the path of the king-第43节

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ld　eat　a　piece。　He's　a　mighty　thoughtful　boy；　our　Abe。　Then　he　was　comin'　to　read　to　you。　You'd　like　that；　dearie？〃

The　sick　woman　made　no　sign。　Her　eyes　were　vacantly　regarding　the　doorway。

〃I've　got　to　leave　you　now。　I　reckon　I'll　borrow　the　Dawneys'　sorrel　horse　and　ride　into　Gentryville。　I've　got　the　young　hogs　to　sell；　and　I'll　fetch　back　the　corn…meal　from　Hickson's。　Sally　Hickson　was　just　like　you　last　fall；　and　I　want　to　find　out　from　Jim　how　she　got　her　strength　up。〃

He　put　a　hand　on　her　brow；　and　felt　it　cool。

〃Glory！　You're　mendin'　fast；　Nancy　gal。　You'll　be　well　in　time　to　can　the　berries　that　the　childern's　picked。　He　fished　from　below　the　bed　a　pair　of　skin　brogues　and　slipped　them　on　his　feet。　〃I'll　be　back　before　night。〃

〃I　want　Abe；〃　she　moaned。

〃I'll　send　him　to　you；〃　he　said　as　he　went　out

Left　alone　the　woman　lay　still　for　a　little　in　a　stupor　of　weariness。　Waves　of　that　terrible　lassitude；　which　is　a　positive　anguish　and　not　a　mere　absence　of　strength；　flowed　over　her。　The　square　of　the　doorway；　which　was　directly　before　her　eyes；　began　to　take　strange　forms。　It　was　filled　with　yellow　sunlight；　and　a　red　glow　beyond　told　of　the　sugar…maples　at　the　edge　of　the　clearing。　Now　it　seemed　to　her　unquiet　sight　to　be　a　furnace。　Outside　the　world　was　burning；　she　could　feel　the　heat　of　it　in　the　close　cabin。　For　a　second　acute　fear　startled　her　weakness。　It　passed；　her　eyes　cleared；　and　she　saw　the　homely　doorway　as　it　was；　and　heard　the　gobble　of　a　turkey　in　the　forest。

The　fright　had　awakened　her　mind　and　senses。　For　the　first　time　she　fully　realised　her　condition。　Life　no　longer　moved　steadily　in　her　body；　it　flickered　and　wavered　and　would　soon　gutter　out。　。　。　。　Her　eyes　marked　every　detail　of　the　squalor　around　herthe　unwashed　dishes；　the　foul　earthen　floor；　the　rotting　apple　pile；　the　heap　of　rags　which　had　been　her　only　clothes。　She　was　leaving　the　world；　and　this　was　all　she　had　won　from　it。　Sheer　misery　forced　a　sigh　which　seemed　to　rend　her　frail　body；　and　her　eyes　filled　with　tears。　She　had　been　a　dreamer；　an　adept　at　make…believe；　but　the　poor　coverings　she　had　wrought　for　a　dingy　reality　were　now　too　threadbare　to　hide　it。

And　once　she　had　been　so　rich　in　hope。　She　would　make　her　husband　a　great　man；　andwhen　that　was　manifestly　impossible　without　a　rebirth　of　Tom　Linkhornshe　would　have　a　son　who　would　wear　a　black　coat　like　Lawyer　Macneil　and　Colonel　Hardin　way　back　in　Kentucky；　and　make　fine　speeches　beginning　〃Fellow　countrymen　and　gentlemen　of　this　famous　State。〃　She　had　a　passion　for　words；　and　sonorous　phrases　haunted　her　memory。　She　herself　would　have　a　silk　gown　and　a　bonnet　with　roses　in　it；　once　long　ago　she　had　been　to　Elizabethtown　and　seen　just　such　a　gown　and　bonnet。　。　。　。　　Or　Tom　would　be　successful　in　this　wild　Indiana　country　and　be；　like　Daniel　Boone；　the　father　of　a　new　State；　and　have　places　and　towns　called　for　hima　Nancyville　perhaps　or　a　Linkhorn　County。　She　knew　about　Daniel　Boone；　for　her　grandfather　Hanks　had　been　with　him。　。　。　。　　And　there　had　been　other　dreams；　older　dreams；　dating　far　back　to　the　days　when　she　was　a　little　girl　with　eyes　like　a　brown　owl。　Someone　had　told　her　fairy…tales　about　princesses　and　knights；　strange　beings　which　she　never　quite　understood；　but　of　which　she　made　marvellous　pictures　in　her　head　She　had　learned　to　read　in　order　to　follow　up　the　doings　of　those　queer　bright　folk；　but　she　had　never　tracked　them　down　again。　But　one　book　she　had　got　called　The　Pilgrim's　Progress；　printed　by　missionaries　in　a　far…away　city　called　Philadelphia；　which　told　of　things　as　marvellous；　and　had　pictures；　tooone　especially　of　a　young　man　covered　with　tin；　which　she　supposed　was　what　they　called　armour。　And　there　was　another　called　The　Arabian　Knights；　a　close…printed　thing　difficult　to　read　by　the　winter　fire；　full　of　wilder　doings　than　any　she　could　imagine　for　herself；　but　beautiful；　too；　and　delicious　to　muse　over；　though　Tom；　when　she　read　a　chapter　to　him；　had　condemned　it　as　a　pack　of　lies。　。　。　。　　Clearly　there　was　a　world　somewhere；　perhaps　outside　America　altogether；　far　more　wonderful　than　even　the　magnificence　of　Colonel　Hardin。　Once　she　had　hoped　to　find　it　herself；　then　that　her　children　should　find　it。　And　the　end　was　this　shack　in　the　wilderness；　a　few　acres　of　rotting　crops；　bitter　starving　winters；　summers　of　fever；　the　deeps　of　poverty；　a　penniless　futureless　family；　and　for　herself　a　coffin　of　green　lumber　and　a　yard　or　two　of　stony　soil。

She　saw　everything　now　with　the　clear　unrelenting　eyes　of　childhood。　The　films　she　had　woven　for　selfprotection　were　blown　aside。　She　was　dyingshe　had　often　wondered　how　she　should　feel　when　dyinghumble　and　trustful；　she　had　hoped；　for　she　was　religious　after　a　fashion；　and　had　dreamed　herself　into　an　affection　for　a　kind　fatherly　God。　But　now　all　that　had　gone。　She　was　bitter；　like　one　defrauded　She　had　been　promised　something；　and　had　struggled　on　in　the　assurance　of　it。　And　the　result　was　nothingnothing。　Tragic　tears　filled　her　eyes。　She　had　been　so　hungry'　and　there　was　to　be　no　satisfying　that　hunger　this　side　the　grave　or　beyond　it。　She　was　going　the　same　way　as　Betsy　Sparrow；　a　death　like　a　cow's；　with　nothing　to　show　for　life；　nothing　to　leave。　Betsy　had　been　a　poor　crushed　creature；　and　had　looked　for　no　more。　But　she　was　different。　She　had　been　promised　something；　something　fineshe　couldn't　remember　what；　or　who　had　promised　it；　but　it　had　never　been　out　of　her　mind。

There　was　the　ring；　too。　No　woman　in　Indiana　had　the　like　of　that。　An　ugly　thing；　but　very　ancient　and　of　pure　gold。　Once　Tom　had　wanted　to　sell　it　when　he　was　hard…pressed　back　at　Nolin　Creek；　but　she　had　fought　for　it　like　a　tigress　and　scared　the　life　out　of　Tom。　Her　grandfather　had　left　it　her　because　she　was　his　favourite　and　it　had　been　her　grandmothers；　and　long　ago　had　come　from　Europe。　It　was　lucky；　and　could　cure　rheumatism　if　worn　next　the　heart　in　a　skin　bag。　。　。　。　　All　her　thoughts　were　suddenly　set　on　the　ring；　her　one　poor　shred　of　fortune。　She　wanted　to　feel　it　on　her　finger；　and　press　its　cool　gold　with　the　queer　markings　on　her　eyelids。

But　Tom　had　gone　away　and　she　couldn't　reach　the　trunk　in　the　corner。　Tears　trickled　down　her　cheeks　and　through　the　mist　of　them　she　saw　that　the　boy　Abe　stood　at　the　foot　of　the　bed。

〃Feelin'　comfortabler？〃　he　asked。　He　had　a　harsh　untunable　voice；　his　father's；　but　harsher；　and　he　spoke　the　drawling　dialect　of　the　backwoods。

His　figure　stood　in　the　light；　so　that　the　dying　mother　saw　only　its　outline。　He　was　a　boy　about　nine　years　old；　but　growing　too　fast；　so　that　he　had　lost　the　grace　of　childhood　and　was　already　lanky　and　ungainly。　As　he　turned　his　face　crosswise　to　the　light　he　revealed　a　curiously　rugged　profilea　big　nose　springing　sharply　from　the　brow；　a　thick　underhung　lower　lip；　and　the　beginning　of　a　promising　Adam's　apple。　His　stiff　black　hair　fell　round　his　great　ears；　which　stood　out　like　the　handles　of　a　pitcher。　He　was　barefoot；　and　wore　a　pair　of　leather　breeches　and　a　ragged　homespun　shirt。　Beyond　doubt　he　was　ugly。

He　moved　round　to　the　right　side　of　the　bed　where　he　was　wholly　in　shadow。

〃My　lines　is　settin'　nicely；〃　he　said。　〃I'll　have　a　fish　for　your　supper。　And　then　I'm　goin'　to　take　dad's　gun　and　fetch　you　a　turkey。　You　could　eat　a　slice　of　a　fat　turkey；　I　reckon。〃

The　woman　did　not　answer；　for　she　was　thinking。　This　uncouth　boy　was　the　son　she　had　put　her　faith　in。　She　loved　him　best　of　all　things　on　earth；　but　for　the　moment　she　saw　him　in　the　hard　light　of　disillusionment。　A　loutish　backwoods　child；　like　Dennis　Hanks　or　Tom　Sparrow　or　anybody　else。　He　had　been　a　comfort　to　her；　for　he　had　been　quick　to　learn　and　had　a　strange　womanish　tenderness　in　his　ways。　But　she　was　leaving　him；　and　he　would　grow　up　like　his　father　before　him　to　a　life　of　ceaseless　toil　with　no　daylight　or　honour　in　it。　。　。　。　She　almost　hated　the　sight　of　him；　for　he　was　the　memorial　of　her　failure。

The　boy　did　not　guess　these　thoughts。　He　pulled　up　a　stool　and　sat　very　close　to　the　bed；　holding　his　mother's　frail　wrist　in　a　sunburnt　hand　so　big　that　it　might　have　been　that　of　a　lad　half…way　through　his　teens。　He　had　learned　in　the　woods　to　be　neat　and　precise　in　his　ways；　and　his　movements；　for　all　his　gawky　look；　were　as　soft　as　a　panther's。

〃Like　me　to　tell　you　a　story？〃　he　asked。　〃What　about　Uncle　Mord's　tale　of　Dan'l　Boone　at　the　Blue　Licks　Battle？〃

There　was　no　response；　so　he　tried　again。

Or　read　a　piece？　It　was　the　Bible　last　time；　but　the　words　is　mighty　difficult。　Besides　you　don't　need　it　that　much　now。　You're　gettin'　better。　。　。　。　Let's　hear　about　the　ol'Pilgrim。〃

He　found　a　squat　duodecimo　in　the　trunk；　and　shifted　the　skin　curtain　from　one　of　the　window　holes　to　get　light　to　read　by。　His　mother　lay　very　still　with　her　eyes　shut；　but　he　knew　by　her　breathing　that　she　was　not　asleep。　He　ranged　through　the　book；　stopping　to　study　the　crude　pictures；　and　then　started　laboriously　to　read　the　adventures　of　Christian　and　Hopeful　after　leaving　Vanity　Fairthe　mine　of　Demas；　the　plain　called　Ease；　Castle　Doubting；　and　the　Delectable　Mountains。　He　boggled　over　some　of　the　words；　but　on　the　whole　he　read　well；　and　his　harsh　voice　dropped