Rose and Roof-Tree Part 9

I don't know. Long ago; it's like a dream To me. I was not born then. Deacon Snow Has told me something of it. Mother cries Even now, beside his grave. Poor uncle!

JERRY.

His grave!

(_That_ could not be, then.) Yet if it should be, How can I think Grace cried--

THE BOY.

How did you know My mother's name was Grace?

JERRY.

I am confused By what you say. But is your mother's name Grace? How! Grace, too?

A strange uneasiness In Jerry's breast had waked. They walked awhile In silence. This he could not well believe, That Grace and Reuben unhappy were, nor that One son alone was theirs. Therefore aside He thrust that hidden, sharp foreboding: still He trusted, still sustained a calm suspense, And ranged among his memories. "Tell me, son,"

He said, "about this Deacon Snow--Rob Snow It must be, I suppose."

THE BOY.

Oh, do you know him?

JERRY.

A deacon now! Ay, once I knew Rob Snow-- A jolly blade, if ever any was, And merry as the full moon.

THE BOY.

He has failed A good deal now, though, since his wife died.

JERRY.

What!

(Of course; of course; all's changed.) He married!

THE BOY.

Why, How long you must have been away! For since I can remember he has had a wife And children. She was Gran'ther Hungerford's--

JERRY.

Her name was Ruth?

THE BOY.

Yes, Ruth! 'T is after her The deacon's nicest daughter's named; _she's_ Ruth.

Then sadly Jerry pondered, and no more Found speech. They tramped on sternly. To the brow Of a long hill they came, whence they could see The village and blue ocean; then they sank Into a region of low-lying fields Half-naked from the scythe, and others veined With vines that 'midst dismantled, fallen corn Dragged all athwart a weight of tawny gourds, Sun-mellowed, sound. And now the level way Stretched forward eagerly, for hard ahead It made the turn that rounded Reuben's house.

Between the still road and the tossing sea Lay the wide swamp, with all its hundred pools Reflecting leaden light; anon they pa.s.sed A farm-yard where the noisy chanticleer Strutted and ruled, as one long since had done; And then the wayside trough with jutting spout Of ancient, mossy wood, that still poured forth Its liquid largess to all comers. Soon A slow cart met them, filled with gathered kelp: The salt scent seemed a breath of younger days.

They reached the road-bend, and the evening shone Upon them, calmly. Jerry paused, o'erwhelmed.

Reuben, surprised, glanced at him, and then said, "Yonder's the house." Old Jerry gazed on him, And trembled; for before him slowly grew Through the boy's face the mingled features there Of father and of mother--Grace's mouth, Ripe, pouting lips, and Reuben's square-framed eyes.

But, mastering well his voice, he bade the boy Wait by the wall, till he a little while Went forward, and prepared. So Reuben stayed; And Jerry with uncertain step advanced, As dreaming of his youth and this his home.

Slowly he pa.s.sed between the gateless posts Before the unused front door, slowly too Beyond the side porch with its woodbine thick Draping autumnal splendor. Thus he came Before the kitchen window, where he saw A gray-haired woman bent o'er needle-work In gathering twilight. And without a voice, Rooted, he stood. He stirred not, but his glance Burned through the pane; uneasily she turned, And seeing that s.h.a.ggy stranger standing there Expectant, shook her head, as though to warn Some chance, wayfaring beggar. He, though, stood And looked at her immovably. Then, quick The sash upthrowing, she made as if to speak Harshly; but still he held his quiet eyes Upon her. Now she paused; her throat throbbed full; Her lips paled suddenly, her wan face flamed, A fertile stir of memory strove to work Renewal in those features wintry cold.

And so she hung, while Jerry by a step Drawn nearer, coming just beneath her, said, "Grace!" And she murmured, "Jerry!" Then she bent Over him, clasping his great matted head With those worn arms, all joyless; and the tears Fell hot upon his forehead from her eyes.

For now in this dim gloaming their two souls Unfruited, by an instant insight wild, Delicious, found the full, mysterious clew Of individual being, each in each.

But, tremulously, soon they drew themselves Away from that so sweet, so sad embrace, The first, the last that could be theirs. Then he, Summing his story in a word, a glance, Added, "But though you see me broken down And poor enough, not empty-handed quite I come. For G.o.d set in my way a gift, The best I could have sought. I bring it you In memory of the love I bore. Not now Must that again be thought of! Waste and black My life's fields lie behind me, and a frost Has stilled the music of my hopes, but here If I may dwell, nor trouble you, such a joy Were mine, I dare not ask it. Oh forgive The weakness! Come and see my gift!"

Ah, tears Flowed fast, that night, from springs of love unsealed Once more within the ancient house--rare tears Of reconciliation, grief, and joy!

A miracle, it seemed, had here been wrought, The dead brought back to life. And with him came The prodigal, repenting.

So, thenceforth, A spirit of peace within the household dwelt.

In Jerry a swift-sent age these years had brought, To soften him, wrought with all the woe at home Such open, gracious dignity, that all For cheer and guidance learned to look to him.

But chiefly th' younger Reuben sought his aid, And he with homely wisdom shaped the lad To a life's loving duty. Yet not long, Alas! the kind sea-farer with them stayed.

After some years his storm-racked body drooped.

The season came when crickets cease to sing And flame-curled leaves fly fast; and Jerry sank Softly toward death. Then, on a boisterous morn That beat the wrecked woods with incessant gusts To wrest some last leaf from them, he arose And pa.s.sed away. But those who loved him watched His fading, half in doubt, and half afraid, As if he must return again; for now Entering the past he seemed, and not a life Beyond; and some who thought of that old grave In the orchard, dreamed a breath's s.p.a.ce that the man Long buried had come back, and could not die.

But so he died, and, ceasing, made request Beside that outcast of the deep to lie.

None other mark desired he but the stone Set there long since, though at a stranger's grave, In heavy memory of him thought dead.

They marked the earth with one more mound beside The other, near a gap in the low wall That looked out seaward. There you ever hear The deep, remorseful requiem of the sea; And there, in autumn, windfalls, showering thick Upon the grave, score the slow, voiceless hours With unrebounding stroke. All round about Green milkweed rankly thrives, and golden-rod Sprouts from his prostrate heart in fine-poised grace Of haughty curve, with every crest in flower.