The Silent Tide

A tangled orchard round the farm-house spreads,     Wherein it stands home-like, but desolate,     'Midst crowded and uneven-statured sheds,     Alike by rain and sunshine sadly stained.     A quiet country-road before the door     Runs, gathering close its ruts to scale the hill -     A sudden bluff on the New Hampshire coast,     That rises rough against the sea, and hangs     Crested above the bowlder-sprinkled beach.     And on the road white houses small are strung     Like threaded beads, with intervals. The church     Tops the rough hill; then comes the wheelwright's shop.     From orchard, church, and shop you hear the sea,     And from the farm-house windows see it strike     Sharp gleams through slender arching apple-boughs.     Sea-like, too, echoing round me here there rolls     A surging sorrow; and even so there breaks     A smitten light of woe upon me, now,     Seeing this place, and telling o'er again     The tale of those who dwelt here once. Long since     It was, and they were two - two brothers, bound     By early orphanage and solitude     The closer, cleaving strongly each to each,     Till love, that held them many years in gage,     Itself swept them asunder. I have heard     The story from old Deacon Snow, their friend,     He who was boy and man with them. A boy!     What, he? How strange it seems! who now is stiff     And warped with life's fierce heat and cold: his brows     Are hoary white, and on his head the hairs     Stand sparse as wheat-stalks on the bare field's edge!     Reuben and Jerry they were named; but two     Of common blood and nurture scarce were found     More sharply different. For the first was bold,     Breeze-like and bold to come or go; not rash,     But shrewdly generous, popular, and boon:     And Jerry, dark and sad-faced. Whether least     He loved himself or neighbor none could tell,     So cold he seemed in wonted sympathy.     Yet he would ponder an hour at a time     Upon a bird found dead; and much he loved     To brood i' th' shade of yon wind-wavered pines.     Often at night, too, he would wander forth,     Lured by the hollow rumbling of the sea     In moonlight breaking, there to learn wild things,     Such as these dreamers pluck out of the dusk     While other men lie sleeping. But a star,     Rose on his sight, at last, with power to rule     Majestically mild that deep-domed sky,     High as youth's hopes, that stood above his soul;     And, ruling, led him dayward. That was Grace,     I mean Grace Brierly, daughter of the squire,     Rivaling the wheelwright Hungerford's shy Ruth     For beauty. Therefore, in the sunny field,     Mowing the clover-purpled grass, or, waked     In keen December dawns, - while creeping light     And winter-tides beneath the pallid stars     Stole o'er the marsh together, - a thought of her     Would turn him cool or warm, like the south breeze,     And make him blithe or bitter. Alas for him!     Eagerly storing golden thoughts of her,     He locked a phantom treasure in his breast.     He sought to chain the breezes, and to lift     A perfume as a pearl before his eyes -     Intangible delight! A time drew on     When from these twilight musings on his hopes     He woke, and found the morning of his love     Blasted, and all its rays shorn suddenly.     For Reuben, too, had turned his eye on Grace,     And she with favoring face the suit had met,     Known in the village; this dream-fettered youth     Perceiving not what passed, until too late.     One holiday the young folks all had gone     Strawberrying, with the village Sabbath-school;     Reuben and Grace and Jerry, Ruth, Rob Snow,     And all their friends, youth-mates that buoyantly     Bore out 'gainst Time's armadas, like a fleet     Of fair ships, sunlit, braced by buffeting winds,     Indomitably brave; but, soon or late,     Battle and hurricane or whirl them deep     Below to death, or send them homeward, seared     By shot and storm: so went they forth, that day.     Two wagons full of rosy children rolled     Along the rutty track, 'twixt swamp and slope,     Through deep, green-glimmering woods, and out at last     On grassy table-land, warm with the sun     And yielding tributary odors wild     Of strawberry, late June-rose, juniper,     Where sea and land breeze mingled. There a brook     Through a bare hollow flashing, spurted, purled,     And shot away, yet stayed - a light and grace     Unconscious and unceasing. And thick pines,     Hard by, drew darkly far away their dim     And sheltering, cool arcades. So all dismount,     And fields and forest gladden with their shout;     Ball, swing, and see-saw sending the light hearts     Of the children high o'er earth and everything.     While some staid, kindly women draw and spread     In pine-shade the long whiteness of a cloth,     The rest, a busy legion, o'er the grass     Kneeling, must rifle the meadow of its fruit.     O laughing Fate! O treachery of truth     To royal hopes youth bows before! That day,     Ev'n there where life in such glad measure beat     Its round, with winds and waters, tunefully,     And birds made music in the matted wood,     The shaft of death reached Jerry's heart: he saw     The sweet conspiracy of those two lives,     In looks and gestures read his doom, and heard     Their laughter ring to the grave all mirth of his.     So Reuben's life in full leaf stood, its fruit     Hidden in a green expectancy; but all     His days were rounded with ripe consciousness:     While Jerry felt the winter's whitening blight,     As when that frosty fern-work and those palms     Of visionary leaf, and trailing vines,     Quaint-chased by night-winds on the pane, melt off,     And naked earth, stone-stiff, with bristling trees,     Stares in the winter sunlight coldly through.     But yet he rose, and clothed himself amain     With misery, and once more put on life     As a stained garment. Highly he resolved     To make his deedless days henceforward strike     Pure harmony - a psalm of silences.     But on the Sunday, coming from the church,     He saw those happy, plighted lovers walk     Before proud Grace's father, and of friends     Heard comment and congratulation given.     Then with Rob Snow he hurried to the beach,     To a rough heap of stones they two had reared     In boyhood. There the two held sad debate     Of life's swift losses, Bob inspiriting still,     Jerry rejecting hope, ev'n though his friend,     Self-wounding (for he loved Ruth Hungerford),     Told how the wheelwright's daughter longed for him,     And yet might make him glad, though Grace was lost.     The season deepened, and in Jerry's heart     Ripened a thought charged with grave consequence.     His grief he would have stifled at its birth,     Sad child of frustrate longing! But anon -     Knowledge of Ruth's affection being revealed,     Which, if he stayed to let it feed on him,     Vine-like might wreathe and wind about his life,     Lifting all shade and sweetness out of reach     Of Robert, so long his friend - honor, and hopes     He would not name, kindled a torch for war     Of various impulse in him. Reuben wedded;     Yet Jerry lingered. Then, swift whisperings     Along reverberant walls of gossips' ears     Hummed loud and louder a love for Ruth. Grace, too,     Involved him in a web of soft surmise     With Ruth; and Reuben questioned him thereof.     But a white, sudden anger struck like a bolt     O'er Jerry's face, that blackened under it:     He strode away, and left his brother dazed,     With red rush of offended self-conceit     Staining his forehead to the hair. This flash     Of anger - first since boyhood's wholesome strifes -     On Jerry's path gleamed lurid; by its light     He shaped a life's course out.              There came a storm     One night. He bade farewell to Ruth; and when     Above the seas the bare-browed dawn arose,     While the last laggard drops ran off the eaves,     He dressed, but took some customary garb     On his arm; stole swiftly to the sands; and there     Cast clown his garments by the ancient heap     Of stones. At first brief pause he made, and thought:     "And thus I play, to win perchance a tear     From her whom, first, to save the smallest care,     I thought I could have died!" But then at once     Within the sweep of swirling water-planes     That from the great waves circled up and slid     Instantly back, passing far down the shore,     Southward he made his way. Next day he shipped     Upon a whaler outward bound. She spread     Her mighty wings, and bore him far away -     So far, Death seemed across her wake to stalk,     Withering her swift shape from the empty air,     Until her memory grew a faded dream.     Ah, what a desolate brightness that young day     Flung o'er the impassive strand and dull green marsh     And green-arched orchard, ere it struck the farm!     Storm-strengthened, clear, and cool the morning rose     To gaze down on that frighted home, where dawned     Pale Ruth's discovery of her loss, who late,     Guessing some ill in Jerry's last-night words     Of vague farewell, woke now to certainty     Of strange disaster. So, when Reuben and Rob,     Hither and thither searching, with locked lips     And eyes grown suddenly cold in eager dread,     On those still sands beside the untamed sea,     Came to the garments Jerry had thrown there, dumb     They stood, and knew he'd perished. If by chance     Borne out with undertow and rolled beneath     The gaping surge, or rushing on his death     Free-willed, they would not guess; but straight they set     Themselves to watch the changes of the sea -     The watchful sea that would not be betrayed,     The surly flood that echoed their suspense     With hollow-sounding horror. Thus three tides     Hurled on the beach their empty spray, and brought     Nor doubt-dispelling death, nor new-born hope.     But with the fourth slow turn at length there came     A naked, drifting body impelled to shore,     An unknown sailor by the late storm swept     Out of the rigging of some laboring ship.     And him, disfigured by the water's wear,     The watching friends supposed their dead; and so,     Mourning, took up this outcast of the deep,     And buried him, with church-rite and with pall     Trailing, and train of sad-eyed mourners, there     In the old orchard-lot by Reuben's door.     Observed among the mourners walked slight Ruth.     Her grief had dropped a veil of finer light     Around her, hedging her with sanctity     Peculiar; all stood shy about her save     Rob Snow, he venturing from time to time     Some small, uncertain act of kindliness.     Long seemed she vowed from joy, but when the birds     Began to mate, and quiet violets blow     Along the brook-side, lo! she smiled again;     Again the wind-flower color in her cheeks     Blanch'd in a breath, and bloomed once more; then stayed;     Till, like the breeze that rumors ripening buds,     A delicate sense crept through the air that soon     These two would scale the church-crowned hill, and wed.     The seasons faced the world, and fled, and came.     In summer nights, the soft roll of the sea     Was shattered, resonant, beneath a moon     That, silent, seemed to hearken. And every hour     In autumn, night or day, large apples fell     Without rebound to earth, upon the sod     There mounded greenly by the large slate slab     In the old orchard-lot near Reuben's door.     But there were changes: after some long years     Reuben and Grace beheld a brave young boy     Bearing their double life abroad in one -     Beginning new the world, and bringing hopes     That in their path fell flower-like. Not at ease     They dwelt, though; for a slow discordancy     Of temper - weak-willed waste of life in bursts     Of petulance - had marred their happiness.     And so the boy, young Reuben, as he grew,     Was chafed and vexed by this ill-fitting mode     Of life forced on him, and rebelled. Too oft     Brooding alone, he shaped loose schemes of flight     Into the joyous outer world, to break     From the unwholesome wranglings of his home.     Then once, when at some slight demur he made,     Dispute ensued between the man and wife,     He burst forth, goaded, "Some day I will leave -     Leave you forever!" And his father stared,     Lifted and clenched his hand, but let it unloose,     Nerveless. The blow, unstruck, yet quivered through     The boy's whole body.             Waiting for the night,     Reuben made ready, lifted latch, went forth;     Then, with his little bundle in his hand,     Took the bleak road that led him to the world.     When Jerry eighteen years had sailed, had bared     His hurt soul to the pitiless sun and drunk     The rainy brew of storms on all seas, tired     Of wreck and fever and renewed mischance     That would not end in death, a longing stirred     Within him to revisit that gray coast     Where he was born. He landed at the port     Whence first he sailed; and, as in fervid youth,     Set forth upon the highway, to walk home.     Some hoarding he had made, wherewith to enrich     His brother's brood for spendthrift purposes;     And as he walked he wondered how they looked,     How tall they were, how many there might be.     At noon he set himself beside the way,     Under a clump of willows sprouting dense     O'er the weed-woven margin of a brook;     While in the fine green branches overhead     Song-sparrows lightly perched, for whom he threw     From his scant bread some crumbs, remembering well     Old days when he had played with birds like these -     The same, perhaps, or grandfathers of theirs,     Or earlier still progenitors: whereat     They chirped and chattered louder than before.     But, as he sat, a boy came down the road,     Stirring the noontide dust with laggard feet.     Young Reuben 't was, who seaward made his way.     And Jerry hailed him, carelessly, his mood     Moving to salutation, and the boy,     From under his torn hat-brim looking, answered.     Then, seeing that he eyed his scrap of bread,     The sailor bade him come and share it. So     They fell to talk; and Jerry, with a rough,     Quick-touching kindness, the boy's heart so moved     That unto him he all his wrong confessed.     Gravely the sailor looked at him, and told     His own tale of mad flight and wandering; how,     Wasted he had come back, his life a husk     Of withered seeds, a raveled purse, though once     With golden years well stocked, all squandered now.     At ending, he prevailed, and Reub was won     To turn and follow. Jerry, though he knew     Not yet the father's name, said he that way     Was going, too, and he would intercede     Between the truant and his father. Back     Together then they went. But on the way,     As now they passed from pines to farming-land,     The boy asked more. "'T is queer you should have come     From these same parts, and run away like me!     You did not tell me how it happened."     JERRY.              Foolish,     All of it! But I thought it weightier     Than the world's history, once. I could not stay     And see my brother married to the girl     I loved; and so I went.     THE BOY.             I had an uncle     That was in love. But he - he drowned himself.     Why do men do so?     JERRY.             Drowned himself? And when?     THE BOY.     I don't know. Long ago; it's like a dream     To me. I was not born then. Deacon Snow     Has told me something of it. Mother cries     Even now, beside his grave. Poor uncle!     JERRY.             His grave!     (That could not be, then.) Yet if it should be,     How can I think Grace cried -     THE BOY.             How did you know     My mother's name was Grace?     JERRY.              I am confused     By what you say. But is your mother's name     Grace? How! Grace, too?             A strange uneasiness     In Jerry's breast had waked. They walked awhile     In silence. This he could not well believe,     That Grace and Reuben unhappy were, nor that     One son alone was theirs. Therefore aside     He thrust that hidden, sharp foreboding: still     He trusted, still sustained a calm suspense,     And ranged among his memories. "Tell me, son,"     He said, "about this Deacon Snow - Rob Snow     It must be, I suppose."     THE BOY.             Oh, do you know him?     JERRY.     A deacon now! Ay, once I knew Rob Snow -     A jolly blade, if ever any was,     And merry as the full moon.     THE BOY.              He has failed     A good deal now, though, since his wife died.     JERRY.              What!     (Of course; of course; all's changed.) He married!     THE BOY.             Why,     How long you must have been away! For since     I can remember he has had a wife     And children. She was Gran'ther Hungerford's -     JERRY.     Her name was Ruth?     THE BOY.              Yes, Ruth! 'T is after her     The deacon's nicest daughter's named; she's Ruth.     Then sadly Jerry pondered, and no more     Found speech. They tramped on sternly. To the brow     Of a long hill they came, whence they could see     The village and blue ocean; then they sank     Into a region of low-lying fields     Half-naked from the scythe, and others veined     With vines that 'midst dismantled, fallen corn     Dragged all athwart a weight of tawny gourds,     Sun-mellowed, sound. And now the level way     Stretched forward eagerly, for hard ahead     It made the turn that rounded Reuben's house.     Between the still road and the tossing sea     Lay the wide swamp, with all its hundred pools     Reflecting leaden light; anon they passed     A farm-yard where the noisy chanticleer     Strutted and ruled, as one long since had done;     And then the wayside trough with jutting spout     Of ancient, mossy wood, that still poured forth     Its liquid largess to all comers. Soon     A slow cart met them, filled with gathered kelp:     The salt scent seemed a breath of younger days.     They reached the road-bend, and the evening shone     Upon them, calmly. Jerry paused, o'erwhelmed.     Reuben, surprised, glanced at him, and then said,     "Yonder's the house." Old Jerry gazed on him,     And trembled; for before him slowly grew     Through the boy's face the mingled features there     Of father and of mother - Grace's mouth,     Ripe, pouting lips, and Reuben's square-framed eyes.     But, mastering well his voice, he bade the boy     Wait by the wall, till he a little while     Went forward, and prepared. So Reuben stayed;     And Jerry with uncertain step advanced,     As dreaming of his youth and this his home.     Slowly he passed between the gateless posts     Before the unused front door, slowly too     Beyond the side porch with its woodbine thick     Draping autumnal splendor. Thus he came     Before the kitchen window, where he saw     A gray-haired woman bent o'er needle-work     In gathering twilight. And without a voice,     Rooted, he stood. He stirred not, but his glance     Burned through the pane; uneasily she turned,     And seeing that shaggy stranger standing there     Expectant, shook her head, as though to warn     Some chance, wayfaring beggar. He, though, stood     And looked at her immovably. Then, quick     The sash upthrowing, she made as if to speak     Harshly; but still he held his quiet eyes     Upon her. Now she paused; her throat throbbed full;     Her lips paled suddenly, her wan face flamed,     A fertile stir of memory strove to work     Renewal in those features wintry cold.     And so she hung, while Jerry by a step     Drawn nearer, coming just beneath her, said,     "Grace!" And she murmured, "Jerry!" Then she bent     Over him, clasping his great matted head     With those worn arms, all joyless; and the tears     Fell hot upon his forehead from her eyes.     For now in this dim gloaming their two souls     Unfruited, by an instant insight wild,     Delicious, found the full, mysterious clew     Of individual being, each in each.     But, tremulously, soon they drew themselves     Away from that so sweet, so sad embrace,     The first, the last that could be theirs. Then he,     Summing his story in a word, a glance,     Added, "But though you see me broken down     And poor enough, not empty-handed quite     I come. For God set in my way a gift,     The best I could have sought. I bring it you     In memory of the love I bore. Not now     Must that again be thought of! Waste and black     My life's fields lie behind me, and a frost     Has stilled the music of my hopes, but here     If I may dwell, nor trouble you, such a joy     Were mine, I dare not ask it. Oh forgive     The weakness! Come and see my gift!"              Ah, tears     Flowed fast, that night, from springs of love unsealed     Once more within the ancient house - rare tears     Of reconciliation, grief, and joy!     A miracle, it seemed, had here been wrought,     The dead brought back to life. And with him came     The prodigal, repenting.             So, thenceforth,     A spirit of peace within the household dwelt.     In Jerry a swift-sent age these years had brought,     To soften him, wrought with all the woe at home     Such open, gracious dignity, that all     For cheer and guidance learned to look to him.     But chiefly th' younger Reuben sought his aid,     And he with homely wisdom shaped the lad     To a life's loving duty. Yet not long,     Alas! the kind sea-farer with them stayed.     After some years his storm-racked body drooped.     The season came when crickets cease to sing     And flame-curled leaves fly fast; and Jerry sank     Softly toward death. Then, on a boisterous morn     That beat the wrecked woods with incessant gusts     To wrest some last leaf from them, he arose     And passed away. But those who loved him watched     His fading, half in doubt, and half afraid,     As if he must return again; for now     Entering the past he seemed, and not a life     Beyond; and some who thought of that old grave     In the orchard, dreamed a breath's space that the man     Long buried had come back, and could not die.     But so he died, and, ceasing, made request     Beside that outcast of the deep to lie.     None other mark desired he but the stone     Set there long since, though at a stranger's grave,     In heavy memory of him thought dead.     They marked the earth with one more mound beside     The other, near a gap in the low wall     That looked out seaward. There you ever hear     The deep, remorseful requiem of the sea;     And there, in autumn, windfalls, showering thick     Upon the grave, score the slow, voiceless hours     With unrebounding stroke. All round about     Green milkweed rankly thrives, and golden-rod     Sprouts from his prostrate heart in fine-poised grace     Of haughty curve, with every crest in flower.