The Dead Alive | Page 3

any
sort--one of those persons who appear to accept the obligation of living
under protest, as a burden which they would never have consented to
bear if they had only been consulted first. We three had a dreary little
interview in a parlor of bare walls; and then I was permitted to go
upstairs, and unpack my portmanteau in my own room.
"Supper will be at nine o'clock, sir," said Miss Meadowcroft.
She pronounced those words as if "supper" was a form of domestic
offense, habitually committed by the men, and endured by the women.
I followed the groom up to my room, not over-well pleased with my
first experience of the farm.
No Naomi and no romance, thus far!
My room was clean--oppressively clean. I quite longed to see a little
dust somewhere. My library was limited to the Bible and the
Prayer-book. My view from the window showed me a dead flat in a

partial state of cultivation, fading sadly from view in the waning light.
Above the head of my spruce white bed hung a scroll, bearing a
damnatory quotation from Scripture in emblazoned letters of red and
black. The dismal presence of Miss Meadowcroft had passed over my
bedroom, and had blighted it. My spirits sank as I looked round me.
Supper-time was still an event in the future. I lighted the candles and
took from my portmanteau what I firmly believe to have been the first
French novel ever produced at Morwick Farm. It was one of the
masterly and charming stories of Dumas the elder. In five minutes I
was in a new world, and my melancholy room was full of the liveliest
French company. The sound of an imperative and uncompromising bell
recalled me in due time to the regions of reality. I looked at my watch.
Nine o'clock.
Ambrose met me at the bottom of the stairs, and showed me the way to
the supper-room.
Mr. Meadowcroft's invalid chair had been wheeled to the head of the
table. On his right-hand side sat his sad and silent daughter. She signed
to me, with a ghostly solemnity, to take the vacant place on the left of
her father. Silas Meadowcroft came in at the same moment, and was
presented to me by his brother. There was a strong family likeness
between them, Ambrose being the taller and the handsomer man of the
two. But there was no marked character in either face. I set them down
as men with undeveloped qualities, waiting (the good and evil qualities
alike) for time and circumstances to bring them to their full growth.
The door opened again while I was still studying the two brothers,
without, I honestly confess, being very favorably impressed by either of
them. A new member of the family circle, who instantly attracted my
attention, entered the room.
He was short, spare, and wiry; singularly pale for a person whose life
was passed in the country. The face was in other respects, besides this,
a striking face to see. As to the lower part, it was covered with a thick
black beard and mustache, at a time when shaving was the rule, and
beards the rare exception, in America. As to the upper part of the face,
it was irradiated by a pair of wild, glittering brown eyes, the expression

of which suggested to me that there was something not quite right with
the man's mental balance. A perfectly sane person in all his sayings and
doings, so far as I could see, there was still something in those wild
brown eyes which suggested to me that, under exceptionally trying
circumstances, he might surprise his oldest friends by acting in some
exceptionally violent or foolish way. "A little cracked"--that in the
popular phrase was my impression of the stranger who now made his
appearance in the supper-room.
Mr. Meadowcroft the elder, having not spoken one word thus far,
himself introduced the newcomer to me, with a side-glance at his sons,
which had something like defiance in it--a glance which, as I was sorry
to notice, was returned with the defiance on their side by the two young
men.
"Philip Lefrank, this is my overlooker, Mr. Jago," said the old man,
formally presenting us. "John Jago, this is my young relative by
marriage, Mr. Lefrank. He is not well; he has come over the ocean for
rest, and change of scene. Mr. Jago is an American, Philip. I hope you
have no prejudice against Americans. Make acquaintance with Mr.
Jago. Sit together." He cast another dark look at his sons; and the sons
again returned it. They pointedly drew back from John Jago as he
approached the empty chair next to me and moved round to the
opposite side of the table. It was plain that