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of the tragedy. Before my brief acquaintance with her, Nancy was widely known as a travelling-preacher, one who had "the power."
She must have been a strangely attractive creature, in those early days, alert, intense, gifted with such a magnetic reaching into another
life that it might well set her aside from the commoner phases of a common day, and crowned, as with flame, by an unceasing
aspiration for the highest. At thirty, she married a dashing sailor, marked by the sea, even to the rings in his ears; and when I knew
them, they were solidly comfortable and happy, in a way very reassuring to one who could understand Nancy's temperament; for she
was one of those who, at every step, are flung aside from the world's sharp corners, bruised and bleeding.
As to the storm and shipwreck of her life, I learned no particulars essentially new. Evidently her husband had suddenly run amuck,
either from the monotony of his inland days, or from the strange passion he had conceived for a woman who was Nancy's opposite.
That night, I sat in the poor, bare little room, beside the billowing feather-bed where Nancy lay propped upon pillows, and gazing
with bright, glad eyes into my face, one thin little hand clutching mine with the grasp of a soul who holds desperately to life. And yet
Nancy was not clinging to life itself; she only seemed to be, because she clung to love.
"I'm proper glad to see ye," she kept saying, "proper glad."
We were quite alone. The fire burned cheerily in the kitchen stove, and a cheap little clock over the mantel ticked unmercifully fast; it
seemed in haste for Nancy to be gone. The curtains were drawn, lest the thrifty window-plants should be frostbitten, and several
tumblers of jelly on the oilcloth-covered table bore witness that the neighbors had put aside their moral scruples and their social
delicacy, and were giving of their best, albeit to one whose ways were not their ways. But Nancy herself was the centre and light of the
room,--so frail, so clean, with her plain nightcap and coarse white nightgown, and the small checked shawl folded primly over her
Meadow Grass 75/90
Meadow Grass
shoulders. Thin as she was, she looked scarcely older than when I had seen her, five years ago; yet since then she had walked through
a blacker valley than the one before her.
"Now don't you git all nerved up when I cough," she said, lying back exhausted after a paroxysm. "I've got used to it; it don't trouble
me no more'n a mosquiter. I want to have a real good night now, talkin' over old times."
"You must try to sleep," I said. "The doctor will blame me, if I let you talk."
"No, he won't," said Nancy, shrewdly. "He knows I 'ain't got much time afore me, an' I guess he wouldn't deny me the good on't. That's
why I sent for ye, dear; I 'ain't had anybody I could speak out to in five year, an' I wanted to speak out, afore I died. Do you remember
how you used to come over an' eat cold b'iled dish for supper, that last summer you was down here?"
"Oh, don't I, Nancy! there never was anything like it. Such cold potatoes--"
"B'iled in the pot-liquor!" she whispered, a knowing gleam in her blue eyes. "That's the way; on'y everybody don't know. An' do you
remember the year we had greens way into the fall, an' I wouldn't tell you what they was? Well, I will, now; there was chickweed, an'
pusley, an' mustard, an' Aaron's-rod, an' I dunno what all."
"Not Aaron's-rod, Nancy! it never would have been so good!"
"It's truth an' fact! I b'iled Aaron's-rod, an' you eat it. That was the year Mis' Blaisdell was mad because you had so many meals over
to my house, an' said it was the last time she'd take summer boarders an' have the neighbors feed 'em."
"They were good old days, Nancy!"
"I guess they were! yes, indeed, I guess so! Now, dear, I s'pose you've heard what I've been through, sence you went away?"
I put the thin hand to my cheek.
"Yes," I said, "I have heard."
"Well, now, I want to tell you the way it 'pears to me. You'll hear the neighbors' side, an' arter I'm gone, they'll tell you I was
under-witted or bold. They've been proper good to me sence I've been sick, but law! what do they know about it, goin' to bed at nine
o'clock, an' gittin' up to feed the chickens an' ride to meetin' with their husbands? No more'n the dead! An' so I want to tell ye my
story, myself. Now, don't you mind my coughing dear! It don't hurt, to speak of, an' I feel better arter it.
"Well, I dunno where to begin. The long an' short of it was, dear, James he got kind o' uneasy on land, an' then he was tried with me,
an' then he told me, one night, when he spoke out, that he didn't care about me as he used to, an' he never should, an' we couldn't live
no longer under the same roof. He was goin' off the next day to sea, or to the devil, he said, so he needn't go crazy seein' Mary Ann
Worthen's face lookin' at him all the time. It ain't any use tryin' to tell how I felt. Some troubles ain't no more 'n a dull pain, an' some
are like cuts an' gashes. You can feel your heart drop, drop, like water off the eaves. Mine dropped for a good while arter that. Well,
you see I'd been through the fust stages of it. I'd been eat up by jealousy, an' I'd slaved like a dog to git him back; but now it had got
beyond such folderol. He was in terrible trouble, an' I'd got to git him out. An' I guess 'twas then that I begun to feel as if I was his
mother, instid of his wife. 'Jim,' says I, (somehow I have to Say 'James,' now we're separated!) 'don't you fret. I'll go off an' leave ye,
an' you can get clear o' me accordin' to law, if you want to. I'm sure you can. I sha'n't care.' He turned an' looked at me, as if I was [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl fopke.keep.pl
of the tragedy. Before my brief acquaintance with her, Nancy was widely known as a travelling-preacher, one who had "the power."
She must have been a strangely attractive creature, in those early days, alert, intense, gifted with such a magnetic reaching into another
life that it might well set her aside from the commoner phases of a common day, and crowned, as with flame, by an unceasing
aspiration for the highest. At thirty, she married a dashing sailor, marked by the sea, even to the rings in his ears; and when I knew
them, they were solidly comfortable and happy, in a way very reassuring to one who could understand Nancy's temperament; for she
was one of those who, at every step, are flung aside from the world's sharp corners, bruised and bleeding.
As to the storm and shipwreck of her life, I learned no particulars essentially new. Evidently her husband had suddenly run amuck,
either from the monotony of his inland days, or from the strange passion he had conceived for a woman who was Nancy's opposite.
That night, I sat in the poor, bare little room, beside the billowing feather-bed where Nancy lay propped upon pillows, and gazing
with bright, glad eyes into my face, one thin little hand clutching mine with the grasp of a soul who holds desperately to life. And yet
Nancy was not clinging to life itself; she only seemed to be, because she clung to love.
"I'm proper glad to see ye," she kept saying, "proper glad."
We were quite alone. The fire burned cheerily in the kitchen stove, and a cheap little clock over the mantel ticked unmercifully fast; it
seemed in haste for Nancy to be gone. The curtains were drawn, lest the thrifty window-plants should be frostbitten, and several
tumblers of jelly on the oilcloth-covered table bore witness that the neighbors had put aside their moral scruples and their social
delicacy, and were giving of their best, albeit to one whose ways were not their ways. But Nancy herself was the centre and light of the
room,--so frail, so clean, with her plain nightcap and coarse white nightgown, and the small checked shawl folded primly over her
Meadow Grass 75/90
Meadow Grass
shoulders. Thin as she was, she looked scarcely older than when I had seen her, five years ago; yet since then she had walked through
a blacker valley than the one before her.
"Now don't you git all nerved up when I cough," she said, lying back exhausted after a paroxysm. "I've got used to it; it don't trouble
me no more'n a mosquiter. I want to have a real good night now, talkin' over old times."
"You must try to sleep," I said. "The doctor will blame me, if I let you talk."
"No, he won't," said Nancy, shrewdly. "He knows I 'ain't got much time afore me, an' I guess he wouldn't deny me the good on't. That's
why I sent for ye, dear; I 'ain't had anybody I could speak out to in five year, an' I wanted to speak out, afore I died. Do you remember
how you used to come over an' eat cold b'iled dish for supper, that last summer you was down here?"
"Oh, don't I, Nancy! there never was anything like it. Such cold potatoes--"
"B'iled in the pot-liquor!" she whispered, a knowing gleam in her blue eyes. "That's the way; on'y everybody don't know. An' do you
remember the year we had greens way into the fall, an' I wouldn't tell you what they was? Well, I will, now; there was chickweed, an'
pusley, an' mustard, an' Aaron's-rod, an' I dunno what all."
"Not Aaron's-rod, Nancy! it never would have been so good!"
"It's truth an' fact! I b'iled Aaron's-rod, an' you eat it. That was the year Mis' Blaisdell was mad because you had so many meals over
to my house, an' said it was the last time she'd take summer boarders an' have the neighbors feed 'em."
"They were good old days, Nancy!"
"I guess they were! yes, indeed, I guess so! Now, dear, I s'pose you've heard what I've been through, sence you went away?"
I put the thin hand to my cheek.
"Yes," I said, "I have heard."
"Well, now, I want to tell you the way it 'pears to me. You'll hear the neighbors' side, an' arter I'm gone, they'll tell you I was
under-witted or bold. They've been proper good to me sence I've been sick, but law! what do they know about it, goin' to bed at nine
o'clock, an' gittin' up to feed the chickens an' ride to meetin' with their husbands? No more'n the dead! An' so I want to tell ye my
story, myself. Now, don't you mind my coughing dear! It don't hurt, to speak of, an' I feel better arter it.
"Well, I dunno where to begin. The long an' short of it was, dear, James he got kind o' uneasy on land, an' then he was tried with me,
an' then he told me, one night, when he spoke out, that he didn't care about me as he used to, an' he never should, an' we couldn't live
no longer under the same roof. He was goin' off the next day to sea, or to the devil, he said, so he needn't go crazy seein' Mary Ann
Worthen's face lookin' at him all the time. It ain't any use tryin' to tell how I felt. Some troubles ain't no more 'n a dull pain, an' some
are like cuts an' gashes. You can feel your heart drop, drop, like water off the eaves. Mine dropped for a good while arter that. Well,
you see I'd been through the fust stages of it. I'd been eat up by jealousy, an' I'd slaved like a dog to git him back; but now it had got
beyond such folderol. He was in terrible trouble, an' I'd got to git him out. An' I guess 'twas then that I begun to feel as if I was his
mother, instid of his wife. 'Jim,' says I, (somehow I have to Say 'James,' now we're separated!) 'don't you fret. I'll go off an' leave ye,
an' you can get clear o' me accordin' to law, if you want to. I'm sure you can. I sha'n't care.' He turned an' looked at me, as if I was [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]