"
"And you will not join me?"
"No!"
I never said the word--and certainly can never have it to say
hereafter--that cost me a thousandth part so hard an effort as did
that one syllable. The heart-pang was not merely figurative, but an
absolute torture of the breast. I was gazing steadfastly at
Hollingsworth. It seemed to me that it struck him, too, like a
bullet. A ghastly paleness--always so terrific on a swarthy
face--overspread his features. There was a convulsive movement of
his throat, as if he were forcing down some words that struggled and
fought for utterance. Whether words of anger, or words of grief, I
cannot tell; although many and many a time I have vainly tormented
myself with conjecturing which of the two they were. One other
appeal to my friendship,--such as once, already, Hollingsworth had
made,--taking me in the revulsion that followed a strenuous exercise
of opposing will, would completely have subdued me. But he left the
matter there. "Well!" said he.
And that was all! I should have been thankful for one word more,
even had it shot me through the heart, as mine did him. But he did
not speak it; and, after a few moments, with one accord, we set to
work again, repairing the stone fence. Hollingsworth, I observed,
wrought like a Titan; and, for my own part, I lifted stones which at
this day--or, in a calmer mood, at that one--I should no more have
thought it possible to stir than to carry off the gates of Gaza on my
back.
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