Reuben and Other Poems/Reuben

by Blanche Edith Baughan

REUBEN

Behind a bleak unshelter’d promontory—
Seventy fathom of white chalk plunged down
Sheer to deep sea, an edge to open space:
Where, at her extreme bourne and outlook, Earth
Stands up, and with a bared and dauntless brow
Superbly fronts far ocean, shoreless air:—
There lies a little hollow.

⁠North, and east,
And westward (save where one blue-opening vale
Leads inland to the village and is lined
With hanging firwoods dark), treeless and wan,
Untenanted, unplough’d, as mid-sea blank,
Spreads far away the everlasting down:
A lonely tableland, whose pastures huge,
Gradually undulating, never crown’d
By soaring peak, nor falling to deep dales,
With sober, tawny, equable long lines,
Uninterrupted sweep the enormous sky:
A voiceless lifted world of roomy peace,
Whose simple amplitude and pure expanse

Fill the held void and virgin austere air,
And overwhelm the silenced mind of man,
With an almighty sense of sovereign space,
Giant, indifferent, dumb—a keen cold breath
Of pungent liberty and loneliness
Untouch’d.

⁠But in the hollow there are trees;
Sycamores, from whose dim and misty boughs
On February dawns the wild-voiced thrush
Exults, and ’mid whose rosy buds, in May,
Some o’er-sea nightingale betwixt the brine
Alighting, and the waiting woodland green,
In this first gage of Home grateful may linger
One night, and with long shafts of passion thrill
The wistful reaches of the far blue dusk.
And ’neath the trees, ’mid all that barren waste
Vividly green and various, grew trim grass
Once, and bright hardy flowers—marigolds,
Wallflower, larkspur, snapdragon and, ranged
In rows on either side the red-brick path
That parted the broad beds of kitchen herbs,
Gooseberries and currants, all a homely wealth
Of verdure: with one wide old apple-tree,
That, for two people, pink and white in spring,
Gold in September, tinted the whole world.

⁠At one side of the dip, behind the trees,
A tarr’d shed, built of wreck-wood, met the down.

Opposite, looking landward, with the lap
Of garden spread between, a small house stood,
Square, solid, of grey stone, its painted door
And shutters of a weather-stain’d sea-blue,
Its slanted roof of pigeon-purple slate
Splash’d into brightness by the broidering rings
And rounds of orange lichen. Dappled too,
And crusted, was each twig of every tree
With massèd lichen, hoary, silver-gold,
Greenish or russet. For the sea, though hid,
Was not far off; on stone and bark she wrote
Her salty runes, refresh’d the brooding air
With her frank breath, and with her mighty voice
The stately stillness more majestic made;
Never remitting from that shelter’d spot
Plain signs of her eternal neighbourhood.

⁠Yet, solitary tho’ the place might be,
And to strong influences subjected, drear
Or lonely it was not. Small sights and sounds
Pleasantly occupied it all day long—
Hens clucking ’neath the bushes; the black goat
Calling, from shed or pasture-tether; bees
From clover, sainfoin, or the low gold crowns
Of honey-vetch, with music coming home
Up thro’ the garden to the door-seat, where
Their pale straw houses glisten’d to the sun.
And from within came sounds—Pilot’s loud bark,
Or Reuben’s whistle, or the low sweet voice
Of Mercy, singing at her housewifry.

⁠For here, amid the garden and the downs,
Their still and simple life of well-loved toil,
Toil that was life, and daily sweetness small,
Reuben and Mercy led: a childless pair,
Through forty years of mutual tenderness
Each to the other child and parent grown.
She was a little woman, shrivell’d, spare
And apt, with beaming eyes and rosy cheeks
And busy birdlike movements. I have thought,
At times, the life they led, and he required,
Solitary, same, pressed hard on Mercy. Hers
Was a keen taste in little things; she loved
That trivial, intimate, long-drawn-out talk
Of daily happenings, in-and-out details,
And chance of new-old changes, by whose help
Women in villages make shift to weave
Some kind of colour’d arabesque as fringe
To Life’s web, hodden-gray. But seldom hers
Such brightening; only of a Sunday morn,
The greetings after church—he standing back
Uneasy: or a spice of gossip to
Some rare event of shopping—when the thought
Of him there all alone wing’d her way back.
Yet she was happy. Love was Life, to her,
And all her life was love. Like some small brook
Was Mercy, that, from meadows turn’d aside,
Runs brightly in a bare place, buoyantly
Babbling and dancing ’mid a fringe of flowers
Itself has brought to birth: with no cascade
Resplendent, and by no deep following pool

Begloom’d; but, childlike, telling to the sun
Its every little pebble, yet with means
Abundant in its strait and shallow scope
To charm the glad, the weary to revive,
And cleanse the travel-stain’d. Not very wise,
And no way great was Mercy—save in prompt
And plain goodwill: the gracious wish to please,
The gracious inclination to be pleas’d;
No queen o’ertopp’d her there.

⁠And like some rock
Was Reuben, which the singing stream endues
With fern and fresh green mosses, which no less
Of the sweet song the mute occasion is.
Older than Mercy by ten years, more aged
By thirty, bow’d in body, slow, infirm,
But of a sure mind, he was much her charge
Yet order’d both their lives. A gaunt old man
With settled lips and deep dumb eyes of blue
(A diver he had been, and some shy sense,
Of that inhuman isolation bred
In the remote dim regions of the sea,
Possess’d him still, and like an unseen wall
Secreted him from neighbourhood, in show
If not in fact): a man of his own way,
Of even judgment and a quiet heart:
Just before generous, generous after just:
Who, when boys robb’d his garden, prosecuted—
“In rightness to the neighbours and the boys,”

He said, and Mercy then must plead in vain.
But when, the birching done, with honest ruth
Gruff father, plaintive mother, brought their pack
Of down-faced culprits to beg pardon, lads
And parents gaped alike to see him rise
Awkward and grave, the unready pilfering hands
Pile up with apples, then, without a word,
Go out, ’mid silence puzzled more than pleased.
Few were his friends, but three he found enough:
His wife, his dog, and (Who Himself adjoins
Great things to small, and neighbours the high hills
With the low valleys), God. And people spoke
With distance and respect of him, as one
Whose right to privacy and his own path
Was amply earn’d and proven. Not before
It wore him out, he left his calling, then,
Following a long dream, came to end his days
In the remember’d cottage, where of old
His mother rear’d him, and the white road ran
To school and Mercy. Many a fairer scene,
A richer scope, a fuller way of life,
His wandering years had shown him, but no way
So sweet as the old simple way, no home
Like the old home. The cottage he had found
A ruin, and the garden, russet sward,
And with his own hands so rebuilt the one,
The other re-created, that the place
Was truly all his own except in law;
Was so in that, perhaps, or soon would be,
Argued the knowing—witness how he work’d!

No labour like the landlord’s; and who picks
His own tune plays the fiddle twice as long.
“What if he do live poor?” they said. “Some folk
Like keeping next to getting. Past all doubt
He’d some sure reasons for those foreign parts.
There’s three good hands to go a-gathering—
Toil, time, and thrift; and he’s a pretty purse
Put by!—Why, you can see it in his face,
Close though he shuts his mouth up—people do,
That know the road to riches.”

⁠Meanwhile he
Reck’d little of their reckoning. Strenuous
And far a-field no more, he was not yet
Memory’s poor stay-at-home, upon the Past
Feeding a faint life; but the Present still
Stood richly friend to him, and his smooth days
Not bound, yet busy, unfatigued yet full,
Forward nor backward looking overmuch,
But each contain’d within its own ripe round,
Like windless autumn weather, steep’d in sun,
And haze-enfolded, slipp’d serenely by.

⁠To him employment and enjoyment were
But one: with his own hands to rear and reap
Crops he had sown on soil that he had till’d:
—To tend the creatures, seek the eggs, and on
The shed-door chalk the daily tally up:

⁠At ebb-tide, from the foreshore spring, to dip
Out of the strength of seaweed-cover’d rocks,
Sweet water for the household, and bear home,
Crystal to see and crystal cool to hear,
The radiant sheen, lip-lipping two grey pails:
⁠After high storms to rove the beach, and rout
The wind-rows, Pilot following, not for wood
And useful wreckage only, but the joy,
The curious joy, in-knit with human roots,
Of search itself: nay, if nought else he cull’d,
Tidings this travell’d débris of the waves
Never refused to give him, news far-come
Of strange sea-lives, of man’s vicissitudes,
The wide world yonder, and the deep world here:
⁠To mark the moon and chronicle the tides:
On blue and dulcet afternoons, to couch
In some warm elbow of the cliff, that holds
A bight of spreaded sea; and there for hours,
In Pilot’s panting company, to watch
The untir’d Deep travelling toward him, huge, alive,
Wonderful! one great drop of sapphire glow
Shimmering and shoaling like a peacock’s neck
To richest purple, azure and pure green,
Barr’d here and there with shafts of lustre, shot
Down by some high white cloud:
⁠To mark the gulls,
Sweeping so sure and easy thro’ the deep
Ravine of air, or toward the Blue above
The flash of bright white light beneath their wings
Upbearing, while their restless and hoarse cry

Voiced as it were of that smooth basking Blue
Beneath, the heart inveterately wild:—
⁠Or else compute, of every passing ship,
Curtseying schooner, seated red-wing’d barge,
Or hurried steamer busily riving up
The unresisting gloss, their several speed,
Tonnage and cargo, whence and whither bound,
But never grudge the roving of their keels:
⁠At night-fall, by the drift-oak’s various flame,
To pore upon old work-plans, books and charts,
With notes in labour’d writing; to survey
Old calculations, once work’d out, or go
Securely back in thought to old chill hours
Ere dawn . . . once more the breast-plate heavy hangs,
The caging helmet drops . . . the difficult breath
Buzzes . . . now, slowly over the boat-side
Heav’'d is the weighty body, and grows light;
While, flash’d to fire on either hand, the Dark
Pulses with radiance! till the far-off dawn,
Flushing yon upper world to life, pales this,
And weirdly thro’ the cold green glimmer move
Shadowy forms deep-dwelling. Ay, but cleave
With steady axe this ocean-thicket, ’mid
Whose moving tangle, What, unmoving looms,
What gleams? Kind Heaven, the pity! Where between
The drown’d ship’s ribs, ’mid fecund ooze and growth
That have no sense and yet how thick may thrive!
Mothers’ sons, bare boned, lie in cabins cold

While far-off homes wait empty . . . With a start
Suddenly might he shake that ill sight off,
Deliver’d thankfully to present peace,
As Mercy’s gentle hesitating voice
Spelt out the evening Psalms: and so to bed:—
Sometimes ’mid lashing rain to lie awake,
And thro’ the wind’s incessant lumbering, hear,
Safely, the great Voice boom: or, ’mid the stars
And silence, and the pausing of a mind
Profoundly by the far sea-rhythm lull’d—
’Mid Night’s wide simple quiet, perfected
By movements low without, of leaves and wind,
Live things unconscious nestling in their sleep,
And the beloved breathing at his side—
To drink long draughts of peace, to realize
Rest . . . till the sweetness of that shared repose
Would deepen down to love, and he would lie
Thinking: “Sure, we are happy! God is good!”

Such was his daily life, his year-long joy.

⁠Till one spring came. The bees woke up, brown buds
Were on the wallflowers, and fresh radiant days
Jollily brought the welcome season in.
’Twas time to plant young cabbage, peas and beans,
And work the winter stiffness from the joints.
Reuben was fain and hearty. But, indoors,
Day after day a little heavier hung
Their wonted tasks on two persisting hands,

That falter’d. Brightly still the dwelling shone,
And sweetly smell’d, with country cleanliness.
But at a cost now; and the frugal meals,
For one partaker all too plentiful,
Gradually later grew, the evening Psalms
Earlier—till, once, the low and quavering voice
Broke to a sob of pain. In one long look,
Silent, set one on either side the hearth,
That night they faced each other and the truth.
Mercy was ailing, and all things were changed.

⁠Now to take long’d-for action, yet not rouse
Fear in the other, was the care of each:
And by degrees, by cautious heedful steps,
Carefully hidden, perfectly perceiv’d,
They dared at last their common goal to touch,
And speak of doctor’s help—still furtively;
“To make ye eat a bit more,” Reuben said,
Concealing how the each-day-slower step,
Thinn’d face, and hid, unhideable pain had long
Wrung him with vague foreboding. “Nay, to make
My temper sweeter,” Mercy said, and smiled;
No word on her white lips of what hot wrath
Now gall’d implacably her days and nights,
Made toil a penance, rest a torture, stole
The savour out of prayer, and with dark dread
Wielding the awful power of the flesh
O’ershrouded all her circumstance of life.

⁠Next day they took the village road. It was

A morn of early March. The keen sweet air,
All of a-startle with the eager, wild,
Sudden exhilaration of the spring,
Ran riot in the blood. The glad young sun
Clear-ey’d, adown his steep blue paths of Heaven
Sprang laughing; in the dimples of the down
He nestled, ran along the twinkling grass,
Woo’d to faint smiles the wistful earth, and kiss’d
The ready waves into a world of glee.
The larch boughs in the spinney show’d a blush
Of coming verdure and smelt fresh of spring.
Warmth lay along the village; young green grass
Was springing ’neath the old grey churchyard wall,
And light sat reigning in the bare elm-tops.
Greetings on all sides met them, and the life
Came back to Mercy’s eye, to her wan cheek
The colour came, responding to a world
So glad and kind; and ready as of old
Her smiles return’d the laughter in the eyes
Of children, skipping schoolward, unabash’d
Even by Reuben, this delightful day.
Beyond the street young barley waved, the air
Came softer, over leagues of gentle land—
No more the wide starv’d russet, bur rich brown,
Pure yellow of the charlock, purple, fawn,
Emerald, and tender tints innumerable,
In rounding violet vapour at the last
Melting towards Heaven’s azure. Larks in the blue,
Lambs in the green fields lent a voice to joy;
Everything in this opening world with life,

New life, abounded. Pain, grief, age, all care,
Seem’d but some mad mistaking of the mind,
And, like a passion, Hope on Reuben seiz’d.
One basking crocus, at the doctor’s door,
With golden light o’erswimming, held his eye,
And seem’d to shine into his very heart.
How could that be so bright, and God so good,
And anything in all the world go ill?
Then the door open’d.

⁠With a joke at first
The old doctor greeted neighbours so well known,
So rarely seen—then listen’d, ask’d, grew grave:
Examin’d and grew graver; paus’d awhile . . .
On death-like stillness suddenly his voice
Clapp’d, loud and harsh with sensibility:
“Reuben, my man! Mercy, my poor good soul—
Bear up! I can do nothing.”

⁠“Nothing, sir?”
’Twas Mercy’s voice, quiet and steady; ’twas
Mercy he answer’d, talking on of rest,
Nursing, good nourishment; all palliatives—
But for a cure, not one. Some hospital
He named, which might receive her: but at that
She started, gasp’d, and “Let me die at home,”
She said. The last word scarcely pass’d her lips,
And no one spoke again.

⁠They rose to go,
But on the doorstep Reuben stopp’d, and rais’d
Slow eyes at last upon the doctor’s face—
“How long?” “Nine months or so—a year—” he stammer’d,
Shut-to the door, and hurried with hard work,
To bar away from quivering kindred depths
That gaze, of mute accepted agony—
Pain without end and with no anodyne
Into the quick of a live human heart
Dealt and receiv’d: thenceforth for evermore
To inhabit there and, like the heart’s own red,
Only with life itself pass out of life.

⁠Meanwhile, their two-mile walk the old pair went—
The other way now, homeward. And still, still,
The sweet light broad and delicately lay,
The young corn rippled and the air came kind,
The birds and lambs, ay, even the very clouds
Of heaven seem’d happy. Back, the way they came,
Slowly they went; the strength of both was ebb’d;
Slowly they went, and not one word the while.
Back, through the work-still’d village, past the elms,
The church, the humming school, the spinney, down
The white road and the tawny pasture lands,
Into the hollow, home. There stood the trees;
Blackie was browsing; and the currants, they
Would leaf next week; the thin blue smoke curl’d up

Just as it did on Sundays, coming home.
And home itself, and sky, and down, and sea
Were all as usual, everything the same—
All, all, how different!

⁠As they rose at length
That night together from their knees: “My lad,”
She whisper’d, “God is good; we’ve got a year,
Maybe.” But Reuben had no words to say.
In the deep middle of the night fierce pangs
Awoke her, but the groan upon her lips
Died, as she felt the breath come hot and quick
Between those other lips, and heard the voice
Dearer than life break into one low cry,
Quick-stifled, on the almighty name of God.

That spring-time wore and went. When summer came,
Mercy, grown pitifully weak, at last
Perforce to Reuben’s anxious daily plea
Gave way, and from the near town where she dwelt
Alone, in much-respected widowhood,
Heavily summon’d the oft-tender’d aid
Of Sarah, her one sister. She was good,
Godly, ungracious, with a caustic tongue,
Capable hands, and critical shrewd eyes,
That saw too well to see aright, too much
To see sufficient; thoroughly ransack’d

Foibles, and left large virtues out of view.
Clear sight is often near sight; specks of dust
Are duly through a microscope discern’d—
Not stars: nor measurable at one sharp glance
Are the immense horizon lines of Truth.
But she was vigorous, skilful, loyal, sure,
None ever master’d Sarah, saving one
That wanted wit—her brother; him she serv’d
And humour’d with sweet patience until Death
Emptied her clasping and reluctant hands.
And, partly for her well-to-do sleek state,
Her town-bred and authoritative air,
Part for a certain piquant zest she had
In telling vivid tales of love and blood,
Nay, somewhat for her very sharpness’ sake
(Like children, a severity deserv’d,
A touch assur’d, respecting): readily
Her old-time village neighbours welcom’d her,
And felt her presence lent a spice to things,
Whenever (’twas not often) she might choose
Touch and talk with them.

⁠But ’twas otherwise
With Reuben. When the late October days
Droop dull low heavens o’er the unsunn’d down,
And rhyme grey melancholy leagues above
With grey and melancholy leagues below—
Still the flowers tarry; and the blank outspread
Of lonely landscape, separate step by step,

Is thro’ their tender trivial influence
Redeem’d, and still has charm. But when, betwixt
Day and day sunless, foggy night on night
Brings the slight frost unfailing, and the pinch’d
Earthnut and harebells, and wan scabious
Fade, and are not succeeded: then indeed
Hard skies beneath, and o’er a naked land,
A starveling and a settled gloom presides.
And so on Reuben Sarah’s influence fell.
Sheath’d by no shame and edged with judgment cold,
That steely scrutiny could wound, and though,
Untemper’d in the fires of sympathy,
Oft it must glance aside and leave him still
Unsearch’d, unviolated: none the less
Its neighbourhood was a perpetual daunt.
It chill’d his spirit, his small innocences
Rebuk’d, penn’d in and paralysed his powers,
And from a life of happiness bereft
Filch’d comfort also. Little heeded he.
What is the loss of Less when All is gone?
Yet drearier is the bleak November down
For the dead stalks of its once-colour’d flowers.

⁠Smooth days no more, and tender peaceful nights;
Vague gentle dalliance with the days long past,
And calm unreckoning with futurity,
No more. Old hardship seem’d a happy dream,

Old joys incredible; and days to come
Held but one fact, frightful, inevitable,
Real. Within doors often now forbid,
Excluded by himself at first, until
Time to a front of perfect apathy
Should school him, his free wanderings over down
And cliff-side and the curious varied shore
He yet abandon’d quite, and all day long
Toil’d only with a double industry
At the old duties, rarely from earshot
Of what the humble home of Joy had been
Once, but was now of Anguish. And when light
Fail’d him, or labour, he would creep away
Into the old wood-shed, and there for hours
Sit, with a listless hand on Pilot’s neck,
Blankly before him gazing, motionless;
Till a shrill summons, or the step that woke
The dog’s low growling, call’d him. No Psalms now,
And a far different, harder prayer, alone.

⁠But level steps ’twixt rock and rock are found,
Moments of lull in storms, and ’mid long pain
A respite. Mercy’s pangs would slack at times,
And Sarah’s conscience warrant to all three
A holiday from over-help. Such care
As Reuben’s, strait-laced up at every point
With endless detail’d charges, then might serve,
And she among the village gossips take

A well-won recreation, chat and cheer,
And the delight of hinted self-applause
Loudly re-echoing round. Till, soon, as well
Of Sarah’s as of Mercy’s many trials
Word ran abroad: of Reuben’s vexing ways,
His years and all their burdens (he was nigh
His dotage, any one could see): his sloth,
Clumsiness, closeness and stupidity:
How he spent hours outside—and just as well—
Indoors he sat as mum as any corpse . . .”
Poor soul, she meant no malice. Watch like hers
Body and mind o’er-racks, and if Care’s breath
Can curdle in the heart at times even Love,
How much more like is work-day Charity
So to forswear itself! By this grey day,
Inexorable, of Destiny oppress’d,
Tir’d with this tireless tempest of sore woe
(Unearn’d, and seen in secret as a wrong),
She, being for strength and weakness, what she was,
Must rail; and rail’d on Reuben, since upon
The felt cause of her burden, unconfess’d
But without recognition recognized—
On God, she dared not rail.

⁠At home, the while,
Such halcyon noons or blessed gloamings through,
Mercy and Reuben might together be
Alone once more. Upon those precious hours,

Peace, the long-exiled housemate, stealing back,
Might smile, with careworn lips. There, hand in hand,
They patiently abode, like two that wait.
Silent they sat together, Reuben’s gaze
Fix’d idly on the once dear apple boughs,
And Mercy watching the long thro’-shine turn
To pillars and to pennons of green light
Her window lily-leaves. They seldom look’d
At one another, very seldom spoke;
Sometimes a fitful word or two might slip.
“She tries you, Reuben.” “Nay, she tends thee, lass!”
“Three now to feed—however shall we do?
An’ all this weary doctoring!” “Never fret!
Two can feed three, dear heart, an’ ’tis kind soil
This year.” “Next year—O, lad!——” On such a word
Would silence close again, until—quick steps,
The door flung open, and the stinging tones:
Thro’ conscience-pricks, it may be, doubly sharp.
Mercy had talk’d too much—or else been moped;
The fire was low—a furnace—and despite
The wistful voice, “O sister, let him stay!”
Water or wood must instantly be brought,
And Reuben, rising, with one full fond look
Into those understanding pleading eyes,
Would reach his cap, and, Pilot slinking close,
Go out, obey the heard commandment first,
Then the unheard, buy quiet for his wife
At his own cost and so come back no more.

⁠That summer went, that autumn, winter, spring.
Next summer came, and still she linger’d on
And could not die: a piteous creature now,
Whose weary world to the rack’d body’s sense,
At furthest to her chamber wall was shrunk.
Whose set monotony of pain no care
Could vary now; the gentle garrulousness
Gone, the brave cheer of that sunshiny spirit
Quench’d; even for Reuben scarce a greeting now.
A whole once-happy kindly human being
Turn’d to a fine machine for feeling pain,
Whose intervals of rest were nothingness.
Alive, yet lifeless: dying, far from death:
Obscure, to signal martyrdom adjudged:
Innocent, with inhuman tortures wrung.
—O strange, inscrutable world!

⁠For Reuben now
No sweet shared vigil, no reviving change
For Sarah. But the neighbours to and fro
Came with kind aid; and went with strange reports.
Reuben was rarely altered. Age was age
And trouble trouble—but what trouble need
Glue up the lips and screw the eyelids down,
And make a man as shy of company
As if he was himself a bit of gold
And all his neighbours thieves? And as to age—
He did look wan and wisht, not Mercy’s face
Show’d more the bone—yet see what strength he had!

Always at work! Ah, he knew how to gain,
And how to grasp—and how to turn the key!
Thrift was that call’d? which bid a man of means
With no more youth in his veins, to live himself,
And half expect his helpers would (but they
Were wiser), on his garden-stuff—home-grown,
You see, not piping any pennies out!
Some days again he wholly idled; walked
Twice, to the harbour-town and back, ten miles;
Why—nobody dare ask, for, push’d too far,
He would speak, short and savage.

⁠Till, as mould
O’er objects from the public air’s free touch
Too long reserv’d, there subtly stole and clung
O’er Reuben’s untold motives, leprous films
Of rootless rumour, breaths of thin surmise
That soon, a solid and a monstrous mask,
Disgraced the form they covered. Talk began
Of miser’s craft in Reuben, of bygone
Fatal privation forced on Mercy—sow’d
With gold that much-lov’d garden, and the hands
That dress’d it, dyed with innocent spilt blood.

⁠So ran the village verdict. For the rest,
His dumb indifference gave the parson scope

(A young oft-puzzled man) for ponderings dark
On heaven-sent grief that hardens; and grim cause
Had the dry pity which, invading, sapp’d
The doctor’s old regard. Reuben, who long
Had shunn’d his visits, as he left the house
One July noon, upon the dusty road
Stood and confronted him with last year’s cry:
“Doctor! how long?” Remembering last year’s look
The doctor glanced away and shook his head.
“I say, How long?” cried Reuben in a voice
So rude and desperate that the other turn’d
Quickly, a moment stared at the strange light
(Not anger, dread, despair—hope could it be?)
Fierce and peremptory in those faded eyes,
Then slowly, with attention, answer’d: “Well—
In such a case ’tis hard to tell. Perhaps—
Say—at a hazard, Christmas time——”

⁠“So long?”
The light died out, the pinch’d and sombre face
Grew ashen. “God ha’ mercy on us!” he said
Like one who knows not what his tongue is doing—
“Christmas? Live on to Christmas!” “But the pain
May lessen,” said the doctor, watching. “Ay!”
He answer’d dull, “That’s good . . . That’s not it.
⁠Pain?
All’s pain now—No!” he suddenly cried out,
“There'll not be less! More, doctor, worse!”——

⁠He stopped,
Ey’d him suspiciously and shambled off.
The doctor sigh’d. “It seems her body will
Outlive his mind. He was a fine man once.”

⁠Some weeks ere Christmas, a prolong’d west wind
Brought constant rain; till, three days ere the feast,
Round to the north it shifted, and keen frost
Turn’d into slides of ice the watery roads,
While o’er the downs an ominous mass’d wall
Bulged up, of loose grey cloud. Then the wind ceased,
The frost held, and the snow began. Five days,
Five muffled days, five still and soundless nights,
The soft snow fell, and stay’d. It hush’d the sea,
The virginal white land inviolate set,
And rear’d ’twixt man and man frail barriers
That firm and staunchly held. All round the house
No sight, no sense, but of unending snow.
Doctor nor friend along those treacherous tracks
And thro’ that blinding daze could come. Instead
Came Peace; instead, the blessed face of Death
With tender sunset glow at last illum’d
The long grey gloom of Dying. Mercy’s hour
Drew near, but for five days before she died
Suffering released her, and once more she lived.

⁠There, in a sacred quietude enwrapt,
Tranquil she lay within Death’s gentle arms;
Already from the ills of Life remote,

And to Life’s heart, close, close. Hers now at last
Of all the well-known shows to know the sense,
The real heart of friends, the vital calm.
Stay’d thus awhile upon Time’s outmost shore,
A willing and a trustful charge she lay
Facing Eternity. From that small room,
From that high court and sovereign Presence pure
Rancour retreated, trouble fled away.
Reuben and Sarah by that bedside lost
All sense of interacting strain and jar.
She but perceiv’d her dying sister’s face,
Reuben, his wife’s—and both, the breath of God.

⁠But, the fifth day at evening, came a change;
Thaw, with a south wind and persistent rain
Pattering all night long. Blue came the day;
Sea-scented and sun-scented the mild air
Set quick green footsteps in the floor of white.
Nature revived. And Sarah, as she stood
Watching the world return, and spied at last
A figure ’mid the landscape, smiled, and said:
“Here comes the doctor—but you're better, lass.
Eh, we'll do yet.” There came upon her words
A moan—a gasp—a pause; and turning round,
“Mercy!” she wailed. Bending above the bed
With exultation Reuben answer’d her.
“She’s gone!” he said. “She’s gone at last, thank God!’
⁠“Gone!” Sarah cried: “dead, Reuben? Your wife dead,

And you with a ‘Thank God’?”

⁠He rose and went,
Not speaking, to the window, like a man
That wakes, and after darkness would have light.
Next moment, he was gripping at her arm,
Face bloodless, eyes on fire—“Give me your word,
Woman, ere yon man come! Promise me! Say
You'll bury her. You must bury her. I’ve nought.”
“Reuben!” she cried in fierce resentment: then
The memory of their late watch side by side,
The sense of that new ending, coming back,
Rebuked and gentlier moved her. “He is crazed,”
She said: “Poor soul, the trouble’s ta’en his wits.
Come, Reuben! pluck up heart.” “Nay, not my wits,
It’s taken all the money,” he replied.

⁠Then, strong suspicion seiz’d her. Not one word
She spoke, but stood there facing him, and probed
His face with piercing eyes. His eyes, but now
So urgent, were dropp’d down; his head hung down;
His body seem’d to dwindle as it stood,
And not one limb or line or hair of him
But mean it look’d and shamed. With strong disgust
Her decent heart was shaken. “Coin’s made flat:
That’s cause enough, for you, to pile it up!
Miser! at your old tricks again, and she
Not cold!” He straighten’d up and raised his head;
As if the taunt put strength in him. His eyes,

Deep, hollow, sad, look’d truly into hers.
“Sarah! I have no money. Before God
I have not! Sure you'll promise, Sarah? For
She was your sister.”

⁠“And she was your wife,

And now you'll grudge the burying of her. Shame!
Shame on you, Reuben! Everybody knows
What kind of roots lie in your garden there.”

⁠“Folks say what say they will, I wot—'tis God

Knows.” His voice broke a little. Then he said:
“‘He’s yet a good step off. I'll tell ye all.
When I’d to quit my calling, and we'd paid
To put the place right (for the agent’s hard
And I was fain to live here), we had left
No more but just enough. It would have been
Enough; what with the garden and the bees
And doing of such work as old folk can,
We look’d to live on quiet a good while,
And then die quiet. Had it pleas’d God so,
There’d ha’ been plenty. But it’s been His will
This way; and there’s been doctor, and the drugs
And food and such. I tried to stretch it out:—
You know if I’ve lived close: but her club stopp’d;
An’ mine, I’ve had to slip ’em one by one,
An’ she lived longer nor I’d reckon’d for.
All’s gone—Praise God! she’ll never need to know,
Now.”

⁠“Ye can sell some o’ the house-stuff, then,”
Said Sarah stoutly, tho’ her secret heart
Reel’d with a consternation yet ungauged:
“Or get a mortgage on the house and land—
Not that I grudge, but he that’s gear to hold
Has gear to handle.” “House nor land is mine.
It never was,” he answer’d wondering, “and
I doubt there’s little o’ the house-stuff mine.
It’s four months that I’m owing for the rent.
They said they’d put a man in after three,
Then after four—and the fourth’s up—it fell
O’ Christmas, and no going to beg more time
By reason of the snow. God’s blessing on it,
It’s seen her safe away! Now, when he comes,
He may come, him you took for doctor, him
That’s coming yonder—for all’s theirs by right—
The very bed is theirs.”

⁠“He’s coming now?”
Cried Sarah. She believed at last. His tone,
Simple, direct, left no more room for doubt.
Sorrier far than wonted weakness is
The helplessness of strength; with hanging hands
Beside the silent bed she stood stock-still
And fumbled in her mind. “Have pity on us!
Oh, my poor Mercy! Oh, what will folk say?
Reuben! you’d never, never let him in?
Not right in the dead face of her?” She came
And crouch’d beside him, like a wild thing tamed,

All heart gone out of it. “You’ve something, sure?
Oh, pay him off—don’t grudge it her that’s gone,
Pay him off, man! You must! To think o’ this!
Oh, dear, what will they say?”

⁠He took a crock
Off the high shelf, and turn’d it upside down;
But not one coin fell out. “Last time he came
You saw me pay the doctor: an’ I sold
All I could carry into town with me,
An’ made a written promise o’ some more
(Leaving what’s justly right to quit the rent),
An’ paid the rest of em. There’s no more debts.
There’s no more money, but there’s no more debts.
He’s ta’en her in the nick o’ time—but, eh! . . .
He drove it near!”

⁠She said no more; and both
Sat still while, she sobbing, patient he
As one whose only office is, to wait.
At last there came the knocking, and he rose.
“Say you will bury her, Sarah?”

⁠Like a flash
She was between him and the door, both hands
Upon the undrawn bolt. “Yes, yes! But, oh,

Keep him out, Reuben! Reuben lad, I'll pay!
I doubt all hasn’t been your fault. Oh, say
I'll stand, say anything! Only keep him out.”

⁠“I cannot keep him out. The man must do

His duty,” he replied; “and, Sarah lass,
What can it matter, now?” His quiet voice
Was weighted with a dignity from which
She shrank abash’d. The bailiff knock’d again,
And Reuben drew the bolt and let him in.

⁠After the long wild tossing months of rain
And roaring, ice and gloom, on some still dawn,
Windless and mild, the weakling earth awakes.
And, lo! once more on mother-knees it lies,
And on a dear face opens heavy lids—
For there, pale, pensive, veil’d in quietude,
Finger on lip, yet not without a smile,
Spring broods above her nurseling; all is well!
Then, in the spinney, arums of the wood
Push up their young white necks, unfurl their broad
And genial green about some prone fir-tree,
By winter tempests fell’d. The sweet air breathes,
The pale beams play about it, quivering light
Flits on to it and off, while through the twigs
The busy finches flit. But never more
Beneath that blister’d bark the suppling sap
Will rise; the August sunlight ne’er shall bask

Amid those broad boughs more. The storms are done,
The winter past, each other last year’s growth
Replenish’d is, and hidden seed finds birth.
Life warm and closely laps it—but the tree
Is dead, and dead will lie:

⁠So was it now
With Reuben. Comfort from far off and near
Pour’d on him. Sarah’s tale, by alter’d lips
In altering ears now told, to eager aid
Arous’d the oft unready, ever real
Kindliness of an English countryside.
The poorer neighbours, this with food, and that
With fuel, each one with the shy excuse,
“Wishing to spare you toil and trouble,” came;
And what more rescue lay within their reach
The rest procured. Money indeed none dared
To offer, but the agent, a hard man,
Whose master was abroad, was given cause
To stay the seizure of the goods until
Forth from that dwelling to her last should fare
Their sometime mistress. And a place for him,
A home and tendance, long as he should need,
Soon as he wish’d them, waited the old man—
Sarah’s; the unwonted stirring of whose heart
Her wonted reason troubled, and perhaps
Deceiv’d. But Reuben’s mind was steady. “No:
I thank ye kindly, but the House is best.
We’d only fret each other. I’ve paid rates

Regular all these years, an’ going there
I’m none so much beholden; I’ve a right
There.”

⁠Tho’ she knew him wise—tho’ sturdy sense,
Ashamed but truthful, told her what had been
Would be again, and warn’d her that Impulse,
So strong in promise and in proof so weak,
Never will alter Nature: yet his dull
Indifference struck upon her soften’d heart
As a stone strikes on flesh. Nor only so—
But all that warm and new-sensed sympathy,
So general now about him, found it strange
And somewhat chilling that its care on one
So careless, so entirely untouch’d,
Must needs be lavish’d. Ay, the spring was back,
The air had soften’d; but the tree was dead.
Reuben, long toss’d upon vicissitudes,
A calm had reach’d where no man touch’d him more.

⁠The day they buried Mercy he came back,
A frail old man, alone; but there was still
One left to bid him welcome. Pilot tore
At his unwonted chain and snapp’d the links,
Leaping and barking with a frantic joy
Untestified for months, to find the long
Lone waiting over, and his master back.

He stoop’d, and ’twixt his hands the nestling head
Held for a moment, for a moment gazed
In the warm eager eyes; then took his gun,
New-primed, and once more to the shed they went,
Trusting and trusted, two old comrades. There
He shot him through the heart; nor did his hand
Tremble, nor was there in his eye one tear
Then, or thereafter, digging the small grave
Under the sycamore trees.

⁠With slow long toil
Thro’ the remainder daylight, and thro’ much
Of the long dark, within the silent house
He work’d till all was orderly and clean,
Ready for stranger-hands. Midnight had struck
Ere all was done; and, all being duly done,
He lock’d each well-known door behind him, left
The hollow and went forth into the night.

⁠There was no moon. The great black sky was strown
With stars innumerable; the quiet air
Brought up the ceaseless sighing of the sea.
Out on the darkling promontory he came,
Came to the blank cliff-edge, and there stood still,
Homeless, alone, amid a night twofold.

⁠Void, void was all about him—Heaven’s huge height,
Earth’s last abyss, the cold and spacious Deep,
The immeasurable spread of unfill’d air,
Not more unmitigated, not more sheer,
Opened about his single shape of man
Than round his soul, unfenced, denuded, lone,
Lay the bare outlook—God! And if then he,
From all his fellows at a distance set
Dumb, at the last with passionate outcry
Dared to his Maker turn: if then awhile
Vainly he stretch’d his soul to measure God;
Arraign’d the judgment of the one just Judge,
Rose in revolt ’gainst Life: who, being man,
That knows the impact of the limits, knows
The wildness of the God-given instincts foil’d—
Reason embattled, smarting struggling sense
Of Justice, thwarted Love-of-law at bay—
Who dare condemn him? And, Who made the wings,
Will He their needs-must beating at the bars
Blame? or disown that power-in-powerlessness,
That vital spirit, which, come enfranchisement,
Straight to His bosom would the bird bear home?

⁠Yet, if he thus strove long (and those few dread
And poignant moments in his tale of life
Outdid the partial measurement of time,
Outvolumed shallower years): far otherwise
Influence more potent, more inveterate,
More fundamental wrought, and, last, prevail’d.

Reverence inborn, habitual humbleness,
Just-dealing memory, and, Life’s great gift—
The heart’s gain’d knowledge ineradicable
Of Love—of proven, real, all-vital Love—
These on his thought laid compensating stress
And sway’d the fair scale back. Nay, more, his soul
Even from out the matrix of despair
Pluck’d forth strong reassurance; her bared brow,
And emptied world, discovering to her
The infinitesimal smallness of herself.
Whence power ensued; and as night sped, such words
Now and again unconscious broke from him:

⁠“It is impossible that all should be
Waste—our love nothing, all her pain no use,
Worthless this land and sea, and all those stars!
There must be some real reason lies beyond,
Sure—some complete plan running fore and aft,
(Could we but see it) why we should be born,
And die, and, this and then betwixt, have pain.
What? How can I tell? Little of dry land
Live corals know, that make it, when they die.

⁠The years are very many, and the world
Enormous. For a moment, in the midst,
I, I—one atom—ask about my lot!
I! What am I? That’s not it—what am I
For? If there’s reason in it—and there is—
And if God knows His business—which He does—
Each atom must ha’ got its atom’s use,

Each mite o’ dust its work. Take any plan:
There’s ne’er a single separate thing in it
But’s there to help the others: must be there,
To help the rest bring out the whole thing right.
Not for a sitting softly, but for use:
That’s sense—the standing-ways they must stay fixt,
The sliding-ways must travel and not stop,
The cradle must keep faithful to the keel—
Ay, and the ropes to check her, an’ the blocks
Needed to steady as she makes her plunge
The vessel that’s to tread mid-ocean, must
Break—but they all help! . . .

⁠“Ah, that helps me out!
Old, broken, mazed, or young and strong and sure,
We’re just like that. What are we in the end,
What are we meant for, what’s the good of us,
But each to eke out everybody else,
An’ all to do His work? So, then, for me,
I must be wanted, else I’d be put out . . .
A kind o’ block, perhaps, that’s being broke. . . .
Well, an’ if that’s my business, turn it round!
If good to others must mean ill to me.
That ill to me is others’ good, and God’s.
My breaking is their making—I’m of use!

⁠“An’ whether it’s all just, how can I judge,
Lord God? Or care to, neither. For it’s Thou!
Ay, it all lies in that. It is Thyself

Stands back and forth it, everyway. I see,
Now that I must look closely, nought but Thee.
For the plan’s Thine, the stuff, the tools are Thine,
The making—and the breaking, Lord—all’s Thine!

Break me, then, if I’m usefullest that way;
Break me, and let me help Thee. It’s Thy hand;
It’s been Thy hand all thro’ and—she was broke.

. . . Man’s mind’s a little thing, but this is sure—
Where’er I’m wrong, I’m right here—Work o’ His
Must go straight thro’, no shirking and no sham.
She never shirk’d. An’ if it’s hard, ’tis hard:
But all the time it’s what He needs. O God,
Master o’ men! You need me. I'll not fail!
I'll e’en bide out my breaking to the end.”

⁠The solemn hours paced on, darkness and stars
And silence. There he stood but spoke no more.

⁠Then came a comfortless and foggy dawn.
He left the cliff, and to the hollow came
Once more—paus’d, look’d—pass’d on, and went his way,
First to deliver up his house keys, then
To seek the parish workhouse, far inland.