As Elsie awaited her return, the practical little Yankee maid thought with a pang1 of the tenderness and folly2 of such people. She knew this mother had scarcely enough to eat, but to her bread was of small importance, flowers necessary to life. After all, it was very sweet, this foolishness of these Southern people, and it somehow made her homesick.
“How can I tell her!” she sighed. “And yet I must.”
She had only waited a moment when Mrs. Cameron suddenly entered with her daughter. She threw her flowers on the table, sprang forward to meet Elsie, seized her hands and called to Margaret.
“How good of you to come so soon! This, Margaret, is our dear little friend who has been so good to Ben and to me.”
Margaret took Elsie’s hand and longed to throw her arms around her neck, but something in the quiet dignity of the Northern girl’s manner held her back. She only 20 smiled tenderly through her big dark eyes, and softly said:
“We love you! Ben was my last brother. We were playmates and chums. My heart broke when he ran away to the front. How can we thank you and your brother!”
“I’m sure we’ve done nothing more than you would have done for us,” said Elsie, as Mrs. Cameron left the room.
“Yes, I know, but we can never tell you how grateful we are to you. We feel that you have saved Ben’s life and ours. The war has been one long horror to us since my first brother was killed. But now it’s over, and we have Ben left, and our hearts have been crying for joy all night.”
“I hoped my brother, Captain Phil Stoneman, would be here to-day to meet you and help me, but he can’t reach Washington before Friday.”
“He caught Ben in his arms!” cried Margaret. “I know he’s brave, and you must be proud of him.”
“Doctor Barnes says they are as much alike as twins—only Phil is not quite so tall and has blond hair like mine.”
“You will let me see him and thank him the moment he comes?”
“Hurry, Margaret!” cheerily cried Mrs. Cameron, re?ntering the parlour. “Get ready; we must go at once to the hospital.”
Margaret turned and with stately grace hurried from the room. The old dress she wore as unconscious of its shabbiness as though it were a royal robe. 21
“And now, my dear, what must I do to get the passes?” asked the mother eagerly.
Elsie’s warm amber3 eyes grew misty4 for a moment, and the fair skin with its gorgeous rose tints5 of the North paled. She hesitated, tried to speak, and was silent.
The sensitive soul of the Southern woman read the message of sorrow words had not framed.
“Tell me, quickly! The doctor—has—not—concealed—his—true—condition—from—me?”
“No, he is certain to recover.”
“What then?”
“Worse—he is condemned6 to death by court-martial.”
“Condemned to death—a—wounded—prisoner—of—war!” she whispered slowly, with blanched7 face.
“Yes, he was accused of violating the rules of war as a guerilla raider in the invasion of Pennsylvania.”
“Absurd and monstrous8! He was on General Jeb Stuart’s staff and could have acted only under his orders. He joined the infantry9 after Stuart’s death, and rose to be a colonel, though but a boy. There’s some terrible mistake!”
“Unless we can obtain his pardon,” Elsie went on in even, restrained tones, “there is no hope. We must appeal to the President.”
The mother’s lips trembled, and she seemed about to faint.
“Could I see the President?” she asked, recovering herself with an effort.
“He has just reached Washington from the front, and is thronged11 by thousands. It will be difficult.” 22
The mother’s lips were moving in silent prayer, and her eyes were tightly closed to keep back the tears.
“Can you help me, dear?” she asked piteously.
“Yes,” was the quick response.
“You see,” she went on, “I feel so helpless. I have never been to the White House or seen the President, and I don’t know how to go about seeing him or how to ask him—and—I am afraid of Mr. Lincoln! I have heard so many harsh things said of him.”
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Cameron. We must go at once to the White House and try to see him.”
The mother lifted the girl’s hand and stroked it gently.
“We will not tell Margaret. Poor child! she could not endure this. When we return, we may have better news. It can’t be worse. I’ll send her on an errand.”
She took up the bouquet12 of gorgeous roses with a sigh, buried her face in the fresh perfume, as if to gain strength in their beauty and fragrance13, and left the room.
In a few moments she had returned and was on her way with Elsie to the White House.
It was a beautiful spring morning, this eleventh day of April, 1865. The glorious sunshine, the shimmering14 green of the grass, the warm breezes, and the shouts of victory mocked the mother’s anguish15.
At the White House gates they passed the blue sentry16 pacing silently back and forth17, who merely glanced at them with keen eyes and said nothing. In the steady beat of his feet the mother could hear the tramp of soldiers leading her boy to the place of death! 23
A great lump rose in her throat as she caught the first view of the Executive Mansion18 gleaming white and silent and ghostlike among the budding trees. The tall columns of the great facade19, spotless as snow, the spray of the fountain, the marble walls, pure, dazzling, and cold, seemed to her the gateway20 to some great tomb in which her own dead and the dead of all the people lay! To her the fair white palace, basking21 there in the sunlight and budding grass, shrub22, and tree, was the Judgment23 House of Fate. She thought of all the weary feet that had climbed its fateful steps in hope to return in despair, of its fierce dramas on which the lives of millions had hung, and her heart grew sick.
A long line of people already stretched from the entrance under the portico24 far out across the park, awaiting their turn to see the President.
Mrs. Cameron placed her hand falteringly25 on Elsie’s shoulder.
“Look, my dear, what a crowd already! Must we wait in line?”
“No, I can get you past the throng10 with my father’s name.”
“Will it be very difficult to reach the President?”
“No, it’s very easy. Guards and sentinels annoy him. He frets26 until they are removed. An assassin or maniac27 could kill him almost any hour of the day or night. The doors are open at all hours, very late at night. I have often walked up to the rooms of his secretaries as late as nine o’clock without being challenged by a soul.” 24
“What must I call him? Must I say ‘Your Excellency?’”
“By no means—he hates titles and forms. You should say ‘Mr. President’ in addressing him. But you will please him best if, in your sweet, homelike way, you will just call him by his name. You can rely on his sympathy. Read this letter of his to a widow. I brought it to show you.”
She handed Mrs. Cameron a newspaper clipping on which was printed Mr. Lincoln’s letter to Mrs. Bixby, of Boston, who had lost five sons in the war.
Over and over she read its sentences until they echoed as solemn music in her soul:
“I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile28 you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation29 that may be found in the thanks of the republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage30 the anguish of your bereavement31, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly32 a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.
“Yours very sincerely and respectfully,
“Abraham Lincoln.”
“And the President paused amid a thousand cares to write that letter to a broken-hearted woman?” the mother asked.
“Yes.”
“Then he is good down to the last secret depths of a great heart! Only a Christian34 father could have written 25 that letter. I shall not be afraid to speak to him. And they told me he was an infidel!”
Elsie led her by a private way past the crowd and into the office of Major Hay, the President’s private secretary. A word from the Great Commoner’s daughter admitted them at once to the President’s room.
“Just take a seat on one side, Miss Elsie,” said Major Hay; “watch your first opportunity and introduce your friend.”
On entering the room, Mrs. Cameron could not see the President, who was seated at his desk surrounded by three men in deep consultation35 over a mass of official documents.
She looked about the room nervously36 and felt reassured37 by its plain aspect. It was a medium-sized, officelike place, with no signs of elegance38 or ceremony. Mr. Lincoln was seated in an armchair beside a high writing-desk and table combined. She noticed that his feet were large and that they rested on a piece of simple straw matting. Around the room were sofas and chairs covered with green worsted.
When the group about the chair parted a moment, she caught the first glimpse of the man who held her life in the hollow of his hand. She studied him with breathless interest. His back was still turned. Even while seated, she saw that he was a man of enormous stature39, fully33 six feet four inches tall, legs and arms abnormally long, and huge broad shoulders slightly stooped. His head was powerful and crowned with a mass of heavy brown hair, tinged40 with silver.
He turned his head slightly and she saw his profile set 26 in its short dark beard—the broad intellectual brow, half covered by unmanageable hair, his face marked with deep-cut lines of life and death, with great hollows in the cheeks and under the eyes. In the lines which marked the corners of his mouth she could see firmness, and his beetling41 brows and unusually heavy eyelids42 looked stern and formidable. Her heart sank. She looked again and saw goodness, tenderness, sorrow, canny43 shrewdness, and a strange lurking44 smile all haunting his mouth and eye.
Suddenly he threw himself forward in his chair, wheeled and faced one of his tormentors with a curious and comical expression. With one hand patting the other, and a funny look overspreading his face, he said:
“My friend, let me tell you something——”
The man again stepped before him, and she could hear nothing. When the story was finished, the man tried to laugh. It died in a feeble effort. But the President laughed heartily45, laughed all over, and laughed his visitors out of the room.
Mrs. Cameron turned toward Elsie with a mute look of appeal to give her this moment of good-humour in which to plead her cause, but before she could move a man of military bearing suddenly stepped before the President.
He began to speak, but seeing the look of stern decision in Mr. Lincoln’s face, turned abruptly46 and said:
“Mr. President, I see you are fully determined47 not to do me justice!”
Mr. Lincoln slightly compressed his lips, rose quietly, seized the intruder by the arm, and led him toward the door. 27
“This is the third time you have forced your presence on me, sir, asking that I reverse the just sentence of a court-martial, dismissing you from the service. I told you my decision was carefully made and was final. Now I give you fair warning never to show yourself in this room again. I can bear censure48, but I will not endure insult!”
In whining49 tones the man begged for his papers he had dropped.
“Begone, sir,” said the President, as he thrust him through the door. “Your papers will be sent to you.”
The poor mother trembled at this startling act and sank back limp in her seat.
With quick, swinging stride the President walked back to his desk, accompanied by Major Hay and a young German girl, whose simple dress told that she was from the Western plains.
He handed the secretary an official paper.
“Give this pardon to the boy’s mother when she comes this morning,” he said kindly50 to the secretary, his eyes suddenly full of gentleness.
“How could I consent to shoot a boy raised on a farm, in the habit of going to bed at dark, for falling asleep at his post when required to watch all night? I’ll never go into eternity51 with the blood of such a boy on my skirts.”
Again the mother’s heart rose.
“You remember the young man I pardoned for a similar offence in ’62, about which Stanton made such a fuss?” he went on in softly reminiscent tones. “Well, here is that pardon.”
He drew from the lining52 of his silk hat a photograph, 28 around which was wrapped an executive pardon. Through the lower end of it was a bullet-hole stained with blood.
“I got this in Richmond. They found him dead on the field. He fell in the front ranks with my photograph in his pocket next to his heart, this pardon wrapped around it, and on the back of it in his boy’s scrawl53, ‘God bless Abraham Lincoln.’ I love to invest in bonds like that.”
The secretary returned to his room, the girl who was waiting stepped forward, and the President rose to receive her.
The mother’s quick eye noted54, with surprise, the simple dignity and chivalry55 of manner with which he received this humble56 woman of the people.
With straightforward57 eloquence58 the girl poured out her story, begging for the pardon of her young brother who had been sentenced to death as a deserter. He listened in silence.
How pathetic the deep melancholy59 of his sad face! Yes, she was sure, the saddest face that God ever made in all the world! Her own stricken heart for a moment went out to him in sympathy.
The President took off his spectacles, wiped his forehead with the large red silk handkerchief he carried, and his eyes twinkled kindly down into the good German face.
“You seem an honest, truthful60, sweet girl,” he said, “and”—he smiled—“you don’t wear hoop61 skirts! I may be whipped for this, but I’ll trust you and your brother, too. He shall be pardoned.” 29 Elsie rose to introduce Mrs. Cameron, when a Congressman62 from Massachusetts suddenly stepped before her and pressed for the pardon of a slave trader whose ship had been confiscated63. He had spent five years in prison, but could not pay the heavy fine in money imposed.
The President had taken his seat again, and read the eloquent64 appeal for mercy. He looked up over his spectacles, fixed65 his eyes piercingly on the Congressman and said:
“This is a moving appeal, sir, expressed with great eloquence. I might pardon a murderer under the spell of such words, but a man who can make a business of going to Africa and robbing her of her helpless children and selling them into bondage—no, sir—he may rot in jail before he shall have liberty by any act of mine!”
Again the mother’s heart sank.
Her hour had come. She must put the issue of life or death to the test, and as Elsie rose and stepped quickly forward, she followed; nerving herself for the ordeal66.
The President took Elsie’s hand familiarly and smiled without rising. Evidently she was well known to him.
“Will you hear the prayer of a broken-hearted mother of the South, who has lost four sons in General Lee’s army?” she asked.
Looking quietly past the girl, he caught sight, for the first time, of the faded dress and the sorrow-shadowed face.
He was on his feet in a moment, extended his hand and led her to a chair.
“Take this seat, Madam, and then tell me in your own way what I can do for you.” 30 In simple words, mighty67 with the eloquence of a mother’s heart, she told her story and asked for the pardon of her boy, promising68 his word of honour and her own that he would never again take up arms against the union.
“The war is over now, Mr. Lincoln,” she said, “and we have lost all. Can you conceive the desolation of my heart? My four boys were noble men. They may have been wrong, but they fought for what they believed to be right. You, too, have lost a boy.”
The President’s eyes grew dim.
“Yes, a beautiful boy——” he said simply.
“Well, mine are all gone but this baby. One of them sleeps in an unmarked grave at Gettysburg. One died in a Northern prison. One fell at Chancellorsville, one in the Wilderness69, and this, my baby, before Petersburg. Perhaps I’ve loved him too much, this last one—he’s only a child yet——”
“You shall have your boy, my dear Madam,” the President said simply, seating himself and writing a brief order to the Secretary of War.
The mother drew near his desk, softly crying. Through her tears she said:
“My heart is heavy, Mr. Lincoln, when I think of all the hard and bitter things we have heard of you.”
“Well, give my love to the people of South Carolina when you go home, and tell them that I am their President, and that I have never forgotten this fact in the darkest hours of this awful war; and I am going to do everything in my power to help them.” 31 “You will never regret this generous act,” the mother cried with gratitude70.
“I reckon not,” he answered. “I’ll tell you something, Madam, if you won’t tell anybody. It’s a secret of my administration. I’m only too glad of an excuse to save a life when I can. Every drop of blood shed in this war North and South has been as if it were wrung71 out of my heart. A strange fate decreed that the bloodiest72 war in human history should be fought under my direction. And I—to whom the sight of blood is a sickening horror—I have been compelled to look on in silent anguish because I could not stop it! Now that the union is saved, not another drop of blood shall be spilled if I can prevent it.”
“May God bless you!” the mother cried, as she received from him the order.
She held his hand an instant as she took her leave, laughing and sobbing73 in her great joy.
“I must tell you, Mr. President,” she said, “how surprised and how pleased I am to find you are a Southern man.”
“Why, didn’t you know that my parents were Virginians, and that I was born in Kentucky?”
“Very few people in the South know it. I am ashamed to say I did not.”
“Then, how did you know I am a Southerner?”
“By your looks, your manner of speech, your easy, kindly ways, your tenderness and humour, your firmness in the right as you see it, and, above all, the way you rose and bowed to a woman in an old, faded black dress, whom you knew to be an enemy.” 32 “No, Madam, not an enemy now,” he said softly. “That word is out of date.”
“If we had only known you in time——”
The President accompanied her to the door with a deference74 of manner that showed he had been deeply touched.
“Take this letter to Mr. Stanton at once,” he said. “Some folks complain of my pardons, but it rests me after a hard day’s work if I can save some poor boy’s life. I go to bed happy, thinking of the joy I have given to those who love him.”
As the last words were spoken, a peculiar75 dreaminess of expression stole over his careworn76 face, as if a throng of gracious memories had lifted for a moment the burden of his life.
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1
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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6
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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7
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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8
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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10
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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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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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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49
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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50
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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51
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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52
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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53
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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54
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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55
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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56
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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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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Congressman
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| n.（美）国会议员 | |
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confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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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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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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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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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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bloodiest
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| adj.血污的( bloody的最高级 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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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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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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