"And oh, the carven mouth, with all its great
Intensity of longing frozen fast
In such a smile as well may designate
The slowly murdered heart, that, to the last,
Conceals each newer wound, and back at fate
Throbs Love's eternal lie:--'Lo, I can wait!'"
"And all that now is left me, is to bear."
That night in the darkness, Homer Wilson's lip curled as he thought of
his mother's too ready fears for him, nor could he refrain a sneer at
the idea of Mrs. Deans' disinterested benevolence. But after that, he
set himself to slumber, but in vain. Sleep, that
"Comfortable bird,
That broodeth o'er the troubled sea of the mind
Till it is hush'd and smooth,"
would not bestow its benison upon his tired brain and weary heart, for
he was haunted by the memory of Myron Holder's hopeless face.
It had been, these past years, no unusual thing for this poor
countryman to lie the long nights through, tortured by the vision of a
woman's face: but it had ever been a fair, pretty, laughing face that
had thus enthralled him within the bounds of painful thought; a face
that by its brightness cast a shadow upon every other vision that
strove to tempt him to forget; a face he had worshipped, and thought on
tenderly, as his own; a face he had striven to imagine old; a face he
had even dared to think of, dead, and always--always as his own
precious possession.
But this night his reverie was no selfish one of bygone bliss, or
present pain, or future hopelessness; it was wholly of a woman's pale
face, carven cameo-like against a night of hair, and exceeding
sorrowful. He recalled Myron Holder as she had been, a plump and
pretty girl; one whom all the boys in Jamestown had liked, but who had
been kept rigidly away from all the village gatherings by her
grandmother. He recalled the cadence of her voice, softened always and
made richer than the strident Jamestown voice by the English accent she
had inherited. He remembered having heard her singing once as he drove
past the little hop-clad cottage; as he thought of it, the words came
back to him in part:
"Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie.
* * * * * *
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."
He recollected how a rippling laugh prolonged the song. He had caught
a glimpse of her that day; she was standing beneath a cherry tree--her
upstretched arms held a blossomed bough, and she gave it little jerks
in time to her singing--the white petals of the cherry blooms showered
down upon her hair in fragrant snow. Her grandmother called her
in--scolding her as an "idle maid"; Myron had fled into the house still
laughing, and with the cherry blooms clinging to her dark hair; and as
Homer drove on, he thought what a light-hearted girl she was. That was
in the first year of his sacrifice--now he caught his breath as he
mentally compared the girl beneath the cherry tree finishing her song
with thrills of laughter with the woman standing mute in the moonlight
as he had so late beheld her.
How utterly incongruous it seemed to think of Myron Holder now in
connection with that heart-whole girl. How much she had lost! That
day when he heard her laughter and her singing, he had compared Myron
for a moment to _Her_,--now, alas! she was more like him. This set him
off into another train of thought: How much he too had lost! He began
to wonder dimly if he had been guilty of any cowardice. A phrase of
Jed Holder's came back to him; he was full of trite saws, that little
English broom-maker, and when any one lost their courage before
misfortune, he used to say they "let their bone go with the dog." Had
not he--Homer--let slip some of his self-respect before the loss of his
love? He hazily perceived the difference between self-respect and
self-seeking, but he could not condemn himself just yet; he began to
dissuade himself from this dissatisfaction with himself; he recounted
his achievements--the paying off the mortgage--restocking the
farm--planting the new orchard--and reshingling the barn--sinking the
cistern--his successful experiments--his prudential management--his
economy; he marshalled all these arguments against the feeble voice
that strove to speak of a narrowed mind, a hardened heart, a bitter
spirit, and for the nonce stilled it, only stilled it, however; happily
for Homer Wilson, it was not yet stifled utterly.
It was pitiable, but natural in one so generous as in reality Homer
was, that he should overlook completely his real claims to credit: his
patience with his whining mother, his generosity to his father, his
tolerance of his ungrateful brothers and sisters. He attained a
quasi-self-content after a time, but still tossed restlessly. At last
he could endure it no longer; he sprang up, dressed, and going to his
window, drew aside the curtain and looked forth toward the village.
The dusk of night had given way to the cold darkness of the hour before
dawn; as he looked, a dull yellow light illumined the panes of one low
window, then it faded out to reappear outside the house; it went (for
at that distance its feeble glow did not reveal the hand that bore
it)--it went waveringly along some hundred yards, then was lowered, and
vanished. There was a space of darkness, then the light was raised,
and proceeded back to the house; it vanished round the corner, gleamed
a moment from the window, and again journeyed forth in the dusk, again
was lowered--again lost to sight--again its feeble gleam traced its
pathway toward the dwelling.
Homer Wilson knew by the location what house sent forth this wandering
light, and following a swift impulse, ran downstairs, pulled on an old
pair of soft shoes, let himself out quietly, and sped along the highway
to the village.
The streets were silent, the dwellings dark, Jamestown still slumbered.
As he reached the house where the light was, he entered the garden
through a gap in the dilapidated fence, walked along in the darkest
shadow until he came to the corner at the point where the light's
journeyings ceased, and stood there hidden by an overgrown bush of
privet; and then he saw the light come forth: it was a queer old
lantern Myron Holder carried, one, indeed, brought from England. It
had lighted her mother's happy footsteps along Kentish lanes; but how
differently that long dead Myron had sped! "Merry heart makes light
foot," her husband used to say; alas, that their child should lack that
happy impetus! Myron advanced slowly, unsteadily almost--the four
little panes of the lantern lighted dimly by the end of a tallow
candle. She carried in her other hand a large pail.
Homer could not understand her errand, creeping forth thus in the
sleeping night. She came nearer and nearer, and at last he understood.
She reached the old well (the best well in Jamestown, and the deepest);
set down her lantern, and taking the handle of the windlass began to
lower the bucket; creak--creak went the wooden windlass; at last there
came a faint splash, and Myron painfully rewound the chain; she emptied
the well bucket into her pail, lifted it (throwing, as Homer thought,
all her physical strength into the lifting of the heavy pail, and
seeming to move by the force of her will alone), and bending far over,
proceeded to the house. He traced her footsteps by the lantern's gleam
to the kitchen door; he heard the plash of water, and then once more
the weary light emerged. Myron Holder was carrying the water for her
grandmother's washing before starting for her mile's walk and
subsequent day's work at Deans'. Homer Wilson's familiarity with
household affairs told him this--whispered also something of her
motherhood and its demands upon her, with which this cruel toil so ill
accorded.
He was only a young countrymen, rough and not refined to careful phrase.
"It's damnable!" he said below his breath, and ground his heel into the
sand.
As she approached the well a second time, he waited till she set down
her lantern and pail, and then stepped forth from the shadow--a tall,
strong figure in the gloom, uttering her name softly:
"Myron--Myron Holder!"
For a heart-beat she stood rigid, then her hands clasped: an instant
thus she stood, and then stretched forth her arms with an infinitude of
yearning helplessness, an agony of tenderness and pleading, a world of
relief in the gesture.
"You have come," she said.
[Illustration: "YOU HAVE COME!"]
In all his after-life, Homer Wilson never forgot the awful accent in
which these words--meant-to-be-welcoming words to the man for whom she
had suffered so much--were uttered. Horrified at the cruel mistake he
had caused, he stood for a moment motionless; the next, he had sprung
forward--for Myron Holder fathomed her mistake and fell without a sound.
Homer caught her before she touched the ground, and holding her in his
arms, distraught with self-reproach, strove to awaken her by calling
her name.
"Myron--Myron," he whispered, with all the intensity of suppressed
feeling, "Myron--Myron."
Her eyes unclosed; she did not stir, nor flush, nor speak. She only
looked at him out of eyes which were terrible in their tragic despair;
eyes which seemed to accuse him of his manhood, that rendered him akin
to her betrayer.
As Homer Wilson looked upon that pallid face, which the wan light of
dawn illumined palely, his soul was suddenly smitten with
self-contempt. What was the grief before which he had abased himself?
What was it to endure beside open shame? Life had seemed to him almost
insupportable, endurable only because he felt he had not merited the
pain. What must it be to this woman, knowing she had bought contempt
at the price of her own folly?
He recalled with what morbid care he had concealed the pangs he felt;
how he had dreaded lest any eye discern his pain. What must it be to
endure, not only sorrow and desertion and betrayal, but to endure it
all openly; to meet in every eye a question, to hear on every lip a
sneer, to know that every heart held scorn?
This is the doom that has driven hermits to the desert, that has
tempted women to--
"From the world's bitter wind,
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb,"
These thoughts did not formulate themselves in his brain; they rushed
upon him--instantaneous impressions--and vanished, leaving ineffable
compassion in his heart, as he looked at the anguished face of Myron
Holder. She was weakly trying to steady herself, and at last said in a
lifeless voice, "I can stand alone now."
"Forgive me, Myron," said Homer, too much moved to feel any
awkwardness; "forgive me--I frightened you."
"No," she said, "you did not frighten me; I thought----" She paused.
"You thought----" He began, but hesitated.
"I thought you were _he_" she said, in breathless tones. Homer
shuddered at the inflection of the words. In such accents might one
acknowledge Death's dominion over one well-beloved. He threw off the
chill at his heart and caught her hands.
"Myron," he said, "who is he?"
"I cannot tell you," she answered.
"Tell me," he urged; "tell me, and be he far or near, high or low, I
will bring him to you."
"I cannot tell you," she repeated. Then for once moved beyond her
self-control, "Oh, that I could!"
"Why can't you?" he asked hotly. "It is but common justice--let him
bear his part."
"I promised," she replied simply, regaining her calm, the momentary
glow of impatience dying out of her voice.
"Promised!" he echoed. "What's a promise given to _him_ worth?
Nothing--absolutely nothing. Promised! He did some fine promising, I
dare swear. A promise to him!"
"I promised," she said again; then pushing back her head a little that
she might look him in the face (for she was hardly of the common height
of women), she went on: "I promised, and I will keep my promise; he
will come, and I can wait." In an instant her head sank. Her own
words had brought before her a terrible mirage of what that waiting
meant. He let fall her hands, and stepped back a pace. The action
seemed to break the bond that had held at bay the memory of the world.
Constraint fell upon Homer Wilson, and Myron's face burned in the dusky
light.
"Did you want anything?" she asked in uncertain tones.
"No," he answered. "I saw your light from the window at home, and I
came to see what work was going on so early."
"I always do what I can before I go to Mrs. Deans'," she said; "this is
wash-day."
"You will kill yourself," he cried angrily. "What's your grandmother
thinking of?"
Myron's head sank. "I deserve it all, you know," she said. "I----"
"You've no call to kill yourself," retorted Homer hotly. "Mrs. Deans
is an old wretch, and your grandmother's a----"
"She's good to my baby," said Myron, checking his speech with a
gesture. He recalled the child's existence, and, moved by an odd
impulse, said gently:
"How is your child, Myron?"
She glanced at him with a gratitude so intense that he flushed and
moved uneasily--as one accredited with a worthy deed he has not done.
"Oh, so well," she said. "He----" She paused, her face flaming. "Oh,
do go----"
"Let me carry that pailful for you?" he asked, hesitatingly.
"No--no--do go!" she returned.
Both were now painfully constrained and eager to be alone.
"Well, I may as well be going, then," said Homer; and turning, made
toward the gap in the fence, through which he had entered the garden.
Once on the street, he quickly ran across the two streets of the
village, and made his way through the fields, reaching his own barns
just as his mother came to the kitchen door. She was looking toward
the village, and saying shrilly to her husband:
"What did I tell you? Up and gone at this time! Fine doings these, I
must say! Oh, I knowed it by the way he spunked up last night when I
jest was giving him a hint to look out for her. I tell ye no such
woman as that sets her foot in these doors; no, not if he laws on it.
I tell ye----"
"Did you want me, mother?" asked Homer, showing himself at the
stable-door, curry-comb and brush in hand.
"Oh, you're there, be ye?" said his mother, with a gasp of surprise.
"Yes," said Homer; "do you want me?"
"No; oh, no. I was just looking at the morning," said his mother, and
vanished.
"Just got back in time," soliloquized Homer, contemptuously, as he went
back to his work.
Left alone, Myron Holder stood a moment motionless. Then she took a
few steps forward, into the shadow of the bush that but lately had held
for her such cruel delusion. The mists of the morning that still
lingered about the bush parted at her passage and clung round her,
chill shreds of vapor.
The evanescent flush died out of her face; her eyes were dazed with
pain--she locked her hands (stained with the rust of the windlass
chain) and wrung them cruelly; now she pressed her quivering lips
together--now they parted in shuddering respirations. How many tides
of hope had swelled within her heart! How stony were the shores on
which they had spent themselves! How salt the memory of their floods!
But never a wave of them all had risen so high as this one, which had
swept her forward to the very haven of hope only to leave her fast upon
the sands of despair.
She looked from side to side, with pitiable helplessness in her eyes,
over the desolate garden. Each bush seemed a mocking sentinel
appointed to watch her misery; nay, to her stricken heart each seemed
the abiding place of some new cheat that in time would issue forth to
delude and torture her. Unfailing tears gathered in her eyes; she let
her face fall in her hands and breathed forth a name--
"Like the yearning cry of some bewildered bird
Above an empty nest";
but more softly than any plaint of bird was that name uttered,
whispered so faintly that no cadence of its sound trembled even amidst
the leaves that brushed her down-bent head.
Presently Myron Holder stood erect, her face masked by a patience more
poignant than pain, more sublime than sorrow, more dreadful than
despair.
Not all heroic souls are cast in heroic shapes. There was something in
this woman's hard-wrought hands, and simple garb, and weary eyes, and
tender mouth--nay, in the undefinable meekness of her attitude, that
belied her courage. She filled her pail and bore it to the house,
setting her face as resolutely toward her fate as she set her hand to
carrying the heavy pail; and, heavy as her burden was, she rebelled no
more against bearing it than she did against the weight of the pail
that she herself had filled.
"Earth has seen
Love's brightest roses on the scaffold bloom,
Mingling with freedom's fadeless laurels there."
But easier indeed were it to lay Love's roses in full blossom on a
scaffold than to cherish them, as this woman did and other women have
done, in the wastes of a betrayed trust--their blossoms dyed a
frightful scarlet by the blood of a breaking heart. Love's roses grow
in bitter soil ofttimes; their petals are soon spent, but their thorns
are amaranthine.