Of course he thought what his father would say, what his mother would say, and he could see the wrinkled face of gran’ther Greene expand into a genial smile of commendation. It is quite possible that he had even more interest in his reception at No —— Rutland Street, when he should present himself to the author and finisher of those marvellous socks, which had wielded such an immense influence upon their wearer in camp and on the field. Perhaps it was a weakness on the part of the soldier boy, but we are compelled to record the fact that he had faithfully conned his speech for that interesting occasion. He had supposed every thing she would say, and carefully prepared a suitable reply to each remark, adorned with all the graces of rhetoric within his reach.
With the furlough in his pocket, Tom obtained his order for transportation, and with a light heart, full of pleasant anticipations, started for home. As he was still dressed in the faded and shattered uniform of a non-commissioned officer, he did not attract any particular notice on the way. He was enabled to pass through Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, without being bored by a public reception, which some less deserving heroes have not been permitted to escape. But the people did not understand that Tom had a second lieutenant’s commission in his pocket, and he was too modest to proclaim the fact, which may be the reason why he was suffered to pass through these great emporiums of trade without an escort, or other demonstration of respect and admiration.
Tom’s heart jumped with strange emotions when he arrived at Boston, perhaps because he was within a few miles of home; possibly because he was in the city that contained Lilian Ashford, for boys will be silly in spite of all the exertions of parents, guardians, and teachers, to make them sober and sensible. Such absurdities as “the air she breathes,” and other rhapsodies of that sort, may have flitted through his mind; but we are positive that Tom did not give voice to any such nonsense, for every body in the city was a total stranger to him, so far as he knew. Besides, Tom had no notion of appearing before the original of the photograph in the rusty uniform he wore; and as he had to wait an hour for the Pinchbrook train, he hastened to a tailor’s to order a suit of clothes which would be appropriate to his new dignity.
He ordered them, was duly measured and had given the tailor his promise to call for the garments at the expiration of five days, when the man of shears disturbed the serene current of his meditations by suggesting that the lieutenant should pay one half of the price of the suit in advance.
“It is a custom we adopt in all our dealings with strangers,” politely added the tailor.
“But I don’t propose to take the uniform away until it is paid for,” said Tom, blushing with mortification; for it so happened that he had not money enough to meet the demand of the tailor.
“Certainly not,” blandly replied Shears; “but we cannot make up the goods with the risk of not disposing of them. They may not fit the next man who wants such a suit.”
“I have not the money, sir;” and Tom felt that the confession was an awful sacrifice of dignity on the part of an officer in the army of the Potomac, who had fought gallantly for his country on the bloody fields of Williamsburg and Bull Run.
“I am very sorry, sir. I should be happy to make up the goods, but you will see that our rule is a reasonable one.”
Tom wanted to tell him that this lack of confidence was not a suitable return of a stay-at-home for the peril and privation he had endured for him; but he left in disgust, hardly replying to the flattering request of the tailor that he would call again. With his pride touched, he walked down to the railroad station to await the departure of the train. He had hardly entered the building before he discovered the familiar form of Captain Barney, to whom he hastened to present himself.
“Why, Tom, my hearty!” roared the old sea captain, as he grasped and wrung his hand. “I’m glad to see you. Shiver my mainmast, but you’ve grown a foot since you went away. But you don’t look well, Tom.”
“I’m not very well, sir; but I’m improving very rapidly.”
“How’s your wound?”
“O, that’s almost well.”
“Sit down, Tom. I want to talk with you,” said Captain Barney, as he led the soldier boy to a seat.
In half an hour Tom had told all he knew about the battle of Williamsburg, and the old sailor had communicated all the news from Pinchbrook.
“Tom, you’re a lieutenant now, but you haven’t got on your uniform,” continued Captain Barney.
“No, sir,” replied Tom, laughing. “I went into a store to order one, and they wouldn’t trust me.”
“Wouldn’t trust you, Tom!” exclaimed the captain. “Show me the place, and I’ll smash in their deadlights.”
“I don’t know as I blame them. I was a stranger to them.”
“But, Tom, you mustn’t go home without a uniform. Come with me, and you shall be fitted out at once. I’m proud of you, Tom. You are one of my boys, and I want you to go into Pinchbrook all taut and trim, with your colors flying.”
“We haven’t time now; the train leaves in a few moments.”
“There will be another in an hour. The folks are all well, and don’t know you’re coming; so they can afford to wait.”
Tom consented, and Captain Barney conducted him to several stores before he could find a ready-made uniform that would fit him; but at last they found one which had been made to order for an officer who was too sick to use it at present. It was an excellent fit, and the young lieutenant was soon arrayed in the garments, with the symbolic straps on his shoulder.
“Bravo, Tom! You look like a new man. There isn’t a better looking officer in the service.”
Very likely the subject of this remark thought so too, as he surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. The old uniform, with two bullet-holes in the breast of the coat, was done up in a bundle and sent to the express office, to be forwarded to Pinchbrook. Captain Barney then walked with him to a military furnishing store, where a cap, sword, belt, and sash, were purchased. For some reason which he did not explain, the captain retained the sword himself, but Tom was duly invested with the other accoutrements.
Our hero felt “pretty good,” as he walked down to the station with his friend; but he looked splendidly in his new outfit, and we are willing to excuse certain impressible young ladies, who cast an admiring glance at him as he passed down the street. It was not Tom’s fault that he was a handsome young man; and he was not responsible for the conduct of those who chose to look at him.
With a heart beating with wild emotion, Tom stepped out of the cars at Pinchbrook. Here he was compelled to undergo the penalty of greatness. His friends cheered him, and shook his hand till his arm ached.
Captain Barney’s wagon was at the station, and before going to his own home, he drove Tom to the little cottage of his father. I cannot describe the emotions of the returned soldier when the horse stopped at the garden gate. Leaping from the vehicle, he rushed into the house, and bolted into the kitchen, even before the family had seen the horse at the front gate.
“How d’ye do, mother?” cried Tom, as he threw himself pell-mell into the arms of Mrs. Somers.
“Why, Tom!” almost screamed she, as she returned his embrace. “How do you do?”
“Pretty well, mother. How do you do, father?”
“Glad to see you,” replied Captain Somers, as he seized his son’s hand.
“Bless my soul, Tom!” squeaked gran’ther Greene, shaking in every fibre of his frame from the combined influence of rhapsody and rheumatism.
Tom threw both arms around Jenny’s neck, and kissed her half a dozen times with a concussion like that of a battery of light artillery.
“Why, Tom! I never thought nothin’ of seein’ you!” exclaimed Mrs. Somers. “I thought you was sick in the hospital.”
“I am better now, and home for thirty days.”
“And got your new rig on,” added his father.
“Captain Barney wouldn’t let me come home without my shoulder-straps. I met him in the city. He paid the bills.”
“I’ll make it all right with him.”
“I’ll pay for it by and by. You know I have over a hundred dollars a month now.”
“Gracious me!” ejaculated Mrs. Somers, as she gazed with admiration upon the new and elegant uniform which covered the fine form of her darling boy.
Presently Captain Barney came into the house, and for two hours Tom fought his battles over again, to the great satisfaction of his partial auditors. The day passed off amid the mutual rejoicings of the parties; and the pleasure of the occasion was only marred by the thought, on the mother’s part, that her son must soon return to the scene of strife.
The soldier boy—we beg his pardon; Lieutenant Somers—hardly went out of the house until after dinner on the following day, when he took a walk down to the harbor, where he was warmly greeted by all his friends. Even Squire Pemberton seemed kindly disposed towards him, and asked him many questions in regard to Fred. Before he went home, he was not a little startled to receive an invitation to meet some of his friends in the town hall in the evening, which it was impossible for him to decline.
At the appointed hour, he appeared at the hall, which was filled with people. The lieutenant did not know what to make of it, and trembled before his friends as he had never done before the enemies of his country. He was cheered lustily by the men, and the women waved their handkerchiefs, as though he had been a general of division. But his confusion reached the climax when Captain Barney led him upon the platform, and Mr. Boltwood, a young lawyer resident in Pinchbrook, proceeded to address him in highly complimentary terms, reviewing his career at Bull Run, on the Shenandoah, on the Potomac, to its culmination at Williamsburg, and concluded by presenting him the sword which the captain had purchased, in behalf of his friends and admirers in his native town.
Fortunately for Tom, the speech was long, as he was enabled in some measure to recover his self-possession. In trembling tones he thanked the donors for their gift, and promised to use it in defence of his country as long as a drop of blood was left in his veins—highly poetical, but it required strong terms to express our hero’s enthusiasm—whereat the men and boys applauded most vehemently, and the ladies flourished their cambrics with the most commendable zeal. Tom bowed—bowed again—and kept bowing, just as he had seen General McClellan bow when he was cheered by the troops. As the people would not stop applauding, Tom, his face all aglow with joy and confusion, descended from the platform, and took his seat by the side of his mother.
The magnates of Pinchbrook then made speeches—except Squire Pemberton—about the war, patriotism, gunpowder, and eleven-inch shot and shells. Every body thought it was “a big thing,” and went home to talk about it for the next week. Tom’s father, and mother, and sister, and gran’ther Greene, said ever so many pretty things, and every body was as happy as happy could be, except that John was not at home to share in the festivities. Letters occasionally came from the sailor boy, and they went to him from the soldier boy.
Mrs. Somers was not a little surprised, the next day, to hear her son announce his intention to take the first train for the city; but Tom could not postpone his visit to No —— Rutland Street any longer, for he was afraid his uniform would lose its gloss, and the shoulder-straps their dazzling brilliancy.
Tom’s courage had nearly forsaken him when he desperately rang the bell at the home of Lilian Ashford; and he almost hoped the servant would inform him that she was not at home. Lilian was at home, and quaking like a condemned criminal before the gallows, he was ushered into the presence of the author of his socks.
Stammering out his name he drew from his pocket the battered photograph and the shattered letter, and proceeded at once to business. Lilian Ashford blushed, and Tom blushed—that is to say, they both blushed. When he had presented his relics, he ventured to look in her face. The living Lilian was even more beautiful than the Lilian of the photograph.
“Dear me! So you are the soldier that wore the socks I knit,” said Lilian; and our hero thought it was the sweetest voice he ever heard.
“I am, Miss Ashford, and I did not run away in them either.”
“I’m glad you did not,” added she, with a musical laugh, which made Tom think of the melody of the spheres, or some such nonsense.
“I have to thank you for my promotion,” said Tom, boldly.
“Thank me!” exclaimed she, her fair blue eyes dilating with astonishment.
“The socks inspired me with courage and fortitude,” replied Tom, in exact accordance with the programme he had laid down for the occasion. “I am sure the thought of her who knit them, the beautiful letter, and the more beautiful photograph, enabled me to do that which won my promotion.”
“Well, I declare!” shouted Lilian, in a kind of silvery scream.
Bravo, Tom! you are getting along swimmingly. And he said sundry other smart things which we have not room to record. He stayed half an hour, and Lilian begged him to call again, and see her grandmother, who was out of town that day. Of course he promised to come, promised to bring his photograph, promised to write to her when he returned to the army—and I don’t know what he did not promise, and I hardly think he knew himself.
But the brief dream ended, and Tom went home to Pinchbrook, after he had sat for his picture. The careless fellow left Lilian’s photograph on the table in his chamber a few days after, and his mother wanted to know whose it was; and the whole story came out, and Tom was laughed at, and Jenny made fun of him, and Captain Barney told him he was a match for the finest girl in the country. The lieutenant blushed like a boy, but rather enjoyed the whole thing.
A sad day came at last, and Tom went back to the army. He went full of hope, and the blessing of the loved ones went with him. He was received with enthusiasm by his old companions in arms, and Hapgood—then a sergeant—still declared that he would be a brigadier in due time,—or, if he was not, he ought to be. His subsequent career, if not always as fortunate as that portion which we have recorded, was unstained by cowardice or vice.
The End
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |