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Life in the Iron-Mills-Part4_Rebecca Harding Davis(1831-1910)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Goethe schemes? Some day, out of their bitter need will be

thrown up their own light-bringer,--their Jean Paul, their



Cromwell, their Messiah."

"Bah!" was the Doctor's inwardcriticism. However, in practice,



he adopted the theory; for, when, night and morning, afterwards,

he prayed that power might be given these degraded souls to



rise, he glowed at heart, recognizing an accomplished duty.

Wolfe and the woman had stood in the shadow of the works as the



coach drove off. The Doctor had held out his hand in a frank,

generous way, telling him to "take care of himself, and to



remember it was his right to rise." Mitchell had simply touched

his hat, as to an equal, with a quiet look of thorough



recognition. Kirby had thrown Deborah some money, which she

found, and clutched eagerly enough. They were gone now, all of



them. The man sat down on the cinder-road, looking up into the

murky sky.



"'T be late, Hugh. Wunnot hur come?"

He shook his head doggedly, and the woman crouched out of his



sight against the wall. Do you remember rare moments when a

sudden light flashed over yourself, your world, God? when you



stood on a mountain-peak, seeing your life as it might have

been, as it is? one quick instant, when custom lost its force



and every-day usage? when your friend, wife, brother, stood in

a new light? your soul was bared, and the grave,--a foretaste



of the nakedness of the Judgment-Day? So it came before him,

his life, that night. The slow tides of pain he had borne



gathered themselves up and surged against his soul. His squalid

daily life, the brutal coarseness eating into his brain, as the



ashes into his skin: before, these things had been a dull

aching into his consciousness; to-night, they were reality. He



griped the filthy red shirt that clung, stiff with soot, about

him, and tore it savagely" target="_blank" title="ad.野蛮地；原始地">savagely from his arm. The flesh beneath was



muddy with grease and ashes,--and the heart beneath that! And

the soul? God knows.



Then flashed before his vivid poetic sense the man who had left

him,--the pure face, the delicate, sinewy limbs, in harmony with



all he knew of beauty or truth. In his cloudy fancy he had

pictured a Something like this. He had found it in this



Mitchell, even when he idly scoffed at his pain: a Man all-

knowing, all-seeing, crowned by Nature, reigning,--the keen



glance of his eye falling like a sceptre on other men. And yet

his instinct taught him that he too--He! He looked at himself



with sudden loathing, sick, wrung his hands With a cry, and then

was silent. With all the phantoms of his heated, ignorant



fancy, Wolfe had not been vague in his ambitions. They were

practical, slowly built up before him out of his knowledge of



what he could do. Through years he had day by day made this

hope a real thing to himself,--a clear, projected figure of



himself, as he might become.

Able to speak, to know what was best, to raise these men and



women working at his side up with him: sometimes he forgot this

defined hope in the franticanguish to escape, only to escape,--



out of the wet, the pain, the ashes, somewhere, anywhere,--only

for one moment of free air on a hill-side, to lie down and let



his sick soul throb itself out in the sunshine. But to-night he

panted for life. The savage strength of his nature was roused;



his cry was fierce to God for justice.

"Look at me!" he said to Deborah, with a low, bitter laugh,



striking his puny chest savagely" target="_blank" title="ad.野蛮地；原始地">savagely. "What am I worth, Deb? Is it

my fault that I am no better? My fault? My fault?"



He stopped, stung with a sudden remorse, seeing her hunchback

shape writhing with sobs. For Deborah was crying thankless



tears, according to the fashion of women.

"God forgi' me, woman! Things go harder Wi' you nor me. It's



a worse share."

He got up and helped her to rise; and they went doggedly down



the muddy street, side by side.

"It's all wrong," he muttered, slowly,--"all wrong! I dunnot



understan'. But it'll end some day."

"Come home, Hugh!" she said, coaxingly; for he had stopped,



looking around bewildered.

"Home,--and back to the mill!" He went on saying this over to



himself, as if he would mutter down every pain in this dull

despair.



She followed him through the fog, her blue lips chattering with




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