This was the gist2 of the assurances which Ni vouchsafed3 to the first rush of eager questions—to his sister, and M’rye, and Janey Wilcox.
Abner had held a little aloof4, to give the weaker sex a chance. Now he reasserted himself once more: “Stan’ back, now, and give the young man breathin’ room. Janey, hand a chair for’ard—that’s it. Now set ye down, Ni, an’ take your own time, an’ tell us all about it. So you reely found him, eh?”
“Pshaw! there ain’t anything to that,” expostulated Ni, seating himself with nonchalance5, and tilting6 back his chair. “That was easy as rollin’ off a log. But what’s the matter here? That’s what knocks me. We—that is to say, I—come up on a freight train to a ways beyond Juno Junction7, an’ got the conductor to slow up and let me drop off, an’ footed it over the hill. It was jest about broad daylight when I turned the divide. Then I began lookin’ for your house, an’ I’m lookin’ for it still. There’s a hole out there, full o’ snow an’ smoke, but nary a house. How’d it happen?”
“‘Lection bonfire—high wind—woodshed must ‘a’ caught,” replied Abner, sententiously. “So you reely got down South, eh?”
“An’ Siss here, too,” commented Ni, with provoking disregard for the farmer’s suggestions; “a reg’lar family party. An’, hello!”
His roving eye had fallen upon the recumbent form on the made-up bed, under the muffling9 blankets, and he lifted his sandy wisps of eyebrows10 in inquiry11.
“Sh! It’s father,” explained Esther. “He isn’t feeling very well. I think he’s asleep.”
The boy’s freckled12, whimsical face melted upon reflection into a distinct grin. “Why,” he said, “you’ve been havin’ a reg’lar old love-feast up here. I guess it was that that set the house on fire! An’ speakin’ o’ feasts, if you’ve got a mouthful o’ somethin’ to eat handy—”
The women were off like a shot to the impromptu13 larder14 at the far end of the barn.
“Well, thin,” put in Hurley, taking advantage of their absence, “an’ had ye the luck to see anny rale fightin’?”
“Never mind that,” said Abner; “when he gits around to it he’ll tell us everything. But, fust of all—why, he knows what I want to hear about.”
“Why, the last time I talked with you, Abner—” Ni began, squinting15 up one of his eyes and giving a quaint16 drawl to his words.
“That’s a good while ago,” said the farmer, quietly.
“Things have took a change, eh?” inquired Ni.
“That’s neither here nor there,” replied Abner, somewhat testily17. “You oughtn’t to need so dummed much explainin’. I’ve told you what I want specially18 to hear. An’ that’s what we all want to hear.”
When the women had returned, and Ni, with much deliberation, had filled both hands with selected eatables, the recital19 at last got under way. It progress was blocked from time to time by sheer force of tantalizing20 perversity21 on the part of the narrator, and it suffered steadily22 from the incidental hitches23 of mastication24; but such as it was we listened to it with all our ears, sitting or standing25 about, and keeping our eyes intently upon the freckled young hero.
“It wasn’t so much of a job to git down there as I’d figured on,” Ni said, between mouthfuls. “I got along on freight trains—once worked my way a while on a hand-car—as far as Albany, an’ on down to New York on a river-boat, cheap, an’ then, after foolin’ round a few days, I hitched26 up with the Sanitary27 Commission folks, an’ got them to let me sail on one o’ their boats round to ’Napolis. I thought I was goin’ to die most o’ the voyage, but I didn’t, you see, an’ when I struck ’Napolis I hung around Camp Parole there quite a spell, talkin’ with fellers that’d bin28 pris’ners down in Richmond an’ got exchanged an’ sent North. They said there was a whole slew29 of our fellers down there still that’d been brought in after Antietam. They didn’t know none o’ their names, but they said they’d all be sent North in time, in exchange for Johnny Rebs that we’d captured. An’ so I waited round—”
“You might have written!” interrupted Esther, reproachfully.
“What’d bin the good o’ writin’? I hadn’t anything to tell. Besides writin’ letters is for girls. Well, one day a man come up from Libby—that’s the prison at Richmond—an’ he said there was a tall feller there from York State, a farmer, an’ he died. He thought the name was Birch, but it might’a’ been Beech30—or Body-Maple, for that matter. I s’pose you’d like to had me write that home!”
“No—oh, no!” murmured Esther, speaking the sense of all the company.
“Well, then I waited some more, an’ kep’ on waitin’, an’ then waited agin, until bimeby, one fine day, along comes Mr. Blue-jay himself. There here was, stan’in’ up on the paddle-box with a face on him as long as your arm, an’ I sung out, ‘Way there, Agrippa Hill!’ an’ he come mighty31 nigh failin’ head over heels into the water. So then he come off, an’ we shook han’s, an’ went up to the commissioners32 to see about his exchange, an’—an’ as soon’s that’s fixed33, an’ the papers drawn34 up all correct, why, he’ll come home. An’ that’s all there is to it.”
“And even then you never wrote!” said Esther, plaintively35.
“Hold on a minute,” put in Abner. “You say he’s comin’ home. That wouldn’t be unless he was disabled. They’d keep him to fight agin, till his time was up. Come, now, tell the truth—he’s be’n hurt bad!”
Ni shook his unkempt red head. “No, no,” he said. “This is how it was. Fust he was fightin’ in a cornfield, an’ him an’ Bi Truax, they got chased out, an’ lost their regiment36, an’ got in with some other fellers, and then they all waded37 a creek38 breast-high, an’ had to run up a long stretch o’ slopin’ ploughed ground to capture a battery they was on top o’ the knoll39. But they didn’t see a regiment of sharp-shooters layin’ hidden behind a rail-fence, an’ these fellers riz up all to once an’ give it to ’em straight, an’ they wilted40 right there, an’ laid down, an’ there they was after dusk when the rebs come out an’ started lookin’ round for guns an’ blankets an’ prisoners. Most of ’em was dead, or badly hurt, but they was a few who’d simply lain there in the hollow because it’d have bin death to git up. An’ Jeff was one o’ them.”
“You said yourself ’t he had been hurt—some,” interposed M’rye, with snapping eyes.
“Jest a scratch on his arm,” declared Ni. “Well, then they marched the well ones back to the rear of the reb line, an’ there they jest skinned ’em of everything they had—watch an’ jack-knife an’ wallet an’ everything—an’ put ’em to sleep on the bare ground. Next day they started ’em out on the march toward Richmond, an’ after four or five days o’ that, they got to a railroad, and there was cattle cars for ’em to ride the rest o’ the way in. An’ that’s how it was.”
“No,” said Abner, sternly; “you haven’t told us. How badly is he hurt?”
“Well,” replied Ni, “it was only a scratch, as I said, but it got worse on that march, an’ I s’pose it wasn’t tended to anyways decently, an’ so—an’ so—”
M’rye had sprung to her feet and stood now drawn up to her full height, with her sharp nose in air as if upon some strange scent41, and her eyes fairly glowing in eager excitement. All at once she made a bound past us and ran to the doors, furiously digging her fingers in the crevice42 between them, then, with a superb sweep of the shoulders, sending them both rattling43 back on their wheels with a bang.
“I knew it!” she screamed in triumph.
We who looked out beheld44 M’rye’s black hair and brown calico dress suddenly suffer a partial eclipse of pale blue, which for the moment seemed in some way a part of the bright winter sky beyond. Then we saw that it was a soldier who had his arm about M’rye, and his cap bent8 down tenderly over the head she had laid on his shoulder.
Our Jeff had come home.
A general instinct rooted us to our places and kept us silent, the while mother and son stood there in the broad open doorway45.
Then the two advanced toward us, M’rye breathing hard, and with tears and smiles struggling together on her face under the shadow of a wrathful frown. We noted46 nothing of Jeff’s appearance save that he had grown a big yellow beard, and seemed to be smiling. It was the mother’s distraught countenance47 at which we looked instead.
She halted in front of Abner, and lifted the blue cape48 from Jeff’s left shoulder, with an abrupt49 gesture.
“Look there!” she said, hoarsely50. “See what they’ve done to my boy!”
We now saw that the left sleeve of Jeff’s army overcoat was empty and hung pinned against his breast. On the instant we were all swarming51 about him, shaking the hand that remained to him and striving against one another in a babel of questions, comments, and expressions of sympathy with his loss, satisfaction at his return. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should kiss Esther Hagadorn, and that Janey Wilcox should reach up on tiptoes and kiss him. When the Underwood girl would have done the same, however, M’rye brusquely shouldered her aside.
So beside ourselves with excitement were we all, each in turn seeking to get in a word edgewise, that no one noticed the approach and entrance of a stranger, who paused just over the threshold of the barn and coughed in a loud perfunctory way to attract our attention. I had to nudge Abner twice before he turned from where he stood at Jeff’s side, with his hand on the luckless shoulder, and surveyed the newcomer.
The sun was shining so brightly on the snow outside, that it was not for the moment easy to make out the identity of this shadowed figure. Abner took a forward step or two before he recognized his visitor. It was Squire52 Avery, the rich man of the Corners, and justice of the peace, who had once even run for Congress.
“How d’ do?” said Abner, shading his eyes with a massive hand. “Won’t you step in?”
The Squire moved forward a little and held forth53 his hand, which the farmer took and shook doubtfully. We others were as silent now as the grave, feeling this visit to be even stranger than all that had gone before.
“I drove up right after breakfast, Mr. Beech,” said the Squire, making his accustomed slow delivery a trifle more pompous54 and circumspect55 than usual, “to express to you the feeling of such neighbors as I have, in this limited space of time, being able to foregather with. I believe, sir, that I may speak for them all when I say that we regret, deplore56, and contemplate57 with indignation the outrage58 and injury to which certain thoughtless elements of the community last night, sir, subjected you and your household.”
“It’s right neighborly of you, Square, to come an’ say so,” remarked Abner. “Won’t you set down? You see, my son Jeff’s jest come home from the war, an’ the house bein’ burnt, an’ so on, we’re rather upset for the minute.”
The Squire put on his spectacles and smiled with surprise at seeing Jeff. He shook hands with him warmly, and spoke59 with what we felt to be the right feeling about that missing arm; but he could not sit down, he said. The cutter was waiting for him, and he must hurry back.
“I am glad, however,” he added, “to have been the first, Mr. Beech, to welcome your brave son back, and to express to you the hope, sir, that with this additional link of sympathy between us, sir, bygones may be allowed to become bygones.”
“I don’t bear no ill will,” said Abner, guardedly. “I s’pose in the long run folks act pooty close to about what they think is right. I’m willin’ to give ’em that credit—the same as I take to myself. They ain’t been much disposition60 to give me that credit, but then, as our school-ma’am here was a-sayin’ last night, people ’ve been a good deal worked up about the war—havin’ them that’s close to ’em right down in the thick of it—an’ I dessay it was natural enough they should git hot in the collar about it. As I said afore, I don’t bear no ill will—though prob’ly I’m entitled to.”
The Squire shook hands with Abner again. “Your sentiments, Mr. Beech,” he said, in his stateliest manner, “do credit alike to your heart and your head. There is a feeling, sir, that this would be an auspicious61 occasion for you to resume sending your milk to the cheese-factory.”
Abner pondered the suggestion for a moment. “It would be handier,” he said, slowly; “but, you know, I ain’t goin’ to eat no humble62 pie. That Rod Bidwell was downright insultin’ to my man, an’ me too—”
“It was all, I assure you, sir, an unfortunate misunderstanding,” pursued the Squire, “and is now buried deep in oblivion. And it is further suggested, that, when you have reached that stage of preparation for your new house, if you will communicate with me, the neighbors will be glad to come up and extend their assistance to you in what is commonly known as a raising-bee. They will desire, I believe, to bring with them their own provisions. And, moreover, Mr. Beech”—here the Squire dropped his oratorical63 voice and stepped close to the farmer—“if this thing has cramped64 you any, that is to say, if you find yourself in need of—of—any accommodation—”
“No, nothin’ o’ that sort,” said Abner. He stopped at that, and kept silence for a little, with his head down and his gaze meditatively65 fixed on the barn floor. At last he raised his face and spoke again, his deep voice shaking a little in spite of itself.
“What you’ve said, Square, an’ your comin’ here, has done me a lot o’ good. It’s pooty nigh wuth bein’ burnt out for—to have this sort o’ thing come \ on behind as an after-clap. Sometimes, I tell you, sir, I’ve despaired o’ the republic. I admit it, though it’s to my shame. I’ve said to myself that when American citizens, born an’ raised right on the same hill-side, got to behavin’ to each other in such an all-fired mean an’ cantankerous66 way, why, the hull67 blamed thing wasn’t worth tryin’ to save. But you see I was wrong—I admit I was wrong. It was jest a passin’ flurry—a kind o’ snow-squall in hayin’ time. All the while, right down ’t the bottom, their hearts was sound an’ sweet as a butternut. It fetches me—that does—it makes me prouder than ever I was before in all my born days to be an American—yes, sir—that’s the way I—I feel about it.”
There were actually tears in the big farmer’s eyes, and he got out those finishing words of his in fragmentary gulps68. None of us had ever seen him so affected69 before.
After the Squire had shaken hands again and started off, Abner stood at the open door, looking after him, then gazing in a contemplative general way upon all out-doors. The vivid sunlight reflected up from the melting snow made his face to shine as if from an inner radiance. He stood still and looked across the yards with their piles of wet straw smoking in the forenoon heat, and the black puddles70 eating into the snow as the thaw71 went on; over the further prospect72, made weirdly73 unfamiliar74 by the disappearance75 of the big old farm-house; down the long broad sloping hill-side with its winding76 road, its checkered77 irregular patches of yellow stubble and stacked fodder78, of deep umber ploughed land and warm gray woodland, all pushing aside their premature79 mantle80 of sparkling white, and the scattered81 homesteads and red barns beyond—and there was in his eyes the far-away look of one who saw still other things.
He turned at last and came in, walking over to where Jeff and Esther stood hand in hand beside the bed on the floor. Old Jee Hagadorn was sitting up now, and had exchanged some words with the couple.
“Well, Brother Hagadorn,” said the farmer, “I hope you’re feelin’ better.”
“Yes, a good deal—B—Brother Beech, thank’ee,” replied the cooper, slowly and with hesitation82.
Abner laid a fatherly hand on Esther’s shoulder and another on Jeff’s. A smile began to steal over his big face, broadening the square which his mouth cut down into his beard, and deepening the pleasant wrinkles about his eyes. He called M’rye over to the group with beckoning83 nod of the head.
“It’s jest occurred to me, mother,” he said, with the mock gravity of tone we once had known so well and of late had heard so little—“I jest be’n thinkin’ we might’a’ killed two birds with one stun84 while the Square was up here. He’s justice o’ the peace, you know—an’ they say them kind o’ marriages turn out better ’n all the others.”
“Go ’long with yeh!” said Ma’rye, vivaciously85. But she too put a hand on Esther’s other shoulder.
The school-teacher nestled against M’rye’s side. “I tell you what,” she said, softly, “if Jeff ever turns out to be half the man his father is, I’ll just be prouder than my skin can hold.”
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收听单词发音
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1
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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2
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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3
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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4
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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5
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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6
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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7
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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8
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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9
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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10
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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12
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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15
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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16
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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18
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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hitches
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| 暂时的困难或问题( hitch的名词复数 )； 意外障碍； 急拉； 绳套 | |
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mastication
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| n.咀嚼 | |
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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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hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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27
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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34
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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40
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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42
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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43
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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44
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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45
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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46
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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47
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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48
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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49
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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50
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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51
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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52
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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53
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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54
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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55
circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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56
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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