University of Virginia Library

MARY.

Scene—A Farm in the Clearings of a Canadian Forest.
Mary.
You must not leave us yet awhile; the kindred
That you are seeking know not of your coming;
And so delay of yours can little grieve them,
Were it a year, far less a single day—

Traveller.
Nay! I have far outstay'd my time already.

Mary.
But not your welcome, wait but till tomorrow,
Then I will bid you speed upon your journey.

Trav.
So it was yesterday with you, good mistress,
And when to-morrow comes 'twill be the same,
Still you will frame some kind excuse to keep me,—
And if I stay much longer it will be
But all the harder then to leave behind me
A house like this, where all is rest and comfort:
For on the waves I have been tossed so long
Like sea-weed, drifting, shifting, hither, thither
Among the rocks and reefs, with nought to hold by,
That Home, the sound we English love so well,
Has been as strange to me as to those nations
That have no word, they tell me, to express it;
And in my heart, perhaps, I fain could find it,
To cast my anchor in a spot like this,
And stay till even one as kind as you are
Might tire at last of the old, useless stranger.

Mary.
And what am I myself but old and useless?
I sit beside the fire or in the sunshine,
An old woman, good for nothing but to talk
And please the little children with my stories
Of the old country as they call it here;
And they have heard my tales so oft, that when
I chance to halt they quickly help me onwards;
But since you came to freshen up my memory,
Things half forgotten, thick as bees in summer,
Have swarmed and crowded on my mind so fast,
That I have store to last me out my life;
I think it is your voice that brings around me
The voices that were round me in my youth;
You have not been, you say, in pleasant Yorkshire
For half a lifetime, yet I think your heart
Forgets it not entirely, while your tongue
Remembers it so kindly.

Trav.
And so you know me for a Yorkshireman!
And I that have been round the world so oft,
'Mid all my gains and losses, still have kept
A touch that speaks of Home! well then, it seems
The tongue is like the heart, forgetting slowly
What it hath learnt the soonest; like the lessons
That, taught in our first childhood, we remember
When many a thing between escapes for ever.

Mary.
Nay, not in childhood only, but in youth,—
The things that happened then so sweetly cross
Our spirits, that I sometimes think they lie
Within the heart, as when I was a girl
I used to lay the things I treasured most,
Strewed o'er with lavender and withered rose-leaves;
There was a hymn-tune that but yesternight
You hummed above my grandchild in its cradle,
The good old Psalm, “How sweet to dwell as Brethren
In kindness and in offices of love,”—
Oh! how it brought the pleasant Sundays back,
The Sundays when I used to sing it, sitting
By William, looking both on the same book:—
Here, one may say, 'tis evermore a Sabbath,
Like the World's first One, when its Maker looked
Upon his work and saw that it was good;
There are no work-day sounds within these woods;
Yet not so dear their deep unbroken silence,
As was the quiet of the Christian Sabbath:
The sweet unwonted stillness of the air
When those sounds ceased awhile, and man with them
Ceased from his labours, resting in the sight
Of Him that gave that blessed breathing time.
My father was a strict man in his duties;
Careful, it might be, anxious overmuch
For this world's substance, yet forgetting not
To seek the truer riches, well he wrought
His six days' labour out with the Commandment,
And rested with it on the day appointed.
I think I see him with his Sunday face,
The face that suited with his Sunday garments,
The wrinkles of the busy week smoothed down,
Walking to Church with us his children round him,
Never so happy or so proud as then,
Exchanging, as we moved along, grave greetings
With friendly neighbours, pausing on his way
To hear the bells' last merry chime, and see
From the stone gateway of the ancient Hall
The good old Squire come forth with his sweet daughters.
Oh! how I loved the Sunday! still I love it
As the hymn teaches, best of all the seven:
But then, I fear me for far other reasons
Than make it dear unto my spirit now!—
For then I sat by William in the church,
And then I walked with William in the evenings,
The long bright summer evenings—if I had
A wish on earth, it was that all the week
Were Sunday from one end unto the other,
And Summer, only Summer all the year!—
How often in my thoughts I walk alone
O'er all the spots where once I walked with him,
Talking at first of many things so gaily—
Of everything except the only thing
That both were thinking of, before he spoke
And told me that he loved; when afterwards
We walked o'er the same ground, how all was changed,
For then we were too happy to be gay;
I never knew what care or grieving was
'Till I knew William; but I never knew
Until I knew him, that there is a joy
Worth all we pay for it: yes! none so gay,
So goes the saying, as the merry beggars
With nought to care or fret for, nought to lose;
But wealth brings care with it, and when the heart
Grows rich, it watches anxious o'er its treasure
With busy fears it never knew before;
And we were grave and anxious, ofttimes silent
Perchance, but never happier than then;
And when the walk was over, and we parted,
Still William leant across our garden gate,
Still there seemed always something left to say,
Still some last word yet sweeter than the last
That went before it;—I should ask your pardon
For wearying you with talk of these old times,
But if I thus forget you are a stranger,
Yours is the blame that make me to forget it,
As there you sit and look so like a friend—

Trav.
I think your heart would entertain the stranger
Where'er it met him, but it seems to me,
The farther we have left our home behind us,
The nearer do we feel to those that hold
With us some link, though slight, in common there,
As claims of distant kindred rise in value
When closer ties have failed us,—meeting here,
Both born in Yorkshire, we are friends at once,
Old friends as we had known each other all our lives;
And if you still will talk to me like one,
I will put off my journey till to-morrow,
Just for the sake of hearing you: for I
Had once a home like yours, and there is still
A chain between my heart and it that seems
To tighten with each word that you are speaking.

Mary.
Ours was a pleasant farm: a sudden turning
In a deep lane of hawthorn, white in summer
With flowering elder, brought you where it lay
Shut in among its close-clipped beechen hedges,
Just like a place forgotten by the world;
It was a sunny spot, and all around it
A kind of cheerful stillness, broken only
By noises that had in their very sound
A sort of quietness, because they told
That there were none but harmless creatures near;
And all without us, all within, was quiet,
For ours was a grave house; my mother died
When we were young; my father, as I said,
Was a strict man, though kind, or meaning kindly,
Yet in his serious aspect and slow speech
Was something that rebuked our childish mirth.
We loved him as he loved his heavenly Father,
Not with the perfect love that casts out fear.
God's word was honoured in our house; we came,
My father loved to tell us, of a stock
That prized it so, they left their homes that were
In foreign parts, and gave up trades and calling,
Going, like Abraham, they knew not whither,
Rather than give up that, the heritage
More valued still, the word of Truth and Life;
The spirit of those fore-elders lived in him;
A serious spirit, yet perchance akin
More to the rigour of the older Scriptures,
Than to the second kindlier Dispensation;
Living by law, and letter, and commandment,
Yet lacking surely somewhat of the love
The Gospel tells us best fulfils them all;
But peace be to his memory! holding fast
Integrity, he walked before his God
One of a faithful upright generation
The world, that loves them little, ill could spare.
I was the only daughter left with him
For many years, my sisters marrying young;
And this, I think, because I knew his ways
And kept the house for him and for my brothers,
And looked to everything, might be one reason
(Although he owned it not unto himself)
Why still he put all talk of marriage by
From year to year, and when we spoke of it,
Still shook his head, and put us off with saws
Made but to vex the trustful heart of Love,
The more in that they bear some show of wisdom,
Such as “Wed soon, and there'll be time for rueing,”
“When poverty comes in, love takes his flight.”—

Trav.
(smiling)
And William, then, I fancy, was not rich,
Or, as they say in Yorkshire, well-to-do?

Mary.
His father died when he was young; his mother
Had held a little farm not far from ours,
As best she could since then, and William
Had worked for her and for the younger ones,
'Till, as he oft has told me, he ne'er knew
The feeling of being young or like a boy,
The cares of life set in on him so early;
And he was thoughtful far beyond his years,
Although I do not think he ever had
A thought except for others till he knew me,
And then he said that Love had made him selfish
In making him so happy, still contriving
And planning how we might be happier still;
We used to hope my father, when we married,
Would set us up upon a larger farm,
Where we could take his mother home to us,
And William used to say, that he would wait
As long for me as Jacob did for Rachel
(Serving that hard apprenticeship twice over),
But could not, like him, think it but a day!
For time wore on, and still we hoped and waited,
Until at last, with William and my heart
Persuading me together, I began
To think my father, that withheld consent
Still for some fancied reason, might not grieve
Perchance if it were taken without asking;
I saw that he loved William more and more,
And thought that he would end where I began,
By loving him so much that everything
I did for love of him would find excuse;
And so at last worn out with hope deferred
Too long (I tell you what you guess), we married
When I was staying with some distant kindred,
And spoke to none, not even William's mother
For fear of mixing others with our blame;
And I came home again; we fixed to speak
Unto my father in some happy hour,
And say what we had done, but much my heart
Misgave me, and I could not bear to meet
His eye, or hear him speak unto me kindly
And know I was deceiving him, although
But for a time: my youngest brother George,
That in the world I loved next best to William,
Just then came back from sea; we sat one evening
Just as the short November day was closing
All in our little parlour round the fire—
My brothers had come home from work, my sisters
Had both called in to have a look at George—
I never saw my father seem so happy
As then he did to have us all about him;
And as they talked together in the gloaming
I drew my wheel beside me, and seemed bent
Upon my spinning, but I only hoped
Its busy hum might still the busier thoughts
That turned, as it was turning, in my brain:
My father said, “Ay, Mary will not waste
An hour as we do, there she sits and spins,
Still for the wedding! well, when that day comes,
No one will have a better plenished house
Than she and William,”—almost before
I knew what I was saying, as if then
The words that had been framed upon my lips
So oft before, to die there, came to life,
I said, and did not tremble, “Oh, dear father,
That day is past already, I am married”—
“Married!” he cried, and started from his chair,
“Who knew of this? who planned it with you? married?”
I said, “We married when I was away—
There is no living soul that knows of it
Except ourselves;” he answered, “It is well,
For then I have but one ungrateful child;
Go to the home that you have chosen,—now
You have no other; go unto your husband,
And make to him a more obedient wife
Than you have been a daughter—ay, make much
Of him, for now you have not any Father.”
There was a dreadful stillness in the room
When he had done: it seemed to me all full
Of stony faces, no one moved or spoke—
I thought my sisters would have spoken for me,
For they were married, and they must have loved,
But not as I did, or they would have spoken,
Their husbands were good men, but not like William;
And there was silence, but I heard the words
“You have no father,” sounding in my ears,
And all things darkened round me—then I felt
An arm that caught me ere I fell, and heard
My brother George's voice that said, “Oh, father!
You must forgive poor Mary; she has been
Such a kind sister, such a loving daughter,
The first offence, they say, should find some favour,
And Mary never crossed your will before,
And never would have done so, but for love
Of William, that deserves her love so well.”
But at his words my father's brow grew dark,
He clenched his teeth as if to bar some word—
I dared not stay to hear it, but rose up,
And crying, “Brother, anger not our father
For one like me, that have done too much wrong
Already without that,” just as I was
I went forth from among them to the darkness,
And through it and a heavy rain that fell
Unfelt upon me, made my way, nor stopped
Nor even knew where I was going, till
I found myself at William's mother's house,
Wet and bewildered, choked with tears, scarce able
To speak, or give an answer to their questions.
Oh, what a different coming home to that
I had so often pictured to myself!
I used to think that were I but with William,
No matter where or how, I must be happy;
But now I found that we may buy the things
That are most precious, at too dear a cost,
With loss of conscience and the peace of mind
That goes with it—for I was with him now,
But not the thought that we were one for ever,
That I belonged to him, that nothing now
Could part us, no, not even William's words
Could ease the aching anguish of my heart;
And when he found he could not comfort me,
He ceased to speak, and held my hand in his,
Blaming himself in silence; so we sat
Together, feeling we had left behind us
The little Eden of our happy thoughts,
Where we had lived so long, like our first parents
Cast out by disobedience; when we heard
A knock, and George looked in with anxious face
That brightened when he saw that I was there:
His was a cheerful honest face, that seemed
To have a comfort in its very look;
Not then alone, but many an aftertime
Only to see him lightened half our cares,
And if he found us anxious, still he left us,
Sometimes we scarce knew why, with happier hearts;
His was a hopeful, generous, kindly nature,
That ever turned things to their brightest side,
Or made one for them out of its own sunshine;
He did not, like my other brothers, rest
Content with wishing well to us, but left
No way untried to bring my father round;
But all in vain, yet still he cheered us, saying,
The good time would not fail to come at last;
Before he left he brought us all his savings,
They were no use, he said, to him at sea,
And all things were a help to new beginners—
Oh, sir! you are a Sailor like my brother,
You have a kind heart, I am sure, like his,
To listen as you do; he went away,
My brother, my dear brother! little then
I thought that I should see his face no more,—
I stood with him beside the garden gate
(The gate where I had so oft talked with William),
One starlight night, for I had set him home
To see the last of him—oh! how I grieved
To think that I, who used to set his things
In order for him when he went away
Like any Mother, dared not now be seen
Within the house! and after we had parted,
I heard him calling after me so kindly
(The last, last words I ever heard him speak),
“Keep a good heart up till we meet again,
All will come right, dear sister, in the end.”

Trav.
And did your brother's parting words come true?

Mary.

Trav.
And it was granted you?

Mary.

Trav.
Except of how you came to leave old England,
And settle in this lone and distant place.

Mary.
It was through William, Sir, that used to think
(Being, unlike most other country people,
Of an inquiring, active turn of mind)
The New World was more roomy than the Old,
And fairer prospects open to our children;
And both are good, I know, for God made both;
And we have prospered well in this, yet still,
In part, I missed the things I left behind,
Although I brought my chiefest treasure with me;
At least I missed them when that too was gone,—
It is now ten years since I buried William;
Sometimes, when we were happiest, a gloom
Would come across me, thinking of the time
When one of us would have to leave the other;
Such thoughts are suited to a life like ours;—
What matter! since there is a world where Love
Shall fill the soul, and never over-weigh it;
In Heaven, Love walks for ever in the sun,
Yet casts no shadow after him as here.
When William died, I know not what it was,
I felt,—a grief that was a thankfulness,
For being blest with one like him so long;—
And I am always cheerful as you see me,
But since he went, my life has never seemed
To me what it was then; my sons are thriving,
And settled happily; I now may say,
Thanks to the goodness that has followed me,
Through my long life, I have no wish remaining
As far as this world goes, or only one;
And that is, if I could but see my brother,
Or hear some tidings of him ere I die.
I sometimes think that he is dead, but then
He does not come with William in my dreams:
He settled in the Indies, where he traded,
And married there, and seemed a prosperous man;
Then we had often letters; later on
They spoke of change that was not for the better,
And told us he had lost his wife and child;
Now it is years since last we heard of him,
And how things fare with him I guess in vain,
But oft I picture him within my mind,
Now old and failing as I am myself,
With no one by to comfort him with talk
(He that was kind and good to all the world)
Of things that were, and better things that shall be;
And then I think of all that I could do
To cheer him if I were but near, until
(It is an old woman's thought) I feel as if—
Knew I but where to seek him—I could start
That moment, and walk on until the shoes
Wore off my feet, nor stop until I reached him.

Trav.
And when you met, perhaps you might not know him,
He must be changed.

Mary.
He was not one to change,
Yet years and troubles may have told upon him.

Trav.
They must have told a heavy tale, indeed,
Since all this while you have not known me—Mary!
(He holds out his arms to her.)
Oh, my dear sister, I have found it hard
To make myself awhile thus strange unto you,
For I came here to seek you; you are now
The only one I have,—the rest I love
Are neither in the New World nor the Old,
But in another, safer far, and happier;
Yet I was restless wanting them, and thought
I will go forth, if yet my sister lives,
Or William, there is something left for me.
But, when at first I saw you did not know me,
A sudden fancy took my mind to try
If still the heart you used to have of old
Kept in its right place through a lifetime's changes,
And kept a place for me,—but now I find
That there, and by the hearth is room enough
For the old stranger, as you thought him; now
He will not leave you till you tire of him. . . .