The Dead Alive | Page 4

the man with the beard stood
high in the father's favor, and that he was cordially disliked for that or
for some other reason by the sons.
The door opened once more. A young lady quietly joined the party at
the supper-table.
Was the young lady Naomi Colebrook? I looked at Ambrose, and saw
the answer in his face. Naomi Colebrook at last!
A pretty girl, and, so far as I could judge by appearances, a good girl
too. Describing her generally, I may say that she had a small head, well
carried, and well set on her shoulders; bright gray eyes, that looked at
you honestly, and meant what they looked; a trim, slight little
figure--too slight for our English notions of beauty; a strong American

accent; and (a rare thing in America) a pleasantly toned voice, which
made the accent agreeable to English ears. Our first impressions of
people are, in nine cases out of ten, the right impressions. I liked Naomi
Colebrook at first sight; liked her pleasant smile; liked her hearty shake
of the hand when we were presented to each other. "If I get on well
with nobody else in this house," I thought to myself, "I shall certainly
get on well with you."
For once in a way, I proved a true prophet. In the atmosphere of
smoldering enmities at Morwick Farm, the pretty American girl and I
remained firm and true friends from first to last. Ambrose made room
for Naomi to sit between his brother and himself. She changed color for
a moment, and looked at him, with a pretty, reluctant tenderness, as she
took her chair. I strongly suspected the young farmer of squeezing her
hand privately, under cover of the tablecloth.
The supper was not a merry one. The only cheerful conversation was
the conversation across the table between Naomi and me.
For some incomprehensible reason, John Jago seemed to be ill at ease
in the presence of his young countrywoman. He looked up at Naomi
doubtingly from his plate, and looked down again slowly with a frown.
When I addressed him, he answered constrainedly. Even when he
spoke to Mr. Meadowcroft, he was still on his guard--on his guard
against the two young men, as I fancied by the direction which his eyes
took on these occasions. When we began our meal, I had noticed for the
first time that Silas Meadowcroft's left hand was strapped up with
surgical plaster; and I now further observed that John Jago's wandering
brown eyes, furtively looking at everybody round the table in turn,
looked with a curious, cynical scrutiny at the young man's injured hand.
By way of making my first evening at the farm all the more
embarrassing to me as a stranger, I discovered before long that the
father and sons were talking indirectly at each other, through Mr. Jago
and through me. When old Mr. Meadowcroft spoke disparagingly to his
overlooker of some past mistake made in the cultivation of the arable
land of the farm, old Mr. Meadowcroft's eyes pointed the application of
his hostile criticism straight in the direction of his two sons When the

two sons seized a stray remark of mine about animals in general, and
applied it satirically to the mismanagement of sheep and oxen in
particular, they looked at John Jago, while they talked to me. On
occasions of this sort--and they happened frequently--Naomi struck in
resolutely at the right moment, and turned the talk to some harmless
topic. Every time she took a prominent part in this way in keeping the
peace, melancholy Miss Meadowcroft looked slowly round at her in
stern and silent disparagement of her interference. A more dreary and
more disunited family party I never sat at the table with. Envy, hatred,
malice and uncharitableness are never so essentially detestable to my
mind as when they are animated by a sense of propriety, and work
under the surface. But for my interest in Naomi, and my other interest
in the little love-looks which I now and then surprised passing between
her and Ambrose, I should never have sat through that supper. I should
certainly have taken refuge in my French novel and my own room.
At last the unendurably long meal, served with ostentatious profusion,
was at an end. Miss Meadowcroft rose with her ghostly solemnity, and
granted me my dismissal in these words:
"We are early people at the farm, Mr. Lefrank. I wish you good-night."
She laid her bony hands on the back of Mr. Meadowcroft's
invalid-chair, cut him short in his farewell salutation to me, and
wheeled him out to his bed as if she were wheeling him out to his
grave.
"Do you go to your room immediately, sir? If not, may I offer you a
cigar--provided