh ! I hain't signed nuthin' ! We never said nuthin' about no $8,000. It wuz $2,000 — that's what it wuz! Ye're trin' tuh swindle me, the hull varmint passel o' yuh! I won't sign nuthin'!" and he stooped and attempted to seize a stool that stood near the wall.

At this all retreated except Dode, who, having mastered his father in more than one preceding contest, now descended on him and with one push of his arm knocked him down,, so weak , was he, while the lawyer and prospector, seeing him prone, at- tempted to interfere in his behalf. What Dode was really think- ing was that now was his chance. His father had lied to him. He was naturally afraid of him. Why not force him by sheer brute strength to accept this agreement and take the money? Once it was paid here before him, if he could make his father sign, he could take his share without let or hindrance. Of what dreams might not this be the fulfilment? "He agreed on't, an' now he's gotta do it," he thought ; "that's all."

"No fighting, now," called Giles. "We don't want any fight- ing — just to settle this thing pleasantly, that's all."

After all, Queeder's second signature or mark would be required, peaceably if possible, and besides they wished no physical violence. They were men of business, not of war.

"Yuh say he agreed tuh take $8,000, did he?" queried Dode, the actuality of so huge a sum ready to be paid in cash seeming to him almost unbelievable.

"Yes, that's right," replied the prospector.

"Then, by heck, he's gotta make good on whut he said!" said Dode with a roll of his round head, his arms akimbo, heavily anxious to see the money paid over. "Here you," he now turned to his father and began — for his prostrate father, having fallen and injured his head, was still lying semi-propped on his elbows, surveying the group with almost non-comprehending eyes, too confused and lunatic to quite realize what was going on or to offer any real resistance. "Whut's a-gittin' into yuh, anyhow, OP Spindle Shanks? Git up hyur!" Dode went over and lifted his father to his feet and pushed him toward a chair at the table. "Yuh might ez well sign fer this, now 'at yuh've begun it. Whar's the paper?" he asked of the lawyer. "Yuh just show him whar he orter sign, an' I guess he'll do it. But let's see this hyur money that ye're a-goin' tuh pay over fust," he added, "afore he signs. I wanta see ef it's orl right."

The prospector extracted the actual cash from a wallet, having previously calculated that a check would never be accepted, and the lawyer presented the deed to be signed. At the same time Dode took the money and began to count it.

"All he has to do," observed Giles to the others as he did so, "is to sign this second paper, he and his wife. If you can read," he said to Dode when the latter had concluded, and seeing how satisfactorily things were going, "you can see for yourself what it is." Dode now turned and picked it up and looked at it as though it were as simple and clear as daylight. "As you can see," went on the lawyer, "we agreed to buy this land of him for eight thousand dollars. We have already paid him eight hundred. That leaves seven thousand two hundred still to pay, which you have there," and he touched the money in Dode's hands. The latter was so moved by the reality of the cash that he could scarcely speak for joy. Think of it — seven thousand two hundred dollars — and all for this wretched bony land!

"Well, did yuh ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Queeder and Jane in chorus. "Who'd 'a' thort! Eight thousan'!"

Old Queeder, still stunned and befogged mentally, was yet recovering himself sufficiently to rise from the chair and look strangely about, now that Dode was attempting to make him sign, but his loving son uncompromisingly pushed him back again.

"Never mind, OP Spindle Shanks," he repeated roughly. "Just yuh stay whar yuh air an' sign as he asts yuh tuh. Yuh agreed tuh this, an' yuh might ez well stick tuh it. Ye're gittin' so yuh don't know what yuh want no more," he jested, now that he realized that for some strange reason he had his father completely under his sway. The latter was quite helplessly dumb. "Yuh agreed tuh this, he says. Did ja? Air yuh clean gone?"

"Lawsy ! " put in the excited Mrs. Queeder. "Eight thousan' ! An' him a-walkin' round' hyur all the time sayin' hit wuz only two an' never sayin' nuthin' else tuh nobody! Who'd 'a' thort hit ! An' him a-goin' tuh git hit all ef he could an' say nuthin' ! "

"Yes," added Jane, gazing at her father greedily and vin- dictively, "tryin' tuh git it all fer hisself ! An' us a'workin' hyur year in an' year out on this hyur ol' place tuh keep him com- fortable ! " She was no less hard in her glances than her brother. Her father seemed little less than a thief, attempting to rob them of the hard-earned fruit of their toil.

As the lawyer took the paper from Dode and spread it upon the old board table and handed Queeder a pen the latter took it aimlessly, quite as a child might have, and made his mark where indicated, Mr. Giles observing very cautiously, "This is of your own free will and deed, is it, Mr. Queeder?" The old man made no reply. For the time being anyhow, possibly due to the blow on his head as he fell, he had lost the main current of his idea, which was not to sign. After signing he looked vaguely around, as though uncertain as to what else might be requested of him, while Mrs. Queeder made her mark, answering "yes" to the same shrewd question. Then Dode, as the senior intelligence of this institution and the one who by right of force now dominated, having witnessed the marks of his father and mother, as did Jane, two signatures being necessary, he took the money and before the straining eyes of his relatives proceeded to recount it. Mean- while old Queeder, still asleep to the significance of the money, sat quite still, but clawed at it as though it were something which he ought to want, but was not quite sure of it.

"You find it all right, I suppose?" asked the lawyer, who was turning to go. Dode acknowledged that it was quite correct.

Then the two visitors, possessed of the desired deed, departed. The family, barring the father, who sat there still in a daze, began to discuss how the remarkable sum was to be divided.

"Now, I just wanta tell yuh one thing, Dode," urged the mother, all avarice and anxiety for herself, "a third o' that whutever 'tis, b'longs tuh me, accordin' tuh law!"

"An' I sartinly oughta git a part o' that thar, workin' the way I have," insisted Jane, standing closely over Dode.

"Well, just keep yer hands off till I git through, cantcha?" asked Dode, beginning for the third time to count it. The mere feel of it was so entrancing! What doors would it not open? He could get married now, go to the city, do a hundred things he had always wanted to do. The fact that his father was entitled to anything or that, having lost his wits, he was now completely helpless, a pathetic figure and very likely from now on doomed to wander about alone or to do his will, moved him not in the least. By right of strength and malehood he was now practically master here, or so he felt himself to be. As he fingered the money he glowed and talked, thinking wondrous things, then suddenly remembering the concealed eight hundred, or his father's part of it, he added, "Yes, an' whar's that other eight hundred, I'd like tuh know? He's a-carryin' it aroun' with him er hidin' it hyurabout mebbe ! " Then eyeing the crumpled victim suspiciously, he began to feel in the old man's clothes, but, not finding anything, desisted, saying they might get it later. The money in his hands was finally divided: a third to Mrs. Queeder, a fourth to Jane, the balance to himself as the faithful heir and helper of his father, the while he speculated as to the whereabouts of the remaining eight hundred.

Just then Queeder, who up to this time had been completely- bereft of his senses, now recovered sufficiently to guess nearly all of what had so recently transpired. With a bound he was on his feet, and, looking wildly about him, exclaiming as he did so in a thin, reedy voice, "They've stole my prupetty! They've stole my prupetty! I've been robbed, I have! I've been robbed! Eh! Eh! Eh! This hyur land ain't wuth only eight thousan' — hit's wuth twenty-five thousan', an' that's whut I could 'a' had for it, an' they've gone an' made me sign it all away! Eh! Eh! Eh!" He jigged and moaned, dancing helplessly about until, seeing Dode with his share of the money still held safely in his hand, his maniacal chagrin took a new form, and, seizing it and running to the open door, he began to throw a portion of the precious bills to the winds, crying as he did so, "They've stole my prupetty ! They've stole my prupetty ! I don't want the consarned money — I don't want it! I want my prupetty! Eh! Eh! Eh!"

In this astonishing situation Dode saw but one factor — the money. Knowing nothing of the second prospector's offer, he could not realize what it was that so infuriated the old man and had finally completely upset his mind. As the latter jigged and screamed and threw the money about he fell upon him with the energy of a wildcat and, having toppled him over and wrested the remainder of the cash from him, he held him safely down, the while he called to his sister and mother, "Pick up the money, cantcha? Pick up the money an' git a rope, cantcha? Git a rope! Cantcha see he's done gone plum daffy? He's outen his head, I tell yuh. He's crazy, he is, shore! Git a rope!" and eyeing the money now being assembled by his helpful relatives, he pressed the struggling maniac's body to the floor. When the latter was safely tied and the money returned, the affectionate son arose and, having once more recounted his share in order to see that it was all there, he was content to look about him somewhat more kindly on an all too treacherous world. Then, seeing the old man where he was trussed like a fowl for market, he added, somewhat sympathetically, it may be:

"Well, who'd V thort! Pore oP Pap! I do b'lieve he's outen his mind for shore this time ! He's clean gone — plum daffy."

"Yes, that's whut he is, I do b'lieve," added Mrs. Queeder with a modicum of wifely interest, yet more concerned at that with her part of the money than anything else.

Then Dode, his mother and sister began most unconcernedly to speculate as to what if anything was next to be done with the old farmer, the while the latter rolled a vacant eye over a scene he was no longer able to interpret.

9.The Lost Phcebe

They lived together in a part of the country which was not so prosperous as it had once been, about three miles from one of those small towns that, instead of increasing in population, is steadily decreasing. The territory was not very thickly settled j perhaps a house every other mile or so, with large areas of corn- and wheat-land and fallow fields that at odd seasons had been sown to timothy and clover. Their particular house was part log and part frame, the log portion being the old original home of Henry's grandfather. The new portion, of now rain- beaten, time-worn slabs, through which the wind squeaked in the chinks at times, and which several overshadowing elms and a butternut-tree made picturesque and reminiscently pathetic, but a little damp, was erected by Henry when he was twenty- one and just married.

That was forty-eight years before. The furniture inside, like the house outside, was old and mildewy and reminiscent of an earlier day. You have seen the what-not of cherry wood, perhaps, with spiral legs and fluted top. It was there. The old-fashioned four poster bed, with its ball-like protuberances and deep curv- ing incisions, was there also, a sadly alienated descendant of an early Jacobean ancestor. The bureau of cherry was also high and wide and solidly built, but faded-looking, and with a musty odor. The rag carpet that underlay all these sturdy examples of enduring furniture was a weak, faded, lead-and-pink-colored affair woven by Phoebe Ann's own hands, when she was fifteen years younger than she was when she died. The creaky wooden loom on which it had been done now stood like a dusty, bony skeleton, along with a broken rocking-chair, a worm-eaten clothes- press — Heaven knows how old — a lime-stained bench that had once been used to keep flowers on outside the door, and other decrepit factors of household utility, in an east room that was a lean-to against this so-called main portion. All sorts of other broken- down furniture were about this place ; an antiquated clothes-horse, cracked in two of its ribs; a broken mirror in an old cherry frame, which had fallen from a nail and cracked itself three days before their youngest son, Jerry, died; an ex- tension hat-rack, which once had had porcelain knobs on the ends of its pegs; and a sewing-machine, long since outdone in its clumsy mechanism by rivals of a newer generation.

The orchard to the east of the house was full of gnarled old apple-trees, worm-eaten as to trunks and branches, and fully ornamented with green and white lichens, so that it had a sad, greenish-white, silvery effect in moonlight. The low outhouses, which had once housed chickens, a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs, were covered with patches of moss as to their roof, and the sides had been free of paint for so long that they were blackish gray as to color, and a little spongy. The picket-fence in front, with its gate squeaky and askew, and the side fences of the stake-and-rider type were in an equally run-down condition. As a matter of fact, they had aged synchronously with the per- sons who lived here, old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phcebe Ann.

They had lived here, these two, ever since their marriage, forty-eight years before, and Henry had lived here before that from his childhood up. His father and mother, well along in years when he was a boy, had invited him to bring his wife here when he had first fallen in love and decided to marry; and he had done so. His father and mother were the companions of himself and his wife for ten years after they were married, when both died; and then Henry and Phcebe were left with their five children growing lustily apace. But all sorts of things had happened since then. Of the seven children, all told, that had been born to them, three had died; one girl had gone to Kansas j one boy had gone to Sioux Falls, never even to be heard of after ; another boy had gone to Washington; and the last girl lived five counties away in the same State, but was so burdened with cares of her own that she rarely gave them a thought. Time and a commonplace home life that had never been attractive had weaned them thoroughly, so that, wherever they were, they gave little thought as to how it might be with their father and mother.

Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phcebe were a loving couple. You perhaps know how it is with simple natures that fasten themselves like lichens on the stones of circumstance and weather their days to a crumbling conclusion. The great world sounds widely, but it has no call for them. They have no soar- ing intellect. The orchard, the meadow, the corn-field, the pig- pen, and the chicken-lot measure the range of their human activities. When the wheat is headed it is reaped and threshed ; when the corn is browned and frosted it is cut and shocked; when the timothy is in full head it is cut, and the hay-cock erected. After that comes winter, with the hauling of grain to market, the sawing and splitting of wood, the simple chores of fire-building, meal- getting, occasional repairing, and visiting. Beyond these and the changes of weather — the snows, the rains, and the fair days — there are no immediate, significant things. All the rest of life is a far-off, clamorous phantasmagoria, flickering like Northern lights in the night, and sounding as faintly as cow-bells tinkling in the distance.

Old Henry and his wife Phcebe were as fond of each other as it is possible for two old people to be who have nothing else in this life to be fond of. He was a thin old man, seventy when she died, a queer, crotchety person with coarse gray-black hair and beard, quite straggly and unkempt. He looked at you out of dull, fishy, watery eyes that had deep-brown crow's-feet at the sides. His clothes, like the clothes of many farmers, were aged and angular and baggy, standing out at the pockets, not fitting about the neck, protuberant and worn at elbow and knee. Phcebe Ann was thin and shapeless, a very umbrella of a woman, clad in shabby black, and with a black bonnet for her best wear. As time had passed, and they had only themselves to look after, their movements had become slower and slower, their activities fewer and fewer. The annual keep of pigs had been re- duced from five to one grunting porker, and the single horse which Henry now retained was a sleepy animal, not over- nourished and not very clean. The chickens, of which formerly there was a large flock, had almost disappeared, owing to fer- rets, foxes, and the lack of proper care, which produces disease. The former healthy garden was now a straggling memory of itself, and the vines and flower-beds that formerly ornamented the windows and dooryard had now become choking thickets. A will had been made which divided the small tax-eaten prop- erty equally among the remaining four, so that it was really of no interest to any of them. Yet these two lived together in peace and sympathy, only that now and then old Henry would become unduly cranky, complaining almost invariably that something had been neglected or mislaid which was of no im- portance at all.

"Phcebe, where's my corn-knife? You ain't never minded to let my things alone no more."

"Now you hush, Henry," his wife would caution him in a cracked and squeaky voice. "If you don't, I'll leave yuh. I'll git up and walk out of here some day, and then where would y' be? Y' ain't got anybody but me to look after yuh, so yuh just be- have yourself. Your corn-knife's on the mantel where it's alius been unless you've gone an' put it summers else."

Old Henry, who knew his wife would never leave him in any circumstances, used to speculate at times as to what he would do if she were to die. That was the one leaving that he really feared. As he climbed on the chair at night to wind the old, long-pendulumed, double-weighted clock, or went finally to the front and the back door to see that they were safely shut in, it was a comfort to know that Phcebe was there, properly en- sconced on her side of the bed, and that if he stirred restlessly in the night, she would be there to ask what he wanted.

"Now, Henry, do lie still! You're as restless as a chicken."

"Well, I can't sleep, Phcebe."

"Well, yuh needn't roll so, anyhow. Yuh kin let me sleep."

This usually reduced him to a state of somnolent ease. If she wanted a pail of water, it was a grumbling pleasure for him to get it; and if she did rise first to build the fires, he saw that the wood was cut and placed within easy reach. They divided this simple world nicely between them.

As the years had gone on, however, fewer and fewer people had called. They were Well-known for a distance of as much as ten square miles as old Mr. and Mrs. Reifsneider, honest, moderately Christian, but too old to be really interesting any longer. The writing of letters had become an almost impossible burden too difficult to continue or even negotiate via others, although an occasional letter still did arrive from the daughter in Pemberton County. Now and then some old friend stopped with a pie or cake or a roasted chicken or duck, or merely to see that they were well; but even these kindly minded visits were no longer frequent.

One day in the early spring of her sixty-fourth year Mrs. Reifsneider took sick, and from a low fever passed into some indefinable ailment which, because of her age, was no longer curable. Old Henry drove to Swinnerton, the neighboring town, and procured a doctor. Some friends called, and the immediate care of her was taken off his hands. Then one chill spring night she died, and old Henry, in a fog of sorrow and uncer- tainty, followed her body to the nearest graveyard, an unattrac- tive space with a few pines growing in it. Although he might have gone to the daughter in Pemberton or sent for her, it was really too much trouble and he was too weary and fixed. It was suggested to him at once by one friend and another that he come to stay with them awhile, but he did not see fit. He was so old and so fixed in his notions and so accustomed to the exact surroundings he had known all his days, that he could not think of leaving. He wanted to remain near where they had put his Phoebe; and the fact that he would have to live alone did not trouble him in the least. The living children were notified and the care of him offered if he would leave, but he would not.

"I kin make a shift for myself," he continually announced to old Dr. Morrow, who had attended his wife in this case. "I kin cook a little, and, besides, it don't take much more'n coffee an' bread in the mornin's to satisfy me. Pll get along now well enough. Yuh just let me be." And after many pleadings and proffers of advice, with supplies of coffee and bacon and baked bread duly offered and accepted, he was left to himself. For a while he sat idly outside his door brooding in the spring sun. He tried to revive his interest in farming, and to keep himself busy and free from thought by looking after the fields, which of late had been much neglected. It was a gloomy thing to come in of an evening, however, or in the afternoon and find no shadow of Phcebe where everything suggested her. By degrees he put a few of her things away. At night he sat beside his lamp and read in the papers that were left him occasionally or in a-Bible that he had neglected for years, but he could get little solace from these things. Mostly he held his hand over his mouth and looked at the floor as he sat and thought of what had become of her, and how soon he himself would die. He made a great business of making his coffee in the morning and frying himself a little bacon at night ; but his appetite was gone. The shell in which he had been housed so long seemed vacant, and its shadows were suggestive of immedicable griefs. So he lived quite dole- fully for five long months, and then a change began.

It was one night, after he had looked after the front and the back door, wound the clock, blown out the light, and gone through all the selfsame motions that he had indulged in for years, that he went to bed not so much to sleep as to think. It was a moonlight night. The green-lichen-covered orchard just outside and to be seen from his bed where he now lay was a silvery affair, sweetly spectral. The moon shone through the east windows, throwing the pattern of the panes on the wooden floor, and making the old furniture, to which he was accustomed, stand out dimly in the room. As usual he had been thinking of Phcebe and the years when they had been young together, and of the children who had gone, and the poor shift he was making of his present days. The house was coming to be in a very bad state indeed. 'JThe bed-clothes were in disorder and not clean, for he made a wretched shift of washing. It was a terror to him. The roof leaked, causing things, some of them, to remain damp for weeks at a time, but he was getting into that brooding state where he would accept anything rather than exert himself. He preferred to pace slowly to and fro or to sit and think.

By twelve o'clock of this particular night he was asleep, how- ever, and by two had waked again. The moon by this time had shifted to a position on the western side of the house, and it now shone in through the windows of the living-room and those of the kitchen beyond. A certain combination of furniture — a chair near a table, with his coat on it, the half-open kitchen door casting a shadow, and the position of a lamp near a paper — gave him an exact representation of Phcebe leaning over the table as he had often seen her do in life. It gave him a great start. Could it be she — or her ghost? He had scarcely ever believed in spirits j and still He looked at her fixedly in the feeble half-light, his old hair tingling oddly at the roots, and then sat up. The figure did not move. He put his thin legs out of the bed and sat looking at her, wondering if this could really be Phcebe. They had talked of ghosts often in their lifetime, of apparitions and omens ; but they had never agreed that such things could be. It had never been a part of his wife's creed that she could have a spirit that could return to walk the earth. Her after-world was quite a different affair, a vague heaven, no less, from which the righteous did not trouble to return. Yet here she was now, bend- ing over the table in her black skirt and gray shawl, her pale profile outlined against the moonlight.

"Phcebe," he called, thrilling from head to toe and putting out one bony hand, "have yuh come back?"

The figure did not stir, and he arose and walked uncertainly to the door, looking at it fixedly the while. As he drew near, however, the apparition resolved itself into its primal content — ■ his old coat over the high-backed chair, the lamp by the paper, the half-open door.

"Well," he said to himself, his mouth open, "I thought shore I saw her." And he ran his hand strangely and vaguely through his hair, the while his nervous tension relaxed. Vanished as it had, it gave him the idea that she might return.

Another night, because of this first illusion, and because his mind was now constantly on her and he was old, he looked out of the window that was nearest his bed and commanded a hen- coop and pig-pen and a part of the wagon-shed, and there, a faint mist exuding from the damp of the ground, he thought he saw her again. It was one of those little wisps of mist, one of those faint exhalations of the earth that rise in a cool night after a warm day, and flicker like small white cypresses of fog before they disappear. In life it had been a custom of hers to cross this lot from her kitchen door to the pig- pen to throw in any scrap that was left from her cooking, and here she was again. He sat up and watched it strangely, doubtfully, because of his previous experience, but inclined, because of the nervous titillation that passed over his body, to believe that spirits really were, and that Phcebe, who would be concerned because of his lonely state, must be thinking about him, and hence returning. What other way would she have? How otherwise could she express herself? It would be within the province of her charity so to do, and like her loving interest in him. He quivered and watched it eagerly j but, a faint breath of air stirring, it wound away toward the fence and disappeared.

A third night, as he was actually dreaming, some ten days later, she came to his bedside and put her hand on his head.

"Poor Henry!" she said. "It's too bad."

He roused out of his sleep, actually to see her, he thought, moving from his bed-room into the one living-room, her figure a shadowy mass of black. The weak straining of his eyes caused little points of light to nicker about the outlines of her form. He arose, greatly astonished, walked the floor in the cool room, con- vinced that Phcebe was coming back to him. If he only thought sufficiently, if he made it perfectly clear by his feeling that he needed her greatly, she would come back, this kindly wife, and tell him what to do. She would perhaps be with him much of the time, in the night, anyhow j and that would make him less lonely, this state more endurable.

In age and with the feeble it is not such a far cry from the subtleties of illusion to actual hallucination, and in due time this transition was made for Henry. Night after night he waited, expecting her return. Once in his weird mood he thought he saw a pale light moving about the room, and another time he thought he saw her walking in the orchard after dark. It was one morn- ing when the details of his lonely state were virtually unen- durable that he woke with the thought that she was not dead. How he had arrived at this conclusion it is hard to say. His mind had gone. In its place was a fixed illusion. He and Phcebe had had a senseless quarrel. He had reproached her for not leaving his pipe where he was accustomed to find it, and she had left.

It was an aberrated fulfillment of her old jesting threat that if he did not behave himself she would leave him.

"I guess I could find yuh ag'in," he had always said. But her cackling threat had always been.

"Yuh'll not find me if I ever leave yuh. I guess I kin git some place where yuh can't find me."

This morning when he arose he did not think to build the fire in the customary way or to grind his coffee and cut his bread, as was his wont, but solely to meditate as to where he should search for her and how he should induce her to come back. Recently the one horse had been dispensed with because he found it cumbersome and beyond his needs. He took down his soft crush hat after he had dressed himself, a new glint of interest and determination in his eye, and taking his black crook cane from behind the door, where he had always placed it, started out briskly to look for her among the nearest neighbors. His old shoes clumped soundly in the dust as he walked, and his gray-black locks, now grown rather long, straggled out in a dramatic fringe or halo from under his hat. His short coat stirred busily as he walked, and his hands and face were peaked and pale.

"Why, hello, Henry! Where're yuh goin' this morning " in- quired Farmer Dodge, who, hauling a load of wheat to market, encountered him on the public road. He had not seen the aged farmer in months, not since his wife's death, and he wondered now, seeing him looking so spry.

"Yuh ain't seen Phcebe, have yuh?" inquired the old man, looking up quizzically.

"Phcebe who ? " inquired Farmer Dodge, not for the moment connecting the name with Henry's dead wife.

"Why, my wife Phcebe, o' course. Who do yuh s'pose I mean?" He stared up with a pathetic sharpness of glance from under his shaggy, gray eyebrows.

"Wall, I'll swan, Henry, yuh ain't jokin', are yuh?" said the solid Dodge, a pursy man, with a smooth, hard, red face. "It can't be your wife yuh're talkin' about. She's dead."

"Dead! Shucks!" retorted the demented Reifsneider. "She left me early this mornin', while I was sleepin'. She alius got up to build the fire, but she's gone now. We had a little spat last night, an' I guess that's the reason. But I guess I kin find her. She's gone over to Matilda Race's ; that's where she's gone."

He started briskly up the road, leaving the amazed Dodge to stare in wonder after him.

"Well, I'll be switched!" he said aloud to himself. "He's clean out'n his head. That poor old feller's been livin' down there till he's gone outen his mind. I'll have to notify the author- ities." And he flicked his whip with great enthusiasm. "Geddap ! " he said, and was off.

Reifsneider met no one else in this poorly populated region until he reached the whitewashed fence of Matilda Race and her husband three miles away. He had passed several other houses en route, but these not being within the range of his illusion were not considered. His wife, who had known Matilda well, must be here. He opened the picket-gate which guarded the walk, and stamped briskly up to the door.

"Why, Mr. Reifsneider," exclaimed old Matilda herself, a stout woman, looking out of the door in answer to his knock, "what brings yuh here this mornin'?"

"Is Phcebe here?" he demanded eagerly.

"Phcebe who? What Phcebe?" replied Mrs. Race, curious as to this sudden development of energy on his part.

"Why, my Phcebe, o' course. My wife Phcebe. Who do yuh s'pose? Ain't she here now?"

"Lawsy me ! " exclaimed Mrs. Race, opening her mouth. "Yuh pore man ! So you're clean out'n your mind now. Yuh come right in and sit down. I'll git yuh a cup o' coffee. O' course your wife ain't here j but yuh come in an' sit down. I'll find her fer yuh after a while. I know where she is."

The old farmer's eyes softened, and he entered. He was so thin and pale a specimen, pantalooned and patriarchal, that he aroused Mrs. Race's extremest sympathy as he took off his hat and laid it on his knees quite softly and mildly.

"We had a quarrel last night, an' she left me," he volunteered.

"Laws! laws!" sighed Mrs. Race, there being no one present with whom to share her astonishment as she went to her kitchen. "The pore man! Now somebody's just got to look after him. He can't be allowed to run around the country this way lookin' for his dead wife. It's tumble."

She boiled him a pot of coffee and brought in some of her new- baked bread and fresh butter. She set out some of her best jam and put a couple of eggs to boil, lying whole-heartedly the while.

"Now yuh stay right there, Uncle Henry, till Jake comes in, an' I'll send him to look for Phoebe. I think it's more'n likely she's over to Swinnerton with some o' her friends. Anyhow, we'll find out. Now yuh just drink this coffee an' eat this bread. Yuh must be tired. Yuh've had a long walk this mornin'." Her idea was to take counsel with Jake, "her man," and perhaps have him notify the authorities.

She bustled about, meditating on the uncertainties of life, while old Reifsneider thrummed on the rim of his hat with his pale fingers and later ate abstractedly of what she offered. His mind was on his wife, however, and since she was not here, or did not appear, it wandered vaguely away to a family by the name of Murray, miles away in another direction. He decided after a time that he would not wait for Jake Race to hunt his wife but would seek her for himself. He must be on, and urge her to come back.

"Well, I'll be goin'," he said, getting up and looking strangely about him. "I guess she didn't come here after all. She went over to the Murrays', I guess. I'll not wait any longer, Mis' Race. There's a lot to do over to the house to- day." And out he marched in the face of her protests taking to the dusty road again in the warm spring sun, his cane striking the earth as he Went.

It was two hours later that this pale figure of a man appeared in the Murrays' doorway, dusty, perspiring, eager. He had tramped all of five miles, and it was noon. An amazed husband and wife of sixty heard his strange query, and realized also that he was mad. They begged him to stay to dinner, intending to notify the authorities later and see what could be donej but though he stayed to partake of a little something, he did not stay long, and was off again to another distant farmhouse, his idea of many things to do and his need of Phcebe impelling him. So it went for that day and the next and the next, the circle of his inquiry ever widening.

The process by which a character assumes the significance of being peculiar, his antics weird, yet harmless, in such a com- munity is often involute and pathetic. This day, as has been said, saw Reifsneider at other doors, eagerly asking his unnatural question, and leaving a trail of amazement, sympathy, and pity in his wake. Although the authorities were informed — the county sheriff, no less — it was not deemed advisable to take him into custody ; for when those who knew old Henry, and had- for so long, reflected on the condition of the county insane asylum, a place which, because of the poverty of the district, was of stag- gering aberration and sickening environment, it was decided to let him remain at large; for, strange to relate, it was found on investigation that at night he returned peaceably enough to his lonesome domicile there to discover whether his wife had re- turned, and to brood in loneliness until the morning. Who would lock up a thin, eager, seeking old man with iron-gray hair and an attitude of kindly, innocent inquiry, particularly when he was well known for a past of only kindly servitude and reliability? Those who had known him best rather agreed that he should be allowed to roam at large. He could do no harm. There were many who were willing to help him as to food, old clothes, the odds and ends of his daily life — at least at first. His figure after a time became not so much a common-place as an accepted curiosity, and the replies, "Why, no, Henry; I ain't see her," or "No, Henry j she ain't been here to-day," more customary. For several years thereafter then he was an odd figure in the sun and rain, on dusty roads and muddy ones, encountered oc- casionally in strange and unexpected places, pursuing his endless search. Undernourishment, after a time, although the neighbors and those who knew his history gladly contributed from their store, affected his body; for he walked much and ate little. The longer he roamed the public highway in this manner, the deeper became his strange hallucination; and finding it harder and harder to return from his more and more distant pilgrimages, he finally began taking a few utensils with him from his home, making a small package of them, in order that he might not be compelled to return. In an old tin coffee-pot of large size he placed a small tin cup, a knife, fork, and spoon, some salt and pepper, and to the outside of it, by a string forced through a pierced hole, he fastened a plate, which could be released, and which was his woodland table. It was no trouble for him to secure the little food that he needed, and with a strange, almost re- ligious dignity, he had no hesitation in asking for that much. By degrees his hair became longer and longer, his once black hat became an earthen brown, and his clothes threadbare and dusty.

For all of three years he walked, and none knew how wide were his perambulations, nor how he survived the storms and cold. They could not see him, with homely rural understanding and forethought, sheltering himself in hay-cocks, or by the sides of cattle, whose warm bodies protected him from the cold, and whose dull understandings were not opposed to his harmless presence. Overhanging rocks and trees kept him at times from the rain, and a friendly hay-loft or corn-crib was not above his humble consideration.

The involute progression of hallucination is strange. From asking at doors and being constantly rebuffed or denied, he finally came to the conclusion that although his Phcebe might not be in any of the houses at the doors of which he inquired, she might nevertheless be within the sound of his voice. And so, from patient inquiry, he began to call sad, occasional cries, that ever and anon waked the quiet landscapes and ragged hill regions, and set to echoing his thin "O-o-o Phcebe! O-o-o Phcebe!" It had a pathetic, albeit insane, ring, and many a farmer or plowboy came to know it even from afar and say, "There goes old Reifsneider."

Another thing that puzzled him greatly after a time and after many hundreds of inquiries was, when he no longer had any particular dooryard in view and no special inquiry to make, which way to go. These cross-roads, which occasionally led in four or even six directions, came after a time to puzzle him. But to solve this knotty problem, which became more and more of a puzzle, there came to his aid another hallucination. Phoebe's spirit or some power of the air or wind or nature would tell him. If he stood at the center of the parting of the ways, closed his eyes, turned thrice about, and called "O-o-o Phcebe!" twice, and then threw his cane straight before him, that would surely indicate which way to go for Phcebe, or one of these mystic powers would surely govern its direction and fall ! In whichever direction it went, even though, as was not infrequently the case, it took him back along the path he had already come, or across fields, he was not so far gone in his mind but that he gave himself ample time to search before he called again. Also the hallucination seemed to persist that at some time he would surely find her. There were hours when his feet were sore, and his limbs weary, when he would stop in the heat to wipe his seamed brow, or in the cold to beat his arms. Sometimes, after throwing away his cane, and finding it indicating the direction from which he had just come, he would shake his head wearily and philosophically, as if contemplating the unbelievable or an untoward fate, and then start briskly off. His strange figure came finally to be known in the farthest reaches of three or four counties. Old Reifsneider was a pathetic character. His fame was wide.

Near a little town called Watersville, in Green County, per- haps four miles from that minor center of human activity, there was a place or precipice locally known as the Red Cliff, a sheer wall of red sandstone, perhaps a hundred feet high, which raised its sharp face for half a mile or more above the fruitful corn- fields and orchards that lay beneath, and which was surmounted by a thick grove of trees. The slope that slowly led up to it from the opposite side was covered by a rank growth of beech, hickory, and ash, through which threaded a number of wagon- tracks crossing at various angles. In fair weather it had become old Reifsneider's habit, so inured was he by now to the open, to make his bed in some such patch of trees as this to fry his bacon or boil his eggs at the foot of some tree before laying himself down for the night. Occasionally, so light and inconse- quential was his sleep, he would walk at night. More often, the moonlight or some sudden wind stirring in the trees or a recon- noitering animal arousing him, he would sit up and think, or pursue his quest in the moonlight or the dark, a strange, un- natural, half wild, half savage-looking but utterly harmless creature, calling at lonely road crossings, staring at dark and shuttered houses, and wondering where, where Phcebe could really be.

That particular lull that comes in the systole-diastole of this earthly ball at two o'clock in the morning invariably aroused him, and though he might not go any farther he would sit up and contemplate the darkness or the stars, wondering. Some- times in the strange processes of his mind he would fancy that he saw moving among the trees the figure of his lost wife, and then he would get up to follow, taking his utensils, always on a string, and his cane. If she seemed to evade him too easily he would run, or plead, or, suddenly losing track of the fancied figure, stand awed or disappointed, grieving for the moment over the almost insurmountable difficulties of his search.

It was in the seventh year of these hopeless peregrinations, in the dawn of a similar springtime to that in which his wife had died, that he came at last one night to the vicinity of this self- same patch that crowned the rise to the Red Cliff. His far-flung cane, used as a divining-rod at the last cross- roads, had brought him hither. He had walked many, many miles. It was after ten o'clock at night, and he was very weary. Long wandering and little eating had left him but a shadow of his former self. It was a question now not so much of physical strength but of spiritual endurance which kept him up. He had scarcely eaten this day, and now exhausted he set himself down in the dark to rest and possibly to sleep.

Curiously on this occasion a strange suggestion of the presence of his wife surrounded him. It would not be long now, he coun- seled with himself, although the long months had brought him nothing, until he should see her, talk to her. He fell asleep after a time, his head on his knees. At midnight the moon began to rise, and at two in the morning, his wakeful hour, was a large silver disk shining through the trees to the east. He opened his eyes when the radiance became strong, making a silver pattern at his feet and lighting the woods with strange lusters and silvery, shadowy forms. As usual, his old notion that his wife must be near occurred to him on this occasion, and he looked about him with a speculative, anticipatory eye. What was it that moved in the distant shadows along the path by which he had entered — a pale, flickering will-o'-the-wisp that bobbed grace- fully among the trees and riveted his expectant gaze? Moonlight and shadows combined to give it a strange form and a stranger reality, this fluttering of bogfire or dancing of wandering fire- flies. Was it truly his lost Phcebe? By a circuitous route it passed about him, and in his fevered state he fancied that he could see the very eyes of her, not as she was when he last saw her in the black dress and shawl but now a strangely younger Phcebe, gayer, sweeter, the one whom he had known years before as a girl. Old Reifsneider got up. He had been expecting and dreaming of this hour all these years, and now as he saw the feeble light dancing lightly before him he peered at it questioningly, one thin hand in his gray hair.

Of a sudden there came to him now for the first time in many years the full charm of her girlish figure as he had known it in boyhood, the pleasing, sympathetic smile, the brown hair, the blue sash she had once worn about her waist at a picnic, her gay, graceful movements. He walked around the base of the tree, straining with his eyes, forgetting for once his cane and utensils, and following eagerly after. On she moved before him, a will- o'-the-wisp of the spring, a little flame above her head, and it seemed as though among the small saplings of ash and beech and the thick trunks of hickory and elm that she signaled with a young, a lightsome hand.

"O Phcebe! Phcebe!" he called. "Have yuh really come? Have yuh really answered me?" And hurrying faster, he fell once, scrambling lamely to his feet, only to see the light in the distance dancing illusively on. On and on he hurried until he was fairly running, brushing his ragged arms against the trees, striking his hands and face against impeding twigs. His hat was gone, his lungs were breathless, his reason quite astray, when coming to the edge of the cliff he saw her below among a silvery bed of apple-trees now blooming in the spring.

"O Phcebe!" he called. "O Phcebe! Oh, no, don't leave me!" And feeling the lure of a world where love was young and Phcebe as this vision presented her, a delightful epitome of their quondam youth, he gave a gay cry of "Oh, wait, Phcebe ! " and leaped.

Some farmer-boys, reconnoitering this region of bounty and prospect some few days afterward, found first the tin utensils tied together under the tree where he had left them, and then later at the foot of the cliff, pale, broken, but elate, a molded smile of peace and delight upon his lips, his body. His old hat was discovered lying under some low-growing saplings the twigs of which had held it back. No one of all the simple popula- tion knew how eagerly and joyously he had found his lost mate.

10.Convention

This story was told to me once by a very able newspaper car- toonist, and since it makes rather clear the powerfully repressive and often transforming force of convention, I set it down as something in the nature of an American social document. As he told it, it went something like this :

At one time I was a staff artist on the principal paper of one of the mid- Western cities, a city on a river. It was, and remains to this hour, a typical American city. No change. It had a popula- tion then of between four and five hundred thousand. It had its clubs and churches and its conventional goings- on. It was an excellent and prosperous manufacturing cityj nothing more.

On the staff with me at this time was a reporter whom I had known a little, but never intimately. I don't know whether I ought to bother to describe him or not — physically, I mean. His physique is unimportant to this story. But I think it would be interesting and even important to take him apart mentally and look at him, if one could — sort out the various components of his intellectual machinery, and so find out exactly how his in- tellectual processes proceeded. However, I can't do that; I have not the skill. Barring certain very superficial characteristics which I will mention he was then and remains now a psychological mystery to me. He was what I would describe as superficially clever, a good writer of a good, practical, matter-of-fact story. He appeared to be well liked by those who were above him officially, and he could write Sunday feature stories of a sort, no one of which, as I saw it, ever contained a moving touch of color or a breath of real poetry. Some humor he had. He was efficient. He had a nose for news. He dressed quite well and he was not ill-looking — tall, thin, wiry, almost leathery. He had a quick, facile smile, a genial word-flow for all who knew him. He was the kind of man who was on practical and friendly terms with many men connected with the commercial organizations and clubs about town, and from whom he extracted news bits from time to time. By the directing chiefs of the paper he was considered useful.

Well, this man and I were occasionally sent out on the same assignment, he to write the story, I to make sketches — usually some Sunday feature story. Occasionally we would talk about whatever was before us — newspaper work, politics, the particular story in hand — but never enthusiastically or warmly about any- thing. He lacked what I thought was the artistic and poetic point of view. And yet, as I say, we were friendly enough. I took him about as any newspaperman takes another newspaper- man of the same staff who is in good standing.

Along in the spring or summer of the second year that I was on the paper the Sunday editor, to whom I was beholden in part for my salary, called me into his room and said that he had de- cided that Wallace Steele and myself were to do a feature story about the "love-boats" which plied Saturday and Sunday after- noons and every evening up and down the river for a distance of thirty- five miles or more. This distance, weather permitting, gave an opportunity to six or seven hundred couples on hot nights to escape the dry, sweltering heat of the city — and it was hot there in summer — and to enjoy the breezes and dance, sometimes by the light of Chinese lanterns, sometimes by the light of the full moon. It was delightful. Many, many thousands took ad- vantage of the opportunity in season.

It was delicious to me, then in the prime of youth and am- bition, to sit on the hurricane or "spoon" deck, as our Sunday editor called it, and study not only the hundreds of boys and girls, but also the older men and women, who came principally to make love, though secondarily to enjoy the river and the air, to brood over the picturesque groupings of the trees, bushes, distant cabins and bluffs which rose steeply from the river, to watch the great cloud of smoke that trailed over us, to see the two halves of the immense steel walking beam chuff-chuffing up and down, and to listen to the drive of the water-wheel behind. This was in the days before the automobile, and any such pleasant means of getting away from the city was valued much more than it is now.

But to return to this Sunday editor and his orders. I was to make sketches of spooning couples, or at least of two or three small distinctive groups with a touch of romance in them. Steele was to tell how the love-making went on. This, being an innocent method of amusement, relief from the humdrum of such a world as this was looked upon with suspicion if not actual disfavor by the wiseacres of the paper, as well as by the conservatives of the city. True conservatives would not so indulge themselves. The real object of the Sunday editor was to get something into his paper that would have a little kick to it. We were, without exaggerating the matter in any way, to shock the conservatives by a little picture of life and love, which, however innocent, was none the less taboo in that city. The story was to suggest, as I understand it, loose living, low ideals and the like. These outings did not have the lockstep of business or religion in them.

Well, to proceed. No sooner had the order been given than Steele came to me to talk it over. He liked the idea very much. It was a good Sunday subject. Besides, the opportunity for an out- ing appealed to him. We were to go on the boat that left the wharf at the foot of Beach Street at eight o'clock that evening. He had been told to write anything from fifteen hundred to two thousand words. If I made three good sketches, that would make almost a three- fourths page special. He would make his story as lively and colorful as he could. He was not a little flat- tered, I am sure, by having been called to interpret such a gay, risque scene.

It was about one-thirty when we had been called in. About four o'clock he came to me again. We had, as I had assumed, tentatively agreed to meet at the wharf entrance and do the thing together. By now, however, he had another plan. Perhaps I should say here that up to that moment I only vaguely knew that he had a wife and child and that he lived with them some- where in the southwestern section of the city, whether in his own home or a rooming-house, I did not know. Come to think of it, just before this I believe I had heard him remark to others that his wife was out of the city. At any rate, he now said that since his wife was out of the city and as the woman of whom they rented their rooms was a lonely and a poor person who seldom got out anywhere, he had decided to bring her along for the outing. I needn't wait for him. He would see me on the boat, or we could discuss the story later.

I agreed to this and was prepared to think nothing of it except for one thing. His manner of telling me had something about it, or there was some mood or thought in connection with it in his own mind, which reached me telepathetically, and caused me to think that he was taking advantage of his wife's absence to go out somewhere with some one else. And yet, at that, I could not see why I thought about it. The thing had no real interest for me. And I had not the least proof and wanted none. As I say, I was not actually interested. I did not know his wife at all. I did not care for him or her. I did not care whether he flirted with some one else or not. Still, this silly, critical thought passed through my mind, put into it by him, I am sure, because he was thinking — at least, might have been thinking — that I might regard it as strange that he should appear anywhere with another woman than his wife. Apart from this, and before this, seeing him buzzing about here and there, and once talking to a girl on a street corner near the Mail office, I had only the vague notion that, married or not, he was a young man who was not averse to slipping away for an hour or two with some girl whom he knew or casually met, provided no one else knew anything about it, especially his wife. But that was neither here nor there. I never gave the man much thought at any time.

At any rate, seven o'clock coming, I had my dinner at a little restaurant near the office and went to the boat. It was a hot night, but clear and certain to bring a lovely full moon, and I was glad to be going. At the same time, I was not a little lonely and out of sorts with myself because I had no girl and was wishing that I had — wishing that some lovely girl was hanging on my arm and that now we two could go down to the boat together and sit on the spoon deck and look at the moon, or that we could dance on the cabin deck below, where were all the lights and musicians. My hope, if not my convinced expectation, was that somewhere on this boat I, too, should find some one who would be interested in me — I, too, should be able to sit about with the others and laugh and make love. But I didn't. The thought was futile. I was not a ladies' man, and few if any girls ever looked at me. Besides, women and girls usually came accompanied on a trip like this. I went alone, and I returned alone. So much for me.

Brooding in this fashion, I went aboard along with the earliest of the arrivals, and, going to the cabin deck, sat down and watched the others approach. It was one of my opportunities to single out interesting groups for my pen. And there were many. They came, so blithe, so very merry, all of them, in pairs or groups of four or six or eight or ten, boys and girls of the tene- ments and the slums — a few older couples among them, — but all smiling and chatting, the last ones hurrying excitedly to make the boat, and each boy with his girl, as I was keen to note, and each girl with her beau. I singled out this group and that, this type and that, making a few idle notes on my pad, just sug- gestions of faces, hats, gestures, swings or rolls of the body and the like. There was a strong light over the gangway, and I could sketch there. It was interesting and colorful, but, being very much alone, I was not very happy about it.

In the midst of these, along with the latter half of the crowd, came Steele and his lonely landlady, to whom, as he said, this proffer on his part was a kindness. Because of what he had said I was expecting a woman who would be somewhat of a frump — at least thirty-five or forty years old and not very attractive. But to my surprise, as they came up the long gangplank which led from the levee and was lighted by flaring gasoline torches, I saw a young woman who could not have been more than twenty- seven or -eight at most — and pretty, very. She had on a wide, floppy, lacy hat of black or dark blue, but for contrast a pale, cream-colored, flouncy dress. And she was graceful and plump and agreeable in every way. Some landlady, indeed, I thought, looking enviously down and wishing that it was myself and not he to whose arm she was clinging!

The bounder! I thought. To think that he should be able to interest so charming a girl, and in the absence of his wife! And I could get none! He had gone home and changed to a better suit, straw hat, cane and all, whereas I — I — dub! — had come as I was. No wonder no really interesting girl would look at me. Fool! But I remained in position studying the entering throng until the last couple was on and I listened to the cries of "Heave off, there!" "Loosen those stay lines, will you?" "Careful, there!" "Hurry with that gangplank!" Soon we were in mid- stream. The jouncy, tinny music had begun long before, and the couples, scores and scores of them, were already dancing on the cabin deck, while I was left to hang about the bar or saunter through the crowd, looking for types when I didn't want to be anywhere but close beside some girl on the spoon deck, who would hang on my arm, laugh into my eyes, and jest and dance with me.

Because of what he had said, I did not expect Steele to come near me, and he didn't. In sauntering about the two decks look- ing for arresting scenes I did not see him. Because I wanted at least one or two spoon deck scenes, I finally fixed on a couple that was half-hidden in the shadow back of the pilot-house. They had crumpled themselves up forward of an air-vent and not far from the two smoke-stacks and under the walking-beam, which rose and fell above them. The full moon was just above the eastern horizon, offering a circular background for them, and I thought they made a romantic picture outlined against it. I could not see their faces — just their outlines. Her head was upon his shoulder. His face was turned, and so concealed, and inclined toward hers. Her hat had been taken off and was held over her knee by one hand. I stepped back a little toward a companion- way, where was a light, in order to outline my impression. When I returned, they were sitting up. It was Steele and his rooming- house proprietress! It struck me as odd that of all the couple and group scenes that I had noted, the most romantic should have been provided by Steele and this woman. His wife would be interested in his solicitude for her loneliness and her lack of opportunities to get out into the open air, I was sure. Yet, I was not envious then — just curious and a little amused.

Well, that was the end of that. The sketches were made, and the story published. Because he and this girl had provided my best scene I disguised it a little, making it not seem exactly back of the pilot-house, since otherwise he might recognize it. He was, for once, fascinated by the color and romance of the occasion, and did a better story than I thought he could. It dwelt on the beauty of the river, the freedom from heat, the loveliness of the moon, the dancing. I thought it was very good, quite exceptional for him, and I thought I knew the reason why.

And then one day, about a month or six weeks later, being in the city room, I encountered the wife of Steele and their little son, a child of about five years. She had stopped in about three or four in the afternoon, being downtown shopping, I presume. After seeing him with the young woman on the steamer, I was, I confess, not a little shocked. This woman was so pinched, so homely, so faded — veritably a rail of a woman, everything and anything that a woman, whether wife, daughter, mother or sweetheart, as I saw it then, should not be. As a matter of fact, I was too wrought up about love and youth and marriage and happiness at that time to rightly judge of the married. At any rate, after having seen that other woman on that deck with Steele, I was offended by this one.

She seemed to me, after the other, too narrow, too methodical, too commonplace, too humdrum. She was a woman whose pul- chritudinous favors, whatever they may have been, must have been lost at the altar. In heaven's name, I thought to myself, how could a man like this come to marry such a woman? He isn't so very good-looking himself, perhaps, but still . . . No wonder he wanted to take his rooming-house landlady for an outing! I would, too. I could understand it now. In fact, as little as I cared for Steele, I felt sorry that a man of his years and of his still restless proclivities should be burdened with such a wife. And not only that, but there was their child, looking not unlike him but more like her, one of those hostages to fortune by reason of which it is never easy to free oneself from the error of a mistaken marriage. His plight, as I saw it, was indeed un- fortunate. And it was still summer and there was this other woman !

Well, I was introduced by him as the man who worked on some of his stories with him. I noticed that the woman had a thin, almost a falsetto voice. She eyed me, as I thought, un- intelligently, yet genially enough. I was invited to come out to their place some Sunday and take dinner. Because of his room- ing-house story I was beginning to wonder whether he had been lying to me, when she went on to explain that they had been boarding up to a few weeks ago, but had now taken a cottage for themselves and could have their friends. I promised. Yes, yes. But I never went — not to dinner, anyhow.

IV

Then two more months passed. By now it was late fall, with winter near. The current news, as I saw it, was decidedly hum- drum. There was no local news to speak of. I scarcely glanced at the papers from day to day, no more than to see whether some particular illustration I had done was in and satisfactory or not. But then, of a sudden, came something which was genuine news. Steele's wife was laid low by a box of poisoned candy sent her through the mails, some of which she had eaten!

Just how the news of this first reached the papers I have al- most forgotten now, but my recollection is that there was another newspaperman and his wife — a small editor or reporter on another paper — who lived in the same vicinity, and that it was to this newspaperman's wife that Mrs. Steele, after having called her in, confided that she believed she had been poisoned, and by a woman whose name she now gave as Mrs. Marie Davis, and with whom, as she then announced, her husband had long been intimate — the lady of the Steamer Ira Ramsdell. She had recog- nized the handwriting on the package from some letters written to her husband, but only after she had eaten of the candy and felt the pains — not before. Her condition was serious. She was, it appeared, about to die. In this predicament she had added, so it was said, that she had long been neglected by her husband for this other woman, but that she had suffered in silence rather than bring disgrace upon him, herself and their child. Now this cruel blow!

Forthwith a thrill of horror and sympathy passed over the city. It seemed too sad. At the same time a cry went up to find the other woman — arrest her, of course — see if she had really done it. There followed the official detention, if not legal arrest, of Mrs. Davis on suspicion of being the poisoner. Although the charge was not yet proved, she was at once thrown into jail, and there held to await the death or recovery of Mrs. Steele, and the proof or disproof of the charge that the candy had been sent by her. And cameras in hand, reporters and artists were packed off to the county jail to hear the accused's side of the story.

As I at once suspected on hearing the news, she proved to be none other than the lady of the Ira Ramsdell, and as charming as I had at first assumed her to be. I, being one of those sent to sketch her, was among the first to hear her story. She denied, and very vehemently, that she had sent any poisoned candy to any one. She had never dreamed of any such thing. But she did not deny, which at the time appeared to me to be incriminating, that she had been and was then in love with Steele. In fact, and this point interested me as much then as afterwards, she de- clared that this was an exceptional passion — her love for him, his love for her — and no mere passing and vulgar intimacy. A high and beautiful thing — a sacred love, the one really true and beautiful thing that had ever come to her — or him — in all their lives. And he would say so, too. For before meeting her, Wallace Steele had been very unhappy — oh, very. And her own marriage had been a failure.

Wallace, as she now familiarly called him, had confessed to her that this new, if secret, love meant everything to him. His wife did not interest him. He had married her at a time when he did not know what he was doing, and before he had come to be what he was. But this new love had resolved all their woes into loveliness — complete happiness. They had resolved to cling only to each other for life. There was no sin in what they had done because they loved. Of course, Wallace had sought to induce Mrs. Steele to divorce him, but she would not ; otherwise they would have been married before this. But as Mrs. Steele would not give him up, both had been compelled to make the best of it. But to poison her — that was wild! A love so beautiful and true as theirs did not need a marriage ceremony to sanctify it. So she raved. My own impression at the time was that she was a romantic and sentimental woman who was really very greatly in love.

Now as to Steele. Having listened to this blazoning of her passion by herself, the interviewers naturally hurried to Steele to see what he would have to say. In contrast to her and her grand declaration, they found a man, as every one agreed, who was shaken to the very marrow of his bones by these untoward events. He was, it appeared, a fit inhabitant of the environment that nourished him. He was in love, perhaps, with this woman, but still, as any one could see, he was not so much in love that, if this present matter were going to cost him his place in this commonplace, conventional world, he would not be able to sur- render to it. He was horrified by the revelation of his own treachery. Up to this hour, no doubt, he had been slipping about, hoping not to be caught, and most certainly not wishing to be cast out for sin. Regardless of the woman, he did not wish to be cast out now. On the contrary, as it soon appeared, he had been doing his best to pacify his wife and hold her to silence while he slaked his thirst for romance in this other way. He did not want his wife, but he did not want trouble, either. And now that his sin was out he shivered.

In short, as he confided to one of the men who went to inter- view him, and who agreed to respect his confidence to that ex- tent, he was not nearly so much in love with Mrs. Davis as she thought he was — poor thing! True he had been infatuated for a while, but only a little while. She was pretty, of course, and. naturally she thought she loved him — but he never expected anything like this to happen. Great cripes! They had met at a river bathing- beach the year before. He had been smitten — well, you know. He had never got along well with his wife, but there was the little boy to consider. He had not intended any harm to any one; far from it. And he certainly couldn't turn on his wife now. The public wouldn't stand for it. It would make trouble for him. But he could scarcely be expected to turn on Mrs. Davis, either, could he, now that she was in jail, and sus- pected of sending poisoned candy to his wife? The public wouldn't stand for that, either.

It was terrible! Pathetic! He certainly would not have thought that Marie would go to the length of sending his wife poison, and he didn't really believe that she had. Still — and there may have been some actual doubt of her in that "still," or so the reporting newspapermen thought. At any rate, as he saw it now, he would have to stick to his wife until she was out of dan- ger. Public opinion compelled it. The general impression of the newspapermen was that he was a coward. As one of them said of his courage, "Gee, it's oozing out of his hair!"

Nevertheless, he did go to see Mrs. Davis several times. But apart from a reported sobbing demonstration of affection on her part, I never learned what passed between them. He would not talk and she had been cautioned not to. Also, there were various interviews with his wife, who had not died, and now that the storm was on, admitted that she had intercepted letters between her husband and Mrs. Davis from time to time. The handwriting on the candy wrapper the day she received it so resembled the handwriting of Mrs. Davis that after she had eaten of it and the symptoms of poisoning had set in — not before — she had begun to suspect that the candy must have emanated from Mrs. Davis.

In the meantime Mrs. Davis, despite the wife's sad story, was the major attraction in the newspapers. She was young, she was beautiful, she had made, or at least attempted to make, a blood sacrifice on the altar of love. What more could a daily news- paper want? She was a heroine, even in this very moral, con- servative, conventional and religious city. The rank and file were agog — even sympathetic. (How would the moralists explain that, would you say? ) In consequence of their interest, she was descended upon by a corps of those women newspaper writers who, even in that day, were known as sob-sisters, and whose business it was — and this in advance of any proof of crime or indictment even — to psychologize and psychiatrize the suspect — to dig out if they could not only every vestige of her drama, but all her hidden and secret motives.

As I read the newspapers at the time, they revealed that she was not a neurotic, a psychotic, who showed traces of being a shrewd, evasive and designing woman, and who did not. Also she was a soft, unsophisticated, passionate and deeply illusioned girl, and she was not. She was guilty, of course — maybe not — but very likely she was, and she must tell how, why, in what mood, etc. Also, it appeared that she had sent the poison de- liberately, coldly, murderously. Her eyes and hands, also the shape of her nose and ears, showed it. Again, these very things proved she could not have done it. Had she been driven to it by stress of passionate emotion and yearning which had been too much for her to bear? Was she responsible for that — a great, destroying love? Of course she was! Who is not responsible for his deeds? A great, overwhelming, destroying love passion, indeed! Rot! She could help it. She could not help it. Could she help it? So it went.

Parallel with all this, of course, we were treated to various examinations of the Steele family. What sort of people were they, anyhow? It was said of Steele now that he was an average, fairly capable newspaperman of no very startling ability, but of no particular vices — one who had for some years been a serious and faithful employe of this paper. Mrs. Steele, on the other hand, was a good woman, but by no means prepossessing. She was without romance, imagination, charm. One could see by looking at her and then looking at so winsome and enticing a woman as Mrs. Davis why Steele had strayed. It was the old eternal triangle — the woman who was not interesting, the woman who was interesting, and the man interested by the more interesting woman. There was no solving it, but it was all very sad. One could not help sympathizing with Mrs. Steele, the wronged woman j and again one could not help sympathizing with Mrs. Davis, the beautiful, passionate, desirous, helpless beauty — helpless because she was desirous.

In the meantime, the District Attorney's office having taken the case in hand, there were various developments in that quarter. It was necessary to find out, of course, where the candy had been purchased, how it had been drugged, with what it had been drugged, where the drug had been purchased. Chemists, detectives and handwriting experts were all set to work. It was no trouble to determine that the drug was arsenic, yet where this arsenic was purchased was not so easy to discover. It was some time before it was found where it had been procured. Dis- similarly, it was comparatively easy to prove where the candy had come from. It had been sent in the original box of a well- known candy firm. Yet just who had purchased it was not quite so easy to establish. The candy company could not remember, and Mrs. Davis, although admitting that the handwriting did resemble hers, denied ever having addressed the box or purchased any candy from the firm in question. She was quite willing to go there and be identified, but no clerk in the candy- store was able to identify her as one woman who had purchased candy. There were one or two clerks who felt sure that there had been a woman there at some time or other who had looked like her, but they were not positive. However, there was one girl who had worked in the store during the week in which the candy had been purchased, and who was not there any longer. This was a new girl who had been tried out for that week only and had since disappeared. Her name was known, of course, and the newspapers as well as the District Attorney's office at once began looking for her.

There were some whispers to the effect that not only Mrs. Davis but Steele himself might have been concerned in the plot, or Steele alone, since apparently he had been anxious to get rid of his wife. Why not? He might have imitated the handwriting of Mrs. Davis or created an accidental likeness to it. Also, there were dissenting souls, even in the office of the paper on which I worked, who thought that maybe Mrs. Steele had sent the candy to herself in order to injure the other woman. Why not? It was possible. Women were like that. There had been similar cases, had there not? Argument! Contention! "She might have wanted to die and be revenged on the other woman at the same time, might she not?" observed the railroad editor. "Oh, hell! What bunk!" called another. "No woman would kill herself to make a place for a rival. That's crazy." "Well," said a third, "she might have miscalculated the power of her own dope. Who knows? She may not have intended to take as much as she did."

"Oh, Christ," called a fourth from somewhere, "just listen to the Sherlock Holmes Association in session over there ! Lay off, will you?"

A week or more went by, and then the missing girl who had worked in the candy- store was found. She had left the city the following week and gone to Denver. Being shown the pictures of Mrs. Davis, Mrs. Steele and some others and asked whether on any given day she had sold any of them a two-pound box of candy, she seemed to recall no one of them save possibly Mrs. Steele. But she could not be sure from the photograph. She would have to see the woman. In consequence, and without any word to the newspapers who had been leading the case up to then, this girl was returned to the city. Here, in the District Attorney's office, she was confronted by a number of women gathered for the occasion, among whom was placed Mrs. Davis. But on looking them all over she failed to identify any one of them. Then Mrs. Steele, who was by then up and around, was sent for. She came, along with a representative of the office. On sight, as she entered the door, and although there were other women in the room at the time, this girl exclaimed: "There she is! That's the woman! Yes, that's the very woman!" She was positive.

VI

As is customary in such cases, and despite the sympathy which had been extended to her, Mrs. Steele was turned over to criminologists, who soon extracted the truth from her. She broke down and wept hysterically.

It was she who had purchased the candy and poisoned it. Her life was going to pieces. She had wanted to die, so she said now. She had addressed the wrapper about the candy, as some of the wiseacres of our paper had contended, only she had first made a tracing on the paper from Mrs. Davis' handwriting, on an envelope addressed to her husband, and had then copied that. She had put not arsenic, but rat poison, bought some time before, into the candy, and in order to indict Mrs. Davis, she had put a little in each piece, about as much as would kill a rat, so that it would seem as though the entire box had been poisoned by her. She had got the idea from a case she had read about years before in a newspaper. She hated Mrs. Davis for stealing her husband. She had followed them.

When she had eaten one of the pieces of candy she had thought, as she now insisted, that she was taking enough to make an end of it all. But before taking it she had made sure that Mrs. Dalrymple, the wife of the newspaperman whom she first called to her aid, was at home in order that she might call or send her little boy. Her purpose in doing this was to instil in the mind of Mrs. Dalrymple the belief that it was Mrs. Davis who had sent the poison. When she was gone, Mrs. Davis would be punished, her husband would not be able to have her, and she herself would be out of her misery.

Result: the prompt discharge of Mrs. Davis, but no charge against Mrs. Steele. According to the District Attorney and the newspapers who most truly reflected local sentiment, she had suffered enough. And, as the state of public feeling then was, the District Attorney would not have dared to punish her. Her broken confession so reacted on the public mind that now, and for all time, it was for Mrs. Steele, just as a little while before it was rather for Mrs. Davis. For, you see, it was now proved that it was Mrs. Steele and not Mrs. Davis who had been wrought up to that point emotionally where she had been ready and willing — had actually tried — to make a blood sacrifice of herself and another woman on the altar of love. In either case it was the blood sacrifice — the bare possibility of it, if you choose — that lay at the bottom of the public's mood, and caused it to turn sympathetically to that one who had been most willing to murder in the cause of love.

But don't think this story is quite ended. Far from it. There is something else here, and a very interesting something to which I wish to call your attention. I have said that the newspapers turned favorably to Mrs. Steele. They did. So did the sob-sisters, those true barometers of public moods. Eulogies were now heaped upon Mrs. Steele, her devotion, her voiceless, unbearable woe, the tragedy of her mood, her intended sacrifice of herself. She was now the darling of these journalistic pseudo-analysts.

As for Mrs. Davis — not a word of sympathy, let alone praise or understanding for her thereafter. Almost unmentioned, if you will believe it, she was, and at once allowed to slip back into the limbo of the unheralded, the subsequently-to-be-unknown. From then on it was almost as though she had never been. For a few weeks, I believe, she retired to the home in which she had lived j then she disappeared entirely.

But now as to Steele. Here was the third peculiar phase of the case. Subsequent to the exculpation of Mrs. Davis and her noise- less retirement from the scene, what would you say his attitude would have been, or should have been? Where would he go? What do? What attitude would he assume? One of renewed devotion to his wife? One of renewed devotion to Mrs. Davis? One of disillusion or indifference in regard to all things? It puzzled me, and I was a rank outsider with no least concern, except of course our general concern in all such things, so vital to all of us in our sex and social lives. But not only Was it a puzzle to me; it was also a puzzle to others, especially those who were identified with the newspaper business in the city, the editors and the city editors and managing editors who had been follow- ing the wavering course of things with uncertain thoughts and I may say uncertain policy. They had been, as you may guess, as prepared to hang Steele as not, assuming that he had been identified with Mrs. Davis in a plot to do away with his wife. On the other hand, now that that shadow was removed and it was seen to be a more or less simple case of varietism on his part, resulting in marital unhappiness for his wife and a desire on her part to die, they were prepared to look upon him and this result with a more kindly eye. After all, she was not dead. Mrs. Davis had been punished. And say what you will, looking at Mrs. Steele as she was, and at Mrs. Davis as she was — well — with a certain amount of material if not spiritual provocation — what would you?

Indeed, the gabble about the newspaper offices was all to the above effect. What, if anything, finally asked some of the city editors and managing editors, was to be done about Steele? Now that everything had blown over, what of him? Go on hounding him forever? Nonsense! It was scarcely fair, and, anyhow, no longer profitable or worth while. Now that the storm was pass- ing, might not something be done for him? After all, he had been a fairly respectable newspaperman and in good standing. Why not take him back? And if not that, how was he to be viewed in future by his friends? Was he to be let alone, dropped, forgotten, or what? Was he going to stay here in G , and fight it out, or leave? And if he was going to leave or stay, with whom was he going to leave or stay? Semikindly, semiselfish curiosity, as you see.

The thing to do, it was finally decided among several of those on our paper and several on other papers who had known him more or less intimately, was to go to Steele himself, and ask him, not for publicity but just between ourseVes, what was to be done, what he proposed to do, whether there was anything now that the local newspapers could say or do which would help him in any way? Did he want to be restored to a staff position? Was he going to stick to his wife? What, if anything, and with no malicious intent, should they say about Mrs. Davis? In a more or less secret and brotherly or professional spirit they were going to put it up to him and then leave it there, doing whatever they could in accordance with what he might wish.

Accordingly, two of the local newsmen whom he quite honestly respected visited him and placed the above several propositions before him. They found him, as I was told after- wards, seated upon the front porch of the very small and com- monplace house in which after the dismissal of the charge against Mrs. Davis, he and his wife had been dwelling, reading a paper. Seated with him was Mrs. Steele, thinner and more querulous and anemic and unattractive than before. And upon the lot outside was their little son. Upon their arrival, they hailed Steele for a private word, and Mrs. Steele arose and went into the house. She looked, said one of these men, as though she expected more trouble. Steele, on his part, was all smiles and genial tenderings of hospitality. He was hoping for the best, of course, and he was anxious to do away with any new source of trouble. He even rubbed his hands, and licked his lips. "Come right in, boys. Come on up on the porch. Wait a minute and I'll bring out a couple of chairs." He hastened away but quickly returned, determined, as they thought, to make as good an impression as possible.

After he had heard what they had come for — most tactfully and artfully put, of course — he was all smiles, eager, apparently, to be well thought of once more. To their inquiry as to whether he proposed to remain or not, he replied: "Yes, for the present." Ke had not much choice. He had not saved enough money in recent days to permit him to do much of anything else, and his wife's illness and other things had used up about all he had. "And now, just between ourselves, Steele," asked one of the two men who knew him better than the other, "what about Mrs. Davis and your wife? Just where do you stand in regard to them? Are you going to stick to your wife or are you going with the other woman eventually? No trouble for you, you understand — no more publicity. But the fellows on the papers are in a little bit of a quandary in regard to this. They don't intend to publish anything more — nothing disparaging. They only want to get your slant on the thing so that if anything more does come up in connection with this they can fix it so that it won't be offensive to you, you see."

"Yes, I see," replied Steele cheerfully and without much reflection. "But so far as that Davis woman is concerned, though, you can forget her. I'm through with her. She was never much to me, anyhow, just a common ." Here he used the good old English word for prostitute. As for his wife, he was going to stick by her, of course. She was a good woman. She loved him. There was his little boy. He was through with all that varietistic stuff. There was nothing to it. A man couldn't get away with it — and so on.

The two men, according to their account of it afterward, winced not a little, for, as they said, they had thought from all that had gone before that there had surely been much more than common prostitution between Steele and the woman. How could all this have been in the face of Mrs. Steele's great jealousy, Mrs. Davis' passionate declaration about pure, spiritual and undying love? Imagine it! After a few more words the men left, con- vinced that whether interested in his wife or not or Mrs. Davis or not, Steele was literally terrorized by convention, — and to the point where he was floundering about for an excuse. He was weak and he wanted to put the best face on the situation that he could. As one of the newspapermen afterward expressed it, "there was something unpleasant about it all." Just why had he changed so quickly? Why the gratuitous insult to Mrs. Davis? Why, after the previous acknowledgment of an affection of sorts at least for her, was he now willing to write himself down a bounder and a cad in this open and offensive way? For a cad he plainly was. Mrs. Davis could not be as shabby as he had made her out. This was at once and generally agreed upon. That finally fixed Steele's position in G as a bounder. He was never again taken back on any local staff.

And for myself, I could not quite fathom it. The thing haunted me. What was it that moved him — public opinion, fear of the loss of the petty social approval which had once been his, sorrow for his wife — what one special thing that Mrs. Davis might or might not have done? For certainly, as things turned out, she had been guilty of nothing except loving him — illegally, of course, but loving him. My mind involuntarily flashed back to the two curled abaft the pilot-house in the moonlight, those quaint, shadowy, romantic figures. And now this ! And then there was dancing and laughter and love.

VIII

But even this is not the end, however ready you may be to cease listening. There is an envoi that I must add. This was seven years later. By then I had removed to New York and established myself as a cartoonist. From others I had learned that Steele also had come to New York and was now connected with one of the local papers in some moderately responsible capacity — copy reading, I think. At any rate, I met him — one Sunday. It was near the entrance of the Bronx Zoo, at closing time. He was there with his wife and a second little son that had come to him since he had left G . The first one — a boy of ten by then, I presume — was not present. All this I learned in the course of the brief conversation that followed.

But his wife! I can never forget her. She was so worn, so faded, so impossible. And this other boy by her — a son who had followed after their reunion! My God! I thought, how may not fear or convention slay one emotionally! And to cap it allj he was not so much apologetic as — I will not say defiant — but in- gratiating and volubly explanatory about his safe and sane retreat from gayety and freedom, and, if you will, immorality. For he knew, of course, that I recalled the other case — all its trouble- some and peculiar details.

"My wife! My wife!" he exclaimed quickly, since I did not appear to recognize her at first, and with a rather grandiose ges- ture of the hand, as who should say, "I am proud of my wife, as you see. I am still married to her and rightly so. I am not the same person you knew in G at all — at all ! "

"Oh, yes," I replied covering them all with a single glance. "I remember your wife very well. And your boy."

"Oh, no, not that boy," he hastened to explain. "That was Harry. This is another little boy — Francis." And then, as though to re-establish his ancient social prestige with me, he proceeded to add: "We're living over on Staten Island now — just at the north end, near the ferry, you know. You must come down some time. It's a pleasant ride. We'll both be so glad to see you. Won't we, Estelle?"

"Yes, certainly," said Mrs. Steele.

I hastened away as quickly as possible. The contrast was too much 3 that damned memory of mine, illegitimate as it may seem to be, was too much. I could not help thinking of the Ira Rams- dell and of how much I had envied him the dances, the love, the music, the moonlight.

"By God!" I exclaimed as I walked away. "By God!"

And that is exactly how I feel now about all such miscarriages of love and delight — cold and sad.

11.Marriage — For One

Whenever I think of love and marriage I think of Wray. That clerkly figure. That clerkly mind. He was among the first people I met when I came to New York and, like so many of the millions seeking to make their way, he was busy about his affairs. Fortunately, as I saw it, with the limitations of the average man he had the ambitions of the average man. At that time he was connected with one of those large commercial agencies which inquire into the standing of business men, small and large, and report their findings, for a price, to other busi- ness men. He was very much interested in his work and seemed satisfied that should he persist in it he was certain to achieve what was perhaps a fair enough ambition: a managership in some branch of this great concern, which same would pay him so much as five or six thousand a year. The thing about him that interested me, apart from a genial and pleasing disposition, was the fact that with all his wealth of opportunity before him for studying the human mind, its resources and resourcefulness, its inhibitions and liberations, its humor, tragedy, and general shifti- ness and changefulness, still he was largely concerned with the bare facts of the differing enterprises whose character he was supposed to investigate. Were they solvent? Could and did they pay their bills? What was their capital stock? How much cash did they have on hand? . . . Such was the nature of the data he needed, and to this he largely confined himself.

Nevertheless, by turns he was amused or astonished or made angry or self- righteous by the tricks, the secretiveness, the errors and the downright meanness of spirit of so many he had to deal with. As for himself, he had the feeling that he was honest, straightforward, not as limited or worthless as some of these others, and it was on this score that he was convinced he would succeed, as he did eventually, within his limitations, of course. What interested me and now makes me look upon him always as an excellent illustration of the futility of the dream of exact or even suitable rewards was his clerkly and highly respectable faith in the same. If a man did as he should do, if he were industrious and honest and saving and courteous and a few more of those many things we all know we ought to be, then in that orderly nature of things which he assumed to hold one must get along better than some others. What — an honest, industri- ous, careful man not do better than one who was none of these things — a person who flagrantly disregarded them, say? What nonsense. It must be so. Of course there were accidents and sick- ness, and men stole from one another, as he saw illustrated in his daily round. And banks failed, and there were trusts and combinations being formed that did not seem to be entirely in tune with the interests of the average man. But even so, all things considered, the average man, if he did as above, was likely to fare much better than the one who did not. In short, there was such a thing as approximate justice. Good did prevail, in the main, and the wicked were punished, as they should be.

And in the matter of love and marriage he held definite views also. Not that he was unduly narrow or was inclined to censure those whose lives had not worked out as well as he hoped his own would, but he thought there was a fine line of tact somewhere in this matter of marriage which led to success there quite as the qualities outlined above led, or should lead, to success in matters more material or practical. One had to understand something about women. One had to be sure that when one went a-courting one selected a woman, of sense as well as of charm, one who came of good stock and hence would be possessed of good taste and good principles. She need not be rich 5 she might even be poor. And one had to be reasonably sure that one loved her. So many that went a-courting imagined they loved and were loved when it was nothing more than a silly passing passion. Wray knew. And so many women were design- ing, or at least light and flighty ; they could not help a serious man to succeed if they would. However, in many out-of-the-way corners of the world were the really sensible and worthy girls, whom it was an honor to marry, and it was one of these that he was going to choose. Yet even there it was necessary to exer- cise care : one might marry a girl who was too narrow and conven- tional, one who would not understand the world and hence be full of prejudices. He was for the intelligent and practical and liberal girl, if he could find her, one who was his mental equal.

It was when he had become secretary to a certain somebody that he encountered in his office a girl who seemed to him to embody nearly all of the virtues or qualities which he thought necessary. She was the daughter of very modestly circumstanced parents who dwelt in the nearby suburb of O— — , and a very capable and faithful stenographer, of course. If you had seen the small and respectable suburb from which she emanated you would understand. She was really pretty and appeared to be practical and sensible in many ways, but still very much in leash to the instructions and orders and tenets of her home and her church and her family circle, three worlds as fixed and definite and worthy and respectable in her thought as even the most enthusiastic of those who seek to maintain the order and virtue of the world would have wished. According to him, as he soon informed me — since we exchanged nearly all our affairs when- ever we met, she was opposed to the theatre, dancing, any form of night dining or visiting in the city on weekdays, as well as anything that in her religious and home world might be con- strued as desecration of the Sabbath. I recall him describing her as narrow "as yet," but he hoped to make her more liberal in the course of time. He also told me with some amusement and the air of a man of the world that it was impossible for him to win her to so simple an outing as rowing on the Sabbath on the little river near her home because it was wrong j on the contrary, he had to go to church with her and her parents. Although he belonged to no church and was mildly interested in socialism, he kept these facts from her knowledge. The theatre could not even be mentioned as a form of amusement and she could not and would not dance ; she looked upon his inclination for the same as not only worldly but loose and sinful. How- ever, as he told me, he was very fond of her and was doing his best to influence and enlighten her. She was too fine and intelligent a girl to stick to such notions. She would come out of them.

By very slow degrees (he was about his business of courting her all of two or three years) he succeeded in bringing her to the place where she did not object to staying downtown to dinner with him on a weekday, even went with him to a sacred or musical concert of a Sunday night, but all unbeknown to her parents or neighbors, of course. But what he considered his greatest triumph was when he succeeded in interesting her in books, especially bits of history and philosophy that he thought very liberal and which no doubt generated some thin wisps of doubt in her own mind. Also, because he was intensely fond of the theatre and had always looked upon it as the chiefest of the sources of his harmless entertainment, he eventually induced her to attend one performance, and then another and another. In short, he emancipated her in so far as he could, and seemed to be delighted with the result.

With their marriage came a new form of life for both of them, but more especially for her. They took a small apartment in New York, a city upon which originally she had looked with no little suspicion, and they began to pick up various friends. It was not long before she had joined a literary club which was being formed in their vicinity, and here she met a certain type of restless, pushing, seeking woman for whom Wray did not care — a Mrs. Drake and a Mrs. Munshaw, among others, who, from the first, as he afterward told me, he knew could be of no possible value to any one. But Bessie liked them and was about with them here, there, and everywhere.

It was about this time that I had my first suspicion of any- thing untoward in their hitherto happy relations. I did not see him often now, but when I did visit them at their small apart- ment, could not help seeing that Mrs. Wray was proving almost too apt a pupil in the realm in which he had interested her. It was plain that she had been emancipated from quite all of her old notions as to the sinfulness of the stage, and in regard to reading and living in general. Plainly, Wray had proved the Prince Charming, who had entered the secret garden and waked the sleeping princess to a world of things she had never dreamed of. She had reached the place where she was criticizing certain popular authors, spoke of a curiously enlightened history of France she was reading, of certain bits of philosophy and poetry which her new club were discussing. From the nature of the conversation being carried on by the three of us I could see that Wray was beginning to feel that the unsophisticated young girl he had married a little while before might yet outstrip him in the very realm in which he had hoped to be her permanent guide. More than once, as I noticed, she chose to question or contradict him as to a matter of fact, and I think he was astonished if not irritated by the fact that she knew more than he about the import of a certain plot or the relativity of certain dates in history. And with the force and determination that had caused her to stand by her former convictions, she now aired and defended her new knowledge. Not that her manner was superior or irritating exactly j she had a friendly way of including and consulting him in regard to many things which indicated that as yet she had no thought of manifesting a superiority which she did not feel. "That's not right, dearest. His name is Bentley. He is the author of a play that was here last year — The Seven Rings of Manfred — don't you remember?" And Wray, much against his will, was compelled to confess that she was right.

Whenever he met me alone after this, however, he would confide the growing nature of his doubts and perplexities. Bessie was no more the girl she had been when he first met her than he was like the boy he had been at ten years of age. A great, a very great change was coming over her. She was becoming more aggressive and argumentative and self-centred all the time, more this, more that. She was reading a great deal, much too much for the kind of life she was called upon to lead. Of late they had been having long and unnecessary arguments that were of no consequence however they were settled, and yet if they were not settled to suit her she was angry or irritable. She was neglecting her home and running about all the time with her new-found friends. She did not like the same plays he did. He wanted a play that was light and amusing, whereas she wanted one with some serious moral or intellectual twist to it. She read only serious books now and was attending a course of lectures, whereas he, as he now confessed, was more or less bored by serious books. What was the good of them? They only stirred up thoughts and emotions which were better left unstirred. And she liked music, or was pretending she did, grand opera, recitals and that sort of thing, whereas he was not much interested in music. Grand opera bored him, and he was free to admit it, but if he would not accompany her she would go with one or both of those two wretched women he was beginning to detest. Their husbands had a little money and gave them a free rein in the matter of their social and artistic aspirations. They had no household duties to speak of and could come and go as they chose, and Wray now insisted that it was they who were aiding and abetting Bessie in these various interests and enthusiasms and stirring her up to go and do and be. What was he to do? No good could come if things went on as they were going. They were having frequent quarrels, and more than once lately she had threatened to leave him and do for herself here in New York, as he well knew she could. He was doing very well now and they could be happy together if only these others could be done away with.

It was only a month or two after this that Wray came to see me, in a very distrait state of mind. After attempting to discuss several other things quite casually he confessed that his young wife had left him. She had taken a room somewhere and had resumed work as a stenographer, and although he met her occasionally in the subway she would have nothing to do with him. She wanted to end it all. And would I believe it? She was accusing him of being narrow and ignorant and stubborn and a number of other things! Only think of it! And three or four years ago she had thought he was all wrong when he wanted to go rowing on Sunday or stay downtown to dinner of an evening. Could such things be possible? And yet he loved her, in spite of all the things that had come up between them. He couldn't help it. He couldn't help thinking how sweet and innocent and strange she was when he first met her, how she loved her parents and respected their wishes. And now see. "I wish to God," he suddenly exclaimed in the midst of the "old- time" picture he was painting of her, "that I hadn't been so anxious to change her. She was all right as she was, if I had only known it. She didn't know anything about these new- fangled things then, and I wasn't satisfied till I got her inter- ested in them. And now see. She leaves me and says I'm narrow and stubborn, that I'm trying to hold her back intellectually. And all because I don't want to do all the things she wants to do and am not interested in the things that interest her, now."

I shook my head. Of what value was advice in such a situation as this, especially from one who was satisfied that the mysteries of temperament of either were not to be unraveled or adjusted save by nature — the accidents of chance and affinity, or the deadly opposition which keep apart those unsuited to each other? Nevertheless, being appealed to for advice, I ventured a silly suggestion, borrowed from another. He had said that if he could but win her back he would be willing to modify the pointless opposition and contention that had driven her away. She might go her intellectual way as she chose if she would only come back. Seeing him so tractable and so very wishful, I now sug- gested a thing that had been done by another in a somewhat related situation. He was to win her back by offering her such terms as she would accept, and then, in order to bind her to him, he was to induce her to have a child. That would capture her sympathy, very likely, as well as insinuate an image of himself into her affectionate consideration. Those who had chil- dren rarely separated — or so I said.

The thought appealed to him intensely. It satisfied his prac- tical and clerkly nature. He left me hopefully and I saw nothing of him for several months, at the end of which time he came to report that all was once more well with him. She had come back, and in order to seal the new pact he had taken a larger apartment in a more engaging part of the city. Bessie was going on with her club work, and he was not opposing her in anything. And then within the year came a child and there followed all those simple, homey, and seemingly binding and restraining things which go with the rearing and protection of a young life.

But even during that period, as I was now to learn, all was not as smooth as I had hoped. Talking to me in Wray's absence once Bessie remarked that, delightful as it was to have a child of her own, she could see herself as little other than a milch cow with an attendant calf, bound to its service until it should be able to look after itself. Another time she remarked that mothers were bond-servants, that even though she adored her little girl she could not help seeing what a chain and a weight a child was to one who had ambitions beyond those of mother- hood. But Wray, clerkly soul that he was, was all but lost in rapture. There was a small park nearby, and here he could be found trundling his infant in a handsome baby-carriage when- ever his duties would permit. He would sit or walk where were others who had children of about the age of his own so that he might compare them. He liked to speculate on the charm and innocence of babyhood and was amused by a hundred things which he had never noticed in the children of others. Already he was beginning to formulate plans for little Janet's future. It was hard for children to be cooped up in an apartment house in the city. In a year or two, if he could win Bessie to the idea, they would move to some suburban town where Janet could have the country air.

They were prospering now and could engage a nursemaid, so Mrs. Wray resumed her intellectual pursuits and her freedom. Throughout it all one could see that, respect Wray as she might as a dutiful and affectionate and methodical man, she could not love or admire him, and that mainly because of the gap that lay between them intellectually. Dissemble as he might, there was always the hiatus that lies between those who think or dream a little and those who aspire and dream much. Superiority of intellect was not altogether the point 5 she was not so much superior as different, as I saw it. Rather, they were two differing rates of motion, flowing side by side for the time being only, his the slower, hers the quicker. And it mattered not that his con- formed more to the conventional thought and emotions of the majority. Hers was the more satisfactory to herself and consti- tuted an urge which he feared rather than despised j and his was more satisfactory to himself, compromise as he would. Observ- ing them together one could see how proud he was of her and of his relationship to her, how he felt that he had captured a prize, regardless of the conditions by which it was retained j and on the other hand one could easily see how little she held him in her thought and mood. She was forever talking to others about those things which she knew did not interest him or to which he was opposed.

For surcease she plunged into those old activities that had so troubled him at first, and now he complained that little Janet was being neglected. She did not love her as she should or she could not do as she was doing. And what was more and worse, she had now taken to reading Freud and Kraft-Ebbing and allied thinkers and authorities, men and works that he considered dreadful and shameful, even though he scarcely grasped their true significance.

One day he came to me and said: "Do you know of a writer by the name of Pierre Loti?"

"Yes," I replied, "I know his works. What about him?"

"What do you think of him?"

"As a writer? Why, I respect him very much. Why?"

"Oh, I know, from an intellectual point of view, as a fine writer, maybe. But what do you think of his views of life — of his books as books to be read by the mother of a little girl?"

"Wray," I replied, "I can't enter upon a discussion of any man's works upon purely moral grounds. He might be good for some mothers and evil for others. Those who are to be in- jured by a picture of life must be injured, or kept from its con- taminating influence, and those who are to be benefited will be benefited. I can't discuss either books or life in any other way. I see worthwhile books as truthful representations of life in some form, nothing more. And it would be unfair to any one who stood in intellectual need to be restrained from that which might prove of advantage to him. I speak only for myself, however."

It was not long after that I learned there had been a new quarrel and that Bessie had left him once more, this time, as it proved, for good. And with her, which was perhaps illegal or unfair, she had taken the child. I did not know what had brought about this latest rupture but assumed that it was due to steadily diverging views. They could not agree on that better understanding of life which at one time he was so anxious for her to have — his understanding. Now that she had gone beyond that, and her method of going was unsatisfactory to him, they could not agree, of course.

Not hearing from him for a time I called and found him living in the same large apartment they had taken. Its equip- ment was better suited to four than to one, yet after seven or eight months of absence on her part here he was, living alone, where every single thing must remind him of her and Janet. As for himself, apart from a solemnity and reserve which sprang from a wounded and disgruntled spirit, he pretended an indiffer- ence and a satisfaction with his present state which did not square with his past love for her. She had gone, yes; but she had made a mistake and would find it out. Life wasn't as she thought it was. She had gone with another man — he was sure of that, although he did not know who the man was. It was all due to one of those two women she had taken up with, that Mrs. Drake. They were always interested in things which did not and could not interest him. After a time he added that he had been to see her parents. I could not guess why, unless it was because he was lonely and still very much in love and thought they might help him to understand the very troublesome problem that was before him.

It was a year and a half before I saw him again, during which time, as I knew, he continued to live in the apartment they had occupied together. He had become manager of a department of the agency by this time and was going methodically to and fro between his home and office. After living alone and brooding for more than a year, he came to see me one rainy November night. He looked well enough materially, quite the careful person who takes care of his clothes, but thinner, more tense and restless. He seated himself before my fire and declared that he was doing very well and was thinking of taking a long vacation to visit some friends in the West. (He had once told me that he had heard that Bessie had gone to California.) Yes, he was still living in the old place. I might think it strange, but he had not thought it worth while to move. He would only have to find an- other place to live in; the furniture was hard to packj he didn't like hotels.

Then of a sudden, noting that I studied him and wondered, he grew restless and finally stood up, then walked about looking at some paintings and examining a shelf of books. His manner was that of one who is perplexed and undetermined, of one who has stood out against a silence and loneliness of which he was intensely weary. Then of a sudden he wheeled and faced me: "I can't stand it. That's what's the matter. I just can't stand it any longer. I've tried and tried. I thought the child would make things work out all right, but she didn't. She didn't want a child and never forgave me for persuading her to have Janet. And then that literary craze — that was really my own fault, though. I was the one that encouraged her to read and go to theatres. I used to tell her she wasn't up-to-date, that she ought to wake up and find out what was going on in the world, that she ought to get in with intelligent people. But it wasn't that either. If she had been the right sort of woman she couldn't have done as she did." He paused and clenched his hands nervously and dramatically. It was as though he were de- nouncing her to her face instead of to me.

"Now, Wray," I interposed, "how useless to say that. Which of us is as he should be? Why will you talk so?"

"But let me tell you what she did," he went on fiercely. "You haven't an idea of what I've been through, not an idea. She tried to poison me once so as to get rid of me." And here followed a brief and sad recital of the twists and turns and desperation of one who was intensely desirous of being free of one who was as desirous of holding her. And then he added: "And she was in love with another man, only I could never find out who he was." And his voice fell to a low, soft level, as though he was even then trying to solve the mystery of who it was. "And I know she had an operation performed, though I could never prove it." And he gave me details of certain mysterious goings to and fro, of secret pursuits on his part, actions and evidences and moods and quarrels that pointed all too plainly to a breach that could never be healed. "And what's more," he exclaimed at last, "she tortured me. You'll never know. You couldn't. But I loved her. . . . And I love her now." Once more the tensely gripped fingers, the white face, the flash of haunted eyes.

"One afternoon I stood outside of a window of an apartment house when I knew she was inside, and I knew the name of the man who was supposed to occupy it, only he had re-sublet it, as I found out afterwards. And she had Janet with her — think of that! — our own little girl! I saw her come to the window once to look out — I actually saw her in another man's rooms. I ran up and hammered at the door — I tried to break it open. I called to her to come out but she wouldn't, and I went to get a police- man to make him open the door. But when I got back a servant was coming up as though she had been out, and she unlocked the door and went in. It was all a ruse, and I know it. They weren't inside. She had slipped out with Janet. And she had told me they were going to Westchester for the day.

"And another time I followed her to a restaurant when she said she was going to visit a friend. I suspected there was a man — the man I thought she was going with, but it was some one I had never seen before. When they came out and were getting into a cab I came up and told them both what I thought of them. I threatened to kill them both. And she told him to go and then came home with me, but I couldn't do anything with her. She wouldn't talk to me. All she would say was that if I didn't like the way she was doing I could let her go. She wanted me to give her a divorce. And I couldn't let her go, even if I had wanted to. I loved her too much. And I love her too much now. I do. I can't help it." He paused. The pain and regret were moving.

"Another time," he went on, "I followed her to a hotel — yes, to a hotel. But when I got inside she was waiting for me; she had seen me. I even saw a man coming toward her — but not the one I believed was the one — only when he saw me he turned away and I couldn't be sure that he was there to meet her. And when I tried to talk to her about him she turned away from me and we went back home in silence. I couldn't do anything with her. She would sit and read and ignore me for days— days, I tell you — without ever a word."

"Yes," I said, "but the folly of all that. The uselessness, the hopelessness. How could you?"

"I know, I know," he exclaimed, "but I couldn't help it. I can't now. I love her. I can't help that, can I? I'm miserable without her. I see the folly of it all, but I'm crazy about her.

The more she disliked me the more I loved her. And I love her now, this minute. I can't help it. There were days when she tortured me so that I vomited, from sheer nervousness. I was sick and run down. I have been cold with sweat in her presence and when she was away and I didn't know where she was. I have walked the streets for hours, for whole days at a time, because I couldn't eat or sleep and didn't know what to do. By God ! " Once more the pause and a clenching of the hands. "And all I could do was think and think and think. And that is all I do now really — think and think and think. I've never been myself since she went away. I can't shake it off. I live up there, yes. But why? Because I think she might come back some day, and because we lived there together. I wait and wait. I know it's foolish, but still I wait. Why? God only knows. And yet I wait. Oh," he sighed, "and it's three years now. Three years ! "

He paused and gazed at me and I at him, shaken by a fact that was without solution by any one. Here he was — the one who had understood so much about women. But where was she, the one he had sought to enlighten, to make more up- to-date and liberal? I wondered where she was, whether she ever thought of him even, whether she was happy in her new freedom. And then, without more ado, he slipped on his raincoat, took up his umbrella, and stalked out into the rain, to walk and think, I pre- sume. And I, closing the door on him, studied the walls, wonder- ing. The despair, the passion, the rage, the hopelessness, the love. "Truly," I thought, "this is love, for one at least. And this is marriage, for one at least. He is spiritually wedded to that woman, who despises him, and she may be spiritually wedded to another man who may despise her. But love and marriage, for one, at least, I have seen here in this room to-night, and with mine own eyes."

12.The Prince Who Was a Thief : An Improvisation on the Oldest Oriental Theme

The doors of the mosque in Hodeidah stood wide and inviting after the blaze of an Arabian afternoon. And within, the hour of prayer having drawn nigh, were prostrated a few of the more faithful, their faces toward Mecca. Without, upon the platform of the great mosque and within the shadow of the high east wall, a dozen mendicants in their rags were already huddled or still arranging themselves, in anticipation of the departure of those of the faithful who might cast them a pice or an anna, so plain is the prescription of the Koran. For is it not written: "And forget not the poor, and the son of the road"? Even so, praise be to Allah, the good, the great.

Apart from them, oblivious of them and their woes, even of the import of the mosque itself, a score or more of Arabian children were at play, circling about like knats or bats. And passing among these or idling in groups for a word as to the affairs of the day, were excellent citizens of Hodeidah, fresh from their shops and errands — Bhori, the tin-seller, for one, making his way before going home to a comfortable mabraz, there to smoke a water-pipe and chew a bit of khatj and Ahmed, the carpet-weaver, stopping at the mosque to pray before going home; and Chudi, the baker, and Zad-el-Din, the seller of piece goods, whose shops were near together, both fathers, these, and discussing trade and the arrival of the camel train from Taif. And now came Azad Bakht, the barber, mopping his brow as was his wont. And Feruz, the water-carrier, to offer water for sale. And many others came and went, for this was the closing hour of the shops 5 soon all would be making for home or the mabrazes after a moment of prayer in the mosque, so near is the hereafter to the now.

But Gazzar-al-Din, a mendicant story-teller, fresh from the camel train out of Taif which within the hour had passed beyond the Chedar gate, was not one of these. Indeed he was a stranger in Hodeidah, one of those who make their way from city to city and village to village by their skill as tellers of tales, reciters of the glories of kings and princesses and princes and the doings of Jinn and magicians and fabled celebrities generally. Yet poor was he indeed. His tales he had gathered on many travels. And though nearing the age of eighty and none too prepossessing of mien, yet so artful was he in the manner of presenting his wares that he had not thus far died of want. His garb was no more than a loin-cloth, a turban and a cape as dirty as they were ragged. His beard and hair had not for years known any other comb than the sands of the desert and the dust of the streets. His face was parchment, his hands claws, one arm was withered.

Taking in at a glance the presence of a score of comrades in misery at or near the mosque door, Gazzar-al-Din betook him- self to a respectful distance and surveyed the world in which he found himself. The cook-shop of Al Hadjaz being not far off and some inviting fragrance therefrom streaming to him on the wind, he made shift to think how he could best gather an audience of all who now came and went so briskly. For eat he must. No doubt there were many in Hodeidah who told tales, and by those about the mosque who sought alms certainly an additional seeker would not be welcomed. Indeed there had been times when open hostility had been manifested, as in Feruz where, after gathering many anna from an admiring throng, once he had been set upon and beaten, his purse taken, and, to crown it all, a pail of slops cast upon him by a savage she-wolf of their pack. It behooved him therefore to have a care.

Still, all things considered, it was not so poor a life. Many- had their homes, to be sure, and their wives and shops, but were there not drawbacks? The best of them were as fixed as the palms and sands of the desert. Once in their lives perhaps they had journeyed to Mecca or Medina, to be preyed upon and swindled, in some instances even to be murdered, by the evil hawks that dwelt there. But in his case now. . . . The fragrances from the shop of Al Hadjaz renewed themselves. . . . There was nothing for it: he must find a comfortable doorway or the shaded side of a wall where he could spread his cape, belabor his tambour and so attract attention and secure as many anna as might be before he began to unfold such a tale of adventure and surprise as would retain the flagging interest of the most wearied and indifferent. And eventually secure him sufficient anna for his meal and lodging. But to do that, as he well knew, there must be in it somewhere, a beautiful princess and a handsome loverj also a noble and generous and magnificent caliph. And much talk to be sure of gold and power where so little existed in real life. In addition there should be cruel robbers and thieves, and, also, a righteous man too — though in real life, how few. Sometimes as the faces of those addressed showed a wane of interest it was wise to take apart and recombine many tales, borrow from one to bolster up another.

As he walked, looking at the windows and doors of all the shops and residences about him, he eventually spied a deep recess giving into the closed market a score of feet from the public square. Here he seated himself and began softly to thump his tambour, lest those religiously minded should take offense. Also it was no part of his desire to attract the mendicants, who were still before the door of the mosque. Soon they might depart, and then he would feel safer, for in them, especially for such as he — a fellow craftsman, as it were — was nothing but jibes and rivalry. He drummed softly, looking briskly about the while, now at the windows, now toward the mosque, now along the winding street. Seeing two urchins, then a third, pause and gaze, he reasoned that his art was beginning to lure. For where children paused, their elders were sure to follow. And so it proved. Drawing nearer and nearer these first children were joined by a fourth, a fifth, a sixth. Presently Haifa, the tobacco vendor, limping toward the mosque to sell his wares, paused and joined the children. He was curious as to what was to follow — whether Gazzar would secure an audience. Next came Waidi, the water-seller, fresh from a sale; then Ajeeb, ne'er-do-well cleaner of market stalls for the merchants, and full of curiosity ever. And after him came Soudi and Parfi, carriers, an appetite for wonders besetting them; and then El-Jed, the vendor of kindling.

As they gathered about him Gazzar-al-Din ventured to thrum louder and louder, exclaiming: "A marvelous tale, O Company of the Faithful ! A marvelous tale ! Hearken ! A tale such as has never yet been told in all Hodeidah — no, not in all Yemen! 'A Prince Who was a Thief.' A Prince Who Was a Thief! For a score of anna — yea, the fourth part of a rupee — I begin. And ah, the sweetness of it! As jasmine, it is fragrant; as khat, sooth- ing. A marvelous tale ! "

"Ay-ee, but how is one to know that," observed Ahmed, the carpet-weaver, to Chudi, the tailor, with whom he had drawn near. "There are many who promise excellent tales but how few who tell them."

"It is even as thou sayst, O Ahmed. Often have I hearkened and given anna in plenty, yet few there are whose tales are worth the hearing."

"Why not begin thy tale, O Kowasji?" inquired Soudi, the carrier. "Then if, as thou sayst, it is so excellent, will not anna enough be thine? There are tellers of tales, and tellers of tales—"

"Yea, and that I would," replied the mendicant artfully, "were all as honest as thou lookest and as kind. Yet have I traveled far without food, and I know not where I may rest this night. ... A tale of the great caliph and the Princess Yanee and the noble Yussuf, stolen and found again. And the great treasury sealed and guarded, yet entered and robbed by one who was not found. Anna — but a score of anna, and I begin! What? Are all in Hodeidah so poor that a tale of love and pleasure and danger and great palaces and great princes and caliphs and thieves can remain untold for the want of a few anna — for so many as ten dropped into my tambour? A marvelous tale! A marvelous tale!"

He paused and gazed speculatively about, holding out his tambour. His audience looked dubiously and curiously at him; who now was this latest teller of wonders, and from whence had he come? An anna was not much, to be sure, and a tale well told — well — yet there had been tellers of such whose tales were as dull as the yawn of a camel.

"An excellent tale, sayst thou?" queried Pari! cautiously. "Then, if it be so marvelous, why not begin? For a handful of anna one may promise anything."

"A great promiser there was here once," commented Ajeeb the gossip, sententiously, "and he sat himself in this self-same door. I remember him well. He wore a green turban, but a greater liar there never was. He promised wonders and terrors enough, but it came to nothing — not a demon or Jinn in it."

"Is it of demons and Jinns only that thou thinkest, donkey?" demanded Haifa. "Verily, there are wonders and mysteries everywhere, without having them in tales."

"Yea, but a tale need not be for profit either," said Waidi, the water-seller. "It is for one's leisure, at the end of a day. I like such as end happily, with evil punished and the good re- warded."

"Come, O friends," insisted Gazzar-al-Din, seeing that one or two were interested, "for a score of anna, I begin. Of Yemen it is, this very Yemen, and Baghdad, once a greater city than any to-day — "

"Begin then," said Azad Bakht, the barber. "Here is an anna for thee," and he tossed a coin in the tambour.

"And here is another for thee," observed Haifa, fishing in his purse. "I do not mind risking it."

"And here is another," called Soudi condescendingly. "Begin."

"And here is yet another," added Parfi grandiosely. "Now, then, thy tale, and look thee that it is as thou sayst, marvelous." And they squatted about him on the ground.

But Gazzar, determined not to begin until he had at least ten anna, the price of a bowl of curds and a cup of kishr, waited until he had accumulated so many, as well as various "Dogs!" and "Pigs!" and "Wilt thou begin, miser, or wilt thou fill thy tambour?" into the bargain. He then crouched upon his rags, lifted his hand for silence, and began:

"Know then, O excellent citizens of Hodeidah, that once, many years since, there lived in this very Yemen where now is Taif, then a much more resplendent city, a sultan by the name of Kar-Shem, who had great cities and palaces and an army, and was beloved of all over whom he ruled. When he — wilt thou be seated, O friend? And silence! — when he was but newly married and ruling happily a son was born to him, Hus- sein, an infant of so great charm and beauty that he decided he should be carefully reared and wisely trained and so made into a fit ruler, for so great a country. But, as it chanced, there was a rival or claimant to this same throne by another line, a branch long since deposed by the ancestors of this same king, and he it was, Bab-el-Bar by name, who was determined that the young Prince Hussein should be stolen and disposed of in some way so that he should never return and claim the throne. One day, when the prince was only four years of age, the summer palace was attacked and the princeling captured. From thence he was carried over great wastes of sand to Baghdad, where he was duly sold as a slave to a man who was looking for such, for he was a great and successful thief, one who trained thieves from their infancy up so that they should never know what virtue was."

"Ay-ee, there are such," interrupted Ahmed, the carpet- weaver, loudly, for his place had only recently been robbed. "I know of the vileness of thieves."

"Peace ! Peace ! " insisted Waidi and Haifa sourly.

Gazzar-al-Din paused until quiet should be restored, then resumed:

"Once the Prince Hussein was in the hands of this thief, he was at once housed with those who stole, who in turn taught him. One of the tricks which Yussuf, the master thief, employed was to take each of his neophytes in turn at the age of seven, dress him in a yarn jacket, lower him into a dry cistern from which there was no means of escape, place a large ring-cake upon a beam across the top and tell him to obtain the cake or starve. Many starved for days and were eventually dismissed as un- worthy of his skill. But when the young Prince Hussein was lowered he meditated upon his state. At last he unraveled a part of his yarn jacket, tied a pebble to it and threw it so that it fell through the hole of the cake, and thus he was able to pull it down. At this Yussuf was so pleased that he had him drawn up and given a rare meal.

"One day Yussuf, hearing good reports from those who were training Hussein in thieving, took him to the top of a hill traversed by a road, where, seeing a peasant carrying a sheep on his back approaching, Yussuf Ben Ali asked of Hussein, now renamed Abou so that he might not be found: 'How shall we get the sheep without the peasant learning that we have taken it?' Trained by fear of punishment to use his wits, Abou, after some thought replied: 'When thou seest the sheep alone, take it!' Stealing from the thicket, he placed one of his shoes in the road and then hid. The peasant came and saw the shoe, but left it lying there because there was but one. Abou ran out and picked up the shoe, reappearing from the wood far ahead of the peasant where he put down the mate to the first shoe and then hid again. The peasant came and examined the shoe, then tied his sheep to a stake and ran back for the first one. Yussuf, seeing the sheep alone, now came out and hurried off with it, while Abou followed, picking up the last shoe."

"He was a donkey to leave his sheep in the road," inter- polated Parfi, the carrier, solemnly.

"But more of a donkey not to have taken up the first shoe," added Soudi.

"Anna! Anna!" insisted Gazzar-al-Din, seizing upon this occasion to collect from those who had newly arrived. " 'Tis a marvellous tale ! Remember the teller of good tales, whose gift it is to sweeten the saddest of days. He lightens the cares of those who are a-weary. Anna! Anna!" And with a clawy hand he held out the tambour to Zad-el-Din and Azad Bakht, who began to regret their interest.

"Cannot a man speak without thou demandest anna?" grumbled Zad-el-Din fishing in his purse and depositing an anna, as did Azad Bakht and several more. Whereupon, the others beginning to grumble, Gazzar continued.

"The peasant coming back to where he had seen the first shoe and not finding it, was dazed and ran back to his sheep, to find that that and the second shoe were gone. Yussuf was much pleased and rewarded Abou with a new coat later, but for the present he was not done. Judging by long experience that the peasant had either bought the sheep and was taking it home or that he was carrying it to market to sell, he said to Abou: 'Let us wait. It may be that he will return with another.' "

"Ah, shrewd," muttered Ajeeb, nodding his head gravely. "Accordingly," went on Gazzar-al-Din, "they waited and soon the peasant returned carrying another sheep. Yussuf asked Abou if he could take this one also, and Abou told him that when he saw the sheep alone to take it."

"Dunce!" declared Chudi, the baker. "Will he put another sheep down after just losing one? This is a thin tale!" But Gazzar was not to be disconcerted.

"Now Yussuf was a great thief," he went on, "but this wit of Abou's puzzled him. Of all the thieves he had trained few could solve the various problems which he put before them, and in Abou he saw the makings of a great thief. As the peasant approached, Abou motioned to Yussuf to conceal himself in a crevice in the nearby rocks, while he hid in the woods. When the peasant drew near Abou placed his hands to his lips and imi- tated a sheep bleating, whereupon the peasant, thinking it must be his lost sheep, put down behind a stone the one he was carry- ing, for its feet were tied, and went into the woods to seek the lost one. Yussuf, watching from his cave, then ran forth and made off with the sheep. When the peasant approached, Abou climbed a tree and smiled down on him as he sought his sheep, for he had been taught that to steal was clever and wise, and the one from whom he could steal was a fool."

"And so he is," thought Waidi, who had stolen much in his time.

"When the peasant had gone his way lamenting, Abou came down and joined Yussuf. They returned to the city and the home of Yussuf, where the latter, much pleased, decided to adopt Abou as his son." Gazzar now paused upon seeing the interest of his hearers and held out his tambour. "Anna, O friends, anna! Is not the teller of tales, the sweetener of weariness, worthy of his hire? I have less than a score of anna, and ten will buy no more than a bowl of curds or a cup of kishr, and the road I have traveled has been long. So much as the right to sleep in a stall with the camels is held at ten anna, and I am no longer young." He moved the tambour about appealingly.

"Dog!" growled Soudi. "Must thy tambour be filled before we hear more?"

"Bismillah! This is no story-teller but a robber," declared Parfi.

"Peace, friends," said Gazzar, who was afraid to irritate his hearers in this strange city. "The best of the tale comes but now — the marvelous beauty of the Princess Yanee and the story of the caliph's treasury and the master thief. But, for the love of Allah, yield me but ten more anna and I pause no more. It is late. A cup of kishr, a camel's stall — " He waved the tambour. Some three of his hearers who had not yet contributed anything dropped each an anna into his tambour.

"Now," continued Gazzar somewhat gloomily, seeing how small were his earnings for all his art, "aside from stealing and plundering caravans upon the great desert, and the murder- ing of men for their treasure, the great Yussuf conducted a rug bazaar as a blind for more thievery and murder. This bazaar was in the principal street of the merchants, and at times he was to be seen there, his legs crossed upon his pillows. But let a mer- chant of wealth appear, a stranger, and although he might wish only to ask prices Yussuf would offer some rug or cloth so low that even a beggar would wish to take it. When the stranger, astonished at its price, would draw his purse a hand-clap from Yussuf would bring forth slaves from behind hangings who would fall upon and bind him, take his purse and clothes and throw his body into the river."

"An excellent robber indeed!" approved Soudi.

"Yussuf, once he had adopted Abou as his son, admitted him to his own home, where were many chambers and a garden, a court with a pool, and many servants and cushions and low divans in arcades and chambers ; then he dressed him in silks and took him to his false rug market, where he introduced him with a great flourish as one who would continue his affairs after he, Yussuf, was no more. He called his slaves and said: 'Behold thy master after myself. When I am not here, or by chance am no more — praise be to Allah, the good, the great! — see that thou obey him, for I have found him very wise.' Soon Yussuf dis- guised himself as a dervish and departed upon a new venture. As for Abou, being left in charge of the rug market, he busied himself with examining its treasures and their values and thinking on how the cruel trade of robbery, and, if necessary, murder, which had been taught him, and how best it was to be conducted.

"For although Abou was good and kind of heart, still being taken so young and sharply trained in theft and all things evil, and having been taught from day to day that not only were murder and robbery commendable but that softness or error in their pursuit was wrong and to be severely punished, he believed all this and yet innocently enough at times sorrowed for those whom he injured. Yet also he knew that he durst not show his sorrow in the presence of Yussuf, for the latter, though kind to him, was savage to all who showed the least mercy or failed to do his bidding, even going so far as to slay them when they sought to cross or betray him."

"Ay-ee, a savage one was that," muttered Al Hadjaz, the cook.

"And I doubt not there are such in Yemen to this day," added Ajeeb, the cleaner of stalls. "Was not Osman Hassan, the spice- seller, robbed and slain?"

"Soon after Yussuf had left on the secret adventure, there happened to Abou a great thing. For it should be known that at this time there ruled in Baghdad the great and wise Yianko I., Caliph of the Faithful in the valleys of the Euphrates and the Tigris and master of provinces and principalities, and the possessor of an enormous treasury of gold, which was in a great building of stone. Also he possessed a palace of such beauty that travelers came from many parts and far countries to see. It was built of many-colored stones and rare woods, and possessed walks and corridors and gardens and flowers and pools and balconies and latticed chambers into which the sun never burst, but where were always cool airs and sweet. Here were myrtle and jasmine and the palm and the cedar, and birds of many colors, and the tall ibis and the bright flamingo. It was here, with his many wives and concubines and slaves and courtiers, and many wise men come from far parts of the world to advise with him and bring him wisdom, that he ruled and was beloved and admired.

"Now by his favorite wife, Atrisha, there had been born to him some thirteen years before the beautiful and tender and delicate and loving and much-beloved Yanee, the sweetest and fairest of all his daughters, whom from the very first he designed should be the wife of some great prince, the mother of beauti- ful and wise children, and the heir, through her husband, who- ever he should be, to all the greatness and power which the same must possess to be worthy of her. And also, because he had decided that whoever should be wise and great and deserv- ing enough to be worthy of Yanee should also be worthy of him and all that he possessed — the great Caliphate of Baghdad. To this end, therefore, he called to Baghdad instructors of the greatest wisdom and learning of all kinds, the art of the lute and the tambour and the dance. And from among his wives and concubines he had chosen those who knew most of the art of dress and deportment and the care of the face and the bodyj so that now, having come to the age of the ripest perfection, thir- teen, she was the most beautiful of all the maidens that had appeared in Arabia or any of the countries beyond it. Her hair was as spun gold, her teeth as pearls of the greatest price, lustrous and delicate j her skin as the bright moon when it rises in the east, and her hands and feet as petals in full bloom. Her lips were as the pomegranate when it is newly cut, and her eyes as those deep pools into which the moon looks when it is night."

"Yea, I have heard of such, in fairy-tales," sighed Chudi, the baker, whose wife was as parchment that has cracked with age.

"And I, behind the walls of palaces and in far cities, but never here," added Zad-el-Din, for neither his wife nor his daughters was any too fair to look upon. "They come not to Hodeidah."

"Ay-ee, were any so beautiful," sighed Al Tadjaz, "there would be no man worthy. But there are none."

"Peace!" cried Ahmed. "Let us have the tale."

"Yea, before he thinks him to plead for more anna," mut- tered Hadjaz, the sweeper, softly.

But Gazzar, not to be robbed of this evidence of interest, was already astir. Even as they talked he held out the tambour, crying: "Anna, anna, anna!" But so great was the opposition that he dared not persist.

"Dog!" cried Waidi. "Wilt thou never be satisfied? There is another for thee, but come no more."

"Thou miser!" said Haifa, still greatly interested, "tell thy tale and be done!"

"The thief has rupees and to spare, I warrant," added Soudi, contributing yet another anna.

And Zad-el-Din and Ahmed, because they were lustful of the great beauty of Yanee, each added an anna to his takings.

"Berate me not, O friends," pleaded Gazzar tactfully, hiding his anna in his cloak, "for I am as poor as thou seest — a son of the road, a beggar, a wanderer, with nowhere to lay my head. Other than my tales I have nothing." But seeing scant sympathy in the faces of his hearers, he resumed.

"Now at the time that Abou was in charge of the dark bazaar it chanced that the caliph, who annually arranged for the de- parture of his daughter for the mountains which are beyond Azol in Bactria, where he maintained a summer palace of great beauty, sent forth a vast company mounted upon elephants and camels out of Ullar and Cerf and horses of the rarest blood from Taif. This company was caparisoned and swathed in silks and thin wool and the braided and spun cloth of Esher and Bar with their knitted threads of gold. And it made a glorious spectacle indeed, and all paused to behold. But it also chanced that as this cavalcade passed through the streets of Baghdad, Abou, hearing a great tumult and the cries of the multitude and the drivers and the tramp of the horses' feet and the pad of the camels', came to the door of his bazaar, his robes of silk about him, a turban of rare cloth knitted with silver threads upon his head. He had now grown to be a youth of eighteen summers. His hair was as black as the wing of the uck, his eyes large and dark and sad from many thoughts as is the pool into which the moon falls. His face and hands were tinted as with henna when it is spread very thin, and his manners were graceful and languorous. As he paused within his doorway he looked won- deringly at the great company as it moved and disappeared about the curves of the long street. And it could not but occur to him, trained as he was, how rich would be the prize could one but seize upon such a company and take all the wealth that was here and the men and women as slaves.

"Yet, even as he gazed and so thought, so strange are the ways of Allah, there passed a camel, its houdah heavy with rich silks, and ornaments of the rarest within, but without disguised as humble, so that none might guess. And within was the beauti- ful Princess Yanee, hidden darkly behind folds of fluttering silk, her face and forehead covered to her starry eyes, as is prescribed, and even these veiled. Yet so strange are the ways of life and of Allah that, being young and full of the wonder which is youth and the curiosity and awe which that which is unknown or strange begets in us all, she was at this very moment engaged in peeping out from behind her veils, the while the bright panorama of the world was passing. And as she looked, behold, there was Abou, gazing wonderingly upon her fine accoutrements. So lithe was his form and so deep his eyes and so fair his face that, transfixed as by a beam, her heart melted and without thought she threw back her veil and parted the cur- tains of the houdah the better to see, and the better that he might see. And Abou, seeing the curtains put to one side and the vision of eyes that were as pools and the cheeks as the leaf of the rose shine upon him, was transfixed and could no longer move or think.

"So gazing, he stood until her camel and those of many others had passed and turned beyond a curve of the street. Then bethinking himself that he might never more see her, he awoke and ran after, throwing one citizen and another to the right and the left. When at last he came up to the camel of his fair one, guarded by eunuchs and slaves, he drew one aside and said softly: 'Friend, be not wrathful and I will give thee a hundred dinars in gold do thou, within such time as thou canst, report to me at the bazaar of Yussuf, the rug-merchant, who it is that rides within this houdah. Ask thou only for Abou. No more will I ask.' The slave, noting his fine robes and the green-and- silver turban, thought him to be no less than a noble, and replied: 'Young master, be not overcurious. Remember the vengeance of the caliph. . . . 'Yet dinars have I to give.' ... 'I will yet come to thee.'

"Abou was enraptured by even so little as this, and yet de- jected also by the swift approach and departure of joy. 'For what am I now?' he asked himself. 'But a moment since, I was whole and one who could find delight in all things that were given me to do; but now I am as one who is lost and knows not his way.' "

"Ay-ee," sighed Azad Bakht, the barber, "I have had that same feeling more than once. It is something that one may not overcome."

"Al Tzoud, in the desert — " began Parfi, but he was inter- rupted by cries of "Peace — Peace ! "

"Thereafter, for all of a moon," went on Gazzar, "Abou was as one in a dream, wandering here and there drearily, be- thinking him now how he was ever to know more of the face that had appeared to him through the curtains of the houdah. And whether the driver of the camel would ever return. As day after day passed and there was no word, he grew thin and began to despair and to grow weary of life. At last there came to his shop an aged man, long of beard and dusty of garb, who in- quired for Abou. And being shown him said: 'I would speak with thee alone. And when Abou drew him aside he said: 'Dost thou recall the procession of the caliph's daughter to Ish-Pari in the mountains beyond Azol?' And Abou answered, 'Ay, by Allah!' 'And dost thou recall one of whom thou madest inquiry?' 'Aye,' replied Abou, vastly stirred. 'I asked who it was that was being borne aloft in state.' 'And what was the price for that knowledge?' 'A hundred dinars.' 'Keep thy dinars — or, better yet, give them to me that I may give them to the poor, for I bring thee news. She who was in the houdah was none other than the Princess Yanee, daughter of the caliph and heir to all his realm. But keep thou thy counsel and all thought of this visit and let no one know of thy inquiry. There are many who watch, and death may yet be thy portion and mine. Yet, since thou art as thou art, young and without knowledge of life, here is a spray of the myrtles of Ish-Pari — but thou art to think no further on anything thou hast seen or heard. And thou dost not — death ! ' He made the sign of three fingers to the forehead and the neck and gave Abou the spray, receiving in return the gold."

"Marhallah ! ' cried Soudi. "How pleasant it is to think of so much gold!"

"Yea," added Haifa, "there is that about great wealth and beauty and comfort that is soothing to the heart of every man."

"Yet for ten more anna," began Gazzar, "the price of a bed in the stall of a camel, how much more glorious could I make it — the sweetness of the love that might be, the wonder of the skill of Abou — anna, anna — but five more, that I may take up this thread with great heart."

"Jackal!" screamed Ajeeb fiercely. "Thou barkst for but one thing — anna. But now thou saidst if thou hadst but ten more, and by now thou hast a hundred. On with thy tale ! "

"Reremouse ! " said Chudi. "Thou art worse than thy Yussuf himself!" And none gave an anna more.

"Knowing that the myrtle was from the princess," went on Gazzar wearily, "and that henceforth he might seek but durst not even so much as breathe of what he thought or knew, he sighed and returned to his place in the bazaar.

"But now, Yussuf, returning not long after from a far journey, came to Abou with a bold thought. For it related to no other thing than the great treasury of the caliph, which stood in the heart of the city before the public market, and was sealed and guarded and built of stone and carried the wealth of an hundred provinces. Besides, it was now the time of the taking of tithes throughout the caliphate, as Yussuf knew, and the great treasury was filled to the roof, or so it was said, with golden dinars. It was a four-square building of heavy stone, with lesser squares superimposed one above the other after the fashion of pyramids. On each level was a parapet, and upon each side of every parapet as well as on the ground below there walked two guards, each first away from the centre of their side to the end and then back, meeting at the centre to reverse and return. And on each side and on each level were two other guards. No two of these, of any level or side, were permitted to arrive at the centre or the ends of their parapet at the same time, as those of the parapets above or below, lest any portion of the treasury be left unguarded. There was but one entrance, which was upon the ground and facing the market. And through this no one save the caliph or the caliph's treasurer or his delegated aides might enter. The guards ascended and descended via a guarded stair. Anna, O friends," pleaded Gazzar once more, "for now comes the wonder of the robbing of the great treas- ury — the wit and subtlety of Abou — and craft and yet con- fusion of the treasurer and the Caliph — anna! — A few miserable anna!"

"Jackal!" shouted Azad Bakht, getting up. "Thou robbest worse than any robber! Hast thou a treasury of thine own that thou hopest to fill?"

"Give him no more anna," called Feruz stoutly.

"Be not unkind, O friends," pleaded Gazzar soothingly. "As thou seest, I have but twenty annas — not the price of a meal, let alone of a bed. But ten — but — five — and I proceed."

"Come, then, here they are," cried Al Hadjaz, casting down four ; and Zad-el- Din and Haifa and Chudi each likewise added one, and Gazzar gathered them up and continued:

"Yussuf, who had long contemplated this wondrous store- house, had also long racked his wits as to how it might be entered and a portion of the gold taken. Also he had counseled with many of his pupils, but in vain. No one had solved the riddle for him. Yet one day as he and Abou passed the treasury on their way to the mosque for the look of honor, Yussuf said to Abou: 'Bethink thee, my son; here is a marvelous building, carefully constructed and guarded. How wouldst thou come to the store of gold within?' Abou, whose thoughts were not upon the building but upon Yanee, betrayed no look of surprise at the request, so accustomed was he to having difficult and fear- some matters put before him, but gazed upon it so calmly that Yussuf exclaimed: 'How now? Hast thou a plan? 7 'Never have I given it a thought, O Yussuf,' replied Abou 5 'but if it is thy wish, let us go and look more closely.'

"Accordingly, through the crowds of merchants and strangers and donkeys and the veiled daughters of the harem and the idlers generally, they approached and surveyed it. At once Abou observed the movement of the guards, saw that as the guards of one tier were walking away from each other those of the tiers above or below were walking toward each other. And although the one entrance to the treasury was well guarded still there was a vulnerable spot, which was the crowning cupola, also four-square and flat, where none walked or looked. 'It is difficult,' he said after a time, 'but it can be done. Let me think.'

"Accordingly, after due meditation and without consulting Yussuf, he disguised himself as a dispenser of fodder for camels, secured a rope of silk, four bags and an iron hook. Returning to his home he caused the hook to be covered with soft cloth so that its fall would make no sound, then fastened it to one end of the silken cord and said to Yussuf: 'Come now and let us try this.' Yussuf, curious as to what Abou could mean, went with him and together they tried their weight upon it to see if it would hold. Then Abou, learning by observation the hour at night wherein the guards were changed, and choosing a night without moon or stars, disguised himself and Yussuf as watch- men of the city and went to the treasury. Though it was as well guarded as ever they stationed themselves in an alley nearby. And Abou, seeing a muleteer approaching and wishing to test his disguise, ordered him away and he went. Then Abou, watching the guards who were upon the ground meet and turn, and see- ing those upon the first tier still in the distance but pacing toward the centre, gave a word to Yussuf and they ran forward, threw the hook over the rim of the first tier and then drew themselves up quickly, hanging there above the lower guards until those of the first tier met and turned. Then they climbed over the wall and repeated this trick upon the guards of the second tier, the third and fourth, until at last they were upon the roof of the cupola where they lay flat. Then Abou, who was prepared, un- screwed one of the plates of the dome, hooked the cord over the side and whispered: 'Now, master, which?' Yussuf, ever cautious in his life, replied: 'Go thou and report.'

"Slipping down the rope, Abou at last came upon a great store of gold and loose jewels piled in heaps, from which he filled the bags he had brought. These he fastened to the rope and ascended. Yussuf, astounded by the sight of so much wealth, was for making many trips, but Abou, detecting a rift where shone a star, urged that they cease for the night. Accordingly, after having fastened these at their waists and the plate to the roof as it had been, they descended as they had come."

"A rare trick," commented Zad-el-Din.

"A treasury after mine own heart," supplied Al Hadjaz.

"Thus for three nights," continued Gazzar, fearing to cry for more anna, "they succeeded in robbing the treasury, taking from it many thousands of dinars and jewels. On the fourth night, however, a guard saw them hurrying away and gave the alarm. At that, Abou and Yussuf turned here and there in strange ways, Yussuf betaking himself to his home, while Abou fled to his master's shop. Once there he threw off the disguise of a guard and reappeared as an aged vendor of rugs and was asked by the pursuing guards if he had seen anybody enter his shop. Abou motioned them to the rear of the shop, where they were bound and removed by YussuPs robber slaves. Others of the guards, however, had betaken themselves to their captain and reported, who immediately informed the treasurer. Torches were brought and a search made, and then he repaired to the caliph. The latter, astonished that no trace of the entrance or departure of the thieves could be found, sent for a master thief recently taken in crime and sentenced to be gibbeted, and said to him:

" 'Wouldst thou have thy life?'

" 'Aye, if thy grace will yield it.'

" 'Look you,' said the caliph. 'Our treasury has but now been robbed and there is no trace. Solve me this mystery within the moon, and thy life, though not thy freedom, is thine.'

" 'O Protector of the Faithful,' said the thief, 'do thou but let me see within the treasury.'

"And so, chained and in care of the treasurer himself and the caliph, he was taken to the treasury. Looking about him he at length saw a faint ray penetrating through the plate that had been loosed in the dome.

" 'O Guardian of the Faithful,' said the thief wisely and hope- fully, 'do thou place a cauldon of hot pitch under this dome and then see if the thief is not taken.'

"Thereupon the caliph did as advised, the while the treasury was resealed and fresh guards set to watch and daily the pitch was renewed, only Abou and Yussuf came not. Yet in due time, the avarice of Yussuf growing, they chose another night in the dark of the second moon and repaired once more to the treasury, where, so lax already had become the watch, they mounted to the dome. Abou, upon removing the plate, at once detected the odor of pitch and advised Yussuf not to descend, but he would

23$ BEST SHORT STORIES OF THEODORE DREISER

none of this. The thought of the gold and jewels into which on previous nights he had dipped urged him, and he descended. However, when he neared the gold he reached for it, but instead of gold he seized the scalding pitch, which when it burned, caused him to loose his hold and fall. He cried to Abou: 'I burn in hot pitch. Help me ! ' Abou descended and took the hand but felt it waver and grow slack. Knowing that death was at hand and that should Yussuf's body be found not only himself but YussuPs wife and slaves would all suffer, he drew his scimiter, which was ever at his belt, and struck off the head. Fastening this to his belt, he reascended the rope, replaced the plate and care- fully made his way from the treasury. He then went to the house of Yussuf and gave the head to Yussuf's wife, cautioning her to secrecy.

"But the caliph, coming now every day with his treasurer to look at the treasury, was amazed to find it sealed and yet the headless body within. Knowing not how to solve the mystery of this body, he ordered the thief before him, who advised him to hang the body in the market-place and set guards to watch any who might come to mourn or spy. Accordingly, the headless body was gibbeted and set up in the market-place where Abou, passing afar, recognized it. Fearing that Mirza, the wife of Yussuf, who was of the tribe of the Veddi, upon whom it is obligatory that they mourn in the presence of the dead, should come to mourn here, he hastened to caution her. 'Go thou not thither, 1 he saidj 'or, if thou must, fill two bowls with milk and go as a seller of it. If thou must weep drop one of the bowls as if by accident and make as if thou wept over that.' Mirza ac- cordingly filled two bowls and passing near the gibbet in the public square dropped one and thereupon began weeping as her faith demanded. The guards, noting her, thought nothing — 'for here is one,' said they, 'so poor that she cries because of her misfortune.' But the caliph, calling for the guards at the end of the day to report to himself and the master thief, inquired as to what they had seen. 'We saw none,' said the chief of the guard, 'save an old woman so poor that she wept for the breaking of a bowl ! ' 'Dolts ! ' cried the master thief. 'Pigs ! Did I not say take any who came to mourn? She is the widow of the thief. Try again. Scatter gold pieces under the gibbet and take any that touch them.'

"The guards scattered gold, as was commanded, and took their positions. Abou, pleased that the widow had been able to mourn and yet not be taken, came now to see what more might be done by the caliph. Seeing the gold he said: 'It is with that he wishes to tempt.' At once his pride in his skill was aroused and he de- termined to take some of the gold and yet not be taken. To this end he disguised himself as a ragged young beggar and one weak of wit, and with the aid of an urchin younger than himself and as wretched he began to play about the square, running here and there as if in some game. But before doing this he had fastened to the sole of his shoes a thick gum so that the gold might stick. The guards, deceived by the seeming youth and foolishness of Abou and his friend, said: 'These are but a child and a fool. They take no gold.' But by night, coming to count the gold, there were many pieces missing and they were sore afraid. When they reported to the caliph that night he had them flogged and new guards placed in their stead. Yet again he consulted with the master thief, who advised him to load a camel with enticing riches and have it led through the streets of the city by seeming strangers who were the worse for wine. 'This thief who eludes thee will be tempted by these riches and seek to rob them.'

"Soon after it was Abou, who, prowling about the market- place, noticed this camel laden with great wealth and led by seeming strangers. But because it was led to no particular market he thought that it must be of the caliph. He decided to take this also, for there was in his blood that which sought contest, and by now he wished the caliph, because of Yanee, to fix his thought upon him. He filled a skin with the best of wine, into which he placed a drug of the dead Yussuf's devisingj and dressing him- self as a shabby vendor, set forth. When he came to the street in which was the camel and saw how the drivers idled and gaped, he began to cry, 'Wine for a para! A drink of wine for a para!' The drivers drank and found it good, following Abou as he walked, drinking and chaffering with him and laughing at his dumbness, until they were within a door of the house of Mirza, the wife of the dead Yussuf, where was a gate giving into a secret court. Pausing before this until the wine should take effect, he suddenly began to gaze upward and then to point. The drivers looked but saw nothing. And the drug taking effect they fell down j whereupon Abou quickly led the camel into the court and closed the gate. When he returned and found the drivers still asleep he shaved off half the hair of their heads and their beards, then disappeared and changed his dress and joined those who were now laughing at the strangers in their plight, for they had awakened and were running here and there in search of a camel and its load and unaware of their grotesque appearance. Mirza, in order to remove all traces, had the camel killed and the goods distributed. A careful woman and house- wifely, she had caused all the fat to be boiled from the meat and preserved in jars, it having a medicinal value. The caliph, having learned how it had gone with his camel, now meditated anew on how this great thief, who mocked him and who was of great wit, might be taken. Calling the master thief and others in council he recited the entire tale and asked how this prince of thieves might be caught. c Try but one more ruse, O master/ said the master thief, who was now greatly shaken and feared for his life. 'Do thou send an old woman from house to house asking for camel's grease. Let her plead that it is for one who is ill. It may be that, fearing detection, the camel has been slain and the fat preserved. If any is found, mark the door of that house with grease and take all within.'

"Accordingly an old woman was sent forth chaffering of pain. In due time she came to the house of Mirza, who gave her of the grease, and when she left she made a cross upon the door. When she returned to the caliph he called his officers and guards and all proceeded toward the marked door. In the meantime Abou, having returned and seen the mark, inquired of Mirza as to what it meant. When told of the woman's visit he called for a bowl of the camel's grease and marked the doors in all the nearest streets. The caliph, coming into the street and seeing the marks, was both enraged and filled with awe and admiration for of such wisdom he had never known. 'I give thee thy life,' he said to the master thief, 'for now I see that thou art as nothing to this one. He is shrewd beyond the wisdom of caliphs and thieves. Let us return,' and he retraced his steps to the palace, curious as to the nature and soul of this one who could so easily outwit him.

"Time went on and the caliph one day said to his vizier: 'I have been thinking of the one who robbed the treasury and my camel and the gold from under the gibbet. Such an one is wise above his day and generation and worthy of a better task. What think you? Shall I offer him a full pardon so that he may appear and be taken — or think you he will appear?' 'Do but try it, O Commander of the Faithful,' said the vizier. A proclamation was prepared and given to the criers, who announced that it was com- manded by the caliph that, should the great thief appear on the market-place at a given hour and yield himself up, a pardon full and free would be granted him and gifts of rare value heaped upon him. Yet it was not thus that the caliph intended to do.

"Now, Abou, hearing of this and being despondent over his life and the loss of Yanee and the death of Yussuf and wishing to advantage himself in some way other than by thievery, be- thought him how he might accept this offer of the caliph and declare himself and yet, supposing it were a trap to seize him, escape. Accordingly he awaited the time prescribed, and when the public square was filled with guards instructed to seize him if he appeared he donned the costume of a guard and appeared among the soldiers dressed as all the others. The caliph was present to witness the taking, and when the criers surrounding him begged the thief to appear and be pardoned, Abou called out from the thick of the throng: 'Here I am, O Caliph! Amnesty!' Whereupon the caliph, thinking that now surely he would be taken, cried: 'Seize him! Seize him!' But Abou, mingling with the others, also cried: 'Seize him! Seize him!' and looked here and there as did the others. The guards, think- ing him a guard, allowed him to escape, and the caliph, once more enraged and chagrined, retired. Once within his chambers he called to him his chief advisers and had prepared the follow- ing proclamation:

" C BE IT KNOWN TO ALL

" 'Since within the boundaries of our realm there exists one so wise that despite our commands and best efforts he is still able to work his will against ours and to elude our every effort to detect him, be it known that from having been amazed and disturbed we are now pleased and gratified that one so skilful of wit and resourceful should exist in our realm. To make plain that our appreciation is now sincere and our anger allayed it is hereby covenant with him and with all our people, to whom he may appeal if we fail in our word, that if he will now present himself in person and recount to one whom we shall appoint his various adventures, it will be our pleasure to signally distinguish him above others. Upon corroboration by us of that which he tells, he shall be given riches, our royal friendship and a councillor's place in our council. I have said it.

" 'YlANKO I.'

"This was signed by the caliph and cried in the public places. A'bou heard all but because of the previous treachery of the caliph he was now unwilling to believe that this was true. At the same time he was pleased to know that he was now held in great consideration, either for good or ill, by the caliph and his advisers, and bethought him that if it were for ill perhaps by continuing to outwit the caliph he might still succeed in winning his favor and so to a further knowledge of Yanee. To this end he prepared a reply which he posted in the public square, read- ing:

" 'PROCLAMATION BY THE ONE WHOM THE CALIPH SEEKS

"Notice of this reply being brought to the caliph he forthwith took counsel with his advisers and decided that since it was plain the thief might not otherwise be taken, recourse must be had to a device that might be depended upon to lure him. Behind a certain window in the palace wall known as 'The Whispering Window/ and constantly used by all who were in distress or had suffered a wrong which owing to the craft of others there was no hope of righting, sat at stated times and always at night, the caliph's own daughter Yanee, whose tender heart and unseeking soul were counted upon to see to it that the saddest of stories came to the ears of the caliph. It was by this means that the caliph now hoped to capture the thief. To insure that the thief should come it was publicly announced that should any one that came be able to tell how the treasury had been entered and the gold pieces taken from under the gibbet or the camel stolen and killed, he was to be handed a bag of many dinars and a pardon in writing j later, should he present himself, he would be made a councillor of state.

"Struck by this new proclamation and the possibility of once more beholding the princess, Abou decided to match his skill against that of the caliph. He disguised himself as a vendor of tobacco and approached the window, peered through the lattice which screened it and said: *0 daughter of the great caliph, be- hold one who is in distress. I am he whom the caliph seeks, either to honor or slay, I know not which. Also I am he who, on one of thy journeys to the mountain of Azol and thy palace at Ish-Pari thou beheldest while passing the door of my father's rug-market, for thou didst lift the curtains of thy houdah and also thy veil and didst deign to smile at me. And I have here,' and he touched his heart, 'a faded spray of the myrtles of Ish- Pari, or so it has been told me, over which I weep.'

"Yanee, shocked that she should be confronted with the great thief whom her father sought and that he should claim to be the beautiful youth she so well remembered, and yet fearing this to be some new device of the vizier or of the women of the harem, who might have heard of her strange love and who ever prayed evil against all who were younger or more beautiful than they, she was at a loss how to proceed. Feeling the need of wis- dom and charity, she said: 'How sayst thou? Thou art the great thief whom my father seeks and yet the son of a rug-merchant on whom I smiled. Had I ever smiled on a thief, which Allah forbid, would I not remember it and thee? Therefore, if it be as thou sayst, permit it that I should have a light brought that I may behold thee. And if thou art the rug-merchant's son or the great thief, or both, and wishest thy pardon and the bag of dinars which here awaits thee, thou must relate to me how it was the treasury was entered, how the gold was taken from under the gibbet and my father's camel from its drivers.' 'Readily enough, O Princess,' replied Abou, 'only if I am thus to reveal myself to thee must I not know first that thou art the maiden whom I saw? For she was kind as she was fair and would do no man an ill. Therefore if thou wilt lower thy veil, as thou didst on the day of thy departure, so that I may see, I will lift my hood so that thou mayst know that I lie not.'

"The princess, troubled to think that the one whom she had so much admired might indeed be the great thief whose life her father sought, and yet wavering between duty to her father and loyalty to her ideal, replied: 'So will I, but upon one condition: should it be that thou art he upon whom thou sayst I looked with favor and yet he who also has committed these great crimes in my father's kingdom, know that thou mayst take thy pardon and thy gold and depart j but only upon the condition that never more wilt thou trouble either me or my father. For I cannot bear to think that I have looked with favor upon one who, however fair, is yet a thief.'

"At this Abou shrank inwardly and a great sorrow fell upon him j for now, as at the death of Yussuf , he saw again the horror of his way. Yet feeling the justice of that which was said, he answered: 'Yea, O Princess, so will I, for I have long since resolved to be done with evil, which was not of my own making, and will trouble thee no more. Should this one glance show me that beloved face over which I have dreamed, I will pass hence, never more to return, for I will not dwell in a realm where another may dwell with thee in love. I am, alas, the great thief and will tell thee how I came by the gold under the gibbet and in thy father's treasury ; but I will not take his gold. Only will I accept his pardon sure and true. For though born a thief I am no longer one.' The princess, struck by the nobility of these words as well as by his manner, said sadly, fearing the light would reveal the end of her dreams: 'Be it so. But if thou art indeed he thou wilt tell me how thou earnest to be a thief, for I cannot believe that one of whom I thought so well can do so ill.'

"Abou, sadly punished for his deeds, promised, and when the torch was brought the princess lifted her veil. Then it was that Abou again saw the face upon which his soul had dwelt and which had caused him so much unrest. He was now so moved that he could not speak. He drew from his face its disguise and confronted her. And Yanee, seeing for the second time the face of the youth upon whom her memory had dwelt these many days, her heart misgave her and she dared not speak. Instead she lowered her veil and sat in silence, the while Abou re- counted the history of his troubled life and early youth, how he could recall nothing of it save that he had been beaten and trained in evil ways until he knew naught else ; also of how he came to rob the treasury, and how the deeds since of which the caliph complained had been in part due to his wish to protect the widow of Yussuf and to defeat the skill of the caliph. The princess, admiring his skill and beauty in spite of his deeds, was at a loss how to do. For despite his promise and his proclama- tion, the caliph had exacted of her that in case Abou appeared she was to aid in his capture, and this she could not do. At last she said : 'Go, and come no more, for I dare not look upon thee, and the caliph wishes thee only ill. Yet let me tell my father that thou wilt trouble him no more,' to which Abou replied: 'Know, O Princess, thus will I do.' Then opening the lattice, Yanee handed him the false pardon and the gold, which Abou would not take. Instead he seized and kissed her hand tenderly and then departed.

"Yanee returned to her father and recounted to him the story of the robbery of the treasury and all that followed, but added that she had not been able to obtain his hand in order to have him seized because he refused to reach for the gold. The caliph, once more chagrined by Abou's cleverness in obtaining his written pardon without being taken, now meditated anew on how he might be trapped. His daughter having described Abou as both young and handsome, the caliph thought that perhaps the bait of his daughter might win him to capture and now pre- pared the following and last pronunciamento, to wit:

"'TO THE PEOPLE OF BAGHDAD

" 'Having been defeated in all our contests with the one who signs himself The One Whom the Califh Seeks, and yet having extended to him a full pardon signed by our own hand and to which has been afixed the caliphate seal, we now deign to declare that if this wisest of lawbreakers will now present himself in person before us and accept of us our homage and good will, we will, assuming him to be young and of agreeable manners, accept him as the affiant of our daughter and prepare him by education and training for her hand; or, failing that, and he being a man of mature years, we will publicly accept him as councillor of state and chiefest of our ad- visers. To this end, that he may have full confidence in our word, we have ordered that the third day of the seventh moon be observed as a holiday, that a public feast be prepared and that our people assemble before us in our great court. Should this wisest of fugitives appear and declare himself we will there publicly reaffirm and do as is here written and accept him into our life and confidence. I have said it.

" 'YlANKO I.»

"The caliph showed this to his daughter and she sighed, for full well she knew that the caliph's plan would prove vain — for had not Abou said that he would return no more? But the caliph proceeded, thinking this would surely bring about Abou's capture.

"In the meantime in the land of Yemen, of which Abou was the rightful heir, many things had transpired. His father, Kar- Shem, having died and the wretched pretender, Bab-el-Bar, having failed after a revolution to attain to Kar-Shem's seat, confessed to the adherents of Kar-Shem the story of the Prince Hussein's abduction and sale into slavery to a rug-merchant in Baghdad. In consequence, heralds and a royal party were at once sent forth to discover Hussein. They came to Baghdad and found the widow of Yussuf, who told them of the many slaves Yussuf had owned, among them a child named Hussein to whom they had given the name of Abou.

"And so, upon Abou's return from 'The Whispering Window,' there were awaiting him at the house of Mirza the representa- tives of his own kingdom, who, finding him young and hand- some and talented, and being convinced by close questioning that he was really Hussein, he was apprised of his dignity and worth and honored as the successor of Kar-Shem in the name of the people of Yemen.

"And now Hussein (once Abou), finding himself thus en- nobled, bethought him of the beautiful Yanee and her love for him and his undying love for her. Also he felt a desire to outwit the caliph in one more contest. To this end he ordered his present entourage to address the caliph as an embassy fresh from Yemen, saying that having long been in search of their prince they had now found him, and to request of him the courtesy of his good- will and present consideration for their lord. The caliph, who wished always to be at peace with all people, and especially those of Yemen, who were great and powerful, was most pleased at this and sent a company of courtiers to Hussein, who now dwelt with his entourage at one of the great caravanseries of the city, requesting that he come forthwith to the palace that he might be suitably entertained. And now Abou, visiting the caliph in his true figure, was received by him in great state, and many and long were the public celebrations ordered in his honor.

"Among these was the holiday proclaimed by Yianko in order to entrap Abou. And Yianko, wishing to amuse and entertain his guest, told him the full history of the great thief and of his bootless efforts thus far to take him. He admitted to Hussein his profound admiration for Abou's skill and ended by saying that should any one know how Abou might be taken he would be willing to give to that one a place in his council, or, supposing he were young and noble, the hand of his daughter. At this Hussein, enticed by the thought of so winning Yanee, declared that he himself would attempt to solve the mystery and now prepared to appear as a fierce robber, the while he ordered one of his followers to impersonate himself as prince for that day.

"The great day of the feast having arrived and criers having gone through the streets of the city announcing the feast and the offer of the caliph to Abou, there was much rejoicing. Long tables were set in the public square, and flags and banners were strung. The beautiful Yanee was told of her father's vow to Hussein, but she trusted in Abou and his word and his skill and so feared naught. At last, the multitude having gathered and the caliph and his courtiers and the false Hussein having taken their places at the head of the feast, the caliph raised his hand for silence. The treasurer taking his place upon one of the steps leading to the royal board, reread the proclamation and called upon Abou to appear and before all the multitude receive the favor of the caliph or be forever banned. Abou, or Hussein, who in the guise of a fierce mountain outlaw had mingled with the crowd, now came forward and holding aloft the pardon of the caliph announced that he was indeed the thief and could prove it. Also, that as written he would exact of the caliph his daughter's hand. The caliph, astounded that one so uncouth and fierce-seeming should be so wise as the thief had proved or should ask of him his daughter's hand, was puzzled and anxious for a pretext on which he might be restrained. Yet with all the multitude before him and his word given, he scarce knew how to proceed or what to say. Then it was that Yanee, concealed behind a lattice, sent word to her father that this fierce soul was not the one who had come to her but an impostor. The caliph, now suspecting treachery and more mischief, ordered this seem- ing false Abou seized and bound, whereupon the fictitious Hus- sein, masquerading in Hussein's clothes, came forward and asked for the bandit's release for the reason that he was not a true bandit at all but the true prince, whom they had sought far and wide.

"Then the true Hussein, tiring of the jest and laying aside his bandit garb, took his place at the foot of the throne and proceeded to relate to Yianko the story of his life. At this the caliph, remembering his word and seeing in Abou, now that he was the Prince of Yemen, an entirely satisfactory husband for Yanee, had her brought forward. Yanee, astonished and con- fused at being thus confronted with her lost love, now become a Prince, displayed so much trepidation and coquetry that the caliph, interested and amused and puzzled, was anxious to know the cause. Whereupon Hussein told how he had seen her pass- ing his robber father's bazaar on her way to Ish-Pari and that he had ever since bemoaned him that he was so low in the scale of life as not to be able to aspire to her hand yet now rejoiced that he might make his plea. The caliph, realizing how true a romance was here, now asked his daughter what might be her will, to which she coyly replied that she had never been able to forget Abou. Hussein at once reiterated his undying passion, saying that if Yanee would accept him for her husband and the caliph as his son he would there and then accept her as his queen and that their nuptials should be celebrated before his return to his kingdom. Whereupon the caliph, not to be outdone in gal- lantry, declared that he would gladly accept so wise a prince, not only as his son by marriage but as his heir, and that at his death both he and Yanee were jointly to rule over his kingdom and their own. There followed scenes of great rejoicing among the people, and Hussein and Yanee rode together before them.

"And now, O my hearers," continued Gazzar most artfully, although his tale was done, "ye have heard how it was with Abou the unfortunate, who came through cleverness to nothing but good — a beautiful love, honor and wealth and the rule of two realms — whereas I, poor wander that I am—”

But the company, judging that he was about to plead for more anna, and feeling, and rightly, arose and as one man walked away. Soudi and Parfi denounced him as a thief and a usurer; and Gazzar, counting his small store of anna and looking betimes at the shop of Al Hadjaz, from which still came the odors of food, and then in the direction of caravan where lay the camels among which he must sleep,sighed. For he saw that for all his pains he had not more than the half of a meal and a bed and that for the morrow there was nothing.

“By Allah,”he sighed,”what avails it if one travel the world over to gather many strange tales and keep the fresh and add to them as if by myrrh and incense and the color of rose and the dawn, if by so doing one may not come by so much as a meal or a bed? Bismilah! Were it not for my withered arm no more would I trouble to tell a tale!” And tucking his tambour into his rags he turned his steps wearily toward the mosque,where before eating it was, as the Koran commanded, that he must pray.