It can readily be understood that Martine in his expedition to the South had not limited his efforts solely1 to his search for Captain Nichol. Wherever it had been within his power he had learned all that he could of other officers and men who had come from his native region; and his letters to their relatives had been in some instances sources of unspeakable comfort. In his visit to the front he had also seen and conversed2 with his fellow-townsmen, some of whom had since perished or had been wounded. As he grew stronger, Helen wrote out at his dictation all that he could remember concerning these interviews; and these accounts became precious heirlooms in many families.
On the Fourth of July the commemorative oration3 was delivered by the Senator, who proved himself to be more than senator by his deep, honest feeling and good taste. The "spread eagle" element was conspicuously4 absent in his solemn, dignified5, yet hopeful words. He gave to each their meed of praise. He grew eloquent6 over the enlisted7 men who had so bravely done their duty without the incentive8 of ambition. When he spoke9 of the honor reflected on the village by the heroism10 of Captain Nichol, the hearts of the people glowed with gratitude11 and pride; but thoughts of pity came to all as they remembered the girl, robed in black, who sat with bowed head among them.
"I can best bring my words to a close," said the Senator, "by reading part of a letter written by one of your townsmen, a private in the ranks, yet expressive12 of feelings inseparable from our common human nature:
"DEAR FATHER—You know I ain't much given to fine feelings or fine words. Poor Sam beat me all holler in such things; but I want you and all the folks in Alton to know that you've got a regular soldier at home. Of course we were all glad to see Bart Martine; and we expected to have a good-natured laugh at his expense when the shells began to fly. Soldiers laugh, as they eat, every chance they get, 'cause they remember it may be the last one. Well, we knew Bart didn't know any more about war than a chicken, and we expected to see him get very nervous and limp off to the rear on the double quick. He didn't scare worth a cent. When a shell screeched13 over our heads, he just waited till the dinged noise was out of our ears and then went on with his questions about poor Cap and Sam and the others from our town. We were supporting a battery, and most of us lying down. He sat there with us a good hour, telling about the folks at home, and how you were all following us with your thoughts and prayers, and how you all mourned with those who lost friends, and were looking after the children of the killed and wounded. Fact is, before we knew it we were all on our feet cheering for Alton and the folks at home and the little lame14 man, who was just as good a soldier as any of us. I tell you he heartened up the boys, what's left of us. I'm sorry to hear he's so sick. If he should die, bury him with a soldier's honors. JAMES WETHERBY."
"These plain, simple, unadorned words," concluded the Senator, "need no comment. Their force and significance cannot be enhanced by anything I can say. I do not know that I could listen quietly to shrieking15 and exploding shells while I spoke words of courage and good cheer; but I do know that I wish to be among the foremost to honor your modest, unassuming townsman, who could do all this and more."
Martine was visibly distressed16 by this unexpected feature in the oration and the plaudits which followed. He was too sad, too weak in body and mind, and too fresh from the ghastly battlefield, not to shrink in sensitive pain from personal and public commendation. He evaded18 his neighbors as far as possible and limped hastily away.
He did not see Helen again till the following morning, for her wound had been opened afresh, and she spent the remainder of the day and evening in the solitude19 of her room. Martine was troubled at this, and thought she felt as he did.
In the morning she joined him on the piazza20. She was pale from her long sad vigil, but renewed strength and a gentle patience were expressed in her thin face.
"It's too bad, Helen," he broke out in unwonted irritation21. "I wouldn't have gone if I had known. It was a miserable22 letting down of all that had gone before—that reference to me."
Now she smiled brightly as she said, "You are the only one present who thought so. Has this been worrying you?"
"Yes, it has. If the speaker had seen what I saw, he would have known better. His words only wounded me."
"He judged you by other men, Hobart. His words would not have wounded very many. I'm glad I heard that letter—that I have learned what I never could from you. I'm very proud of my friend. What silly creatures women are, anyway! They want their friends to be brave, yet dread23 the consequences of their being so beyond words."
"Well," said Martine, a little grimly, "I'm going to my office to-morrow. I feel the need of a long course of reading in Blackstone."
"You must help keep me busy also," was her reply.
"I've thought about that; yes, a great deal. You need some wholesome24, natural interest that is capable of becoming somewhat absorbing. Is it strange that I should recommend one phase of my hobby, flowers? You know that every tree, shrub25, and plant on our little place is a sort of a pet with me. You are fond of flowers, but have never given much thought to their care, leaving that to your gardener. Flowers are only half enjoyed by those who do not cultivate them, nurse, or pet them. Then there is such an infinite variety that before you know it your thoughts are pleasantly occupied in experimenting with even one family of plants. It is an interest which will keep you much in the open air and bring you close to Mother Nature."
The result of this talk was that the sad-hearted girl first by resolute26 effort and then by a growing fondness for the tasks, began to take a personal interest in the daily welfare of her plants. Martine and her father were always on the look-out for something new and rare; and as winter approached, the former had a small conservatory27 built on the sunny side of the house. They also gave her several caged song-birds, which soon learned to recognize and welcome her. From one of his clients Martine obtained a droll-looking dog that seemed to possess almost human intelligence. In the daily care of living things and dependent creatures that could bloom or be joyous28 without jarring upon her feelings, as would human mirth or gayety, her mind became wholesomely29 occupied part of each day; she could smile at objects which did not know, which could not understand.
Still, there was no effort on her part to escape sad memories or the acts and duties which revived them. A noble monument had been erected30 to Captain Nichol, and one of her chief pleasures was to decorate it with the flowers grown under her own care. Few days passed on which she did not visit one of the families who were or had been represented at the front, while Mrs. Nichol felt that if she had lost a son she had in a measure gained a daughter. As the months passed and winter was wellnigh spent, the wise gossips of the village again began to shake their heads and remark, "Helen Kemble and Bart Martine are very good friends; but I guess that's all it will amount to—all, at any rate, for a long time."
All, for all time, Helen had honestly thought. It might easily have been for all time had another lover sought her, or if Martine himself had become a wooer and so put her on her guard. It was his patient acceptance of what she had said could not be helped, his self-forgetfulness, which caused her to remember his need—a need greatly increased by a sad event. In the breaking up of winter his mother took a heavy cold which ended in pneumonia31 and death.
The gossips made many plans for him and indulged in many surmises32 as to what he would do; but he merely engaged the services of an old woman as domestic, and lived on quietly as before. Perhaps he grew a little morbid33 after this bereavement34 and clung more closely to his lonely hearth35.
This would not be strange. Those who dwell among shadows become ill at ease away from them. Helen was the first to discover this tendency, and to note that he was not rallying as she had hoped he would. He rarely sought their house except by invitation, and then often lapsed36 into silences which he broke with an evident effort. He never uttered a word of complaint or consciously appealed for sympathy, but was slowly yielding to the steady pressure of sadness which had almost been his heritage. She would have been less than woman if, recalling the past and knowing so well the unsatisfied love in his heart, she had not felt for him daily a larger and deeper commiseration37. When the early March winds rattled38 the casements39, or drove the sleety40 rain against the windows, she saw him in fancy sitting alone brooding, always brooding.
One day she asked abruptly41, "Hobart, what are you thinking about so deeply when you are looking at the fire?"
A slow, deep flush came into his face, and he hesitated in his answer. At last he said, "I fear I'm getting into a bad mood, and think I must do something decided42. Well, for one thing, the continuance of this war weighs upon my spirit. Men are getting so scarce that I believe they will take me in some capacity. Now that mother is not here, I think I ought to go."
"Oh, Hobart, we would miss you so!" she faltered43.
He looked up with a smile. "Yes, Helen, I think you would—not many others, though. You have become so brave and strong that you do not need me any more."
"I am not so brave and strong as I seem. If I were, how did I become so? With the tact44 and delicacy45 of a woman, yet with the strength of a man, you broke the crushing force of the first blow, and have helped me ever since."
"You see everything through a very friendly medium. At any rate I could not have been content a moment if I had not done all in my power. You do not need me any longer; you have become a source of strength to others. I cannot help seeing crowded hospital wards46; and the thought pursues me that in one of them I might do something to restore a soldier to his place in the field or save him for those at home. I could at least be a hospital nurse, and I believe it would be better for me to be doing some such work."
"I believe it would be better for me also," she answered, her eyes full of tears.
"No, Helen—no, indeed. You have the higher mission of healing the heart-wounds which the war is making in your own vicinity. You should not think of leaving your father and mother in their old age, or of filling their days with anxiety which might shorten their lives."
"It will be very hard for us to let you go. Oh, I did not think I would have to face this also!"
He glanced at her hastily, for there was a sharp distress17 in her tone, of which she was scarcely conscious herself. Then, as if recollecting47 himself, he reasoned gently and earnestly: "You were not long in adopting the best antidote48 for trouble. In comforting others, you have been comforted. The campaign is opening in Virginia; and I think it would be a good and wholesome thing for me to be at work among the wounded. If I can save one life, it will be such a comfort after the war is over."
"Yes," she replied, softly; "the war will be over some day. Albert, in his last letter, said the war would cease, and that happy days of peace were coming. How they can ever be happy days to some I scarcely know; but he seemed to foresee the future when he wrote."
"Helen, I'm going. Perhaps the days of peace will be a little happier if I go."
点击收听单词发音
1 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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2 conversed | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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3 oration | |
n.演说,致辞,叙述法 | |
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4 conspicuously | |
ad.明显地,惹人注目地 | |
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5 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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6 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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7 enlisted | |
adj.应募入伍的v.(使)入伍, (使)参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 );获得(帮助或支持) | |
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8 incentive | |
n.刺激;动力;鼓励;诱因;动机 | |
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9 spoke | |
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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10 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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11 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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12 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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13 screeched | |
v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 );发出粗而刺耳的声音;高叫 | |
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14 lame | |
adj.跛的,(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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15 shrieking | |
v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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16 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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17 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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18 evaded | |
逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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19 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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20 piazza | |
n.广场;走廊 | |
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21 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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22 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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23 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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24 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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25 shrub | |
n.灌木,灌木丛 | |
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26 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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27 conservatory | |
n.温室,音乐学院;adj.保存性的,有保存力的 | |
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28 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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29 wholesomely | |
卫生地,有益健康地 | |
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30 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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31 pneumonia | |
n.肺炎 | |
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32 surmises | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的第三人称单数 );揣测;猜想 | |
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33 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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34 bereavement | |
n.亲人丧亡,丧失亲人,丧亲之痛 | |
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35 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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36 lapsed | |
adj.流失的,堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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37 commiseration | |
n.怜悯,同情 | |
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38 rattled | |
慌乱的,恼火的 | |
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39 casements | |
n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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40 sleety | |
雨夹雪的,下雨雪的 | |
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41 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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42 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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43 faltered | |
(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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44 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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45 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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46 wards | |
区( ward的名词复数 ); 病房; 受监护的未成年者; 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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47 recollecting | |
v.记起,想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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48 antidote | |
n.解毒药,解毒剂 | |
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