Chapter 13

Then did the trappers have them; and they heard Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men That mocked the forest wonners; and they saw Over the open, raging up like doom, The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes,-- The bisons. So were three years gone like one; And the old cities drew them for a while, Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine; They have hid many sons hard by their seats, But all the air is stirring with them still, The waters murmur of them, skies at eve Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound Means men. At last, the fourth year running out, The youth came home. And all the cheerful house Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame Was full of joy. But in the father's heart Abode a painful doubt. "It is not well; He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. I do not care that my one son should sleep Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake Only to ride to cover." Not the less The grandsire pondered. "Ay, the boy must WORK Or SPEND; and I must let him spend; just stay Awhile with us, and then from time to time Have leave to be away with those fine folk With whom, these many years, at school, and now, During his sojourn in the foreign towns, He has been made familiar." Thus a month Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, Ever expectant of it knew not what, But something higher than has e'er been born Of easy slumber and sweet competence. And as for him,--the while they thought and thought A comfortable instinct let him know How they had waited for him, to complete And give a meaning to their lives; and still At home, but with a sense of newness there, And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, He oft--invading of his father's haunts, The study where he passed the silent morn-- Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy The piled-up books, uncut as yet; or wake To guide with him by night the tube, and search, Ay, think to find new stars; then risen betimes, Would ride about the farm, and list the talk Of his hale grandsire. But a day came round, When, after peering in his mother's room, Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped A door, and found the rosy grandmother Ensconced and happy in her special pride, Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. Here after choice of certain cates well known, He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly, As if a new thought came, "Goody," quoth he, "What, think you, do they want to do with me? What have they planned for me that I should do?"

"Do, laddie!" quoth she faltering, half in tears; "Are you not happy with us, not content? Why would ye go away? There is no need That ye should DO at all. O, bide at home. Have we not plenty?" "Even so," he said; "I did not wish to go." "Nay, then," quoth she, "Be idle; let me see your blessed face. What, is the horse your father chose for you Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, remain; Do as you will, so you but do it here. You shall not want for money." But, his arms Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth With comical discomfiture. "What, then," She sighed, "what is it, child, that you would like?" "Why," said he, "farming." And she looked at him, Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find Some fitness in the worker for the work, And she found none. A certain grace there was Of movement, and a beauty in the face, Sun-browned and healthful beauty that had come From his grave father; and she thought, "Good lack, A farmer! he is fitter for a duke. He walks; why, how he walks! if I should meet One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, 'And who may that be?'" So the foolish thought Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed, "We planned to make of you--a gentleman." And with engaging sweet audacity She thought it nothing less,--he, looking up, With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, "And hav'n't you done it?" Quoth she, lovingly, "I think we have, laddie; I think we have."

"Then," quoth he, "I may do what best I like; It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise To help me in it, and to let me farm; I think of getting into mischief else!" "No! do ye, laddie?" quoth the dame, and laughed. "But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, "To let me have the farm he bought last year, The little one, to manage. I like land; I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way Convinced; and promised, and made good her word, And that same night upon the matter spoke, In presence of the father and the son.

"Roger," quoth she, "our Laurance wants to farm; I think he might do worse." The father sat Mute but right glad. The grandson breaking in Set all his wish and his ambition forth; But cunningly the old man hid his joy, And made conditions with a faint demur. Then pausing, "Let your father speak," quoth he; "I am content if he is": at his word The parson took him, ay, and, parson like, Put a religious meaning in the work, Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed.

II.

Thus all were satisfied, and day by day, For two sweet years a happy course was theirs; Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife,-- A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen Of sight and hearing to the delicate Beauty and music of an altered world; Began to walk in that mysterious light Which doth reveal and yet transform; which gives Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, Intenser meaning; in disquieting Lifts up; a shining light: men call it Love.

Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved; A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. She never turned from him with sweet caprice, Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, But excellent in youthful grace came up; And ere his words were ready, passing on, Had left him all a-tremble; yet made sure That by her own true will, and fixed intent, She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit He knew she did not love him, yet so long As of a rival unaware, he dwelt All in the present, without fear, or hope, Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, And could not get his head above its wave To reach the far horizon, or to mark Whereto it drifted him. So long, so long; Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale All in the tolling out of noon. 'Twas thus: Snow-time was come; it had been snowing hard; Across the churchyard path he walked; the clock Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, Half turning, through a sense that came to him As of some presence in it, he beheld His love, and she had come for shelter there; And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, The blush of happiness; and one held up Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped Toward it, sitting by her. O her eyes Were full of peace and tender light: they looked One moment in the ungraced lover's face While he was passing in the snow; and he Received the story, while he raised his hat Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on; And in a certain way he marked the snow, And walked, and came upon the open heath; And in a certain way he marked the cold, And walked as one that had no starting-place Might walk, but not to any certain goal.

And he strode on toward a hollow part, Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, And he was conscious of a cry, and went Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not; Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay Against the bushes, crying, "God! O God, O my good God, He sends us help at last."

Then looking hard upon her, came to him The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes.

"I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears; "Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, As praying him to take it; and he did; And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge In the foldings of his plaid; and when it thrust Its small round face against his breast, and felt With small red hands for warmth,--unbearable Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, For the poor upland dwellers had been out Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through The great white storm coming, and coming yet. And coming till the world confounded sat With all her fair familiar features gone, The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, He led or bore them, and the little one Peered from her shelter, pleased; but oft would mourn The elder, "They will beat me: O my can, I left my can of milk upon the moor." And he compared her trouble with his own, And had no heart to speak. And yet 'twas keen; It filled her to the putting down of pain And hunger,--what could his do more? He brought The children to their home, and suddenly Regained himself, and wondering at himself, That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, The weary wailing of the girl: he paid Money to buy her pardon; heard them say, "Peace, we have feared for you; forget the milk, It is no matter!" and went forth again And waded in the snow, and quietly Considered in his patience what to do With all the dull remainder of his days.

With dusk he was at home, and felt it good To hear his kindred talking, for it broke A mocking, endless echo in his soul, "It is no matter!" and he could not choose But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame His spirit, "Peace, it is no matter; peace, It is no matter!" For he felt that all Was as it had been, and his father's heart Was easy, knowing not how that same day Hope with her tender colors and delight (He should not care to have him know) were dead; Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, It was no matter. And he heard them talk Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, And profitable markets. All for him Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam About his head, whenever there was pause; "It is no matter!" And his greater self Arose in him and fought. "It matters much, It matters all to these, that not to-day Nor ever they should know it. I will hide The wound; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. What! shall I make these three to drink of rue, Because my cup is bitter?" And he thrust Himself in thought away, and made his ears Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem Another, to make answer, when they spoke, As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, And no despair. So this went on awhile Until the snow had melted from the wold, And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. Then, even to trembling he was moved: his speech Faltered; but when the common kindly words Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, He could not bear her sweetness and his pain, "Muriel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, She turned. "You know I love you," he broke out: She answered "Yes," and sighed. "O pardon me. Pardon me," quoth the lover; "let me rest In certainty, and hear it from your mouth: Is he with whom I saw you once of late To call you wife?" "I hope so," she replied; And over all her face the rose-bloom came, As thinking on that other, unaware Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, A quickened sense of his great impotence To drive away the doom got hold on him; He set his teeth to force the unbearable Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes Flashed as with flame. And she, all overawed And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, And trembled at the deep she could not sound; A passionate nature in a storm; a heart Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp Of an immortal love. "Farewell," he said, Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, "My thanks for your good candor; for I feel That it has cost you something." Then, the blush Yet on her face, she said: "It was your due: But keep this matter from your friends and kin, We would not have it known." Then cold and proud, Because there leaped from under his straight lids, And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise,-- "He wills it, and I therefore think it well." Thereon they parted; but from that time forth, Whether they met on festal eve, in field, Or at the church, she ever bore herself Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, The disapproval hastily betrayed And quickly hidden hurt her. "'T was a grace," She thought, "to tell this man the thing he asked, And he rewards me with surprise. I like No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed Where he bestowed it." But the spring came on: Looking to wed in April all her thoughts Grew loving; she would fain the world had waxed More happy with her happiness, and oft Walking among the flowery woods she felt Their loveliness reach down into her heart, And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, The rapture that was satisfied with light, The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring.

And as for him,--(Some narrow hearts there are That suffer blight when that they fed upon As something to complete their being fails, And they retire into their holds and pine, And long restrained grow stern. But some there are, That in a sacred want and hunger rise, And draw the misery home and live with it, And excellent in honor wait, and will That somewhat good should yet be found in it, Else wherefore were they born?),--and as for him, He loved her, but his peace and welfare made The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange Threw open wide its hospitable doors And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. In him the eyes at home were satisfied, And if he did but laugh the ear approved. What then? He dwelt among them as of old, And taught his mouth to smile. And time went on, Till on a morning, when the perfect spring Rested among her leaves, he journeying home After short sojourn in a neighboring town, Stopped at the little station on the line That ran between his woods; a lonely place And quiet, and a woman and a child Got out. He noted them, but walking on Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, And she was sitting on a rustic seat That overlooked the line, and he desired With longing indescribable to look Upon her face again. And he drew near. She was right happy; she was waiting there. He felt that she was waiting for her lord. She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek In her fair hand. And he, not able yet To force himself away, and never more Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, And wild anemone, for many a clump Grew all about him, and the hazel rods Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard The stopping train, and felt that he must go; His time was come. There was nought else to do Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near And would have had her take it from his hand; But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, And then remembering him and his long love, She said, "I thank you; pray you now forget, Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes Softened; but he was dumb, till through the trees Suddenly broke upon their quietude The woman and her child. And Muriel said, "What will you?" She made answer quick and keen, "Your name, my lady; 'tis your name I want, Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, As if considering in how short a while It would be changed, she lifted up her face And gave it, and the little child drew near And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke,-- "Your errand with this lady?"--"And your right To ask it?" she broke out with sudden heat And passion: "What is that to you! Poor child! Madam!" And Muriel lifted up her face And looked,--they looked into each other's eyes.

"That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, "That man with whom you think to wed so soon, You must not heed him. What! the world is full Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, Better than he,--that I should say it!--far Better." And down her face the large tears ran, And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, Taking a terrible meaning from her words; And Laurance stared about him half in doubt If this were real, for all things were so blithe, And soft air tossed the little flowers about; The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes.

He found his voice, and spoke: "This is not well, Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong; A man that could desert and plan to wed Will not his purpose yield to God and right, Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, If you be come this day to urge a claim, You will not tell me that your claim will hold; 'Tis only, if I read aright, the old, Sorrowful, hateful story!" Muriel sighed, With a dull patience that he marvelled at, "Be plain with me. I know not what to think, Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife? Be plain with me." And all too quietly, With running down of tears, the answer came, "Ay, madam, ay! the worse for him and me." Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, And cried upon him with a bitter cry, Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, With such affright, and violent anger stirred He broke from out the thicket to her side, Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, She sat; and, stepping close, that woman came And faced him. Then said Muriel, "O my heart, Herbert!"--and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, And lifted up his hand and looked at it, And at the woman; but a man was there Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself Between them; he was strong,--a stalwart man: And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. "What good," quoth he, "though you and I should strive And wrestle all this April day? A word, And not a blow, is what these women want: Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak With passion and great anguish, flung himself Upon the seat and cried, "O lost, my love! O Muriel, Muriel!" And the woman spoke, "Sir, 'twas an evil day you wed with me; And you were young; I know it, sir, right well. Sir, I have worked; I have not troubled you, Not for myself, nor for your child. I know We are not equal." "Hold!" he cried; "have done; Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. Get from me! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed! All's done. You hear it, Muriel; if you can, O sweet, forgive me." Then the woman moved Slowly away: her little singing child Went in her wake: and Muriel dropped her hands, And sat before these two that loved her so, Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, She knew, but yet she could not hear the words; And afterwards the man she loved stooped down And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew To look at her, and with a gesture pray Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, And presently, and soon, O,--he was gone.

She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, Remained beside her; and she put her hand Before her face again, and afterward She heard a voice, as if a long way off, Some one entreated, but she could not heed. Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised Her passive from her seat. So then she knew That he would have her go with him, go home,-- It was not far to go,--a dreary home. A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, Had in her youth, and for a place and home, Married the stern old rector; and the girl Dwelt with them: she was orphaned,--had no kin Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, And spared to her the telling of this woe. He sought her kindred where they sat apart, And laid before them all the cruel thing, As he had seen it. After, he retired: And restless, and not master of himself, He day and night haunted the rectory lanes; And all things, even to the spreading out Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace And glory and great light on mountain heads,-- All things were leagued against him,--ministered By likeness or by contrast to his love.

But what was that to Muriel, though her peace He would have purchased for her with all prayers, And costly, passionate, despairing tears? O what to her that he should find it worse To bear her life's undoing than his own?

She let him see her, and she made no moan, But talked full calmly of indifferent things, Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes And lovely wasted cheek, he started up With "This I cannot bear!" and shamed to feel His manhood giving way, and utterly Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, Battling and chiding with himself, the maze.

She suffered, and he could not make her well For all his loving;--he was naught to her. And now his passionate nature, set astir, Fought with the pain that could not be endured; And like a wild thing suddenly aware That it is caged, which flings and bruises all Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged Against the misery: then he made all worse With tears. But when he came to her again, Willing to talk as they had talked before, She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, "I know you have been crying": and she bent Her own fair head and wept. She felt the cold-- The freezing cold that deadened all her life-- Give way a little; for this passionate Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears.

III.

And after that, though oft he sought her door, He might not see her. First they said to him, "She is not well"; and afterwards, "Her wish Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste They took her from the place, because so fast She faded. As for him, though youth and strength Can bear the weight as of a world, at last The burden of it tells,--he heard it said, When autumn came, "The poor sweet thing will die: That shock was mortal." And he cared no more To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, Good, kindly women; and he wrote to them, Praying that he might see her ere she died.

So in her patience she permitted him To be about her, for it eased his heart; And as for her that was to die so soon, What did it signify? She let him weep Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke Pitying words, and then they made him go, It was enough they said, her time was short, And he had seen her. He HAD seen, and felt The bitterness of death; but he went home, Being satisfied in that great longing now, And able to endure what might befall.

And Muriel lay, and faded with the year; She lay at the door of death, that opened not To take her in; for when the days once more Began a little to increase, she felt,-- And it was sweet to her, she was so young,-- She felt a longing for the time of flowers, And dreamed that she was walking in that wood With her two feet among the primroses.