The Dead Alive | Page 5

the young gentlemen will permit it?"
So, picking his words with painful deliberation, and pointing his
reference to "the young gentlemen" with one sardonic side-look at them,
Mr. John Jago performed the duties of hospitality on his side. I excused
myself from accepting the cigar. With studied politeness, the man of
the glittering brown eyes wished me a goodnight's rest, and left the
room.
Ambrose and Silas both approached me hospitably, with their open

cigar-cases in their hands.
"You were quite right to say 'No,'" Ambrose began. "Never smoke with
John Jago. His cigars will poison you."
"And never believe a word John Jago says to you," added Silas. "He is
the greatest liar in America, let the other be whom he may."
Naomi shook her forefinger reproachfully at them, as if the two sturdy
young farmers had been two children.
"What will Mr. Lefrank think," she said, "if you talk in that way of a
person whom your father respects and trusts? Go and smoke. I am
ashamed of both of you."
Silas slunk away without a word of protest. Ambrose stood his ground,
evidently bent on making his peace with Naomi before he left her.
Seeing that I was in the way, I walked aside toward a glass door at the
lower end of the room. The door opened on the trim little farm-garden,
bathed at that moment in lovely moonlight. I stepped out to enjoy the
scene, and found my way to a seat under an elm-tree. The grand repose
of nature had never looked so unutterably solemn and beautiful as it
now appeared, after what I had seen and heard inside the house. I
understood, or thought I understood, the sad despair of humanity which
led men into monasteries in the old times. The misanthropical side of
my nature (where is the sick man who is not conscious of that side of
him?) was fast getting the upper hand of me when I felt a light touch
laid on my shoulder, and found myself reconciled to my species once
more by Naomi Colebrook.
CHAPTER III.
THE MOONLIGHT MEETING.
"I WANT to speak to you," Naomi began "You don't think ill of me for
following you out here? We are not accustomed to stand much on
ceremony in America."

"You are quite right in America. Pray sit down."
She seated herself by my side, looking at me frankly and fearlessly by
the light of the moon.
"You are related to the family here," she resumed, "and I am related too.
I guess I may say to you what I couldn't say to a stranger. I am right
glad you have come here, Mr. Lefrank; and for a reason, sir, which you
don't suspect."
"Thank you for the compliment you pay me, Miss Colebrook, whatever
the reason may be."
She took no notice of my reply; she steadily pursued her own train of
thought.
"I guess you may do some good, sir, in this wretched house," the girl
went on, with her eyes still earnestly fixed on my face. "There is no
love, no trust, no peace, at Morwick Farm. They want somebody here,
except Ambrose. Don't think ill of Ambrose; he is only thoughtless. I
say, the rest of them want somebody here to make them ashamed of
their hard hearts, and their horrid, false, envious ways. You are a
gentleman; you know more than they know; they can't help themselves;
they must look up to you. Try, Mr. Lefrank, when you have the
opportunity--pray try, sir, to make peace among them. You heard what
went on at supper-time; and you were disgusted with it. Oh yes, you
were! I saw you frown to yourself; and I know what that means in you
Englishmen."
There was no choice but to speak one's mind plainly to Naomi. I
acknowledged the impression which had been produced on me at
supper-time just as plainly as I have acknowledged it in these pages.
Naomi nodded her head in undisguised approval of my candor.
"That will do, that's speaking out," she said. "But--oh my! you put it a
deal too mildly, sir, when you say the men don't seem to be on friendly
terms together here. They hate each other. That's the word, Mr.
Lefrank--hate; bitter, bitter, bitter hate!" She clinched her little fists; she

shook them vehemently, by way of adding emphasis to her last words;
and then she suddenly remembered Ambrose. "Except Ambrose," she
added, opening her hand again, and laying it very earnestly on my arm.
"Don't go and misjudge Ambrose, sir. There is no harm in poor
Ambrose."
The girl's innocent frankness was really irresistible.
"Should I be altogether wrong," I asked, "if I guessed that you were a
little partial to Ambrose?"
An Englishwoman would have felt, or would at