The mother speedily saw that it would be useless to remonstrate3, and tearfully aided him in his preparations. Before he departed, he won her over as an ally. "These times, mother, are bringing heavy burdens to very many, and we should help each other bear them. You know what Helen is to me, and must be always. That is something which cannot be changed. My love has grown with my growth and become inseparable from my life. I have my times of weakness, but think I can truly say that I love her so well that I would rather make her happy at any cost to myself. If it is within my power, I shall certainly bring Nichol back, alive or dead. Prove your love to me, mother, by cheering, comforting, and sustaining that poor girl. I haven't as much hope of success as I tried to give her, but she needs hope now; she must have it, or there is no assurance against disastrous5 effects on her health and mind. I couldn't bear that."
"Well, Hobart, if he is dead, she certainly ought to reward you some day."
"We must not think of that. The future is not in our hands. We can only do what is duty now."
Noble, generous purposes give their impress to that index of character, the human face. When Martine came to say good-by to Helen, she saw the quiet, patient cripple in a new light. He no longer secured her strong affection chiefly on the basis of gentle, womanly commiseration6. He was proving the possession of those qualities which appeal strongly to the feminine nature; he was showing himself capable of prompt, courageous7 action, and his plain face, revealing the spirit which animated8 him, became that of a hero in her eyes. She divined the truth—the love so strong and unselfish that it would sacrifice itself utterly9 for her. He was seeking to bring back her lover when success in his mission would blot10 out all hope for him. The effect of his action was most salutary, rousing her from the inertia11 of grief and despair. "If a mere12 friend," she murmured, "can be so brave and self-forgetful, I have no excuse for giving away utterly."
She revealed in some degree her new impressions in parting. "Hobart," she said, holding his hand in both of hers, "you have done much to help me. You have not only brought hope, but you have also shown a spirit which would shame me out of a selfish grief. I cannot now forget the claims of others, of my dear father and mother here, and I promise you that I will try to be brave like you, like Albert. I shall not become a weak, helpless burden, I shall not sit still and wring13 idle hands when others are heroically doing and suffering. Good-by, my friend, my brother. God help us all!"
He felt that she understood him now as never before; and the knowledge inspired a more resolute14 purpose, if this were possible. That afternoon he was on his way. There came two or three days of terrible suspense15 for Helen, relieved only by telegrams from Martine as he passed from point to point. The poor girl struggled as a swimmer breasts pitiless waves intervening between him and the shore. She scarcely allowed herself an idle moment; but her effort was feverish16 and in a measure the result of excitement. The papers were searched for any scrap17 of intelligence, and the daily mail waited for until the hours and minutes were counted before its arrival.
One morning her father placed Nichol's letter in her hands. They so trembled in the immense hope, the overwhelming emotion which swept over her at sight of the familiar handwriting, that at first she could not open it. When at last she read the prophetic message, she almost blotted18 out the writing with her tears, moaning, "He's dead, he's dead!" In her morbid19, overwrought condition, the foreboding that had been in the mind of the writer was conveyed to hers; and she practically gave up hope for anything better than the discovery and return of his remains20. Her father, mother, and intimate friends tried in vain to rally her; but the conviction remained that she had read her lover's farewell words. In spite of the most pathetic and strenuous21 effort, she could not keep up any longer, and sobbed22 till she slept in utter exhaustion23.
On the following day, old Mr. Wetherby came into the bank. The lines about his mouth were rigid24 with suppressed feeling. He handed Mr. Kemble a letter, saying in a husky voice, "Jim sent this. He says at the end I was to show it to you." The scrawl25 gave in brief the details about Captain Nichol already known to the reader, and stated also that Sam Wetherby was missing. "All I know is," wrote the soldier, "that we were driven back, and bullets flew like hail. The brush was so thick I couldn't see five yards either way when I lost sight of Sam."
The colonel of the regiment26 also wrote to Captain Nichol's father, confirming Private Wetherby's letter. The village had been thrown into a ferment27 by the tidings of the battle and its disastrous consequences. There was bitter lamentation28 in many homes. Perhaps the names of Captain Nichol and Helen were oftenest repeated in the little community, for the fact of their mutual30 hopes was no longer a secret. Even thus early some sagacious people nodded their heads and remarked, "Hobart Martine may have his chance yet." Helen Kemble believed without the shadow of a doubt that all the heart she had for love had perished in the wilderness31.
The facts contained in Jim Wetherby's letter were telegraphed to Martine, and he was not long in discovering confirmation32 of them in the temporary hospitals near the battlefield. He found a man of Captain Nichol's company to whom Jim had related the circumstances. For days the loyal friend searched laboriously33 the horrible region of strife34, often sickened nearly unto death by the scenes he witnessed, for his nature had not been rendered callous35 by familiarity with the results of war. Then instead of returning home, he employed the influence given by his letters and passes, backed by his own earnest pleading, to obtain permission for a visit to Nichol's regiment. He found it under fire; and long afterward36 Jim Wetherby was fond of relating how quietly the lame29 civilian37 listened to the shells shrieking38 over and exploding around him. Thus Martine learned all that could be gathered of Nichol's fate, and then, ill and exhausted39, he turned his face northward40. He felt that it would be a hopeless task to renew his search on the battlefield, much of which had been burned over. He also had the conviction it would be fatal to him to look upon its unspeakable horrors, and breathe again its pestilential air.
He was a sick man when he arrived at home, but was able to relate modestly in outline the history of his efforts, softening41 and concealing42 much that he had witnessed. In the delirium43 of fever which followed, they learned more fully4 of what he had endured, of how he had forced himself to look upon things which, reproduced in his ravings, almost froze the blood of his watchers.
Helen Kemble felt that her cup of bitterness had been filled anew, yet the distraction44 of a new grief, in which there was a certain remorseful45 self-reproach, had the effect of blunting the sharp edge of her first sorrow. In this new cause for dread46 she was compelled in some degree to forget herself. She saw the intense solicitude47 of her father and mother, who had been so readily accessory to Martine's expedition; she also saw that his mother's heart was almost breaking under the strain of anxiety. His incoherent words were not needed to reveal that his effort had been prompted by his love. She was one of his watchers, patiently enduring the expressions of regret which the mother in her sharp agony could not repress. Nichol's last letter was now known by heart, its every word felt to be prophetic. She had indeed been called upon to exercise courage and fortitude48 greater than he could manifest even in the Wilderness battle. Although she often faltered49, she did not fail in carrying out his instructions. When at last Martine, a pallid50 convalescent, could sit in the shade on the piazza51, she looked older by years, having, besides, the expression seen in the eyes of some women who have suffered much, and can still suffer much more. In the matter relating to their deepest consciousness, no words had passed between them. She felt as if she were a widow, and hoped he would understand. His full recognition of her position, and acceptance of the fact that she did and must mourn for her lover, his complete self-abnegation, brought her a sense of peace.
The old clock on the landing of the stairway measured off the hours and days with monotonous52 regularity53. Some of the hours and days had been immeasurably longer than the ancient timekeeper had indicated; but in accordance with usual human experiences, they began to grow shorter. Poignant54 sorrow cannot maintain its severity, or people could not live. Vines, grasses, and flowers covered the graves in Virginia; the little cares, duties, and amenities55 of life began to screen at times the sorrows that were nevertheless ever present.
"Hobart," Helen said one day in the latter part of June, "do you think you will be strong enough to attend the commemorative services next week? You know they have been waiting for you."
"Yes," he replied quietly; "'and they should not have delayed them so long. It is very sad that so many others have been added since—since—"
"Well, you have not been told, for we have tried to keep every depressing and disquieting56 influence from you. Dr. Barnes said it was very necessary, because you had seen so much that you should try to forget. Ah, my friend, I can never forget what you suffered for me! Captain Nichol's funeral sermon was preached while you were so ill. I was not present—I could not be. I've been to see his mother often, and she understands me. I could not have controlled my grief, and I have a horror of displaying my most sacred feelings in public. Father and the people also wish you to be present at the general commemorative services, when our Senator will deliver a eulogy57 on those of our town who have fallen; but I don't think you should go if you feel that it will have a bad effect on you."
"I shall be present, Helen. I suppose my mind has been weak like my body; but the time has come when I must take up life again and accept its conditions as others are doing. You certainly are setting me a good example. I admit that my illness has left a peculiar58 repugnance59 to hearing and thinking about the war; it all seemed so very horrible. But if our brave men can face the thing itself, I should be weak indeed if I could not listen to a eulogy of their deeds."
"I am coming to think," resumed Helen, thoughtfully, "that the battle line extends from Maine to the Gulf60, and that quiet people like you and me are upon it as truly as the soldiers in the field. I have thought that perhaps the most merciful wounds are often those which kill outright61."
"I can easily believe that," he said.
His quiet tone and manner did not deceive her, and she looked at him wistfully as she resumed, "But if they do not kill, the pain must be borne patiently, even though we are in a measure disabled."
"Yes, Helen; and you are disabled in your power to give me what I can never help giving you. I know that. I will not misjudge or presume upon your kindness. We are too good friends to affect any concealments from each other."
"You have expressed my very thought. When you spoke62 of accepting the conditions of life, I hoped you had in mind what you have said—the conditions of life as they ARE, as we cannot help or change them. We both have got to take up life under new conditions."
"You have; not I, Helen."
Tears rushed to her eyes as she faltered, "I would be transparently63 false should I affect not to know. What I wish you to feel through the coming months and years is that I cannot—that I am disabled by my wound."
"I understand, Helen. We can go on as we have begun. You have lost, as I have not, for I have never possessed64. You will be the greater sufferer; and it will be my dear privilege to cheer and sustain you in such ways as are possible to a simple friend."
She regarded him gratefully, and for the first time since that terrible
May morning the semblance65 of a smile briefly66 illumined her face.
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1
outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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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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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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38
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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41
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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42
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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47
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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49
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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50
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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56
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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57
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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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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63
transparently
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| 明亮地，显然地，易觉察地 | |
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64
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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65
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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