 | IV. The gates ajar |  |
4. IV.
May 5.
I am afraid that my brave resolutions are
all breaking down.
The stillness of the May days is creeping
into everything; the days in which the furlough
was to come; in which the bitter Peace
has come instead, and in which he would have
been at home, never to go away from me any
more.
The lazy winds are choking me. Their faint
sweetness makes me sick. The moist, rich loam
is ploughed in the garden; the grass, more
golden than green, springs in the warm hollow
by the front gate; the great maple, just reaching
up to tap at the window, blazes and bows
under its weight of scarlet blossoms. I cannot
bear their perfume; it comes up in great
breaths, when the window is opened. I wish
that little cricket, just waked from his winter's
nap, would not sit there on the sill and chirp
at me. I hate the bluebirds flashing in and
and singing, singing, everywhere.
It is easy to understand how Bianca heard
“The nightingales sing through her head,”
how she could call them “Owl-like birds,”
who sang “for spite,” who sang “for hate,”
who sang “for doom.”
Most of all I hate the maple. I wish winter
were back again to fold it away in white, with
its bare, black fingers only to come tapping at
the window. “Roy's maple” we used to call
it. How much fun he had out of that old
tree!
As far back as I can remember, we never
considered spring to be officially introduced till
we had had a fight with the red blossoms.
Roy used to pelt me well; but with that pretty
chivalry of his, which was rare in such a little
fellow, which developed afterwards into that
rarer treatment of women, of which every one
speaks who speaks of him, he would stop the
play the instant it threatened roughness. I
used to be glad, though, that I had strength
and courage enough to make it some fun to
him.
The maple is full of pictures of Roy. Roy,
not yet over the dignity of his first boots, aiming
ground with a terrible wrench on his ankle,
straight up again before anybody could stop
him, and sitting there on the ugly, swaying
bough as white as a sheet, to wave his cap, —
“There, I meant to do it, and I have!” Roy,
chopping off the twigs for kindling-wood in
his mud oven, and sending his hatchet right
through the parlor window. Roy cutting leaves
for me, and then pulling all my wreaths down
over my nose every time I put them on! Roy
making me jump half-way across the room
with a sudden thump on my window, and, looking
out, I would see him with his hat off and
hair blown from his forehead, framed in by the
scented blossoms, or the quivering green, or
the flame of blood-red leaves. But there is no
end to them if I begin.
I had planned, if he came this week, to strip
the richest branches, and fill his room.
May 6.
The May-day stillness, the lazy winds, the
sweetness in the air, are all gone. A miserable
northeasterly storm has set in. The garden
loam is a mass of mud; the golden grass
is drenched; the poor little cricket is drowned
among the leaves, with their heads under their
drabbled wings, and the maple blossoms, dull
and shrunken, drip against the glass.
It begins to be evident that it will never do
for me to live alone. Yet who is there in the
wide world that I could bear to bring here —
into Roy's place?
A little old-fashioned book, bound in green
and gold, attracted my attention this morning
while I was dusting the library. It proved to be
my mother's copy of “Elia,” — one that father
had given her, I saw by the fly-leaf, in their
early engagement days. It is some time since
I have read Charles Lamb; indeed, since the
middle of February I have read nothing of
any sort. Phœbe dries the Journal for me
every night, and sometimes I glance at the
Telegraphic Summary, and sometimes I don't.
“You used to be fond enough of books,” Mrs.
Bland says, looking puzzled, — “regular blue-stocking,
Mr. Bland called you (no personal
objection to you, of course, my dear, but he
does n't like literary women, which is a great
comfort to me). Why don't you read and divert
yourself now?”
But my brain, like the rest of me, seems to
history with attention. Shakespeare, Wordsworth,
Whittier, Mrs. Browning, are filled with
Roy's marks, — and so down the shelf. Besides,
poetry strikes as nothing else does, deep
into the roots of things. One finds everywhere
some strain at the fibres of one's heart.
A mind must be healthily reconciled to actual
life, before a poet — at least most poets — can
help it. We must learn to bear and to work,
before we can spare strength to dream.
To hymns and hymn-like poems, exception
should be made. Some of them are like soft
hands stealing into ours in the dark, and holding
us fast without a spoken word. I do not
know how many times Whittier's “Psalm,”
and that old cry of Cowper's, “God moves in a
mysterious way,” have quieted me, — just the
sound of the words; when I was too wild to
take in their meaning, and too wicked to believe
them if I had.
As to novels, (by the way, Meta Tripp sent
me over four yesterday afternoon, among which
notice “Aurora Floyd” and “Uncle Silas,”)
the author of “Rutledge” expresses my feeling
about them precisely. I do not remember
her exact words, but they are not unlike these.
novels; and the few which struck the depths of
her experience gave her more pain than pleasure.”
However, I took up poor “Elia” this morning,
and stumbled upon “Dream Children,” to which,
for pathos and symmetry, I have read few
things superior in the language. Years ago, I
almost knew it by heart, but it has slipped out
of memory with many other things of late.
Any book, if it be one of those which Lamb
calls “books which are books,” put before us
at different periods of life, will unfold to us new
meanings, — wheels within wheels, delicate
springs of purpose to which, at the last reading,
we were stone-blind; gems which perhaps
the author ignorantly cut and polished.
A sentence in this “Dream Children,” which
at eighteen I passed by with a compassionate
sort of wonder, only thinking that it gave me
“the blues” to read it, and that I was glad
Roy was alive, I have seized upon and learned
all over again now. I write it down to the
dull music of the rain.
“And how, when he died, though he had
not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had
died a great while ago, such a distance there
his death, as I thought, pretty well at first, but
afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and
though I did not cry or take it to heart as some
do, and as I think he would have done if I had
died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew
not till then how much I had loved him. I
missed his kindness and I missed his crossness,
and wished him to be alive again to be quarrelling
with him (for we quarrelled sometimes),
rather than not have him again.”
How still the house is! I can hear the
coach rumbling away at the half-mile corner,
coming up from the evening train. A little
arrow of light has just cut the gray gloom of
the West.
Ten o'clock.
The coach to which I sat listening rumbled
up to the gate and stopped. Puzzled for
the moment, and feeling as inhospitable as I
knew how, I went down to the door. The
driver was already on the steps, with a bundle
in his arms that proved to be a rather minute
child; and a lady, veiled, was just stepping from
the carriage into the rain. Of course I came
to my senses at that, and, calling to Phœbe that
Mrs. Forceythe had come, sent her out an umbrella.
She surprised me by running lightly up the
steps. I had imagined a somewhat advanced
age and a sedate amount of infirmities, to
be necessary concomitants of aunthood. She
came in all sparkling with rain-drops, and,
gently pushing aside the hand with which I
was trying to pay her driver, said, laughing: —
“Here we are, bag and baggage, you see,
`big trunk, little trunk,' &c., &c. You did not
expect me? Ah, my letter missed then. It is
too bad to take you by storm in this way.
Come, Faith! No, don't trouble about the
trunks just now. Shall I go right in here?”
Her voice had a sparkle in it, like the drops
on her veil, but it was low and very sweet. I
took her in by the dining-room fire, and was
turning to take off the little girl's things, when
a soft hand stayed me, and I saw that she had
drawn off the wet veil. A face somewhat
pale looked down at me, — she is taller than
I, — with large, compassionate eyes.
“I am too wet to kiss you, but I must have a
look,” she said, smiling. “That will do. You
are like your mother, very like.”
I don't know what possessed me, whether it
was the sudden, sweet feeling of kinship with
something alive, or whether it was her face or
her voice, or all together, but I said: —
“I don't think you are too wet to be
kissed,” and threw my arms about her neck, —
I am not of the kissing kind, either, and I had
on my new bombazine, and she was very wet.
I thought she looked pleased.
Phœbe was sent to open the register in the
blue room, and as soon as it was warm I went
up with them, leading Faith by the hand. I
am unused to children, and she kept stepping
on my dress, and spinning around and tipping
over, in the most astonishing manner. It strikingly
reminded me of a top at the last gasp.
Her mother observed that she was tired and
sleepy. Phœbe was waiting around awkwardly
up stairs, with fresh towels on her arm.
Aunt Winifred turned and held out her hand.
“Well, Phœbe, I am glad to see you. This
is Phœbe, I am sure? You have altered with
everything else since I was here before. You
keep bright and well, I hope, and take good
care of Miss Mary?”
It was a simple enough thing, to be sure, her
taking the trouble to notice the old servant
with whom she had scarcely ever exchanged a
half-dozen words; but I liked it. I liked the
way, too, in which it was done. It reminded
me of Roy's fine, well-bred manner towards his
I have heard that our mother had
much the same.
I tried to make things look as pleasant as
I could down stairs, while they were making
ready for tea. The grate was raked up a little,
a bright supper-cloth laid on the table, and the
curtains drawn. Phœbe mixed a hasty cake
of some sort, and brought out the heavier
pieces of silver, — tea-pot, &c., which I do not
use when I am alone, because it is so much
trouble to take care of them, and because I
like the little Wedgwood set that Roy had
for his chocolate.
“How pleasant!” said Aunt Winifred, as she
sat down with Faith in a high chair beside her.
Phœbe had a great hunt up garret for that
chair; it has been stowed away there since it
and I parted company. “How pleasant everything
is here! I believe in bright dining-rooms.
There is an indescribable dinginess to most
that I have seen, which tends to anything but
thankfulness. Homesick, Faith? No; that 's
right. I don't think we shall be homesick at
Cousin Mary's.”
If she had not said that, the probabilities
are that they would have been, for I have fallen
and have almost forgotten how to entertain
a friend. But I do not want her good
opinion wasted, and mean they shall have a
good time if I can make it for them.
It was a little hard at first to see her opposite
me at the table; it was Roy's place.
While she was sitting there in the light, with
the dust and weariness of travel brushed away
a little, I was able to make up my mind what
this aunt of mine looks like.
She is young, then, to begin with, and I find
it necessary to reiterate the fact, in order to
get it into my stupid brain. The cape and
spectacles, the little old woman's shawl and invalid's
walk, for which I had prepared myself,
persist in hovering before my bewildered eyes,
ready to drop down on her at a moment's
notice. Just thirty-five she is by her own
showing; older than I, to be sure; but as we
passed in front of the mirror together, once to-night,
I could not see half that difference between
us. The peace of her face and the pain
of mine contrast sharply, and give me an old,
worn look, beside her. After all, though, to
one who had seen much of life, hers would be
the true maturity perhaps, — the maturity of
me the impression that she thinks me rather
young, though she is far too wise and delicate
to show it. I don't like to be treated like a
girl. I mean to find out what she does think.
My eyes have been on her face the whole
evening, and I believe it is the sweetest face
— woman's face — that I have ever seen. Yet
she is far from being a beautiful woman. It
is difficult to say what makes the impression;
scarcely any feature is accurate, yet the tout ensemble
seems to have no fault. Her hair, which
must have been bright bronze once, has grown
gray — quite gray — before its time. I really
do not know of what color her eyes are; blue,
perhaps, most frequently, but they change with
every word that she speaks; when quiet, they
have a curious, far-away look, and a steady,
lambent light shines through them. Her
mouth is well cut and delicate, yet you do not
so much notice that as its expression. It looks
as if it held a happy secret, with which, however
near one may come to her, one can never
intermeddle. Yet there are lines about it and
on her forehead, which are proof plain enough
that she has not always floated on summer
seas. She yet wears her widow's black, but
and wrists. Take her altogether, I like to
look at her.
Faith is a round, rolling, rollicking little
piece of mischief, with three years and a half of
experience in this very happy world. She has
black eyes and a pretty chin, funny little pink
hands all covered with dimples, and a dimple
in one cheek besides. She has tipped over
two tumblers of water, scratched herself all
over playing with the cat, and set her apron on
fire already since she has been here. I stand
in some awe of her; but, after I have become
initiated, I think that we shall be very good
friends.
“Of all names in the catalogue,” I said to
her mother, when she came down into the parlor
after putting her to bed, “Faith seems to
be about the most inappropriate for this solid-bodied,
twinkling little bairn of yours, with her
pretty red cheeks, and such an appetite for
supper!”
“Yes,” she said, laughing, “there is nothing
spirituelle about Faith. But she means just
that to me. I could not call her anything
else. Her father gave her the name.” Her
face changed, but did not sadden; a quietness
all.
“I will tell you about it sometime, — perhaps,”
she added, rising and standing by the
fire. “Faith looks like him.” Her eyes assumed
their distant look, “like the eyes of
those who see the dead,” and gazed away, —
so far away, into the fire, that I felt that she
would not be listening to anything that I
might say, and therefore said nothing.
We spent the evening chatting cosily. After
the fire had died down in the grate (I had
Phœbe light a pine-knot there, because I noticed
that Aunt Winifred fancied the blaze in
the dining-room), we drew up our chairs into
the corner by the register, and roasted away to
our hearts' content. A very bad habit, to sit
over the register, and Aunt Winifred says she
shall undertake to break me of it. We talked
about everything under the sun, — uncles,
aunts, cousins, Kansas and Connecticut, the
surrenders and the assassination, books, pictures,
music, and Faith, — O, and Phœbe and
the cat. Aunt Winifred talks well, and does
not gossip nor exhaust her resources; one feels
always that she has material in reserve on
any subject that is worth talking about.
For one thing I thank her with all my heart:
she never spoke of Roy.
Upon reflection, I find that I have really
passed a pleasant evening.
She knocked at my door just now, after I
had written the last sentence, and had put
away the book for the night. Thinking that
it was Phœbe, I called, “Come in,” and did not
turn. She had come to the bureau where I
stood unbraiding my hair, and touched my arm,
before I saw who it was. She had on a crimson
dressing-gown of warm flannel, and her
hair hung down on her shoulders. Although
so gray, her hair is massive yet, and coils
finely when she is dressed.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but I
thought you would not be in bed, and I came
in to say, — let me sit somewhere else at the
breakfast-table, if you like. I saw that I had
taken `the vacant place.' Good night, my
dear.”
It was such a little thing! I wonder how
many people would have noticed it or taken
the trouble to speak of it. The quick perception,
the unusual delicacy, — these too are like
Roy.
I almost wish that she had stayed a little
longer. I almost think that I could bear to
have her speak to me about him.
Faith, in the next room, seems to have wakened
from a frightened dream, and I can hear
their voices through the wall. Her mother is
soothing and singing to her in the broken
words of some old lullaby with which Phœbe
used to sing Roy and me to sleep, years and
years ago. The unfamiliar, home like sound
is pleasant in the silent house. Phœbe, on her
way to bed, is stopping on the garret-stairs to
listen to it. Even the cat comes mewing up
to the door, and purring as I have not heard
the creature purr since the old Sunday-night
singing, hushed so long ago.
| IV. The gates ajar | |