The burning of the house completely prostrated1 Mrs. Clementine Churchill Chadwick Greenwood, who, it is true, had the actual shock of the conflagration2 to upset her nervous system, though she suffered no financial loss.
Mr. Greenwood was heard to remark that he wished he could have foreseen that the house would burn down, for now he should have to move anyway, and if he had known that a few months before, why--
Here the sentence always ended mysteriously, and the neighbors finished it as they liked.
The calamity3 affected4 Polly, on the other hand, very much like a tonic5. She felt the necessity of "bracing6" to meet the fresh responsibilities that seemed waiting for her in the near future; and night and day, in sleeping and waking, resting and working, a plan was formulating7 itself in the brain just roused from its six months' apathy,--a novel, astonishing, enchanting8, revolutionary plan, which she bided9 her time to disclose.
The opportunity came one evening after dinner, when Mrs. Bird, and her brother, Edgar and herself, were gathered in the library.
The library was a good place in which to disclose plans, or ask advice, or whisper confidences. The great carved oak mantel held on the broad space above the blazing logs the graven motto, "Esse Quod Opto." The walls were lined with books from floor half-way to ceiling, and from the tops of the cases Plato, Socrates, Marcus Aurelius, and the Sage10 of Concord11 looked down with benignant wisdom. The table in the centre was covered with a methodical litter of pamphlets and magazines, and a soft light came from the fire and from two tall, shaded lamps.
Mr. Bird, as was his wont12, leaned back in his leather chair, puffing13 delicate rings of smoke into the air. Edgar sat by the centre table, idly playing with a paper-knife. Mrs. Bird sat in her low rocking-chair with a bit of fancy-work, and Polly, on the hearth14 rug, leaned cosily15 back against her Fairy Godmother's knees.
The clinging tendrils in Polly's nature, left hanging so helplessly when her mother was torn away, reached out more and more to wind themselves about lovely Mrs. Bird, who, notwithstanding her three manly16 sons, had a place in her heart left sadly vacant by the loss of her only daughter.
Polly broke one of the pleasant silences. An open fire makes such delightful17 silences, if you ever noticed. When you sit in a room without it, the gaps in the conversation make everybody seem dull; the last comer rises with embarrassment18 and thinks he must be going, and you wish that some one would say the next thing and keep the ball rolling. The open fire arranges all these little matters with a perfect tact19 and grace all its own. It is acknowledged to be the centre of attraction, and the people gathered about it are only supernumeraries. It blazes and crackles and snaps cheerily, the logs break and fall, the coals glow and fade and glow again, and the dull man can always poke20 the fire if his wit desert him. Who ever feels like telling a precious secret over a steam-heater?
Polly looked away from everybody and gazed straight into the blaze.
"I have been thinking over a plan for my future work," she said, "and I want to tell it to you and see if you all approve and think me equal to it. It used to come to me in flashes, after this Fairy Godmother of mine opened an avenue for my surplus energy by sending me out as a story-teller; but lately I have n't had any heart for it. Work grew monotonous21 and disagreeable and hopeless, and I 'm afraid I had no wish to be useful or helpful to myself or to anybody else. But now everything is different. I am not so rich as I was (I wish, Mr. Bird, you would not smile so provokingly when I mention my riches!), and I must not be idle any longer; so this is my plan, I want to be a story-teller by profession. Perhaps you will say that nobody has ever done it; but surely that is an advantage; I should have the field to myself for a while, at least. I have dear Mrs. Bird's little poor children as a foundation. Now, I would like to get groups of other children together in somebody's parlor22 twice a week and tell them stories,--the older children one day in the week and the younger ones another. Of course I have n't thought out all the details, because I hoped my Fairy Godmother would help me there, if she approved of my plan; but I have ever so many afternoons all arranged, and enough stories and songs at my tongue's end for three months. Do you think it impossible or nonsensical, Mr. Bird?"
"No," said he thoughtfully, after a moment's pause. "It seems on the first hearing to be perfectly23 feasible. In fact, in one sense it will not be an experiment at all. You have tried your powers, gained self-possession and command of your natural resources; developed your ingenuity24, learned the technicalities of your art, so to speak, already. You propose now, as I understand, to extend your usefulness, widen your sphere of action, address yourself to a larger public, and make a profession out of what was before only a side issue in your life. It's a new field, and it 's a noble one, taken in its highest aspect, as you have always taken it. My motto for you, Polly, is Goethe's couplet:--
"'What you can do, or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.'"
"Make way for the story-teller!" cried Edgar. "I will buy season tickets for both your groups, if you will only make your limit of age include me. I am only five feet ten, and I 'll sit very low if you 'll admit me to the charmed circle. Shall you have a stage name? I would suggest 'The Seraphic Sapphira.'"
"Now, don't tease," said Polly, with dignity; "this is in sober earnest. What do you think, Fairy Godmother? I 've written to my dear Miss Mary Denison in Santa Barbara, and she likes the idea."
"I think it is charming. In fact, I can hardly wait to begin. I will be your business manager, my Pollykins, and we 'll make it a success, if it is possible. If you 'll take me into your confidence and tell me what you mean to do, I will plan the hows and whens and wheres."
"You see, dear people," continued Polly, "it is really the only thing that I know how to do; and I have had several months' experience, so that I 'm not entirely25 untrained. I 'm not afraid any more, so long as it is only children; though the presence of one grown person makes me tongue-tied. Grown-up people never know how to listen, somehow, and they make you more conscious of yourself. But when the children gaze up at you with their shining eyes and their parted lips,--the smiles just longing26 to be smiled and the tear-drops just waiting to glisten,--I don't know what there is about it, but it makes you wish you could go on forever and never break the spell. And it makes you tremble, too, for fear you should say anything wrong. You seem so close to children when you are telling them stories; just as if a little, little silken thread spun27 itself out from one side of your heart through each of theirs, until it came back to be fastened in your own again; and it holds so tight, so tight, when you have done your best and the children are pleased and grateful."
For days after this discussion Polly felt as if she were dwelling28 on a mysterious height from which she could see all the kingdoms of the earth. She said little and thought much (oh, that this should come to be written of Polly Oliver!). The past which she had regretted with such passionate29 fervor30 still fought for a place among present plans and future hopes. But she was almost convinced in these days that a benevolent31 Power might after all be helping32 her to work out her own salvation33 in an appointed way, with occasional weariness and tears, like the rest of the world.
It was in such a softened34 mood that she sat alone in church one Sunday afternoon at vespers. She had chosen a place where she was sure of sitting quietly by herself, and where the rumble35 of the organ and the words of the service would come to her soothingly36. The late afternoon sun shone through the stained-glass windows, bringing out the tender blue on the Madonna's gown, the white on the wings of angels and robes of newborn innocents, the glow of rose and carmine37, with here and there a glorious gleam of Tyrian purple. Then her eyes fell on a memorial window opposite her. A mother bowed with grief was seated on some steps of rough-hewn stones. The glory of her hair swept about her knees. Her arms were empty; her hands locked; her head bent38. Above stood a little child, with hand just extended to open a great door, which was about to unclose and admit him. He reached up his hand fearlessly ("and that is faith," thought Polly), and at the same time he glanced down at his weeping mother, as if to say, "Look up, mother dear! I am safely in."
Just then the choir39 burst into a grand hymn40 which was new to Polly, and which came to her with the force of a personal message:--
"The Son of God goes forth41 to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar--
Who follows in His train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe42,
Triumphant43 over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in His train."
Verse after verse rang in splendid strength through the solemn aisles44 of the church, ending with the lines:--
"O God, to us may strength be given
To follow in His train!"
Dr. George's voice came to Polly as it sounded that gray October afternoon beside the sea; "When the sun of one's happiness is set, one lights a candle called 'Patience,' and guides one's footsteps by that."
She leaned her head on the pew in front of her, and breathed a prayer. The minister was praying for the rest of the people, but she needed to utter her own thought just then.
"Father in heaven, I will try to follow; I have lighted my little candle, help me to keep it burning! I shall stumble often in the darkness, I know, for it was all so clear when I could walk by my darling mother's light, which was like the sun, so bright, so pure, so strong! Help me to keep the little candle steady, so that it may throw its beams farther and farther into the pathway that now looks so dim."
* * * * *
Polly sank to sleep that night in her white bed in the Pilgrim Chamber45; and the name of the chamber was Peace indeed, for she had a smile on her lips,--a smile that looked as if the little candle had in truth been lighted in her soul, and was shining through her face as though it were a window.
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1
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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formulating
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| v.构想出( formulate的现在分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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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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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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41
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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42
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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43
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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44
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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45
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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