MARTINE SEEKS AN ANTIDOTE
It can readily be understood that Martine in his expedition to the
South had not limited his efforts solely 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
conversed 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 oration 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 conspicuously
absent in his solemn, dignified, yet hopeful words. He gave to each
their meed of praise. He grew eloquent over the enlisted men who had so
bravely done their duty without the incentive of ambition. When he
spoke of the honor reflected on the village by the heroism of Captain
Nichol, the hearts of the people glowed with gratitude 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 expressive 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 screeched 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 lame 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 shrieking 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 distressed 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
evaded 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 solitude of her room. Martine was troubled at this, and
thought she felt as he did.
In the morning she joined him on the piazza. 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 irritation. "I wouldn't
have gone if I had known. It was a miserable 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 dread 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 wholesome,
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, shrub, 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 resolute
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 conservatory 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 joyous without jarring upon
her feelings, as would human mirth or gayety, her mind became
wholesomely 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 erected
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 pneumonia and death.
The gossips made many plans for him and indulged in many surmises 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
morbid after this bereavement and clung more closely to his lonely
hearth.
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 lapsed 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 commiseration. When the early March
winds rattled the casements, or drove the sleety rain against the
windows, she saw him in fancy sitting alone brooding, always brooding.
One day she asked abruptly, "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 decided. 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 faltered.
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 tact and delicacy 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 wards; 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 distress in her tone,
of which she was scarcely conscious herself. Then, as if recollecting
himself, he reasoned gently and earnestly: "You were not long in
adopting the best antidote 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."