They were a very quiet couple as they drew near the cottage. “It seems as if we had been to a funeral,” said the sergeant2 lugubriously3, “though it looks now as if your aunt might get well. I wish that you had never seen that boy, Bess. We have got to miss him tremendously about the house.”
“I believe you feel worse about his going away than I do,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I know, I just know, Stephen, that he will come back. He isn’t fitted for that narrow French life,[Pg 214] and you know he has been brought up to despise priests. Now, if he had been going to a city like this, or to any one that liked him”—
“Oh! he’ll get used to it,” said the sergeant, “and boys forget.”
“Some boys do—Eugene won’t,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I know him better than you do, Stephen.”
While they were talking, their cab stopped in front of their own door. The sergeant got out first, and taking a key from his pocket he inserted it in the lock. After he had swung open the door, and let his wife pass in, he sauntered around the garden, carrying on a half-growling soliloquy with himself. He was slightly out of temper, and he did not know what he wanted.
The clouds of the night had all blown away, and the morning was bright and cheerful. The frost that for some days had held the garden-beds in its grasp had relaxed, and they were now soft and muddy.
“Hello,” said the sergeant, suddenly pausing in his walk, “some young rascal4 has been[Pg 215] tramping over this marigold-bed by Eugene’s window—just about the size of his foot too. Why, what’s that?” and he wrinkled his eyebrows5 as his eyes fell on the blood-stains on the sill. “There’s something wrong here. I’ll investigate. If I’m not a bad guesser some one has been getting in this window. I told Bess she ought not to leave it open; but she would do it, and she didn’t expect the boy to come back either. Just a woman’s foolishness.”
He strode quietly up to the window, and tried to look in. The blind was down so he could not do it; therefore he put his hands on the sash, and softly raised it.
More softly than he had raised it he put it down, and his amazed and discontented expression vanished instantaneously. His lips formed themselves into an exclamation6 of surprise; and uttering a long, low whistle, he nimbly picked his way over the muddy paths back to the front of the house.
“Hello, Bess dear,” he said, saluting7 her with an affectionate tap on the shoulder as she[Pg 216] whisked into view with a duster in her hand, “you’re the prettiest woman I ever saw.”
“Stephen, are you crazy?” she said rather pettishly8; “and why didn’t you wipe your feet? You are tracking up my clean hall.”
“You’re out of sorts, Bess; you find the house lonely without the boy.”
She hung her head without speaking. She had started out with the intention of bearing her loss bravely while it should last, and she was not yet willing to give in.
“I’m hungry,” said the sergeant unexpectedly; “can’t I have some more breakfast?”
In a trice her white head was held up again. “Why, Stephen, you had your breakfast at the railway station.”
“Well, suppose I did—can’t I have some more?”
“Oh! certainly, if you wish it,” she returned, eyeing him in a kind of uneasy surprise; “but you ate so much.”
“It’s pretty hard if a man can’t have all he wants to eat in his own house,” said the sergeant, and then he began to sing,—
[Pg 217]
“I can’t get ’em up,
I can’t get ’em up.
I can’t get ’em up in the morning.
I can’t get ’em up,
I can’t get ’em up,
I can’t get ’em up at all.”
Mrs. Hardy stared at him. She did not in the least understand this sudden jocularity of mood.
The sergeant, nothing daunted9 by her expression, allowed his spirits to rise higher and higher, and continued,—
“The captain’s worse than the sergeant;
The sergeant’s worse than the corp’ral;
The corp’ral’s worse than the private;
But the major’s the worst of all.”
“Stephen,” said Mrs. Hardy tearfully, “I don’t think it’s kind of you to sing that.”
“Why not, my dear? why not?”
“Because—you know why.”
“Because I used to sing it every morning when the boy was here. Well, I just want to remind you of him, to keep you from forgetting, as it were. You think he is coming back, don’t you?”
“Ye-e-s,” and she reluctantly uttered the[Pg 218] word; “but, O Stephen! I don’t want to wait.”
“It isn’t necessary. You sha’n’t wait,” vociferated the sergeant, roaming about the room.
Mrs. Hardy was just about to lose her composure, and throw herself miserably10 into a chair; but at his words a puzzled, almost fearful, expression came over her face, and in tremulous haste she hurried to the pantry, and busied herself in preparing the extra meal that he had demanded.
“His grandfather died in a lunatic asylum,” she murmured, as her shaking hand dropped tea instead of coffee into the coffee-pot. “Is it possible that his mind is getting affected11? He sha’n’t be worried into it, anyway,” she went on, bravely dashing aside a tear; and her fingers fairly flew, as she cut slices of cold meat and buttered some rolls. “He shall have what he wants.”
In a very few minutes the sergeant was bidden to seat himself before his second breakfast. “Now call the boy,” he exclaimed, “as you always do before we get seated.”
[Pg 219]
“My dear husband, let us not refer to him,” said Mrs. Hardy very slowly and soothingly12; “don’t you know he is not here?”
“Let’s go through the form, anyway,” said the sergeant, smiting13 the table until the dishes rattled14. “Let’s go through with it for the sake of old times and the times that are to come;” and leaping up he took her hand in his, and jogged merrily down the hall.
“I’ll go with you, Stephen,” said his wife, with quiet yet increasing uneasiness; “but don’t hurry, there’s plenty of time.”
“Yes, there’s plenty of time,” whispered her husband, and to her further anxiety he became mysterious and subdued15; “hush, now, if he was here we might wake him;” and he tiptoed cautiously into the room.
Mrs. Hardy kept close to his side, her troubled attention riveted16 on him, until she stumbled over a pair of muddy boots.
Then she lifted up her eyes. There on the back of a chair was a coat with brass17 buttons, and there in the white bed was a sleeping boy.
[Pg 220]
With a cry like that of a mother-bird kept from her young she flew to the bed, and the released and misunderstood sergeant now left to his own devices capered18 clumsily about the room.
When Eugene waked from sleep, and saw the white head and eager face of his adopted mother bending over him, his first drowsy19 exclamations20 were in French; then he broke into English. “Mrs. Hardy,” he cried, “I was dreaming of you;” and he raised himself, and threw his arms around her neck.
The sergeant heard his wife’s exclamation, “My treasure! I knew you would come back.” And he also heard Eugene’s clear, ringing sentence, “Mother! mother! I have not said it before, except to the king of the park, but I will call you that now to all the world!” At this latter assurance the sergeant’s capering21 ceased, and he walked soberly to the window.
“Bother these women, they are always crying,” he observed with what he meant to be an infinity22 of pity and indulgence. Then he[Pg 221] drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and gently touched up the corners of his eyes. A minute later he was just about to turn around, when he found it necessary to go through the same operation again. For a number of times his handkerchief went from his pocket to his eyes, until he said with impatience23, “I don’t care if they do see me;” and marched to the bed.
“Son,” he remarked, “I am glad to see you back.”
Eugene was sitting up in the bed, looking slimmer than ever in his white nightgown. “Will you take me for your child?” he asked wistfully. “If you will, though I am but a pauper24, I shall feel like a prince.”
“We’ll take you,” said the sergeant, winking25 rapidly, “prince or pauper or whatever you like to be.”
“I was never happy until I came to you,” said Eugene; “and I shall never be happy away from you—I feel that.”
“Boy,” said the sergeant, “it isn’t your fault that you were a bit cantankerous26. You were[Pg 222] brought up wrong. I wonder the Lord lets some people have children. They don’t know how to train ’em, and yet it’s a hard thing to do. I hear a lot of talk nowadays about the perfectibility of human nature, but I don’t see much of it in my profession. Show me a baby boy, and I say there’s a bad one. Show me a baby girl, and I say there’s one not quite so bad. They’ve got to be drilled. Before I got to be as good even as I am now, my old father had to wallop me, and my mother had to pray and cry over me without ceasing. We’re born bad—that’s my doctrine27; and we’re put here to improve our natures, so that we may be fit to live in another world by and by.”
“I like those words,” said Eugene thoughtfully; “and I believe them now, though once I would not have thought there was truth in them.”
“I guess they’re sound,” said the sergeant; “and though we’re not perfect, wife and I, we’ll try to teach you a few good things.”
“Oh! I have so much to tell you,” said Eugene, kissing Mrs. Hardy’s hands, and folding[Pg 223] them to his breast, “so much. It seems a year since I left. I must tell you of New York, and how the poor curé was disturbed.”
“Get up and dress,” said the sergeant, “and come outside and talk to us. There’s some breakfast for you there. I looked out for that,” and putting his arm around his wife’s waist he drew her from the room.
“I’ve just fifteen minutes before I go to the park,” he cried, “I hope the little fellow will hurry.”
“He will,” said Mrs. Hardy. “Oh, thank God that we have him back again!”
“There’s a lot of comfort in children,” said the sergeant, “if you take them the right way; and I often wonder what the state of mind of real parents is like when a body can get so fond of children that don’t belong to him. Bess, we’ll try to bring that bairn up in the right way, and when we’re gone we won’t feel that we’ve left no one behind us in the world.”
* * * * *
[Pg 224]
It is yet rather early in the day to predict Eugene’s future, as he has only been a few months with the Hardys.
He is still a pale, elegant lad with courteous28 manners, and he enjoys to the full the country life that the Hardys are now living; for the aunt died soon after his return, and left to his adopted parents a comfortable house situated29 some miles out of Boston.
The sergeant has resigned from the police force, and the city cares for the cats; though every week the sergeant and Eugene ride in, the former on a stately chestnut30 horse, and the latter on a beautiful pony31, to pay a visit to the park, where they are eagerly welcomed by the king and his subjects.
On these weekly visits Eugene often calls on the Mannings, and is rapturously welcomed by Virgie; but whether he goes there or not, he never fails to seek the spot where the bust32 of John Boyle O’Reilly looks toward the city. He always remains33 before it for a long time. His childish love for his emperor will never die away; but it is broadening now, and he is taking[Pg 225] into his affections the heroes of his adopted country.
The sergeant invariably takes him a round of the public buildings and monuments of the city. Eugene’s face flashes as he follows the sergeant’s lead, and reins34 in his black pony near the colossal35 statue of Washington on his horse, or gazes at the noble, manly36 Lincoln standing37 over the freed slave. He loves also the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument on the Common, where his favorite figure is the Federal infantryman standing at ease.
The sergeant likes best the figure of peace on this monument,—the woman bearing the olive-branch, and having her eyes toward the South.
One day not long ago, when they were standing before this monument, Eugene said, “I may not be a soldier when I am grown up; but if this country should need me, I will serve it till I die.”
“That’s right,” observed the sergeant, “if you are a good honest citizen, respecting yourself and the rights of others, and trying to keep a clear record, you’ll be doing as good service[Pg 226] in the world as if you were running about with a sword or a gun in your hand to pick a quarrel.”
“But suppose one just had to fight,” said the boy earnestly, “suppose one could not get out of it.”
“Get out of it, get out of it,” said the sergeant with a chuckle38, “and always get out of it; but if you can’t, and just have to fight, as you say, then fight well.”
The End
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1
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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2
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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3
lugubriously
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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5
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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6
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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7
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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pettishly
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9
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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11
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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12
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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13
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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14
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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15
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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16
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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17
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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18
capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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20
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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21
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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22
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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23
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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24
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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25
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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26
cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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27
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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28
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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29
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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30
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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31
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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32
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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33
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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34
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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35
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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37
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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38
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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