Idyl of work / Lucy Larcom [electronic text]

VII.

RUTH WOODBURN sat alone in her own room; A most unusual privilege,—her own,— Hers only,— seven feet square! With Esther Hale For house-companion, she was well content.

It was midsummer now: the crickets chirped Along green-fringed canals and through trim yards; And one had somehow climbed the bricks, and hid His black limbs somewhere, just to sing to her.

And Ruth could sing herself, with pen and ink. She soothed her heartaches so, sometimes; though close She hid her old portfolio full of verse,— All sentiment, she knew; but only thus Would grief translate the blurred text of chained books In her heart's crypt.

'T is no good place for songs, Dungeoned in self. Birds in a darkened cage Stop singing: a true hymn is born of light. Still Ruth won some poor comfort from her grief, Humming it over to herself alone, Half hopeful of its taking wing at last.

CAN you do without me? Is the summer just as sweet With its grass untroubled By my once familiar feet? Does the west-wind never Stir the woodland with a sigh For a presence missing, Once the dearest that drew nigh?

Can you do without me?Is it all the same to be Living with a silence, Gulf-like, stretched from you to me? If you can, so be it! God has weighed our mutual need: He appoints our places; Sways the thought, permits the deed.

You can do without me, And without you I live on, Wedded to grave duty; Feet must walk, when wings are gone. Lost the cup's aroma, All that freshens and uplifts; Faded out, the vision From the gray horizon drifts.

If I loved a phantom,—If it filled my atmosphere With a dream's illusion,—In the unrevealed, so near, Dreams may be made real: There the true soul I may know, Yours has but foreshadowed: So God bless you, as you go!

A step was on the stair; and Esther's hand Touched now the latch. Ruth laid the paper by, But its thought lingered in her eyes, and ran Into her words, despite herself. "Sit here, Where you can see the tree-tops and the sky,

So many yards of sheeny blue, all mine! I never say my prayers but I thank God That I have this, instead of staring rows Of windows in brick walls. Only to think Of a time come to me when loneliness And that one sky-strip seem like luxury! But I have room-mates plenty: crowds of thoughts, Not always kind or smiling. "Esther dear, I never told, you never asked of me,— For that I thank you,—what the trouble is Which I have worn, like mourning, ever since A stranger, sick, you found and took me in. Have you the patience now to hear of it?"

"Aught that concerns you, Ruth, comes home to me; But telling may be too great pain." "Relief, Dear friend, it will be now, though once I hoped To hide me with my sorrow in the grave. But you will think me foolish, to have cared For one man so that memory of him Clouds life all over. Think me so! I am. Owning it folly, I can talk of it.

If I can make a weary story brief, I'll tell you of a teacher that I had. Winter on winter, when the frozen hills Were white ghost-giants round us, when the snow Buried us up like Laplanders, he came, And with old Virgil, made an Italy Of cold New Hampshire. I, beyond the rest, Prizing the Latin lore, we studied much Together, in long evenings, by ourselves. And all the bright vacations, side by side, We wandered with the west-wind through the hills.

"To me he told his plans. His college years Once finished, he would settle at the West, As rovers settle,—teach, or preach, perhaps; 'Might I not join him, some time?' And it seemed, At last, the only natural thing to dream That we should have one future. "So I lived, Of that great garden-desert picturing A home for us two. "When my father died, New cares fell on me. With her mortgaged farm And her large family, my mother's head, Never the clear, seemed utterly confused.

I shelved my books. I set the boys to work, And kept a strict account of costs. "In vain! The two ends would not meet. Friends offered help I was too proud to take. I heard of those Who here had found the wherewithal to lift Loads heavier than mine. So I came, too, Full of my Eden-visions about work, With the curse lifted off, and full of hope For Ambrose and our prairie-paradise: Not his, not mine, but ours! "Well, he I loved— And love still, with a difference—had gone Part way upon his journey, sending words Of old accustomed tenderness to me.— I think he meant them; men are very strange.— He met my cousin somewhere on the road, Whom he had never seen, sweet Zillah Wray, Bewitching as May dawns or mountain-brooks. They talked of me. 'She was so fond of me, I was so good, so true, so lovable, And knew so much, withal!' O, I can hear Just how she said it, with an innocent air Of self-depreciation! 'What was she But a mere ignoramus?' And the word

Rounded her lips so prettily, one sighed To kiss them. 'Still, she never had been taught As Ruth had. Did he think that she could learn?'

"So Ambrose, lingering in her native town, Called on her often,—for my sake, he said; And taught her—not so much as she taught him. He learned to love her; and he wrote to me, Making confession. 'Could they help their fate, Their mutual fault? Could I forgive them both? He doubted—Zillah was so different, Seemed so much fonder of him—if I cared Greatly to share his wandering destinies.'

"That was the penalty of reticence! Love, I had thought, was treasure men should seek, And prize the more, being hid. It is not so!— Foolish Cordelia should have answered Lear!— Man likes the false wind's wooing, wants bold flowers To bring him incense; so much trouble saved!

"Though crushed, I was not wholly unprepared, For I remembered Zillah. Like a dress, Becoming, and so kept in wearing trim, Was this unconscious show of artlessness.

Her guileful guilelessness seemed natural As life itself. Yet Ambrose, I supposed, Had penetration to read her and me. It was like death to me, untwisting all The fibres of my life from his, and still In memory painful. But he is not mine, Or she could not have won him. I have tried To think with gratitude of her bright ways, And how she will adorn his life; and yet He seemed to need me, as I needed him. And Zillah loves—perhaps I do her wrong— Herself reflected in the heart she wins, More than the man she won." "And," Esther said, "Perhaps your Ambrose also loves himself Glassed in her admiration. Wisest men Lose all their wisdom when a silly girl Cobwebs their ears with flattery. To my mind, 'T is fancy's glamour, both sides; never love."

"So I have almost thought, else were my past With him I loved a sealed-up sepulchre Wet by no tear of memory. But sometimes I dream of him bewildered, shaken off By Zillah, when she scents superior game,

Conscious of his mistake, and missing me;— Or, wedding her, hindered in all his best For want of wifely help, and missing me. Try as I will, the thought of him comes back, With Zillah or without her, missing me, Who never can return." "How never, Ruth? May not all rents be mended?" "Not of souls. Mine, surely, will not wear a patched-up love, Nor such as can be worn by me or her, At change of the giver's fancy. Even now I dimly see why disappointment came, To lead me upward to some grander height Of hope and labor. Still the grinding wheels Crush on, the red drops ooze. The Juggernaut, Experience, never heeds its victim's cry."

"Your Ambrose was not worthy of you, Ruth."

"Nay, that I do not know. Men cannot help Being drawn aside by beauty." "Can they not? Poor weaklings! Why do women call them 'lords,' Who are not their own masters? I should scorn The man mere pretty faces could enslave."

"You know not what you talk of, Esther dear! A woman's heart is as perversely fixed As man's is wavering. Some day, for yourself You may see how it is: I hope not soon."

"Never! My thoughts are shut fast, marriage-ward. There is much else to live for; full as much For woman as for man, in separateness: Although my dream is, that the two, made one In mutual faith, show Paradise as yet An earthly possibility. But then You say, dear Ruth, you never can return To Ambrose, yet must love him. That is strange!"

"Yes, it is strange; and sad as it is strange, And true as strange and sad. I think of him As a wife death has summoned, who may look Backward from heaven, and love her husband still For the last smile he gave her, though his smiles Are now another woman's sunshine. She Whom he has seen safe through the gates of pearl, Cannot go back with him across the gulf His thoughts make, widening towards new marriage. "Well! My story told, let's find some cheerier talk!"

And here came Isabel's rosy, roguish face Half through the doorway: "Esther, there are guests Waiting to see you,—gentlemen": and ran, Without another word, they knew not where.

Esther had on her working-dress, a print Somewhat at the dimmer for much washing, still Tidy enough. She only smoothed her hair By Ruth's six-square-inch mirror, then went down; And who should wait there in the dining-room, Which served for evening sittings,—sewing, talk, And reading going on among the girls, A dozen of them, scattered round the room, At the bare tables,—who but Doctor Mann And Pastor Alwyn, with them Eleanor, Serene and ladylike, in easy chat?

Somewhat constrained, vexed that she was abashed To meet a cultured stranger in the place Where her lot fell, so different from his,— Esther talked rapidly, unlike herself, While Eleanor and her physician-friend Went rambling through long genealogies.

A pedlar came in while they stayed, whose wares The girls sat cheapening. A phrenologist Displaced the pedlar, and a tide of mirth Flowed in around the tables, as he read The cranial character of each to each.

The guests arose to go, one much annoyed,— The kindly Pastor, who had seldom found Tidings so untoward, even in a boarding-house. But Eleanor and young Doctor Mann had gone Back under haunted boughs of family-trees, Nor heard near voices. Dim shapes of the past, Moving before them, all at hand obscured; And he remembered but her gentle face.

Esther escaped to her third-story room, Glad that her mates were absent,—sought the nook She called her own, a space between the bed And window, wide enough to hold one chair, Where she could see the stars, unjostled, move Across the open sky-fields. Room! more room! Her thoughts cried out for. So to live, so cramped As not to hear your nearest neighbor's voice Through the surrounding jargon, was it life? But here she was,—must make the best of it,

Till a new door should open. Even nowIt swung upon its hinges, all unheard By her. If we could watch the bursting gates Of Destiny, should we not shrink back, awed By their vast shadow, dazed with light beyond? Man's eye suits his horizon. As that spreads, Vision grows telescopic, till, beside The throne of God, it sweeps eternity.

Meanwhile Ruth Woodburn sat uncomforted Beneath the thickening stars; nor could she guess That her young hopes, now beaten down like grass Under a furious rain, would rise again With greener vigor for that cleansing storm.

God made not any human life to rest Only upon another human life: Love means some better thing than that. And she Who so had leaned upon a man she loved, Found her dependence weakness, and not need, Ere autumn waned. Before her heart wore off Its rust of sorrow, and long afterward, Through its vibrations, chords like this awoke:—

ONCE 't was my saddest thought, Ere I began to doubt you,

That some time I must learn, Perhaps, to do without you. For Death parts dearest friends; From him there's no escaping; And partings worse than death Our fears are ever shaping.

Now with new dawns of hopeNo thought of you is blended; Day deepens evermore, Though morning dreams are ended. And now the saddest thought That haunts my heart about you Is this,—that I have learned, At last, to do without you.