in a hoarse voice, “I might have refused, but now I can’t, G-G-G-God help me! I c-c-c-c-can’t!”
Gant’s sickness had returned on him with increased virulence. His face was haggard and yellow: a tottering weakness crept into his limbs. It was decided that he must go again to Baltimore. Helen would go with him.
“Mr. Gant,” said Eliza persuasively, “why don’t you just give up everything and settle down to take things easy the rest of your days? You don’t feel good enough to tend to business any more; if I were you, I’d retire. We could get $20, 000 for your shop without any trouble—If I had that much money to work with, I’d show them a thing or two.” She nodded pertly with a smart wink. “I could turn it over two or three times within two years’time. You’ve got to trade quick to keep the ball a-rolling. That’s the way it’s done.”
“Merciful God,” he groaned. “That’s my last refuge on earth. Woman, have you no mercy? I beg of you, leave me to die in peace: it won’t be long now. You can do what you please with it after I’m gone, but give me a little peace now. In the name of Jesus, I ask it!” He sniffled affectedly.
“Pshaw!” said Eliza, thinking no doubt to encourage him. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Half of it’s only imagination.”
He groaned, turning his head away.
Summer died upon the hills. There was a hue, barely guessed, upon the foliage, of red rust. The streets at night were filled with sad lispings: all through the night, upon his porch, as in a coma, he heard the strange noise of autumn. And all the people who had given the town its light thronging gaiety were vanished strangely overnight. They had gone back into the vast South again. The solemn tension of the war gathered about the nation. A twilight of grim effort hovered around him, above him. He felt the death of joy; but the groping within him of wonder, of glory. Out of the huge sprawl of its first delirium, the nation was
