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Life in the Iron-Mills-Part7_Rebecca Harding Davis(1831-1910)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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nauseous stream of blood dripping slowly from the pallet to the

floor!



There was outcry and crowd enough in the cell the next day. The

coroner and his jury, the local editors, Kirby himself, and boys



with their hands thrustknowingly into their pockets and heads

on one side, jammed into the corners. Coming and going all day.



Only one woman. She came late, and outstayed them all. A

Quaker, or Friend, as they call themselves. I think this woman



Was known by that name in heaven. A homely body, coarsely

dressed in gray and white. Deborah (for Haley had let her in)



took notice of her. She watched them all--sitting on the end of

the pallet, holding his head in her arms with the ferocity of a



watch-dog, if any of them touched the body. There was no

meekness, no sorrow, in her face; the stuff out of which



murderers are made, instead. All the time Haley and the woman

were laying straight the limbs and cleaning the cell, Deborah



sat still, keenly watching the Quaker's face. Of all the crowd

there that day, this woman alone had not spoken to her,--only



once or twice had put some cordial to her lips. After they all

were gone, the woman, in the same still, gentle way, brought a



vase of wood-leaves and berries, and placed it by the pallet,

then opened the narrow window. The fresh air blew in, and swept



the woody fragrance over the dead face, Deborah looked up with

a quick wonder.



"Did hur know my boy wud like it? Did hur know Hugh?"

"I know Hugh now."



The white fingers passed in a slow, pitiful way over the dead,

worn face. There was a heavy shadow in the quiet eyes.



"Did hur know where they'll bury Hugh?" said Deborah in a

shrill tone, catching her arm.



This had been the question hanging on her lips all day.

"In t' town-yard? Under t' mud and ash? T' lad'll smother,



woman! He wur born in t' lane moor, where t' air is frick and

strong. Take hur out, for God's sake, take hur out where t' air



blows!"

The Quaker hesitated, but only for a moment. She put her strong



arm around Deborah and led her to the window.

"Thee sees the hills, friend, over the river? Thee sees how the



light lies warm there, and the winds of God blow all the day?

I live there,--where the blue smoke is, by the trees. Look at



me," She turned Deborah's face to her own, clear and earnest,

"Thee will believe me? I will take Hugh and bury him there to-



morrow."

Deborah did not doubt her. As the evening wore on, she leaned



against the iron bars, looking at the hills that rose far off,

through the thick sodden clouds, like a bright, unattainable



calm. As she looked, a shadow of their solemnrepose fell on

her face; its fiercediscontent faded into a pitiful, humble



quiet. Slow, solemn tears gathered in her eyes: the poor weak

eyes turned so hopelessly to the place where Hugh was to rest,



the grave heights looking higher and brighter and more solemn

than ever before. The Quaker watched her keenly. She came to



her at last, and touched her arm.

"When thee comes back," she said, in a low, sorrowful tone, like



one who speaks from a strong heart deeply moved with remorse or

pity, "thee shall begin thy life again,--there on the hills. I



came too late; but not for thee,--by God's help, it may be."

Not too late. Three years after, the Quaker began her work. I



end my story here. At evening-time it was light. There is no

need to tire you with the long years of sunshine, and fresh air,



and slow, patient Christ-love, needed to make healthy and

hopeful this impure body and soul. There is a homely pine



house, on one of these hills, whose windows overlook broad,

wooded slopes and clover-crimsoned meadows,--niched into the



very place where the light is warmest, the air freest. It is

the Friends' meeting-house. Once a week they sit there, in



their grave, earnest way, waiting for the Spirit of Love to

speak, opening their simple hearts to receive His words. There



is a woman, old, deformed, who takes a humble place among them:

waiting like them: in her gray dress, her worn face, pure and



meek, turned now and then to the sky. A woman much loved by

these silent, resfful people; more silent than they, more



humble, more loving. Waiting: with her eyes turned to hills

higher and purer than these on which she lives,dim and far off



now, but to be reached some day. There may be in her heart some

latent hope to meet there the love denied her here,--that she






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